Pith. And pictures.

And back to normal we go, the old routine swinging out on a Monday dawning with skies as black as pitch. Up to HorseBack, back to the computer, 916 words of book, do Red, walk the dog, breakfast with the Mother and Stepfather. The wild highs and lows of the Royal Meeting recede, and I must remember that I am a grown-up.

You’ve had to read far too many words in the last few days, so today there are some soothing pictures instead. Although, I would like to express special thanks to the Dear Reader who outed himself as a male and a racing journalist (both are welcomed keenly on these pages) and who paid me possibly the best compliment I’ve ever had. He said that the Ascot reports reminded him a little of Audax. J Oaksey was an old friend of my father’s, from schooldays, and he wrote emotional, fluent reports of great races, sometimes even from the very saddle, where he had a bird’s eye view. People remember them forty years on.

No one could have said a kinder thing, or a more reassuring one, since I generally suffer from mild angst when I bang on about the horses. I seem unable to help myself, but it is quite a lot for you to wade through. Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you to that anonymous reader, who made my exhausted heart swell with pride.

This week, my darlings, you shall have pith. Or at least, that is the plan.

 

Here is some of what I saw last week, when I tore my eyes from the television set and walked outside in the good Scottish air:

And as I was going through the pictures files today, I found these, which made me both happy and sad, equally:

I’m entirely biased. But I’m not sure there was ever someone quite as beautiful as that Pigeon.

An ordinary day

My time management, so shoddy and generally disappointing, suddenly wakes up and goes into turbo drive. I have absolutely no idea how this happens. I get all my HorseBack work done and do 918 words of book before lunch, and then have another burst in the afternoon and end up with 1290. This is absurdly pleasing.

I am so delighted that I go down to the mare and spend a moochy half an hour taking her out for a pick of the lush green grass which grows outside her paddock, in the wild places.

The grass in the paddock is short and poor after the long winter; even a small herd of three will not give it a chance to get going. This is good for the round little pony, and means we don’t have to construct her a starvation area, which is something I hate, but leaves the mare and the filly a little deprived. Taking them out into the lush grazing is a necessity for their well-being, but it’s also one of the simplest pleasures in a day.

A hungry horse getting a go at the really good grass is like an impoverished duchess being taken out to Claridge’s by a successful relation. Ah, the plates of asparagus and the piles of new spring potatoes. It is dreamed-of luxury. I can stand and stare, as the joy and appreciation go on beside me, watching the ducks fly over the burn and the coos gathering in the middle meadow, listening to the rhythmical tear and munch of Red’s powerful mouth. She is utterly, utterly contented. Stanley the Dog, who was once greatly alarmed by what he must have perceived as a huge red dog, now grazes quietly beside her. It’s very sweet.

It’s that kind of day; the most ordinary of days. Work, equines, dog, family. All the things that must be done are done. I even found my car insurance certificate, after only having to excavate two piles, which is a miracle for me. I have not taken in the news, or seen the latest controversies. It’s just been me and these lovely creatures who make up my life.

 

Today’s pictures:

HorseBack morning:

I’m particularly fond of this little mare. Her name is actually Red, which of course makes me fonder still:

Home:

Best Beloveds:

Hill:

The comments in the last couple of days have been particularly kind and touching. Thank you for them.

I looked back in the archive and found a Pigeon picture from this exact day last year. This is the face I have been missing. You see why:

Look at those dreamy eyes. What is she musing on, I wonder?

After the storm.

Last night, out of a clear sky, a howling storm of grief blew in from the west.

Sometimes, I will mourn each individual, because something will remind me. The last time I cried for my dad, I was watching a film about Frankel, and it made me inexpressibly sad that the old fella was not alive to see that great horse.

But this one was completely non-specific. There was no catalyst. Suddenly, violently, unexpectedly, I missed my troika of Dear Departeds so badly I could not move or breathe.

This does not happen very often now. The thing I have discovered about the passage of time is that it does not soften the missing, but it puts longer and longer gaps of normality between the storms. This particular hurricane was not only violent, but it went on for a long time. For a while, I felt as if I were underwater. Each time I thought I had broken the surface, another wave came and crashed over my head.

Even though I know this happens, even though I know it is normal and right, the initial reaction is a kind of panic. My mind races around, trying to find something to hold onto. It needs a reason. But, shouts my rational self, you had a really good day. What is going on? yells my voice of sense; there’s no call for this, it adds, in stern reproof.

Then, when I realise it is bigger than I am, elemental, visceral, inexplicable, I give in to it. Oh, all right, says the bashed old heart, I’ll bloody well ache. Spit spot, get it all out, says the Mary Poppins voice. Better out than in.

It took about an hour. Afterwards, I felt tired and cleansed. There it all goes, the missing, the regret, the gap. It was after midnight. I took Stanley the Dog out. The snow was coming in again from the west, not yet falling, but mustering in the sky for its last big push. A miraculous effect was going on, a strange diffused light, as if the whiteness had gathered the lamplight from the village and spread it everywhere like butter. It was almost as bright as day, but a low, amber colour. Stanley bounded around, a slender racing silhouette. The beauty and stillness shimmered and sang around me. I felt lucky, and alive, and present in the world.

Must ask the Dear Readers, I thought. Must ask if this is a thing. It’s almost two years since my father died, and my first dog. Two months since the lovely old Pigeon slipped the surly bonds of earth. It seems a little peculiar to a rational mind that the grief should still be this sharp, this big.

I thought of my good day. It had been filled with laughter and love. Perhaps it was because I had a good day that the sudden mourning came. Perhaps you need to be happy to allow yourself to be really sad. Perhaps that is when you feel safe, as if knowing your body and mind can take it.

I always say the grieving must be done. Nothing worse than bottling it all up; it gets twisted inside you then, and bad things happen. Perhaps it does not stop. Perhaps it is like a rose garden, which must be tended and pruned and fertilised. I must shovel manure, or the thing will go to seed. It does astonish me, all the same. But perhaps it is a tribute, to the lost loves.

I’m fine now. The tempest has passed and the usual reasserts itself. There is six inches of snow, and more to come. The horses are still and happy in the white, mooching around their new palatial shelter, warm in their rugs. All the racing is off, so I am going to have a quiet day with a good book. As always, after these shaking blasts, I go very slowly, feeling my way back into the real world. I expect I shall make some soup. Because soup makes everything better.

 

Today’s pictures:

Are of snow and equines:

Myfanwy the SNOW PONY:

Autumn the Filly:

With their new palace:

At the old gate:

My beloved Red, who is enough to soothe the sorest heart:

And Mr Stanley, who quite frankly is looking so handsome I have no words for it:

Those eyes.

No hill today; lost in the snow.