Moving Day

It is moving day. The small herd is going down to the new winter quarters. I get up at six, and meet the Horse Talker and her entire family, who have come to help, in the pale blue of dawn. A new moon is hovering in the sky like a silver promise and one last star glimmers beside it. I feel suddenly powerfully nostalgic for Red’s View, which we shall not see again until the spring. The beautiful mountain has watched over us so well.

There are a few loading glitches. In the end, Myfanwy the Pony has to show the posh girls how to do it. Red decides that a trailer is a very alarming place. She is used to travelling in a big lorry, with a wide ramp; this small space is not at all what she ordered. For a moment, I think all is lost. But patience, patience, one tiny step at a time - with a lot of reassurance and love, and the Pony Whisperer hopefully shaking the green bucket with the nuts in it – and suddenly, my duchess decides that she will graciously consent, and into the trailer she steps. She looks around for her small friend, who clops up into the next door stall, and off we go.

Down at the new field, Red walks down the ramp, her head high, every atom in her body gathered for novelty. She is on full predator alert. As I let her go, I expect her to explode round the field, but instead she makes off in her collected, floating trot. It is the small pony who decides it is her job to take the lead in beating the bounds, and she breaks into her roly-poly canter, with my mare following dutifully in her wake, as they inspect their new home.

‘Perhaps Myfanwy is the leader now,’ says the Pony Whisperer, thoughtfully. We ponder herd dynamics for a moment, and then go back to get Autumn the Filly, who had been most disconcerted to see us go without her.

When we bring her down, and open the trailer, Red rushes to the gate and lets out a high, plaintive neigh, as if shouting Where have you been? I find this very touching. She has bossed and dominated the filly since the moment she arrived; I had not really taken in that they had, in fact, become friends.

Once they are all together, we again expect fireworks, a bit of bronco action, some violent reaction to the move. Instead, they touch noses and fall to grazing, as if they have lived there all their lives. The Horse Talker laughs. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Where is the drama?’

I do errands. I go to the shops for my mother, I visit the chemist and the newsagent, I even take my library books back. I take this as a very Good Sign. A defining mark of keeping my life on track is whether I get the library books back on time.

I go back to the field, to check the horses. Red lifts her head and lets out the same wild, calling neigh that she did for the filly. She has never done that before. She whickers sometimes when she sees me, but she never shouts. I go in and stand with her and let her rest her head on my shoulder and gentle her soft neck. I feel all the love.

The new quarters are lovely, quite different from the flinging beauty of Red’s View. They are in a natural bowl, surrounded by thick forest and a hill to the north, and a high stone wall to the south. Everything is very quiet, and very still. There is no wind coming off the mountain, and no people coming and going. It feels like a hidden magical place, and we are lucky to have it. The most lovely thing is that it is three minutes’ walk from my front door. I no longer have to get in the car, doing the routine of morning and evening stables; I can go and see them whenever I want. This feels like extravagant luxury, and very good for the poor bashed heart. The horse love will see me through.

I go and look at what is in prospect for the day’s racing. The jumps are getting back into their stride, and I see lots of old friends, coming back after their summer off. There is my darling Overturn, whom I love as if he were mine, and the exciting talent of Balder Succes, and dear old Tamarinbleu, having his last season at the age of twelve. He was glorious on his day, and I put a sentimental couple of quid on him each way at 25-1, for love, for old times’ sake.

It is ten past one, and I have cried twice today for my dog. But the amazing thing is that as I write this, as I think of the new quarters, the mare just down the road, the lovely leaping horses that I shall welcome back this afternoon as I watch the races on the television, I feel actual pleasure and excitement. That’s the moment when I know it shall be all right.

The thing I fear is when grief paints everything; when each day is pulled down by the tugging memories and the ache of loss. It’s why I have been banging on about searching for the One Good Thing. I can do the pain if there is some pleasure too. Until now, that has been artificial; I have been searching for it, trying to cut it from whole cloth.

Today, it came organically. It was real. I’ll cry again before the day is through, but I shall also smile. I shall shout for lovely Overturn on his chasing debut. He’s been such a hero over the hurdles and on the flat; the thrill of watching him go over fences shall be intense. I shall miss the barking Pigeon, leaping up and down as she always does for the races. But I shall feel the joy of the glorious sight too. As long as the two can exist together, then I am all right.

 

Too many pictures to sort through, as I have to concentrate on the racing now, so here are just two for the moment:

New quarters:

Pigeon, from the archive:

The klaxon sounds:Absolutely massive life lesson alert.

Author’s note: This is an unadulterated, no holds barred horse story. Those with equine aversion move gently to the exits. There is, however, a real human lesson at the centre of it. So, if you are happy to take the horse as a metaphor, you may find something here.

 

Yesterday, in all that orneriness and grumpiness, an amazing thing happened. I asked for help, and the help, when it arrived, was of such a transformative nature that I laughed out loud at my luck.

One of the things I am very, very bad at is asking for help. It is a severe character flaw. I don’t know what cussed part of me is trying to prove what idiot thing, but my stupid default mode is: no, no, don’t worry about me, I shall do it on my own. This is also nuts because in wider life and political theory, I really believe in the collective. I’m always banging on about the social compact. (I even did it this morning at breakfast.) I don’t like the atomised view of society; I believe the individual is nothing without the wider group.

In a roundabout, scuffly boot, reluctant, sideways manner, I booked a riding lesson. The brilliant woman who does my barefoot trimming is experimenting with a new theory of riding, and luckily my fascination in her knowledge overcame my foolish stubbornness. It was one of the best decisions I ever made.

The riding has not been bad, or disastrous. But there is a gap between the arching harmony the mare and I have on the ground, where the trust is absolute and the learning willing and quick, and the slight stop-start we have under the saddle. We have our marvellous moments, but there is some resistance or reluctance there, and I have had the nagging feeling that she is trying to tell me something. So, the help.

The new theory is not really new, it is more a gathering of all the best of the old techniques and intuitive knowledge of the really great horse people, with a little lemon twist. There’s a lot of psychology in it, which of course delights my questing mind.

The lesson itself was, however, entirely novel to me. It was not heels down toes up sit up straight; it was more a question of – let’s try this. We did try this. Up went my leathers, forward shifted my seat, relaxed went my back. The mare thought about it for a bit. Toss toss toss went her head. Then, suddenly, like a miracle, I got all the small shifts to move at the same time and it was as if she sighed a great, relieved sigh. I am going to sound really dotty now, but it was a sigh that came from her soul. Yes, she was saying; that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Thank you.

‘That’s it,’ said the Barefoot Trimmer, happily. I was so delighted I yelled with pleasure. I can’t believe it, I said, over and over. I whooped and hollered and laughed out loud. The mare pricked her ears and lifted her back and lowered her neck so that she was in a perfect outline, all because I was sitting gently and firmly over her centre of balance.

I talked a lot, out of pure happiness. I said how stupid I was to think that because I once rode well, thirty years ago, I should be able to pick it up just like that.

‘I could play Mozart at grade seven when I was fifteen,’ I told the Barefoot Trimmer, ‘but now I can’t even play chopsticks. I don’t know why I thought that I could just get up on a Thoroughbred and do it all perfectly.’ She was very, very kind and understanding. She knows so much and is so generous with her knowledge, but never uses it as a stick of superiority to beat one with. She does not judge. She only encourages. It took all my self-restraint not to fling my arms around her neck.

Instead, I flung my arms around my horse, and told her over and over what a brilliant, lovely, good person she was, and how much I appreciated her. She looked bloody pleased with herself.

The interesting thing is that this new position we are experimenting with often feels very strange to people when they first try it. It is a long way from the classical, riding long, sitting tall, dressage sort of position which I was taught when I was young, and to which I automatically reverted. The new way did not feel strange to me because it was exactly like the last serious bit of riding I did in my late teens.

In those days, my mother lived in Newmarket, and a kind trainer used to let me ride out for him. Admittedly, he chose the quietest four-year-old colt in his stable, but it was still a great vote of confidence to put me up on one of his valuable horses, and I think of it now with acute gratitude. The memories flooded back. I recalled chatting happily to a jockey I had ridden with in pony competitions, and who had gone on to a serious racing career, before we set off on a five furlong half-speed canter up the Heath. These shorter irons and relaxed back were precisely what I had done then. Perhaps it reminded Red of her own racing days, and made her feel at home.

So now, instead of a fret and a bit of a wrangle, instead of worrying about show pony perfection, I simply pretend I am riding Frankel. I bloody well am Tom Queally, king of the world. Red may be a million times slower than her illustrious relation, but she floats over the ground, just like he does.

For extra ease and relaxation, I am riding her simply in a rope halter. That in itself is a bit of a miracle. People have a lot of angry opinions about ex-racehorses. Too difficult, too complicated, too temperamental, too damn Thoroughbred, they say, furiously. Oh, and she is a chestnut mare; well, good luck with that. I wish they could have seen this Thoroughbred loping round a five acre field with nothing but a thin bit of rope on her face, coming to a perfect halt with no more than a small signal from my ischium.

When we started, the Barefoot Trimmer asked me what I wanted to achieve. It’s very simple and I had no trouble in answering. I don’t want to win competitions or show off; I don’t want to turn Red into a prize horse, covered in rosettes. I don’t want to be the best rider the world has ever seen.

‘I want her to feel happy and safe,’ I said.

The lurking fear, the sense of failure I had been having in the saddle, is that I was letting her down. She is so good and true, and I was not up to snuff.

Now, that marvellous, shining goal is within reach. It will take a bit of work and practice and time. My thigh muscles are going to scream and shriek before they get as strong as I need them. I have to put my humble hat on, and admit that I have a lot to learn, all over again.

But the horse and I shall achieve that glorious partnership of which I dreamed. And all because I asked for help, and the kind universe sent me the exact person I needed to give it.

 

Today’s pictures:

I had to run some errands this morning, including going to pay the vet. To get to the vet, I drive past all this:

There are still people who think it very peculiar that I moved from London, with all its theatres and shops and restaurants and cosmopolitan population, five hundred miles north to Scotland, or, as it is known in some heads, The Middle of Nowhere. It is Somewhere to me. I bless that whimsical decision every day, because those mountains and rivers are what I see when I do something as mundane as go and pay the vet.

The chicken, for the Dear Reader who loves the chickens:

Red’s View:

The Good Companions:

The newest member of the herd has been given a blog name. All animals and humans must have one. I gave this serious task to my very young friend, the Pony Whisperer, who comes to see Myfanwy each day. She gave it a lot of thought, and came up with Autumn, because the American Paint filly came to join her new companions in the autumn, and her coat is the colour of autumn leaves. I was incredibly impressed that such a young person should have thought of such a perfect name, and for such lovely reasons. So, meet Autumn the Filly:

Meanwhile, the Grand Duchess of the field was, after our first morning ride in the new style, more like a dopey old donkey than the granddaughter of a Derby winner:

(If I did not know better, I would swear that is the equine version of a smile.)

How long do I have to stand posing whilst you click away with that ridiculous black machine?:

At least there is a good view to look at:

And now, may I please have some love and attention:

Answer, of course, categorical YES.

All the animals find the whole being photographed thing quite dull. The Pigeon is hoping I shall get on with her walk, quite soon:

But submits, with resigned grace, to her close-up:

The hill:

That really was a very long blog. Thank you for your patience. It is not something I ever take for granted.