Friday.

Author’s note: I’m sorry to say this is not the most sparkling piece of prose I have ever written. I’m rather over-tired after a packed week, and even iron tonic cannot galvanise my brain. But I wanted you to have something, so I let it stand.

 

A long and busy week, but one filled with sweetness. A very old friend came to stay, and I remembered the keen sweetness of those long friendships which go back all the way. We first met almost thirty years ago at university. He was in the college next to mine and also read history and we made jokes about Lord Macaulay which we still remember with gusting laughter. I love that with someone like that you can pick up exactly where you left off, and nothing needs to be explained, and all is ease and understanding and comradeship.

The World Traveller and the Landlord came for cocktails, and we wickedly drank martinis on a school night, and all was merry as a marriage bell.

I took the old friend to see the Mother and Stepfather for breakfast. ‘Goodness,’ my mother said this morning. ‘So handsome and charming and easy.’ A palpable hit.

In the midst of all this sweetness, the red mare suddenly went hopping lame. She was picking up her hock so high it looked as if she had stringhalt. I went into a tendon panic, and got on the blower, and two vets arrived, shining with seriousness and expertise.

It turned out the lovely girl had developed an abscess. A great deal of paring and digging went on. I was so riveted by the process of cutting a hole in the hoof so the infection could escape that I went to stand by Red’s hindquarters to watch. The vets suddenly stopped what they were doing, astonishment spreading over their faces. ‘Look,’ said one to the other, pointing. ‘She is standing perfectly still and nobody is holding her.’ I felt as proud of the good mare as if she had won the Oaks.

Ground-tying is one of the things I had consciously taught her, but there is also a fascinating thing that she does when she is in need. She seems to know when I am trying to help her. Whether I am rushing down to fling on a rug in a sudden hailstorm, or putting wound cream on a cut, or applying fly repellent, I find her at her stillest and most accepting. I’m not sure I shall ever quite understand what horses know and what they do now, but I do believe that when something is wrong she senses I am there to make her better. It is an inexpressibly touching thing.

This morning, as I went down to put on a new poultice, she walked up almost completely sound. The abscess had drained, and the soreness had gone. You miracle girl, I thought, you heal as well as you do everything else. Is there nothing you cannot do? She even cleverly goes and puts herself in the shelter, instituting box rest of her own.

As there was no work to be done, we hung out. I always think this is one of the most important things you can do with your horse, although sometimes I get so carried away with riding and schooling that I forget it. It is part of my Zennish notion: sometimes, instead of doing, you can just be.

I took her out for a pick in the lush green grass of the set-aside. I groomed her all over and anointed her with balm to keep off the horrid flies. I chatted to her. She looked at me gravely and gave me her head so I could scratch her sweet spots. There was a spreading delight in doing absolutely nothing, under the bright Scottish sun.

How glorious she is, and how lucky I am. When I think of the whimsical sliver of chance that brought her into my life, I catch my breath. (I had not planned to buy a horse after thirty years of not having one; she was sold to go and play polo in China, only the man with the lorry never turned up.) I can’t imagine my days without her glimmering, benign, beautiful presence.

 

Today’s pictures:

Happy again, no longer in pain, having her morning pick:

The sweet Paint was also very calm and happy:

BLINKY EYES!!! They get me every time:

Friends:

The beech hedge has finally gone green:

The old friend brought flowers:

And I arranged some myself:

Sage from the garden:

Stanley the Manly was sadly unavailable for his close-up. He is hunting mice.

 

S

Horses, work, time and slightly surprising hats. Or, the end of a really rather lovely week.

Another packed day. There was so much to do that I did not have time to do any serious work with my mare. Still, we achieved something rather miraculous yesterday, so I decided to give her a complete day off.

This morning, I found her, with her little herd, standing under the great tree in the middle of the paddock, which is her favourite place. I stood with her for twenty minutes, and told her, for the hundredth time, of the great day in 1970 when her grandsire won the Derby.

‘See,’ I said. ‘No one really knew if he would stay. He’d never run over that distance before. But Lester thought he would stay; Mr O’Brien thought he would stay. And he came rolling down that hill with a double handful.’

She nodded and dozed and rested her head against my chest and let me ramble on. She is very forgiving, like that.

I should really be getting her ready for riding now. I should be doing all the proper groundwork that goes into that. Even though today’s hiatus was officially because my time management is in tatters, actually sometimes I think one of the best things you can ever do with a horse is simply be.

That is my story and I am sticking to it.

Then I went up to HorseBack, to see Jim Dukes, their most excellent vet, in action. There is almost nothing I love more than watching really good vet at work, and, when it comes to horses, Jim is the high crest and peak.

But there was also a serious purpose. I’m trying a new thing with HorseBack, which is to show all the work that goes on behind the scenes.

There are the banner days, such as on Tuesday, when a member of the government comes to visit, and there are the busy days which will start again quite soon, when the courses are in full swing.

Yet, even on the quiet, unsung, ordinary days, keeping an organisation such as theirs ticking over takes a whole team, working hard together. I thought it would be interesting to show some of that, so I took a little photo essay of the vet doing his job.

Then there was work; then there was a very quick peek at the 3.25 at Sandown; then there was the making of a soup and the considering of all the logistical things which keep my own tiny organisation going.

There are so many things that happened this week which I would like to tell you, but the brain is frazzling now, and it is time to stop. My eyes squint and my fingers crab and my grasp of the English language grows faint.

Still, it was a good week. I had high excitement, a moment of very private achievement, some new ideas, a lot of animal love, the good feeling of being part of something more important than I, a great deal of laughter, a handy little treble which came in at 14-1, a surprising hat moment, a rather unexpectedly touching communication with a stranger on the internet, and, just this morning, in real life, one damn fine compliment.

It was a short compliment, not more than five words. It contained no curlicues or flourishes, no flowery language such as I would employ. It came from someone who does not hurl the things about like confetti.

It meant a lot.

 

Today’s pictures:

The vet at work at HorseBack UK:

Rodney, the most patient patient:

With my friend The Horse Talker, who is a long-time volunteer there:

In the beautiful granite stables, for a little box rest:

Meanwhile, out in the paddock, there is my special friend Gus the Foal, with his heavenly white face, and his insatiable curiosity:

Some quick garden pictures for you:

Myfanwy has had a lovely time this week, getting very muddy indeed:

Autumn the Filly, on the other hand, is looking very pretty and pleased with herself, after a series of excellent adventures:

Since the inexplicable hat proved such a hit, I can’t resist giving you a couple more of those:

That dozy face never fails to lift my heart. (Red’s face, not mine.)

I’m starting to think this might have to be my Cheltenham outfit. It’s the kind of thing Sprinter Sacre would surely appreciate:

Stanley the Dog has been exceptionally good and sweet this week, and had a lot of fine stick action:

And through it all, sails the calm blue presence of my beloved hill:

And since it is a Friday, and if you can’t be a bit self-indulgent on your own blog I don’t know where you can be, here is one final shot of Red and me. I like it because there is the funny juxtaposition of my most speccy geekish incarnation with the affectionate dreamy sweetness of Herself:

I hope you are all having a lovely Friday afternoon, wherever you are.

A small scare

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

One of the things that lives in the back of my mind like a shadow is the very great age of the Pigeon. She is fourteen years old and that is old. Ever since I lost her sister I am acutely aware of the fleeting nature of a dog’s life. Sometimes, the thought clutches at my heart so hard that I am almost afraid of how much I love her. I divert myself with the horse love, and work, and keeping busy, but the thought remains.

Yesterday, I found a lump on her stomach. Horrid imaginings chased themselves in so hard that I almost did not want to take her to the vet, because I could not bear to hear the sentence being pronounced. But she is well in herself, I thought; her nose is wet, she chases down that ball as if she were a three-year-old, she is eating well. But still, there it was, the terror, buffeting me as hard as the east wind.

I took her at three-forty. I tried to look normal. I am not sure that I succeeded. It was not my alpha vet, but his junior colleague, a very kind and smiling woman who has seen the Pidge before. She examined the growth, frowned, felt, thought. Don’t say it out loud, I thought; just bloody don’t.

‘It’s fine,’ she said.

The room stopped moving about. I had not realised that it was moving, but I was so dizzy with fret that it was like being on a ship at sea.

‘Oh,’ I said, trying not to smile like a crazy person.

She is fine. It’s a little fatty growth; sounds disgusting, but dogs get them and there is no worry. They are going to keep an eye on her, but it’s just perfectly, perfectly normal.

We got her weighed whilst I was there. OPTIMIMUM WEIGHT. I felt as proud as if I had bred a Derby winner. Her claws were trimmed.

‘She does look well,’ said the kindly vet. ‘She’s in great shape.’

Everyone in the vet’s waiting room admired her. She went about making friends and influencing people. She was, of course, easily the most beautiful dog there. I am not biased at all.

The nasty demons went back into their box. We live to fight another day. These are the twilight years now; each day is precious. Everybody knows, from my closest family to the farthest Dear Reader, that I shall be a wreck when she goes. But for now, I still have the great gift of her, dozing on the sofa, in all her sleek, black, brilliant glory.

 

There was snow this morning, and a paltry two degrees. A thin, mean rain persisted all day, and the world looked as if it were drowning. So, no photographs, just a few from the last week:

Red, looking out at her view:

Her view:

My gorgeous Pigeon, with her noble, thoughtful face on:

Yesterday’s hill. Today’s is lost in the cloud: