A very ordinary story.

Somewhere, on a train in Germany, my agent is reading my book.

This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end.

She has to like it. She may have notes. I shall make changes. Then she has to like the changes. Then she will sell it. Then an editor will edit it. Then the subs will have a bash. Then, just as everyone takes a deep breath and thinks it is all over, I will decide I must do a semi-colon edit. After that, there may be a cliché edit. I once did a cliché edit followed by a platitude edit. You can’t beat belt and braces. (See what I did there?)

All this is something over which I have no control.

Actually, that is not quite true. I can control the clichés, when I get to them. What I cannot control are the subjective judgements. I have to do that awful thing: letting go.

People are talking about Europe sliding back into recession. Perhaps, by the time the editors get to thinking about my book, nobody will be buying books any more.

Books are such fragile things. They require time, and engagement. Someone has to want to buy one, find the time to sit down quietly to read, have the mental space to give themselves to the text. In the crazy modern world, it seems a miracle than anyone still reads at all. Yet books are also sturdy things, still there, in all their papery analogue old-school glory, holding their corner against the flashing electronic Johnny-Come-Latelies of the internet and the Kindle.

I sometimes think that writing them is a very odd job indeed.

To take my mind off all this, I go out for a long ride on the red mare. The little Paint comes with, and the two good companions stretch out their dear necks and point their toes and move in time, along the burn, past the hills, through the trees. They adore riding together and it really is one of those moments when the world grows still and makes sense.

A charity sale is going on at an old cowshed near the house. We decide to go and look in the window and see what is going on. Groups of ladies come out and exclaim over the horses. ‘Oh, you are so beautiful,’ they say, first to one and then the other. A small boy is brought out to see the mighty creatures. Several of the women are clearly rather knowledgeable. ‘You ride in rope halters?’ they say, impressed. Then, to the mares: ‘You good clever things.’ (At which point, I practically fall off with pride.)

One exceptionally elegant lady tells us that her son has just ridden in the famous long-distance Mongolian Derby, a thousand kilometres of unforgiving terrain on strange ponies. That really is proper pride, I tell her. She smiles. ‘He is in the Household Cavalry,’ she says. I think of the complex emotions this must produce in a mother. There must be that pride, on many different levels, and perhaps a sliver of astonishment too – that is my boy – and trepidation and fear too. It’s a hell of an office to go to. All this is in her voice, and our eyes meet and some very human sympathy runs between us, as if we are not strangers at all. Horses, I notice, often facilitate this bashing down of barriers. People often tell me amazingly intimate stories as I sit on the red mare, and she drops her head and dozes, and they stroke her strong neck.

More people arrive to see the equines. The mares, who have not had a crowd like this since their sell-out tour to Peoria, are in their element. They blink their eyes and hold out their velvet muzzles to be stroked and impress everyone by standing like dignity on the monument. The Paint filly gets so excited by her adoring public that she goes looking for new humans who will give her more love. ‘It’s not often,’ said one woman, beaming, ‘that you get to see such beautiful big animals up close.’

I write a lot about the beauty, of the red mare in particular, and of her pretty friend; of the thoroughbred in general, which, for my money, is the most ravishing breed ever invented. Most of the time I think it is my own monomania speaking, a hysterical confirmation bias run mad. But there were other people seeing it too. It lit up their faces and made them smile and stand up a little straighter, in the cool Scottish air.

As the tickertape of world news flickers past, filled with the big and the terrifying, here was the very, very small and the very consoling. It was a moment of keen sweetness. It means nothing, and it means everything.

‘Good girl,’ I say, putting my little heroine back in her field. ‘Clever girl.’ I rub her sweet spot and she ducks her head in acknowledgement, and then I let her go and she wanders off, swinging her hips a little as she goes.

 

Today’s pictures:

Just time for a couple.

This is another of my not-very-good pictures. The light was wrong and the focus a bit off, but I put it here because it shows the dearness of the two friends:

This one is better. Stanley the Manley, with his basilisk stare. He does not really enjoy posing for pictures since it takes up valuable time when he could be hunting for mice or looking for really, really big sticks, so as well as the Scottish sky in those eyes, there is the ruthless gleam of deep reproach:

An ordinary Monday.

 

A cool, still morning. I ride the mare. She is a little edgy and unsettled. The Horse Talker and I wonder if the foxes or deer have been doing unspeakable things in the woods at night and keeping her awake. (Seriously, this is the kind of thing you have to take into account with horses. Just like humans, they can become scratchy if sleep-deprived.) But even though she is a bit twitchy, she still gives me a flowing canter on a loose rein.

HorseBack. First time up there with Awesome back and her filly not. There is a palpable space in the field. I remember this from when little Myfanwy died. You can’t believe such a small person can leave such a big gap. The dear dam is rather shut down, as if someone has thrown a veil over her. For a moment, I think: is that really Awesome? She looks different: darker, diminished. I stand with her for a while and she rests her head against my shoulder.

Back at my desk, I write 1699 words, which is a lot. Inspired by my friend The Producer, I make a chicken soup. I forget the pearl barley and it scorches, rather. The soup has an interesting, nutty taste as a result. I sit with failure. Chicken soup is one of the things I am really, really good at and I buggered it up.

I think about failure quite a lot, big and small. I think learning to fail is a life skill which should be studied. Succeeding is easy. Failure is hard. Red had a little spook this morning, which she has not done for weeks. She spun round fast and I almost went flying out the side door. Even though you can’t completely bomb-proof a horse, I have been desensitising for months just to avoid this kind of event, and for a moment I felt the black bird of shame hovering. Then I thought, sod it, she’s a horse. I did not fall off. She did not gallop away. She just got a little fright. So we went into the scary woods. It was like a test, mostly of myself. There was a bit of snorting, but we trotted kindly up the sharp hill into the dark places, and then rode back on the buckle. All was not lost. Quite a lot, in fact, was found.

The Dear Readers have said some very nice things lately. I always find this both touching and slightly surprising. It never gets old. Sometimes I feel a bit bogus, because even though I admit to fears and frailties, life always sounds better when it is written in sentences. The reality scruffier and muddlier and more fraught than you see here. But there is a lot of love in it, and today I think: that’s all that damn well counts.

 

Rather dim and dreary today, so no pictures. Here are two from Friday, when the sun shone.

My favourite Minnie the Moocher. She comes to say hello, with head down, donkey ears, and delicate toe:

And later, eating her hay, with her questing face on:

Digest.

Snow.

An amazing number of words.

Good twenty-minute increments.

Another of the Dear Departeds departs.

Procrastination. I wish I could do something about it. I think: I’ll deal with it tomorrow.

HorseBack, with moody hills.

Some not very good news.

A faint feeling of unease.

The sweet, soothing presence of the red mare.

A smile at the thought of Frankel’s birthday.

A fret about things undone.

A contemplation of the power of the simple, declarative sentence.

Kindness on the internet.

A very bad hair day.

Quite a lot of laughing.

One lovely winning bet.

A ham sandwich.

Thoughts of grammar.

One excited dog; one bloody big stick.

And, in the end, after all that, there was sun. Thick, ancient, Scottish sun, the colour of amber.

 

Today’s pictures:

Morning:

Afternoon:

Today’s hill, back in all her glory:

A day off.

Today I am doing: bugger all.

I got my morning dose of joy as the World Traveller came again to ride the red mare. It’s quite a responsibility, sending two beloveds off into the open fields, especially as they have only just started riding together. I busied myself with making feeds and tidying the shed to take my mind off it. Then I came out to see a glorious sight – the two of them cantering up the far slope, a red flash through the line of trees. Even from a quarter of a mile away I could see the harmony and delight, and ten minutes later, two smiling faces returned to the gate.

Then I got on and did a little cantering myself and the mare was all ease and charm. She was having one of those days where everything in her world is good.

I should be running errands and getting Christmassy, but I’m going to have one more day of sitting very still. I may, if I am exceptionally ambitious, gaze into the middle distance.

 

Today’s pictures:

It has gone dank and gloomy now, with the sky the colour of furious doves, but this morning – ah, this morning – there was light:

Hunting by the burn:

I put a bridle on Red for the first time in about five months. It is what the World Traveller is used to, and it’s good for the mare to be able to ride both bitted and bitless. She can’t just be an old cow pony every day, in her rope halter. She seemed perfectly amenable to the idea:

(Although it’s so long since I’ve had to deal with tack I could hardly remember how. That noseband is a bit high. My mother will not be impressed.)

Watching them go off together really did make my heart sing:

And behind them was the dear old hill:

Oh, and one more, because I can’t resist, and Christmas is a time for joy, and what could be more joyful than these happy faces?:

An ordinary day.

Last night, for no reason at all, I missed my father so much it felt as if someone had kicked me in the chest. The old gentleman is close by me every day, as I watch the racing and put on my idiotic accumulators, just as he taught me. Most of the time, I fold him into my heart and keep him there and think of him with smiles rather than tears. And then, out of a clear blue sky, came the sense of rupture and loss, all over again.

Today, I returned to cheerfulness and stoicism. It’s quite hard not to when you spend the morning with two men who have been blown up by improvised explosive devices and make jokes about it.

It was not a magical day. It was a muddling through day. The wind came in bitter and severe from the north, and a hard sleetish rain fell in squalls. My duchess was quite put out and gave in to uncharacteristic grumpiness. She was not the magical creature who lifts my heart to a higher plane today; she was a cross, muddy horse, wanting her hay. It was quite nice to be reminded that she has her moments of ordinariness. Otherwise she is very real danger of becoming too perfect, galloping into a mythical realm where puny mortals cannot follow.

I made a stew which was all right, but not delicious. I did some work which was perfectly fine, but not stellar. I had a couple of bets which went nowhere, although the lovely Wonderful Charm did do the business in the novice chase. I felt a bit cold and scratchy and hunched in the shoulders.

It was, in other words, an ordinary day. It was the very stuff of which human life is made. It can’t be all love and trees. Sometimes it is mud and weather. And that is quite perfectly fine.

 

Too dreich for the camera today, and Herself was far too ornery to put her photograph face on, so I remind myself of the moments of glory with this, taken by The Remarkable Trainer. That’s the happy face of my ex-racing, ex-polo mare, stretching out her dear neck, entirely at ease in her great thoroughbred body, in sunnier times. There are two things I do when I feel a bit gloomy. One is to watch re-runs of Kauto Star winning his fifth King George. One is to look at this glorious creature, and think how far we have come together. It’s not doing dressage or competing at Hickstead. It has required very little technical skill, only love and time. But that, right there, is all blue ribands to me.

In brief.

1094 words in the morning. Bash bash bashing on through. Torrential rain. The sweet equines hunker down and do not complain. Spend the early morning writing condolence letters, the hardest of all the writing I ever do. Another of the great old men has gone. He was my father’s first cousin, and a true gentleman of the old school, and I feel a keen sense of mourning at his passing.

Then: work work work work. 446 more words. I count each one up like coins in a treasure chest.

Then my brain stops, as usual, as if someone has thrown a switch. The rain pauses for a moment. I think of my dear girl in her field under her favourite tree, where the leaves are still so thick that she can almost avoid the deluges. I think of her sweet muddy face and the good rug which keeps her delicate thoroughbred coat dry. I think of how stoical she is, when the weather comes. Even though she loves nothing more than the sun on her back, she stands the dreich far better than humans do. I think: I’ll give her extra apple chaff with her tea. (That is the kind of thing I think when I get to this stage in the day.)

Now: stopping. I’m going to watch a race from Fakenham, and then I’m going to sit very still and contemplate The Universal Why.

Today’s pictures:

Are in fact from yesterday; too dreary for the camera today:

Goofy, most non-duchessy, slightly surprised face. We were madly waving our arms in the air to get her to prick her ears for the camera:

 

Before I pressed publish, I went down to the afternoon feed, and the sky suddenly lightened, and there was actually something I could photograph today after all:

The heavenly wet muddy person, really enjoying her tea:

And for the first time, the hill appeared from out of the clouds:

A very ordinary day.

I try a slight new routine, moving my blocks of work around. This seems to be a faint success. I put on 2277 words of book. We are at that stage. I’m just typing my head off. This is not ideal practice, but deadlines must.

Today, I had to do some exposition. I hate it. I’m bad at it. But sometimes it must be done. Sometimes you can’t do fireworks and sparkling prose and look at me doing a bloody tap dance; sometimes you just have to move the story forward.

The mare is still a little sore in her shoulder, so she gets the day off. She is funny and clever this morning and makes me laugh. She has learnt what the word breakfast means. I let her out into the set-aside for her morning free graze as the feed is mixed. Then, when it is all soaked and done and ready, I go out and yell ‘breakfast is ready’, and she lifts her head, looks at me as if to say ‘do you mean it?’, and lopes up from the far corner, bringing her little Paint with her.

She sticks her head in the shed to check the food has been properly prepared, with her best duchess face on, rather like Debo Devonshire being shown the new asparagus at Claridge’s. (I have no idea whether the D of D actually eats asparagus at Claridge’s, but this is the state of my loon brain at the moment.) I look at the mare, and point and click, and she walks kindly in through the gate and takes her position by the fence.

You’re not really supposed to do this with a thoroughbred. It’s not BHS-approved. You’re supposed to take them out in a rope and halter for their pick and then lead them back to the field. A chestnut mare descended from a Derby winner is not supposed to go gently in the direction indicated from a mere twitch of one human finger. But then, Red the Mare is one of the cleverest people I ever met.

Stanley the Dog gets to have a mighty rumble with Edward the Puppy, in the autumn leaves. I go to do my HorseBack work. I eat a ham sandwich for lunch. I do not seem to be furious any more. Just a little overwhelmed with work and wishing it were slightly less muddy and a bit jangly round the edges. About par for the course, as I rush towards deadline.

Or, in other words, a very ordinary day.

 

Today’s pictures:

Interestingly, even though Edward is a quarter Stanley’s size, and very much the junior dog, he gives as good as he gets. Mostly mornings, he stands on his hind legs and boxes Stan the Man in the face with his front paws. Mr Stanley takes it all with amazing grace.

Did not take the camera to the paddock today, so these are from a couple of days ago. We haven’t had Myfanwy the Pony for a while, because she has been taking the opportunity afforded by the change in the weather to COVER HERSELF IN MUD, no doubt as some kind of health cure. I finally managed to catch her on a faintly clean day:

Appreciating the silver service:

‘I think I would prefer the French dressing to the melted butter….’ (Sorry, still on asparagus at Claridge’s theme.)

Rather serene hill:

Almost sure this shall be filled with typos and howlers. Brain gone phut. So bear with me.