The glory of sheep.

Today, I rounded up sheep.

It was mighty.

The red mare and I had gone out for a quiet ride when suddenly, over the brow of a small rise, we came upon a crazy flock of sheep, skittering about in all directions. It was a bit of a Gabriel Oak moment, I must admit.

Without thinking, I went into cowgirl mode. I circled the wheeling flock and brought them into order. On the other side, I saw the old farmer and his two grandsons, one on a quad bike, one with a sheepdog. ‘Which way do you want them to go?’ I shouted, reining the mare this way and that.

The farmers here are three generations. There is the old farmer, who has officially retired, but who, in reality, comes every day to check the ewes. He loves those animals, and casts his wise eye over them to see that all is well, missing nothing. There is the young farmer, who runs the show and works harder than any man I ever met, rising before the dawn and finishing his day in the dark. I have seen him doing the silage at ten-thirty at night, with his tractor lights blazing. Then there are the young boys, the grandsons, learning the ropes, understanding the land, developing those life-long habits of industry and striving.

There are few things I love more than observing knowledge passing down the generations. As I watched this good farming family at work, I felt something real and true stir in me.

The red mare had no such misty thoughts. ‘Excusez-moi,’ she said. ‘I am a racehorse, descended from generations of Derby winners, and you want me to do what?’

‘Bugger this for a game of soldiers,’ she said. ‘I’m going back to the paddock, to my nice, explicable Paint friend, instead of hanging out with these inexplicable sheep.’

‘Come on,’ I said, ‘it will be fun.’

By this time, I had a picture of us in my head, all wild and free, galloping across the plains of Wyoming with the wind in our hair, cutting cows like we had been born to it. In reality, we were one extremely duchessy duchess, and one scruffy middle-aged woman, wearing a distressingly mundane crash helmet and smeared spectacles, making absurd whoop whoop git onnnn noises.

Still, dreams die hard.

And for a moment, we were in the green grass of Wyoming, as the mare regally consented, and we cantered alongside the quad bike, the sheep running before us in perfect formation, under the lime trees, across the main road, and up to the long sloping meadow to the west. We damn well were My Friend Flicka.

My friend Jim, who does not have a head filled with green grass fantasy, saw us lope by and laughed so much he practically fell over.

My other friend, the owner of the Paint filly, drew up in her truck. ‘You’ve been doing what?’ she said.

‘Herding sheep,’ I said, as if we did it every day. The red mare snorted, as if to express how far beneath her dignity the whole thing was.

More gales of laughter.

‘I do admit,’ I said, ‘we weren’t exactly asked. The farmer did look slightly surprised.’

The red mare nodded her head, as if to say: who could blame him?

We waved our goodbyes, and went for a little racehorsey gallop to celebrate. Then I got off and walked her home, thinking she deserved the weight off her dear back after all that hard work.

‘You rounded up sheep,’ I told her, out loud. ‘You are a sheep-horse. You contributed something to the community.’

I swear that she almost rolled her eyes at me. Sheep, schmeep, she was clearly thinking.

I’m not sure I ever felt so important in my life. The 2601 words of book I wrote afterwards, even the HorseBack work, could not touch it. Today, it was the sheep that counted. It was something so small and ordinary, it could hardly be seen by the naked eye. It was moving some livestock from one field to another. Yet, in that wonderful moment, I felt we were part of something, doing something useful, stitched into this good Scottish earth. My red duchess may have been the slowest racehorse in the history of the sport of kings, but damn, she can move an ovine. The glow of it fills me still and makes me grin like a loon.

When the news is crazy and the world seems mad and the sorrows fill the pages of the papers, I cling on to the small things as if they are the life-raft which will stop me drowning. As I get older and more bruised, I believe it is in the ordinary that salvation and solace come. When I was young, I wanted to be extraordinary. I wanted the marks of worldly success. I wanted to do remarkable things. Now, I think that the greatest fortune and luxury is being able to know and love ordinariness.

Today, the ordinary came in the form of sheep. Take it where you can find it, I think to myself. It may not be everyone’s idea of glory, but for one shining moment, it was mine.

 

Today’s pictures:

You want me to do WHAT??????:

With those?:

Instead of hanging out with my nice dozy friend???:

But you know, if this writing lark does not work out, I think we’ve got a future in herding.

A quiet Friday

Ha. After spending all week telling my students about how they may drive off the dark, destructive critical voices, defy The Fear, and believe in their own true selves, I spent all last night tossing and turning, convinced that every single word I wrote here about writing was utter buggery bollocks. The irony elves were busy in the small hours, the little tinkers.

It’s probably because bone-tiredness has set in. I have used up all my energy, so today I am going to sit very still, with a bottle of iron tonic and Test Match Special on at full volume. The voice of Blowers will restore me to sanity and calm.

The dear mare gave me a restorative morning too. Even though the sun started to beat hard from the moment I woke, the set-aside was still cool and shady. We have new neighbours; the sheep have been moved into the high east field, and are wandering and calling as they get used to their new home. I had a long, soothing chat with the farmer this morning. One of his girls was in distress on Wednesday, and I got a message to him so that he could come and get her, and before breakfast he roared up in his dark blue Landrover to thank me. ‘Is she all right, your ewe?’ I asked, concerned. I am very fond of these sheep. The good news is that it was a vitamin B thing, and she will be fine. I love talking to the farmer. I love people who do good things on the land, people who know livestock and weather patterns and are rooted in the earth.

After that lovely beginning, I went down to Red, who is finding the savage sun all a bit too much. She has a heat rash, so I cooled her off with buckets of water, and a little witch hazel, and spent fifteen minutes soothing her poor coat. She does a very touching thing when I do things like this for her. Whether I am anointing a scratch with wound cream, or applying citronella for the flies, or giving her this water treatment, she seems to know that I am doing something for her. She submits with a sort of gentle gratitude, standing very still, offering me her head, looking at me with soft eyes. I am almost certainly making this up in my addled brain, and she is not thinking anything at all. She is a horse, after all. But it does often feel as if she understands that I am here to help.

Then I let her out into the wide set-aside for a pick at the lush grass. I used to take her out on a rope, but now I let her wander freely. She is not going anywhere, and comes at once when I whistle. It was an enchanted thing, watching her find her way through the shady trees, searching out the most delicious patch of grass. She was her most peaceful, equine self, at one with her surroundings; just a horse, at home in a green world.

Neither of us is going to do any work today. We are going to have a lovely Friday holiday. We are just going to be.

 

Today’s pictures:

The farmer, on the right, coming to have a morning chat:

Red’s blissful morning:

Look at that happy face:

Do you want me to come now?

The hill:

Housekeeping note:

It has been brought to my attention that there are Dear Readers who have broadband that is less than whizzy, and find the blog slow to download, on account of the pictures. I love putting up lots of photographs, so you can see the full Scottish beauty. On the other hand, I imagine it must drive you mad, waiting waiting waiting, for the damn thing to appear on your screen. I’m not quite sure how to resolve this. Too tired to work it out today, but those of you who are seasoned bloggers might have ideas.

In the meantime, have a lovely, sunny Friday. And if you are cricket fans, fingers crossed. Australia about to bat.

It depends what you want; or, a very sweet ride

A lot of sweetness around today. I hare about, doing my work, as a brilliant and properly hot Scottish sun beats down from a ridiculously blue sky. After a frantic morning, the Remarkable Trainer comes and she, the Horse Talker and I go out for the gentlest of gentle rides.

Riding out is a thing that is happening in increments for various different reasons. Autumn the filly is a baby and only recently backed. Red the Mare is still getting used to riding in her rope halter and has spent her entire working life going out in a serious pack for proper exercise. Teaching her to switch off and relax in new environments is a number one priority and we take it slowly. Sometimes, I just take her out for a walk on foot so that she can accustom herself to new things, views, places.

Today, we decided that the quiet of the lunch hour would be the perfect time to roam into a wilder blue yonder. No traffic, we thought. Just us, and the sheep. But then the farmer roared up in his ancient Landrover and some of the sheep made a break for freedom and an assortment of vans and off-road motors decided it was time to put in an appearance. So we found ourselves wrangling sheep in front the The Landlord (very important person) and a small traffic jam.

‘Come on,’ I yelled, with a rush of blood to the head. ‘They are cow ponies after all.’

This is not in fact quite true. Red is a thoroughbred who goes back to the Byerley Turk, and Autumn, whilst almost certainly descended from ancestors who have rounded up cattle in their time, has never had anything to do with livestock herself. Despite my hyperbolic carelessness with actual facts, Red turned out to be a wrangler supreme; she turned and backed and seemed quite unfazed by a bunch of skittery ovines passing under her neck. We got the sheep back into the field, had a happy chat with the farmer, and everyone got back into their vans and trucks and drove off.

‘What a lovely sight,’ said The Landlord, gazing at the clever horses.

Then we went up to see The Mother and The Stepfather, who duly admired all the equine delightfulness. Turning for home, we stopped to have a chat with the World Traveller, who was passing with the Great-Nephew (he blew us happy summer kisses), and then headed back through the dandelion meadow. It was one of the best rides I ever had.

The funny thing about all this is that I was in slightly manic, very determined mode when I arrived at the field. My impossible workload has pushed me into an antic, active state; must get things done, must get things done.

‘Let’s work on transitions,’ I said sternly, to the Remarkable Trainer.

But the sun was shining and everyone was relaxed and happy, so we went for our funny amble instead.

‘Bugger transitions,’ I said, laughing.

It depends what you want from life. I could seriously school my mare in all kinds of technical things. I could work hard on developing my own rusty riding muscles. I see people out there, in magazines, on the internet, getting their equines up to show level, winning prizes, being poster people of the horsey world.

But really, I suddenly realised, all I want is a happy horse who can walk on a loose rein through the dancing sunshine, whilst I gaze up at the blue hills.

When we do that, all the work and the stress and the worry about time management fade away, and it’s just me and this glorious girl and our little pack, both human and equine. I’m in my middle age, and life has bashed me up a bit, as it does to everyone over the age of twenty-one. I don’t need to prove anything. I just want to go for a bit of an amble and wrangle a few sheep. That is my glittering prize. It is literally and metaphorically, all I could wish.

 

Today’s pictures:

Herd this morning, relaxed and dozy:

Then up to HorseBack, where wonderful things are happening under a blue, blue sky:

Veterans who have never sat on a horse before are riding:

Newest arrival Mr Fox has made a friend:

And then back home, where the Remarkable Trainer is doing a bit of desensitising before we set out on our travels. Rather than being startled, Red seems to regard the whole thing as a nice head massage:

Me, up on Red, for the best view in the world, which is the one between a horse’s ears:

Autumn the Filly and the Horse Talker might be in Wyoming rather than northern Scotland:

My brilliant sheep-wrangling girl gets a good stroke and a huge smile:

Barefoot and bitless with an ex-racing mare. I have become such a horse hippy.

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:

Of work and time and great, great mares.

As I go up to HorseBack to do my morning stint, I get put up on a horse. If someone says to me ‘Would you want to ride?’ the only answer is yes. The horses need a last go over the obstacle course in the arena before the first participants arrive next week, and it also means that the HorseBack team who are studying for their UK Coaching Certificate can put in some teaching practice. I get to have fun and feel useful and learn more about the Western riding, which is starting to feel less strange to me now.

As I leave, I get a lovely invitation to lunch. Feeling like an idiot, I have to say no, because I am running back to my desk. The three current projects I am juggling must be juggled, and my time management has not yet caught up, even though I swear I am going to improve it every day. Lunch just now is a thing of moments; fuel from the fridge to get through the rest of the day. This is quite odd, for a greedy person like me, but a great relief for Red the Mare since it means I shall make a nice light weight on her back.

I was reading yesterday about someone going on the notorious 5-2 diet. I thought: I have a diet. It’s the No Diet Diet, which is good for me since I refuse to go on any weight-loss regime for political reasons. I think it would make the Pankhursts sad. The suffragettes did not chain themselves to railings so that I could hate my body. On the other hand, if you are riding a kind thoroughbred mare, it’s only polite not to be too heavy on her.

The No-Diet Diet consists of: taking on absurd amounts of work and being useless at managing your time, which means that you have no space to cook great lunches loaded with olive oil as was my old tradition. Now it’s a ham sandwich and a cup of green soup, which makes the banting effortless. I’m far too busy even to notice I am eating less than usual.

I would like though, when kind people say come and have lunch, to be able to smile and say yes, instead of shaking my head with a wild look of panic in my eyes. I am going to work on order and lists. I am going to make timetables and stick to them. I’ll get there in the end.

All focus today is to finish work in time to settle down and watch the mighty Hurricane Fly in the 5.30 at Punchestown. Yesterday, the great mare Quevega made me cry actual tears of joy and admiration with her dancing brilliance. I hope today my lovely Fly will do the same.

A snatch of poetry suddenly comes into my head. It is from George Whyte Melville, a horseman to his boots, who fought with the Turkish cavalry in the Crimea.

‘I have lived my life -I am nearly done –
I have played the game all round;
But I freely admit that the best of my fun
I owe it to horse and hound.
With a hopeful heart and a conscience clear,
I can laugh in your face, Black Care;
Though you're hovering near, there's not room for you here,
On the back of my good grey mare.’

Ah, I think, a hardened old fellow brought almost to sentimentality by the very thought of his darling girl. Mares do that I think, whether you see them on the racecourse, or mooch with them in the field. At Punchestown, Quevega looked so tiny and plain compared to the great shining strapping geldings she was up against. She has no flashy looks; like the equally brave and brilliant Dawn Run, she is a most ordinary bay mare. Nothing to look at, said the commentators. I don’t mean to be rude, one of them added. Yet it is true; she would never catch the eye in the paddock.

But oh, when she was let loose by Ruby Walsh in the glimmering Irish sun, she was a thing of singing beauty. Poetry in motion is a platitude now, rubbed thin with use, but it could have been minted for her.

As I stood with Red later, in the evening light, feeling her dear head resting on my shoulder, scratching her cheek and telling her the story of the race, I thought: there really is something about the ladies. The mares stop my heart like nothing else.

 

Today’s pictures:

Talking of ladies, here are some splendid ones. The sheep and lambs have come for their annual visit to the south meadow. It is a real sign of spring and makes me smile every time I see them:

Daffs:

Winnie, one of my favourite HorseBack UK mares, who is doing good work this week:

Grinning madly, getting better at the Western, on the supremely relaxed Apollo:

Mr Stanley, with a look which says: don’t mention squirrels unless you really mean it:

My lovely girl:

The hill: