Politics and ponies. Or, a divagation on authenticity and assumptions.

Author’s note: slight warning for length. Sorry about that.

 

There is an awful lot of politics going on. It is conference season, which is like Christmas and Easter for a political anorak like me. Over the pond, the election season is antic with poll reversals, strange veers in position, and a startling amount of statements which are (and I would be thrown out of the Commons for saying this) not true.

Usually, I would be glued to the computer, watching all the speeches, parsing the interviews, ear cocked for the shift in message. It’s not that I am not interested; politics will always fascinate me, it’s like a disease. But I don’t have the time.

There are two secret projects to write, there is my new, enchanting work for HorseBack UK, there are the equines to school and groom and feed and keep generally happy. (There is too, the racing to keep up with; I must not let my William Hill account down under any circumstances.)

This morning, I listened to the Prime Minister in the 8.10 slot on the Today programme. Normally, I would have an awful lot to say about the policy and the positioning and whether there really is a plan for growth.

In fact, the thing that struck me most was a light moment, right at the end, when James Naughtie made a sly little joke about Boris Johnson. For my foreign readers, Johnson is the Mayor of London and easily the most popular politician in Blighty at the moment. In terms of the Tory party, he is the prince across the water, whom disillusioned backbenchers long to draft in as leader, because David Cameron is not right-wing enough, or not anti-Europe enough, or not hard-line enough, or whatever it is that is driving them demented this week.

Perhaps, Naughtie suggested wryly, the PM would like to send Boris abroad somewhere. Cameron burst into laughter. He managed to stutter out some non-committal answer, but he was really tickled.

It was a revealing moment. He went from being a good but standard politician to a vivid human being. Cameron is actually rather good in interview situations; he does not use jargon, he does use humour, and he generally answers the question, as much as any politico does, these days. I can’t work out whether the not answering the question thing has got worse, or whether it has always been the case. I was really struck by it last week, when Ed Miliband was interviewed by Evan Davis in the same slot. He blustered his way through some polite but forensic questioning on the economy, and then he got the softball question at the end. Everyone was impressed with the fact that he memorised his conference speech, Davis said, and that he spoke for so long without notes. How did he do it?

It was a really nice question. It was a perfect opportunity for him to make a little joke about how he stood in front of the looking glass, declaiming, or made his children listen to the thing at breakfast. It also would have been interesting to know, a little glimpse behind the curtain. But Miliband would not answer. Even on that light, charming point, he dodged and fudged. I was surprised, and rather irritated, partly because I rather did want to know, and partly because he missed a huge open goal.

Everyone who knows Ed Miliband says he is very nice, much funnier and easier in private life than in his public persona. This not answering the question does not help in getting that across to the voters. I wonder if politicians are so handled now, so surrounded by advisers, so hamstrung by being on message, or repeating talking points, that they find it almost impossible to be themselves. When the Prime Minister burst into laughter, he was being absolutely himself, and it was like a gale of fresh air. But it happens so rarely. When did you last hear a politician really laugh?

I wonder too if it is slightly the fault of the voters, the old idea that we get the politicians we deserve. Everyone appears to love Boris because he is so funny and outspoken and bumbly and eccentric. Yet most politicians are liable to be punished if they step out of line, say what they really think; it can work, but it can backfire horribly. I suspect most of them think the risks are too great. They stick to this mealy, fudged, on message line, so that no one can have a cudgel to beat them with.

The public and the press say they long for authenticity, but too much authenticity can come back and bite a political operative on the arse. It’s why there is the revealing phenomenon of politicians out of office almost overnight becoming twenty times more interesting and thoughtful and amusing than when they were in power. (John Major and Michael Portillo are the two most shining examples of this.)

The absurd thing, I suddenly realise, is that this was going to be a post about how I was not going to write about politics, and now I have written of it, although not quite in the way I had intended. It’s an aspect of blogging I rather like; there is the galloping off on an unexpected tangent, the liberty to make it up as you go along.

What I really wanted to tell you today was a little story, not about conferences and polls and psephological minutiae, but about my pony. Yes, today is the day when sweet little Myfanwy steps out into the limelight.

It’s a parable really, and I’ll keep it as quick as I can.

She arrived as a rather unexpected loan, to keep Red the Mare company. Compared to my grand duchess, she was a little bit scruffy and little bit furry and a little bit ornery. Because I was working so much with my own horse, I did not pay nearly as much attention to the small Welsh person.

But then I realised that was unfair, and began concentrating on her. With the help of the brilliant Horse Talker, we have taught her to join up, to stand on command, to yield to pressure, to do all the natural horsemanship things, which she loves. We take her for gentle walks and sometimes, for fun, I lead her off Red. With the arrival of Autumn the Filly, we have moved them all into a strict herd routine; we work with them in turn, we groom them and feed them at regular hours, they know what to expect. They are a happy and settled band.

But the pony is the particular revelation. She was tense and uncertain when she first came to her strange new home; there were lines of anxiety over her eyes, and her little jaw was clenched. The more I work with horses the more I see that some of them really, really hate change. You can’t throw them into a new situation and expect them to get on with it, even if they are a tough little mountain breed.

Now that she is bathed in attention, now that she has her own little job to do, the pony has blossomed. Her eyes have softened, she whickers when she sees us, she stands in ecstasy when I scratch her sweet spots. I did not expect to love her as much as Red; I felt mild fondness, but I’m ashamed to say I felt at first she was not in the same league. (Horrid, horrid equine snobbery; I must cast it out.)

Now I am besotted with her. Her coat is soft as velvet from brushing, her ears are pricked, and she has a little dancing swagger about her. Everyone adores her, and she basks in the love. She is an integral part of our herd, and I can’t imagine the field without her.

I think this is a parable because it is all about appearances and assumptions. It’s a sort of frog turning into a prince thing. Just because someone does not look shiny or brilliant or eye-catching does not mean one should sideline them or write them off or make cheap assumptions about them. I had rudely, stupidly, assumed that because Myfanwy was old, and a pony, and a bit roly-poly, she would not learn in the way my sleek, clever Red did.

It was absolute nonsense. When I gave her a chance, she turned out to be a model pupil. And now she is so happy and proud of herself that she grows in beauty every day. She might not be descended from a Derby winner, but she is an absolute champion in all our hearts.

 

Today’s pictures:

The cows, sheep, hills and mountain of Red’s View:

Autumn the Filly is very relaxed in her work:

Red was also very chilled out today, looking more like a donkey than a duchess:

The wibbly lower lip, always a good sign:

Inspecting her view:

The Pigeon, in three of her different incarnations – sniffing for clues,  yearning for biscuits, and in ball ecstasy:

The heroine of the day goes in the place of honour. See how lovely she looks:

And the dear old hill, very blue and stately today:

PS. One of the Dear Readers asked a while ago about the camera I use, and I quite forgot to reply. It is an Olympus PEN 3 series, with a zoom that goes up to 200. I also use Picasa software, free to download, and very good for cropping, putting on colour effects like sepia or black and white, and beefing up contrast if the pictures sometimes come out a bit flat. Very occasionally, the opposite is the case; sometimes the Scottish colours are so wild and surreal that I actually tone them down a bit, because they look too vivid to be true. Oddly like fiction, in that regard.

Lost in horsebiz

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

So, finally, finally, the great day dawned, and Red’s small companion arrived. A very kind lady in Drumoak is lending her to us, since the pony is now too small for her previous rider. She is nineteen years old, Welsh Section A, and eleven hands three inches. She does not yet have a blog name, as I am leaving this decision to the great-nieces.

I had been fretting more than I realised about my mare being on her own. She has been used, her whole life, to being in a great herd. Polo ponies not only live and do their professional work in groups, even when out for exercise they go in packs. You see one person riding, leading two horses on each side. And, beyond that, horses are herd animals. They are not designed to live alone.

In nature, the horse on its own is not only incredibly vulnerable to predators, but will usually have been shunned because of illness or lameness. In the wild, horses are pretty ruthless; one weak link can slow down the herd, and they will always choose survival of the fittest, in its most literal sense. Actually, ruthless is the wrong word. That’s a human word. In the world of animals, it is just what they do, to get by.

The more I think of it, the more I think what a miracle my little mare is. I have developed a fatal habit of mooching around the horse forums, late at night. I can’t tell you the horror stories one reads of new horses who will not settle. The same refrain occurs over and over again: he was perfect when I tried him, and then I got him home, and three days later he FREAKED OUT.

Then follows a terrible catalogue of barging, biting, rearing, napping and other bleak occurrences. The owner loses confidence and questions every aspect of her capability. Maybe I should never have got a horse at all is the cry.

Apart from a few spooks, a bit of walking away in the field, some momentary jumpiness, and a couple of fussy riding days, Red has been a model. She is polite, kind, and amazingly biddable. She is easy to do. She excels at groundwork. Three times out of five, she will follow me without a halter. Considering the absolute upheaval of her world, the loss of every single thing familiar to her, from routine to person to environment, I cannot quite believe how lovely she has been. But the more I think of it, the more I think that she must have been lonely.

When the little grey pony arrived yesterday, Red put her head over the gate, and whinnied. It had such a yearning fall, a mixture of excitement and heartfelt greeting. She had never seen this creature before, but it was as if she was saying: you have come at last.

We brought them gently together, and Red blew through her nose in ecstasy, touched her nostrils to the pony’s, sniffed her all over with blatant joy, nuzzled her withers in the classic horse greeting. Then a look of pure relief and bliss spread over her face. I know I should not anthropomorphise, but there is absolutely no other way of describing it. It was as if her entire body was suffused with delight.

It did not take long to see that they were made for each other, so we let them go, and the determined little Welsh person, dwarfed by her big thoroughbred friend, trotted off in front, with my red champion following along behind like an eager puppy.

‘Well,’ I said. ‘There is absolutely no doubt who is the alpha mare in that set-up.’

In the evening, I went up to see if I could make a bond with the new pony. It took a while. She was skittery and uncertain at first. Some people might have thought, oh, that naughty little pony, I’ll show her who is boss. Small ponies have a reputation for being stubborn and difficult, and I’ve seen people be very cross and sharp with them.

I thought: this poor little thing has been hurled into a strange environment, and does not know me from Adam. Of course she is going to be mildly freaked.

So instead of cornering her and intimidating her, I walked round and round, in figures of eight, keeping a polite distance. I talked out loud and sang a song and said her name. I approached and then retreated, to show clearly I was not a predator. It took quite a long time. I let it.

I sat on the ramp of the hen coop and allowed her get used to my still presence. After about twenty minutes, she let me come up to her. I gave my hand to sniff; then a carrot. Then I moved away again. I repeated the procedure. Only then did I put on her halter and lead her around, so that she could get used to following me, and could see that she had nothing to fear.

What was particularly sweet was that, all this time, Red was watching from the gate with some anxiety, as if to say: don’t alarm my new friend. Once I had them tethered together, nice and relaxed, I scratched their ears and rubbed their necks and chatted to them for a bit, and felt, almost insensibly, this new dynamic of three start to establish itself. It was a rather extraordinarily lovely feeling.

It’s been another ridiculously nasty day, so I just went up, to check on them both. They were ignoring the rain, and happily grazing, side by side. I went up to Red, scratched her, crooned to her, gave her some apple. The small grey let me approach quite happily this time. She is still cautious, but not, it seems, afraid. Then I walked back to the gate. I did not call them, or expect them to come. I heard a shuffling rustle behind me. There was Red, head low and swinging, and the tiny pony, ears pricked, following me, in single file, all the way across the field. I laughed out loud, in sheer pleasure.

The rain falls and falls, and after days without a glimpse of sun, low spirits are seeping into my soul. I’ve been wrangling with my book all morning. This third draft has been proving very difficult and I get only tiny, flashing glimpses of achievement. I feel like I’m rolling a stone uphill. Some books are like that. But it is serious, it is my professional life, it is what I do for money, and, very occasionally, some kind words of praise. In some ways, it has been what I define myself by. But, oh, when I turned round and saw my beautiful thoroughbred and the funny little furry Welsh pony following me like that, I thought: I could not feel happier or more triumphant or more privileged or more complete had I won the sodding Booker Prize.

 

Some pictures from yesterday. Today, it is raining too hard. This is the sixth or seventh day in a row there is no hill visible.

There was, however,  A PONY:

I took a couple of snaps with my drama tone setting:

Then there were their views:

And, of course, the dearest face of all:

I think she might be saying: one big red dog is absurd enough, but another huge white one??????

Or, she is just wondering whether, if she looks adorable enough, she may persuade me to give her some biscuits.

Or, she is contemplating the Universal Why.