In which I take a life lesson from The Champ.

Warning: it is late, and I’ve only just finished work, and I am tired. My brain sputters and fails. This may not be the finest piece of prose I have ever written. But it does have a good life lesson in it.

 

1137 words of book. Into a bit of a rhythm now.

At one point, I felt so ahead of the game, I naughtily allowed myself to watch some racing from Carlisle. In the glorious northern sunshine, the maestro who is AP McCoy won an astonishing five races, with a combination of finesse, determination, shining talent and sheer belief.

He should be held up as a model for the young people, for all people really. He does not win more races than anyone else by magic: it is from toughness, hard work, relentless drive, and never, ever settling for second best.

Before that, quite by accident, I reminded myself of something I had forgotten. I went out to run an errand, took a goofy wrong turn, and ended up deep in Aberdeenshire farming country. It was the kind of place where the valleys are deep and the hills high, so only one tiny little road can wind its way through the land, and because of this I had to go the long way round.

And that was when I remembered the power of driving. I’ve been battling with sorting out the last act; wrangling and wrestling with intricacies of plot. All at once, as the incurious Aberdeen Angus cows gazed at me and the indigo hills slid past the car window and Stanley the Dog stared beadily into the blue distance, it all fell into place.

I think it’s something to do with having the area of the brain which deals with motor skills engaged. Then the creative part can roam free. So, if I were to be giving writing advice, I should say: when you are feeling a little cribbed and cabined, get in the car.

And, as I finish the day, tired but satisfied, I look back on it and think: it’s not just the young people who can learn from Tony McCoy. It is this middle-aged person, too.

McCoy is one of the very best we’ve seen for many reasons. He has great tactical skill. He has a driving finish like almost nobody else. He does a lovely thing of really holding a horse together. But a lot of it comes down to sheer grit.

Grit is a good virtue, along with stoicism and buggering on, both of which he has in spades. He does not moan or complain when things don’t go his way. He has his share of falls and breaks and rotten rides. There must be days when he is in the car, not to look at the glorious hills and the splendid cows, but in the driving rain on a clogged motorway, only to find some hard-mouthed disappointment at the end of the journey.

Not every horse he rides is top class, and not every meeting is a Cheltenham or a Sandown, with cheering crowds and golden trophies. He, too, will have his wet Wednesdays at Huntingdon, in the fog and the murk, watched by one man and a dog. (Actually, I love Huntingdon; I used to go there with my old dad and drink whisky and meet ancient, weather-beaten old gents in flat caps. But it is not one of the glamour tracks, and mid-week in the weather, it can feel like the land that time forgot.)

I like to have a lesson for the day. Usually it is taught to me by my red mare, who is my most accomplished and elegant professor. (On this sunny Thursday, she was simply demonstrating a blanket masterclass in rampant loveliness.) Today, the lesson comes not from a horse, but from a human. It comes from The Champ. It is grit that shall get me through. I’m going to go away and practice it.

 

Today’s pictures:

This is some of what I saw, on my travels:

Her Loveliness, having a dreamy evening mooch in the set-aside:

Very muddy, and very happy:

The Horse Talker has brought us a thrilling new addition to the paddock. Stan the Man is beside himself:

Although this is in fact his deeply quizzical face:

And, at last, my dear old hill:

And I can’t resist adding that the glittering champion won me literally hundreds of pounds today. I’ve had a rotten couple of weeks, trying to be more forensic about my betting. I felt stupid and wrong as I returned some of my previous winnings to the flinty Mr William Hill.

Today, the odds said a McCoy five-timer was pretty remote, even though a lot of his rides were fancied. We’re back over the jumps, after all. All it takes is a stumble, a slip, something else falling in front. Despite all that, I wanted him to reach his hundred for the season so much, and to approach the magical figure of 4000 winners overall, which he is closing in on, that I backed every single one of them, several in accumulators. It was like he presented me with a suitcase of cash. I should send him flowers.

I’m not at all sure what life lesson I should draw from that.

The Return of the Swallows; or, why I love the Internet

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

The swallows are here. I thought I saw them last night, spitfiring past my study window, but it was in the gloaming and they were moving so fast I could not be sure. Then, this morning, I took the dogs down to see the cows who have moved into the south-western meadow. They are particularly beautiful, in many shades of dun and cream, more like elegant French Charolais than British creatures, and they and the dogs like to do mute stare-offs, which makes me laugh. The sun was struggling to come out from a low sky, and I was looking up at the departing clouds when, suddenly, THERE THEY WERE. My swallows, at last, back from Africa.

They were so late this year that I feared they would not come. I had a horrible feeling that something terrible might have happened to them on the long journey home; Somali pirates or volcanic ash or any number of possible catastrophes. I have been getting reports of the swallows arriving in Angus and various places in the south, and each evening and morning I would scan the sky anxiously, more and more convinced that my pair had, for the first time in eight years, not found their way back.

I have always wondered why it is that they come to me. I suddenly realise that it is a wonderful product of the law of unintended consequences. There are plenty of other sheds on the compound, but everyone else is good and organised and shuts their doors at night. I, on the other hand, am flaky and rackety, and always forget to close the door. That must have been how they found their way in in the first place. Ever since that first magical year, when I looked up to see the original perfectly constructed mud nest, I have left the door open for them each spring. Inside the shed, there is a sloping wooden roof, with thick, sturdy rafters, and the birds build their beautiful home against the beams, tucked right up in the eaves. The nests are so brilliantly made that they never lose their shape or structure, but, interestingly, the swallows do not go back to the old nests, but make a new one every time. I cannot express the delight and fascination the whole thing gives me.

Which brings me onto the eighty-seventh reason I love the internet. I wanted to give you a picture, so off I went to the Google. There, on the first page, was this astonishing photograph:

That was the first delight, because it is such a glorious image. It was taken by a gentleman called Don Bartletti for the Los Angeles Times, and I have no idea how he captured such a shot, but it is a thing of beauty and a joy forever. However, these are not normal swallows; these are cliff swallows. I had never even heard of a cliff swallow. (I admit, I am not well-versed in the world of birds.) Apparently, they live in North America, and winter in Venezuela and Argentina, in a tremendously chic way. (For some reason, spending the winter in Venezuela makes me think of cabin trunks and cloche hats and the golden age of steam. Absolutely no idea why.) There is a famous flock that returns every year to the Mission San Juan Capistrano, so regularly that you can set your watch by it. So, because my birds came back, and because I wanted to tell you about that, and because I needed a nice picture to go with, I ended up discovering something that until now had been quite unknown to me. Hurrah for the marvellous cliff swallows and the genius that is the world wide web for allowing me to find them.

My Day of Discovery was not over yet. I thought: since I have found such a lovely swallow picture, perhaps I should find a nice cow picture to go with it. I googled about again, and yet more hitherto unperceived information fell like bounty into my lap. Did you know that there are over eight hundred different breeds of cattle? Had you ever heard of the magnificent Hungarian Grey? I certainly had not. Look at the gloriousness:

(Photograph by Csomor Laszlo.)

According to Wikipedia, they are 'robust, unpretentious, easy-calving and long-lived'. I love the idea of unpretentious cows. They are in high contrast, I suppose, to all those poncy cows with their flim-flammery and their fancy ways.

The clever Norwegians also have a great cow: the Norwegian Red. It is, apparently, noted for its hardiness. I have no information about its levels of pretentiousness:

(Photograph, slightly oddly, from Oklahoma State University.)

I am also much taken by the Nelore, another breed of which I had never heard. They originated in India, over two thousand years ago, by the Sea of Bengal, and somehow two of them got on a ship in 1868 and were dropped off in Brazil, where they are now easily the most dominant cow in the country. I still don't quite understand how a cow which thrived in the Punjab and by the Ganges ended up being the top bovine in Brazil, and I expect I shall ponder that for most of the rest of the day.  Here they are, the beauties:

I love ideas the most, but I also love facts. I have a craving to know stuff. Occasionally, in my more fanciful moments, I think if only I can know enough it will keep me safe.  This is why, for all the grumbling and grouching about how the interwebs are frying our poor fragile brains, I give thanks every day for the amazing prairies of the Net.

 

Bird update: just as I was finishing this post, my sister came to see me and we sat outside in the sun and talked of cabbages and kings (or similar). The swallows were dashing about overhead. And THEN the most wonderful thing happened. The crazy gang of swifts, which live down at my sister's house, and never come up here, flew over in a great roaring rush, and performed an antic dancing display. It was as if they were an official welcoming committee for their feathery cousins. The swallows joined in, and they all soared about at top speed, swooping so low that I could feel the beat of their wings fanning the air above me, and all the time singing their heads off. I never saw anything quite like it.

 

One more thing:

Thank you so much for the particularly lovely and thoughtful and kind comments of the last two days. You know sometimes I get behind and do not reply to them all, but I read them and love them and appreciate every one. There are some new readers this week, which always gives me a great sense of delight; welcome, welcome.

Have a very happy Friday.

Oh, and because it is Friday and the sun is shining, and it feels like the end of a very long and strange week, I can't leave you without this:

Don't you love how she does slightly wistful when she is ready for her close-up? Actually, she has just spotted a bumble bee and is wondering where it is going to land.

And this one, you may think, is practically smiling for the camera, but in fact she is looking at me like that because I have got her stick.