Feels like flying.

JUMPING.

Jumping, jumping, jumping, jumping.

Actually, I tell a lie.

We were not jumping.

We were FLYING.

You’ve seen these pictures before, but there was no photographer on hand this morning, and they are the only ones which come near to expressing the joy.

Initially, I did not intend to do any crazed leaping. It’s my first proper day back riding after falling off The Other Mare. I was very, very sore; at one point I became convinced I had actually broken my tailbone. Sensibly, I thought I’d get back into the swing with a bit of gentle walking. On top of which, Red was a bit spooky and resistant when I got on, staring at ghosts and throwing her head about.

I don’t get involved when she does things like this, which she doesn’t very often. I just change the subject. Let’s go this way, I suggest, politely. Let’s do some figures of eight and some transitions and some fiendishly twisty little circles. At which point she stops being a drama queen and gets her mind back on the job.

(Incidentally, ‘change the subject’ is one of the best pieces of advice I’ve ever been given about riding.)

And then, I don’t know why, I just thought bugger sense. And off we went. Zoom, zoom; whoop, whoop. She loves it so much it makes me laugh. She pricks her ears and picks up her delicate feet and leaps over our tiny, home-made obstacles as if she were at Hickstead. She’s got a hell of a jump; I can almost physically feel the air whooshing underneath us.

I just concentrate on staying with her and keeping her straight; I let her find her own stride, which she does, impeccably, every time. I think she really is a natural. She was wasted on the flat; they should have sent her over hurdles and she would have been a champion.

As we canter out into the wild grass, with me standing up in the saddle, leaning forward over her neck as if I am riding cross country against the clock, it never occurs to me that this great, powerful thoroughbred does not even have a bit in her mouth. She’s excited, but steady under me, all her early skittishness gone. For precious moments, it’s just me and my horse, in glorious, rhythmic harmony; there is only this great, rushing feeling, of joy and union.

The Horse Talker witnesses the last two great leaps. She says the nicest thing anyone could have said. She looks at Red, and looks at me, and says: ‘You look so....’ She pauses, thinks. ‘Together,’ she says at last. ‘As one.’

And afterwards, as I put the happy mare back in her field, and she heads straight for the shelter where the other girls have gone to gossip in her absence, no doubt to tell them of her great adventure, the HT adds: ‘You really trust that horse, don’t you?’

I smile. It’s the truest of the true things.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I damn well do.’

Highs and lows. Or, lessons from the horse’s mouth. Or, beware those flappy wings of hubris.

I’m always banging on about the life lessons my mare teaches me. I think that horses in general are tremendous professors. On some days, the good old universe joins in, and sends me an excellent corrective too.

Today was such a day.

The mare and I did some wild jumping. Zoom, zoom, she went; whoop, whoop, I went. She has taken to leaping as if it were the thing she has been waiting for. All those years she raced on the flat and played polo offered her no opportunity to express herself in this glorious aerial way. Now there is no stopping her. She’s still learning, still working it all out, but she is willing and eager and she gives me the great gift of trust. If I ask her to do this novel thing, she will damn well do it.

I can’t tell you how thrilling it was. There we were, out in the open green spaces, in only the rope halter, soaring over the homemade course that the Remarkable Trainer had rigged up. The jumps were absolutely tiny, but we didn’t care. We were as excited as if we were galloping around Burghley.

She did not pull; she did not waver; she did not refuse a single request. Quite frankly, I forgot that I was riding an ex-racehorse without so much as a bit in her mouth, I was concentrating so hard on sitting her well, and keeping her straight and confident, and going with her. It was only afterwards that I thought how remarkable it was. She is so clever and I am so proud. I shouted out loud and threw my arms in the air.

An hour later, I was flat on my arse on the sandy floor of an arena.

My dander was so high by this stage that I had rashly agreed to scramble bareback onto a horse I had never ridden before. I was clumsy in my mounting attempt, because my middle-aged body is not agile enough, and this particular mare was not having it. She bronced three times in protest, and off I thumped. (She was right, by the way, and I was wrong. She was perfectly correct to object.)

I hate falling off. It is not the bruise to my coccyx I resent; it is the blow to my pride. That is what hurts. I had been flying so high, not only proud of my glorious Red, but, I am ashamed to admit, rather proud of myself, as we mastered our new, thrilling jumping game. Look at me; I am all that. La di bloody dah.

The screeching bird of hubris flapped its treacherous wings. The universe and a determined horse brought me crashing down to earth. I write this with rueful fingers. Never fly too close to the sun.

I’ll get the feeling back in a while, that spiralling, dancing, delighted joy that Red gave me today. They can’t take that away from me. I’m a bit bumped and bruised and humbled just now, is all. I can’t do the things at forty-six that I could do at sixteen. I must remember not to be an idiot, especially when my competitive spirit is drumming in my ears.

What it does make me realise though is that Red is even more kind and forgiving than I had thought. If such a thing were possible. I do scramble onto her when I ride bareback, and she does not move. As if the scrambling were not enough, I make terrible ancient oofing noises, which she also bears with perfect equanimity. My muscles are still not as strong as they should be, and she does not mind. I point her rashly at jumps when I have not jumped for thirty years, and she generously consents to do something quite new to her.

There are a lot of things about her that impress me, but perhaps her generous nature is the one that I admire the most. She has a high spirit in her; she is a thoroughbred, after all. She does not forget her gracious bloodlines. She could turn her nose up and refuse my requests, if she chose. She is not a push-button old dope, going through the motions. Instead, she offers so much, with an open heart.

After I wrote this, filled with rue, I stumped down to the field to give her her tea. She was still looking pretty pleased with herself. She gave me her customary whicker, that low, throaty, Lauren Bacall whinny which makes my heart dance. She pricked her ears and nodded her head. She stood polite and still as I gentled her neck and chatted to her and told her what a brilliant person she was. She breathed contentedly through her nose and wibbled that beloved lower lip.

She doesn’t care that I just made a fool of myself. I am her person, and that is all. So I left her, as always, feeling better than when I arrived. That is another of her great, great gifts.

 

Today’s pictures:

Are a little hit and miss. Some of them are rather blurry. But I wanted to give you an impression of the flying. And even though the jumps were only about eighteen inches off the ground, it DID feel like flying.

Starting off gently:

I have my concentrating extremely hard face on. I swear that Red is POSING for the camera:

JOY:

Whoop, WHOOP:

You can see her still figuring it all out here, as she lands a bit in a heap, but on she still goes. Nothing will stop her. Nothing will stop us:

I know this is very blurry, but imagine it with the International Velvet soundtrack. (Those of you who were horsey children will know what I mean.):

Love this face. Oh, look, a very small JUMP:

Now she’s starting to look unbelievably professional. She is one of the fastest learners I ever met:

The tiny, tiny fence built of silver birches:

 

And the double:

Back in the quiet of her field, with her most adorable Good Evening face on:

And The Mare Who Objected. You can see there are no hard feelings. How could there be?:

There’s something about mares. Or, one for the girls.

In the horse world, just as in the human one, there is prejudice against the female of the species. Mares are widely supposed to be hormonal, unpredictable, difficult and generally unreliable. My experience is that the complete opposite is true.

I’ve been having a ball with the girls over the last couple of days. On Sunday, a delightful filly called Miss Dashwood, trained by the most excellent James Fanshawe, roared from last to first in the Goodwood sunshine, producing a withering burst of speed in the final yards to catch the long-time leader. According to her yard, the next day when she was taken out for a gentle recuperative walk after her great efforts, she ‘looked very pleased with herself.’ I know that look. Then, yesterday, in the Amateur Derby, run at Epsom over the same distance as the actual Derby, Mr Patrick Mullins was up on another lovely, determined filly called Beacon Lady.

She had won her last two races, and bagging a three-timer is always difficult. Epsom is a famously treacherous course and she had a big field up against her, including a well-backed favourite.

Mullins gave her one of the kindest, cleverest, most sympathetic rides I’ve ever seen on a racecourse. He dropped her out the back door and gave her time and space to find her feet over the crazy cambers and turns. Admittedly, as I saw her five lengths behind the field, and about twenty off the leader, I said, out loud, to Stanley the Dog, ‘not even Dancing Brave could win from there.’ I was wrong, and canny Mr Mullins was right. He knew his girl. He nursed her into the race. (My fanciful brain decided her was surely crooning at her in his Irish accent, telling her what a fine lady she was.) And then, when she was at last vaguely in touch with her field, he took her wide, down the centre of the track, so she could have a good look at everything and not get stuck in traffic. Everything else was motoring, and yet he still did not ask her for her effort. He sat quite still, and kept her balanced, and let her deepen her stride.

Finally, finally, he said go, in the politest possible way, just shaking up the reins a little and crouching lower in the saddle. And perhaps because he had been so courteous and gentlemanly, the bold filly gave him everything she had, and flashed past the post a length in front. I don’t think her jockey even picked up his stick.

I had money on both fillies and I shouted them home.

Today, the Remarkable Trainer pitched up, back from holiday. Red the mare, seeing there was serious groundwork to be done, was at her most spirited, waltzing about and putting in a bronco buck and showing all her thoroughbred blood. For all that she spends most of her time like a dozy old donkey, occasionally she likes to test the boundaries, to remind us that she is descended from a Derby winner, to show that she is not to be taken for granted. At moments like that, a lot of people would shake their heads and say, darkly, ‘mare-ish’, and start digging out all the old stereotypes. I laughed my head off. The Remarkable Trainer said, ‘she’s just being a horse’. (I think sometimes people forget this about equines.)

Once she saw that this sort of Spanish Riding School of Vienna farrago was not going to fly, Red settled into her work. After a while, I got on, and the Remarkable Trainer suddenly got a rush of blood to the head and started dragging silver birch trees across the grass. ‘There,’ she said, looking at her handiwork. ‘Working Hunter fence.’ It was actually a proper jump, at least TWO FEET HIGH.

‘Bugger it,’ I said. ‘We’re going to jump it.’

So we did. I let Red find her own stride, and concentrated on sticking with her and not bothering her. She is still very, very new at this, and I wanted to give her confidence. At first, she was so amazed that she gave the thing about five feet of air; I could feel it whooshing underneath me, and whooped in astonishment and amazement. Then, she grew more sure-footed, and starting popping over like an old pro. Each time, she came back to a gentle halt, and turned her face back to me as if to say: did you see what I did?

At the time, it was just fun, something interesting and experimental to do. I like to amuse her, to keep her interested, not to let her get stale. It’s lovely, teaching her something new. It was only afterwards that I realised that I’d been blasting about a wide open green space on an ex-racing, ex-polo mare, who half an hour earlier had been bucking as if she were in the Calgary stampede. I’d been asking my posh old duchess, who has only just learnt what a jump is, to leap over a fence whilst wearing only a rope halter. She could have charged off into the blue yonder if she’d wanted to, but each time she came kindly back, despite all the excitement.

‘Bloody hell,’ I said to The Remarkable Trainer. ‘Do you realise what she just did?’

It’s not because I am clever or accomplished or a particularly good horsewoman. I am still tremendously rusty and have forgotten more than I probably ever knew. It’s because I trust her. It’s because I don’t believe any of that bullshit about mares. It’s because she fills my heart with gladness and she is as kind and brilliant and willing as any creature I ever met. Just like her two distant relations out there on the racecourse, she will give you everything if you ask politely. Sometimes she shakes her head and throws a little spirit into the mix, but she comes back at once, docile and biddable and absolutely honest. She is different each day, not because she is a slave to her hormones or suffers from the disadvantage of having ovaries, but because she is a sentient creature, and each day is new to her and will bring its own challenges, which she will meet in her own sweet way.

I suppose I’ve been thinking about this because one of the inexplicable UKIP fellows has been going on again about the frailties and incapabilities of women. (Apparently, women are better at ‘finding mustard in the pantry’ than driving cars.) And just now, I heard a woman in Pakistan interviewed on the radio say, without a trace of self-pity, that the fight for equality which happened in the West has not even started in her own country. She made it a simple statement of fact. I thought it was one of the saddest things I ever heard.

I’m a tremendous believer in the sisterhood. I think women are brilliant, not just because of all the things that they are brilliant at, but because most of them put up with this kind of thing with an extraordinary patience and grace. It goes on every day, even in the enlightened West. We ladies may have the vote and the right to own property and the freedom to do jobs, but the hum of low-level bigotry and tired assumptions infects society still. The women could be working to rule and setting their hair on fire and withholding their favours, and yet, mostly, they just get on with it. They laugh, sometimes a little tiredly, and don’t make a fuss. I have a bottomless admiration for that.

So I suppose when I get furious about the prejudice against mares, it’s a proxy for my crossness about the slurs that all females must put up with. When Miss Dashwood and Beacon Lady show such resolution and doughtiness and pure, thrilling speed, when my beloved Red soars over her birch trees, I think, nuttily, that they are striking a blow for females everywhere. I whoop in delirious triumph, because it is one for the girls.

 

Today’s pictures:

A very random selection, because I’ve been going back through the files and trying to winnow them. Despite my soaring adoration for my girl and my manly Stanley, I really probably don’t need three hundred photographs of them. Each. (Conservative estimate.)

HorseBack girls:

My mum’s new little chap:

MY chap:

With his big red friend:

Scotland:

Oh, that handsome face:

More lovely girls, human and equine:

I am not sure anyone ever made me so proud as this person does:

r

Hill:

The funny thing is that I was not going to do a blog today. I was just going to put up some pictures. I’m very tired and it’s been a long day. Then this all just fell out of my fingers. Brain to fogged to tell if ANY of it makes any sense, so please forgive.

An ordinary day. An extraordinary man.

A lovely cool clear still morning. Red the Mare was all tickled up and filled with the joys of spring, even though it is August. We cantered and did tight figures of eight at a quick trot, flinging round the field as if we were barrel racing, and then we jumped and jumped. Now she’s getting the hang of it, she has an increasingly huge jump and I had to concentrate hard not to get left behind. I whooped and yelled and covered her with congratulations. She was very, very pleased with herself.

As I went up to HorseBack UK for my morning’s work there, and watched them school their own clever Quarter Horses, I thought how odd my own schooling programme is. I do have some good over-arching aims, but I am about as far from those stern articles in the horse magazines as it is possible to be. I leap on and think – what mood am I in? What mood is Red in? What will be fun for her today? And then we do it.

I watched the much more proper schooling in the arena and took some pictures and then I met a remarkable man. People come in and out of HorseBack all the time, and all of them have pretty extraordinary stories. There are the veterans, and some who are still serving. Then there are the visitors, who come for a myriad of different reasons, and most of them have their own fine stories too. Many of them have connections to the services. There was a woman today who used to be in the navy; she came with her son, who is now in the navy himself. They accompanied the Remarkable Man. He was in the army, and then his life went into a downward spiral, and one morning he woke up and thought he could pretty much finish it all, or he could walk around Britain. He chose to walk. He chose to walk 6500 miles, around the coastline of our little island nation.

He’s been going for a year. He’s about half way there. Nothing will stop him. The other day, he crashed down a cliff at Balmedie and thinks he would have fallen to his death had he not had an umbrella in his backpack, which lodged in the earth and broke his fall. He sleeps rough, because he was on the verge of homelessness and he wants to make people aware of how many of those who have served do not have a bed to call their own. He’s raised over a hundred thousand pounds for Help for Heroes, and he’s not nearly finished.

I started doing this voluntary work for HorseBack because they are nearby, because I love what they do, because they inspired me, because I think those who have fought in hot wars deserve all the support we can give them, and because, in the corny old phrase, I felt it was time to give something back. I’ve had a ridiculous amount of luck in my life. I’ve always had a bed to call my own. I have a crazy brindle dog and a glorious red horse and a brain which works and opposable thumbs. The least I can do is offer something in return.

But the irony is that I get more out of this work than I can ever give. Because, on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday, I have the good fortune to meet an extraordinary man. And that would never have happened if I had not made that whimsical mid-life decision.

 

Today’s pictures:

My most adored and brilliant girl. Who knew she would turn out to love to jump?:

The ridiculously tiny obstacle over which I am teaching her to leap. From the amount of air she gives it, you would have thought we were at Badminton:

The crazy brindle dog has a new friend:

Because The Mother GOT A PUPPY. Did I mention that there is a PUPPY?:

His name is Edward and he arrived yesterday and I’m not generally nuts for small dogs, but he is absolutely and completely adorable. Stanley loves him so much already that he almost refused to leave my mum’s house after breakfast this morning. Yearning looks back at the door.

The proper schooling up at HorseBack:

The Remarkable Man:

His name is Christian Nock, and you can read more about his visit to HorseBack here:

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10151816695385568&set=a.269393705567.184638.197483570567&type=1&theater

Oaks Day

It’s Oaks Day, so I am in a state of high excitement. There is a filly I absolutely love called Secret Gesture, and I am hoping that she will cruise round the testing corners and undulations of Epsom and soar to glory. She was wonderfully impressive last time out, but this is the fillies’ classic and she is up against the best of her generation and there is never any guarantee that a horse will handle this idiosyncratic track. Still, she is the girl for me, no question about it.

I raced through my work this morning. For once, my time management worked. (At this point you must imagine me falling off my chair.) I took the car to the garage, gave Red a pick of the new lush grass that is growing in the field beyond her paddock, discussed the racing with my mother, walked Stanley the Dog, took photographs of the sheep (very important), went up to HorseBack and did my daily work for them, wrote 979 new words of book.

Now I write this, and then THAT IS IT. I’m off for the afternoon. I shall be watching the fascinating racing at Epsom, with my heart pounding. That is my Friday plan.

So there are mostly photographs for you today. It was the most ravishing morning. Dear old Scotland put on her pomp for us, and the Horse Talker and I were so overcome by the weather that we met each other at the paddock dressed identically in white linen. So sensible when one is working with horses. But the sunshine must be saluted.

The sheep were particularly enchanting, as you shall see. I love them. Mr Stanley the Dog gets five gold stars because he has completely accepted that they are not for him, and rests quietly on his lead, not barking or straining or making alarming faces at them, so that they stay gently at rest as we watch them. It was a bit of a moment, really.

Today’s pictures:

A very lovely new horse has arrived at HorseBack. He is called Fantastic Mr Fox:

Here he is, relaxing into his new home, with his owner, HorseBack’s Jess March. On the right is Scott Meenagh with his dear canine, Jura the Puppy, and the majestic Deeside hills in the background:

Back at home, everything is green as green:

The sheep are resting graciously in the shade:

There are random leaves, because there must always be random leaves:

Coos have come to stay with the sheep, and are settling down nicely:

Lambs:

This fella was my absolute favourite. Stanley and I were standing very close to him, but he was not afeared. Note the watchful mother in the background:

More coos:

The blossom is really finally blossoming. We’ve waited a long time for it this year:

A very grand lady indeed:

Cow parsley:

My favourite chap again:

The old oak plantation:

The oaks are always the last to come into leaf, but it still amazes me that it is almost June and they remain bare:

View to the south-east:

This was taken by the Remarkable Trainer yesterday. We were teaching Red to jump. She ran on the flat and did polo so we think she has probably never seen a jump before. From the way she did it, we are pretty sure she has not. First of all there was a mighty leap, even though the tree trunk was hardly more than four inches high; then a series of funny little hops. After each, she was so excited by her own cleverness that she threw her head in the air, went zoom zoom, and pranced about the field. The really lovely thing about her now is that it only took four or five strides to settle her again, despite the adrenaline running.

I love several things about this picture. I love her look of concentration and all the fine muscles on her strong body. I love that we can teach a thoroughbred mare to jump in a rope halter on a loose rein. And it makes me laugh that I look as if I think I am riding her in the Gold Cup, instead of going over a jump so small it is hardly visible to the naked eye. My mother looked at it and said: ‘That’s exactly how you used to look when you were riding Seamus.’ Seamus was my beloved working hunter pony when I was thirteen. It seems that even after thirty-three years, some things don’t change:

And here we are in relaxed mood, going over our newest obstacle course. See how willingly and delicately she is doing it. I could not be more proud of her if I tried:

And afterwards, quite pleased with herself:

Look. Look. Mr Stanley the Dog DOES BLINKY EYES. I remember when The Pigeon used to do that. Slays me every time:

Hill, blue and stately today: