Election Day.

Up early, and out. I do some telephoning for my local candidate, asking people if they needed help getting to the polling station. I hate ringing up strangers and have to put on a very special low, grown-up voice to brush through it. It goes against everything that it means to be British. I think: I shall never, ever again be brusque with a cold-caller. (I have been known to do a horrid sort of passive aggression, sounding polite, but in fact being as mean as Maggie Smith in Downton Abbey, at her most waspish. I am not proud of myself for this and resolve to stop it at once.)

I go to HorseBack and do my work there. It’s a small course this week, only four veterans, all of them dealing with a variety of mental and physical challenges. I like the small courses because I can get to know the men and women a bit, and have time to listen to their stories, so I can feel their triumphs as if they were my own. One veteran, who served as a nurse, was really properly frightened of the whole idea of horses, but today she screwed her courage to the sticking place and rode out on a sweet-natured bay Quarter Horse mare under the wide Scottish sky.

I’m so used to horses being home to me that I find it quite hard to put myself in the shoes of someone for whom they are completely alien. I realise how hard and strange it must be, to get up for the first time on a half-ton flight animal, and not know where to put your hands or your legs or how the steering works. And then they start to get it, and they feel the movement of the horse under them, and they ask the good question and get the good answer, and that is when the smiles break out like beacons.

I edit 9,000 words of book and try to think about the shape of the thing. There is a new scene I have to write and I can’t quite work out where to fit it in. Whenever I am alone, driving in the car, I run through the scene in my head, putting myself in as the main protagonist, trying to see what she sees, feel what she feels. I have to know her like I know myself.

I roast some beef, for strength. I need the iron. There shall be beef sandwiches for the next two days, because I’ll be too tired to cook after the election. I listen to the news on Radio Four and miss the political stuff. The BBC is not allowed to broadcast anything political until the polls close. It’s slightly absurd, but it’s rather honourable too. This is the quiet day which belongs to the voters. All the pundits and commentators and professors and psephological experts fall silent, as the ordinary people who are affected by the daily actions of government come out into the light to make their own decisions.

I vote.

I love voting. It stitches me into history, into my community, into the social contract of my country. I understand well the arguments against; I know the logic of the spoiled ballot or the furious abstention. I know that first past the post means that, in some places, there is no hope for your chosen party. My own vote will almost certainly not win. But it will be counted. I choose to vote because of the women of Saudi Arabia, because of the Pankhursts, because of poor, deluded Emily Davison, because as recently as 1928 females in this country were not allowed to vote, presumably because the effort would cause their tiny pink lady brains to explode and make a mess.

I brandish my precious card. There was a horrible moment a few days ago when I got a letter saying my identity could not be confirmed by any government data base. This led to a mild existential crisis, when I felt as if I had been designated a non-person. The presiding officer looks down at her list. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘There you are.’ I smile all over my face. ‘I exist,’ I say, rather too loudly, joyful with reality. Two or three good voters give me a bit of a look.

I go into the booth, with its little stumpy pencil on a string. I read through all the candidates. I make sure I have them all right. I put in my cross, for an estimable gentleman who has done a lot for his community. I pause, taking in the moment.

All parties have their flaws, and all politicians are prone to frailties and foibles. Some of them are dull and some of them are idiots. Some of them are brilliant and some of them are mavericks and some of them just keep their heads down and get on with the job. Some adore their constituency work and make a real difference in the lives of real people; some climb the greasy pole. Some are articulate and some are taciturn. Some trim; some stick to their principles. Very much like the electorate, in fact. I gave up tribalism years ago, and now choose the candidate I think will do her or his very best. (I vote locally, but I also read all the national manifestos and act on the one I agree with the most.) I don’t expect miracles and I don’t expect all problems to be solved and I don’t expect revolutions. I have no sense of entitlement. Everyone is not going to get a pony. I hope, Whiggishly, that the cracks might be filled and progress might be made and mistakes might be rectified. I no longer have the soaring ideology of youth, but the pragmatic, slightly battered hope of age.

I think of Churchill, who said that democracy was the worst form of government, except for all the others that have been tried. He also said, after he won the war and was promptly cast from office by a flintily unsentimental British public: ‘They have a perfect right to kick me out. That is democracy.
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I go out into the quiet village hall, with its polished wooden floor and its high roof. The light is streaming in through the windows. I fold my ballot paper and put it into the scratched black box. I smile blindingly at the presiding officer. I say: ‘Hurrah for democracy.’ She looks faintly surprised. I can almost see her thinking: ‘Just humour the old girl. We get all sorts in here.’

I’d love to go in and do it all over again. Vote early, vote often. No, no, I think, we are not in Tammany Hall. It’s a quiet village in the north-east of Scotland. It’s a vast constituency, running from the high hills at Braemar to the low port of Stonehaven, which was established as a fishing village in the Iron Age. Tomorrow, when the country wakes up to a new order, or a constitutional crisis, or a frenzy of horse-trading, these mountains and fields will still be here, the lambs will still be skipping over the green grass, the majestic Aberdeen Angus will still be standing tall and stately in their meadows. But today is election day, and it means something to me.

A fighting spirit.

Some of you will know that I volunteer at a charity called HorseBack UK. It does the rather wonderful and novel thing of using horses to help wounded servicemen and women and veterans back on the path to recovery, and inspires them to a meaningful future. It is particularly effective for those with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Through it, I have met remarkable humans, and heard stories of such terror and courage that they make me humble.

What I had to offer HorseBack was writing. It turned out they needed words. I write everything from grant applications to leaflets, and run their Facebook page. Quite often, when I say there is No Blog Today, it is because after I have done my own work and done the HorseBack work, I have no words left. Some days, it is quite easy, and I put up something antic and light. Some days there is something concrete to report and what must be said is obvious. On other days, I must wrangle and wrestle the words to the ground, and by the time it gets to tea, I have had it. It always astonishes me how physically draining writing is. I tell myself I am not heaving concrete blocks, or working down a mine. But there: the addled old brain apparently uses up idiot amounts of energy.

Today, I am all emptied out.  It is one of those times when there would usually be no blog, but I’m going to reproduce here what I wrote for them, so that you can see why I’m done for the day.

As well as the remarkable humans I have met at HorseBack, there are remarkable horses too. It’s quite a thing to work with complete novices, and these are not old riding school ponies, but proper Quarter Horses, some of them out of the Western competition circuit. A lot is asked of them, and they give it willingly and with open hearts. This summer, a dear little filly foal was born, and I have been watching her grow. She was bred to do this hard and important work, and she had all the fine qualities that would be needed, in spades. Last week, she fell ill. Today, I had to tell the HorseBack readers. This is what I wrote:

 

Last year, we lost a brave and well-beloved member of the HorseBack family. Paul Burns served in Northern Ireland, where he survived a bomb. Despite having no legs, he sailed boats, jumped out of aeroplanes, rode horses, and threw himself into fund-raising challenges which would have defeated lesser men, even those with all their limbs. He lived life with humour and courage and grace, and everyone who met him went away feeling a little better about the world. His sudden death came as a shocking blow. Only days before, he had been part of the HorseBack team which went with the inspiring pupils of Banchory Academy as they cycled and canoed and hiked across Scotland. Paul, on his specially designed bike, led, as always, from the front.

We wanted to do something to mark his memory. In the blinding heat of August, our mare, Awesome, gave birth to a filly foal. We named her Awesome Spirit, after Paul, whose own spirit shone so brightly.

From the start, the filly was special. She was bold and beautiful, curious and questing, funny and fleet. We watched her grow with pride, and thought with hope of the important job she would do in the future.

Last week, she went lame. The vets came and went and came again. They were baffled. Her hind leg swelled to terrifying proportions, and an infection was at last diagnosed. Pus was drained, the most powerful antibiotics administered. But whatever was ailing her would not go away. Two nights ago, we thought we had lost her. The pain and the mystery infection had mastered her; the light went out of her eyes. Animals have a way of shutting down, when their bodies fail. It seemed that our little Spirit was for the dark.

But it turns out that she was better named than we knew. She has the same battling heart that we loved in Paul Burns. Miraculously, she rallied. She was not going down without a fight. She damn well was not going gently into that good night.

As she will not give up on us, so we will not give up on her. This morning, she and Awesome were driven away on the long road to Glasgow. She will be operated on at the University Equine Hospital, under the care of one of the most innovative and talented surgeons in the business, Patrick Pollock. She could not be in better hands.

We have no prognosis. We cannot tell you her chances. If courage alone could win the day, then she would be in the clear. As it is, we can only wait for news.

At HorseBack, we have seen a lot of humans who have defied the odds. We have veterans here who have been shot, crashed, bashed, blown up and bloodied in ways that the frail body should not survive. But there they are, walking and talking, still in the world. We believe in long shots, because we witness them every day. We hope that our bonny filly will come in at 100-1. We hope her fighting heart will see her through.

Hold her in your own generous hearts today.

 

And this was the picture I posted to go with it:

As I write this, I hear that the sweet girl has arrived in Glasgow. They will be operating as we speak. She is too young to have to fight such a fight, and I hope more than anything that she wins it.

Oh, and here is a small PS. I loved the comment yesterday from the Dear Reader all the way away in California who really does worry that I am dead in a ditch. (Are you related to my mother, by any chance?) And I was rather touched by those of you who said you are disappointed when there is No Blog Today. Quite frankly, I would not blame you if you were secretly relieved, I do ramble on so. Kindness of strangers, as always.

Choices.

I have an inchoate feeling of a corner being turned, of a new beginning, of possibilities opening up. I cannot quite pin it down but I feel it moving in me like an energy.

I spoke to someone today who is very young, and very wise. She spoke of having her perspective changed, and learning to see the positive instead of the negative. Her glass used to be half empty; now it is half full.

I think that this is a conscious choice. People have a tendency to see their characters as fixed. I am stubborn, they say, or optimistic, or sceptical, or kind. There is a temptation to take one label and slap it on and be done with it.

I think that most people are many things, all at the same time. I think also that character traits are not carved in stone. One can choose. Choices are important. Habits of mind can be changed. New neuronal pathways can be built, since it turns out the brain is much more plastic than was previously thought.

My glass too tends to be half full. I generally choose to see the best. Sometimes I feel slightly embarrassed by this, as if it were proof that I am naive or unsophisticated. The clever people are often cynics, after all. I am reading one clever person now, who serves up his cynicism about the human race in a brilliant and funny way. It is horribly persuasive. He has any number of proofs. My hello clouds, hello sky self wants to say: no, no, stop, wait, LOOK THERE IS THE SUN COMING OUT.

Is the choice, and I insist it is a choice, to see the best wilful folly, or a generally good thing? I can’t decide. I like digging for the good stuff, like a hound snuffling for truffles. When I find it, I feel a sense of joy and triumph and vindication. Silver linings glimmer about me.

Today, a man arrived at HorseBack who, on his last tour, was shot through the head. He comes to us quite a lot, and I like him very much, and am always glad to see him back. Getting shot in the head could shake one’s faith in life. It’s a bloody awful thing to happen. He could complain about his ghastly fate and the unfairness of things. (Why me? Why my damn head?) Instead, he chooses to see himself as lucky. He could have died. He should have died, really, all the medical people said so. Not many people survive a bullet to the brain. But he did survive, and he chooses not to complain, but to celebrate the fact that he is still here.

That’s what I mean by seeing the best in things. That’s my finest example, my daily reminder, right up there with What Would AP Do? It is, I think, a good choice. I put it in my heart and carry it with me like an amulet. The best is there, I think, even if sometimes I have to squint very hard to see it. It is worth looking for.

 

No pictures today; the weather is too awful. Just the two Beloveds, from lighter days:

How can one not look for the best in things, when one has those two beautiful creatures to gaze on every day? That’s crazy, wild, impossible luck, right there.

A fairly rambling Thought for the Day.

At HorseBack, a man says to me: ‘Tania, come in here. There’s someone I want you to meet. He’s doing things with women.’

We go in. I am introduced. The HorseBack man says: ‘You are a raging feminist after all.’

I smile proudly. I say: ‘I am a raging feminist.’

The other gentleman also smiles, with no trace of fear.

I’ve never understood the thing of not being a feminist. Why would you not want men and women to be treated equally? Why would you privilege one group of humans over another, simple because one set has ovaries and one set has testicles? (It’s a dick thing, shouts the puerile side of my brain. But then, I’ve never really understood that either. Oh, and while we are on the subject: PENIS ENVY IS A MYTH.)

I think the problem is that people get muddled. Category errors canter about like spooked horses. The idea somehow got put about that feminists refuse to acknowledge difference, that they want men and women to be the same, that in order to achieve this evil plan they must emasculate the gentlemen and butch up the ladies. This is the category error. Men and women are not the same, although one has to be a little careful here, since the male/female brain is on a spectrum, as Professor Simon Baron-Cohen has so lucidly shown. Not all men have very male brains, and not all women very female ones. But that’s a whole other story. The point is that however different humans may be, they should be afforded the same opportunities. That’s the equal part. Not equality of self, but equality of dignity.

However, that is not the gist of this story. The point of this story is that it turned out that I got to meet another of the fascinating men. Without a second’s pause, we were off to the races. We galloped over courage, motivation, confidence, belonging, the basic human needs, societal fears, war and any other animal we could get our hands on. By the time the HorseBack man came back in and asked about the women, I said: ‘we’re way beyond the women, we’ve done the whole human condition.’ (I’m also ashamed to say that I bellowed, in quite a small room: ‘SO INTERESTING.’ I have a tendency to shout when excited or riveted.)

What I thought, as I drove away, again stimulated by being in the presence of such an active and thoughtful brain, was a comically simple thing. It is: there are an awful lot of good people, doing an awful lot of good things. They don’t make the papers, they are not followed by the paparazzi, they don’t provide rich fodder for the tabloids. Quietly, unheralded, they go into the places where the broken people are, and do their best to repair shattered lives.

This particular interesting gentleman works for an organisation which helps everyone from addicts to young offenders to children in care. His current project is working with female offenders (hence the women). Prison is stuffed full of women who come from shattered backgrounds and grinding poverty; they often take to drugs, which in turn leads to prostitution. They find themselves in the grip of a pimp or an addicted partner, who may push them onto the streets in order to pay for a double habit. These are the difficult people, from whom society turns its eyes. This interesting gentleman helps them pick up the pieces, and find hope in the wreckage. It’s the kind of thing that makes me want to take off all my hats.

The interesting gentleman I met last week also works for a charity, doing similarly vital, good, often unsung work. I thought of these two clever people, making a damn difference. I get a little despairing sometimes, when I think of all the sorrow and the pity. The barrage of bad news from Syria, that most knotty of Gordian knots, with no good solution or easy answer, can make one want to give up and hide in a hole until it is all over. Sometimes, if one pays attention to the news, it is tempting to think that the whole of the human condition is poverty and fear and prejudice and injustice. We are all for the dark, and there’s nothing in our puny plan which can counter it. (You see that I am so exercised that I have used my hated Universal We. Forgive me.) But there absolutely are rays of light. These good individuals, fighting their own good fights, are the glimmers in the darkness.

The other trap that I sometimes tumble into is the idea that all these organisations are too small, up against the hugeness of the wars and dictators and terror organisations and blank walls of hatred. But then I think of the thing that was quoted in Schindler’s List, when Oscar Schindler was berating himself for not saving more people. Whoever saves one life, saves the world entire. It is a small, difficult truth. But it is a truth, and it is a light, and it is my thought for the day.

 

Today’s pictures:

The Remarkable Trainer came and continued Red’s jumping education:

She actually did a BOUNCE. This is when you put up two fences without a stride in between. The horse must land and then immediately take off. It’s pretty difficult. This is only her fourth serious jumping lesson. She did it perfectly, twice. The RT and I whooped and threw our arms in the air. Red looked at us both as if to say: Yes, well, of course.

Clearly telling her best friend all about her own utter brilliance:

Look at this collection. She is starting to learn to carry herself like a dressage horse. Rather amazingly, it is not done with contact or even any obvious aids, but the power of thought. This sounds bonkers, but, as the RT explains, if you just think upwards, the horse will rise up to meet you. It’s a completely different gait, the most lovely, rolling trot. Red is so, so clever I can’t really get over it:

I love this intelligent face. And the ear, of course:

We haven’t had a beech avenue for a while. Here’s one with a galloping dog in it:

The hill:

Bashing on

It was sad going up to HorseBack this morning and thinking of the good man who has gone. Everyone is hard hit, particularly the younger members of the team. At the same time, it was soothing, because there were the horses, and there was the new course coming in, and there was everyone lifting their chins and squaring their shoulders and getting on with it.

I think crossly about grief that it is not useful. It has no evolutionary utility. Humans tend to explain it to themselves as meaningful: it marks the passing of the beloveds as that great matter should be marked. And yet, the person who has gone would not be delighted that mourning and melancholy is left behind. Still, there it is: the hollowness in the throat, the feeling of unreality, the stupid sense of waste. It must have some deep biological root, since even animals mourn; elephants most famously, but horses too have been observed displaying signs of grief. The Pigeon pined for six weeks after the Duchess died.

My theory is: honour the dead by bashing on. This is not necessarily straightforward, but I think it must be true. So I do my HorseBack work and come back and write 1546 words of book and then take Mr Stanley up to see the herd. The Horse Talker and I brush our ladies in the blinding sun, so that their coats shine in the light.

The Remarkable Trainer brings her year-old boy to visit. He is ravished by the equines and very keen on Stanley the Dog. He has no fear of animals but only delight. They all respond to him with astonishingly touching gentleness, as if realising that this is a very small person, still a little unsteady on his feet, who comes in peace and must be treated with care. He laughs at them and feeds them delicate strands of grass and waves his arms in unfettered joy. He is the totem of life going on.

 

Today’s pictures:

HorseBack morning:

Mr Stanley says: please, please, please may I play with my absurd squeaky toy?:

Answer: Yes. At which point, joy is unconfined:

Yesterday was my mother’s birthday, and there are dear relations staying, so we had a very lovely little party. I made what I can only call Luxury Snacks, and arranged some special birthday flowers:

No hill today. The camera battery died. Just imagine something very serene, and very blue.

Battery died before I could capture the horses with the small boy, or their special shining coats, so here is one of Red from a few days ago, because a blog is not a blog without her dear face in it:

(Slightly wistful look means: is tea ready YET?)

A ray of light

After the horror of Woolwich, something remarkable happened. This week, as part of my work for HorseBack UK, I’ve been following the progress of the Banchory Academy Across Scotland Challenge. The young teenagers have been cycling, walking and canoeing their way across Scotland to raise money for the charity. They are accompanied by a HorseBack team, including two double amputees, who did the canoeing and the biking, using specially modified bicycles. Yesterday afternoon, as the news of Woolwich still disfigured the airways, I went out to meet this group as they charged down the Deeside Way in frigid temperatures and driving rain.

It was like a great big blast of joy. They were so filled with energy and purpose that you could sense it coming off them like smoke.

Later, they settled for the night in an old walled garden not far from where I live. I went up to talk to them and found a group of the funniest, brightest, most articulate, larkishly antic teenagers I’ve ever met. I was tired after what I thought was a long week. They had just travelled about two hundred miles under their own steam, and they were still making jokes, striking poses, teasing each other, and laughing like drains. Although they are doing a fabulous thing, raising thousands of pounds for HorseBack, there was nothing pi or do-goodish about them. They were just exceptionally nice people; authentic, charming, interesting, absolutely themselves.

As I worked at my desk, and the dusk fell, I heard the odd shriek and laugh as they cycled past my window. Even after thirty miles of hard effort that day, in snow and sleet and rain and absolutely bloody freezing temperatures, their energy was undimmed and they still wanted to explore.

This morning, I rode the mare up to see them. They duly admired her, which of course won my heart even more, if such a thing were possible. ‘Oh,’ they said, ‘she’s beautiful.’ She was slightly freaked out, as she had never seen twenty-three mountain bikes gathered together before, but they did not mind. They are all so positive that they seemed to see the best in everything.

HorseBack’s Scott Meenagh, who has seen quite a lot in his life, having been blown up in Afghanistan, said that they restored his faith. All the adults with them were bowled over. Faces shone with admiration and pride. I can’t begin to express what a tonic they were. They were like a shining beacon of goodness and trueness in a sometimes dark world.

Regular readers will know that one of the things that drives me nuts is the lazy idea that infects the media like a nasty virus. The Young People, this tired old assumption goes, are only good for texting and gaming and traducing the English language with their LOLZ and other bizarre acronyms. I’ve never thought this was true. Occasionally, I have a little rant about it. I’ve always believed in The Young People, and now this mighty cohort have come along and proved my point for me. I had to restrain myself from hugging them. (I did fling my arms round most of the HorseBack grown-ups, who stood it manfully.)

I got on with my day, but my mind was filled with these delightful young people. Every so often, I broke out smiling, just at the thought of them. I admit, in my great-auntish way, I feel quite teary about witnessing that amount of sheer loveliness. It was as if they were sent to remind me of all the fine, bright things, at a moment when the news was filled with bleakness.

 

Today’s pictures:

The brilliant adventurers, setting off this morning:

Scott, on his special bike:

Having fun last night with Jura the Puppy:

Out from the beech avenue they come:

Posing for group pictures. The diagonal arms are a thing:

My last sight of them:

And one more of the special bike. Scott rides horses as well. Nothing stops him:

Meanwhile, back in the garden, everything has suddenly turned green:

Stanley the Dog, with his socking great stick:

Red the Glorious, a little dopey after having her teeth done by the very clever vet:

The hill:

The point

No time for anything, as I’ve been working all day and running around and doing my horse and talking to interesting people and now, for once in my life, I actually have a social engagement and must put my lipstick on.

But there are days, in the cliché of middle age, when I wonder what the point of it all is. More in a musing, quizzical way than a bleak, Dostoevskian way.  Sometimes I know, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I have to guess. Sometimes I think it is the look on Red the Mare’s face when she sees me coming. Sometimes I think it is love and trees. Sometimes, it is what will win the 5.30 at Chepstow. (In this case, a very well-named colt called Fast.)

Today, it was this:

This is a Para. He told me this morning, with generous, humorous honesty, about his crashing PTSD. He told me that when he arrived on Monday he was afraid of horses. Now he is doing this with Archie.

That is the point.

Blog post the second. Or, a really glorious day.

Today was a glorious day. The sun shone, I woke galvanised, I got things done. After yesterday’s slightly dulled acceptance of some really pretty good news, I felt suddenly fired with purpose. Not just that work, but all the work could be done.

A pitch for another project, a salvage mission after the Great Set-Back of late last year, had been weighing on my mind. The set-back had left me bruised and bashed, and a horrid, tense procrastination had set in. Finally, the thing fell into my mind as if someone had sent it through the post. I wrote 1706 words in two hours, which is almost physically impossible. It sometimes happens like that. When an idea has been cooking long enough, and the sun comes out, literally and metaphorically, you can write as if someone is dictating the thing in your ear. This was one of those very rare moments.

The galvanic momentum even led me to get dull, logistical tasks done. I dyed my hair dark auburn and cleaned out two cupboards, and threw away things which were two years past their sell-by date. (They hide in the back of the kitchen cabinets, and occasionally reappear to mock me.)

I even worked out my Cheltenham outfits, because that is where I am going, on my trip south. I am going to see the mighty Sprinter Sacre in the flesh for the very first time, and you can’t just wear anything for a titan like that.

I spoke to the Beloved Cousin, I discussed politics and disgrace with my mother (her mind runs much on the matter of Lord Rennard), I did my HorseBack work.

Then, with an astonishing and most uncharacteristic jump on the day, I allowed myself two whole hours in the sunny paddock with the herd. Lately, time has been so pressing that I run down, at top speed, work, feed, groom, walk Stanley the Dog, and then hare back to my desk. Today, I could let my shoulders drop and enjoy the horses.

There was the great moment of the first time The Horse Talker sat on her beautiful filly. That is recorded for posterity, as such a moment must be, on the previous post. It was filled with great joy and serious achievement, and I could not have been prouder of the filly if she were mine.

Then I worked with my own good girl. We had a little moment in the woods yesterday. There is a particular combination of stimuli which sends her into orbit. It happens very rarely, but when it does, it is quite spectacular. It seems to be to do with being on her own, in a new place, with any sense of confinement. I sometimes think she is perhaps having acid flashbacks to her racing career; maybe she is remembering the tight rattle of the starting stalls.

Whatever it is, I decided we needed to go right back to the beginning and work on trust. That way, when she has these little emotive floods, she will know that she can rely on me to deal with them.

Back to basics we went. She was dozy and compliant and willing. So I took it up a notch, and improvised with the desentising. Off came my cardigan, to be turned into a flappy, unpredictable object. This highly-bred thoroughbred mare stood, stock still, untethered, until she was literally wearing the woollen item as a fetching hat. It might have been a little beneath her dignity, but it showed me that the bond of trust was there. I even blindfolded her with it, and she allowed herself to walk behind me for a few steps without being able to see.

This was not complicated dressage. It was not competition work. The movements I did with her were small and simple. But they were profound for all that. I had held a tiny flutter of worry after our bronco episode in the woods. Was I doing something wrong? Did she not believe in me at all? Had I failed her as the Good Leader? Today, she was so kind and attentive and still and immaculate that she set every corner of my mind to rest.

She got a lot of love, as you may imagine. She gives me so much, it is the least she deserves.

 

Today’s pictures:

The Horse Talker:

The girls, watching the show, like two old ladies at a matinée. I swear they almost handed each other a nice box of Maltesers:

Myfanwy was not as impressed as she might have been:

Heroine of the day, the lovely Autumn:

My dozy old girl, pretending she has never had any bronco thought in her head, ever:

Stanley the Dog was a bit left out of all this. He is still uncertain about the horses, not being able to decide whether he wants to play with them, chase them, flirt with them, or live in fear of these huge red and white creatures, so for serious work, he has to stay away. He was rewarded with some serious stick action:

The hill. Even after two days of a balmy seven degrees, it still has snow on it: