Stream of consciousness. Stream of something, anyway.

Surprising sun and warmth. Equine stillness and sweetness of indescribable degree. Work, work, work, work. Small, delightful, visiting dog. More work. Cheese sandwich. Shall there ever be enough words? Delightful exchange with a writer I know in America. ‘Write that book NOW,’ I type, as he tells me of a new idea. Back to my own book, which I also must write NOW. Put on 1001 words. Not enough but better than nothing. Almost at the crucial point.

Head begins to feel as if someone has it in a vice. Visceral sense of neurones misfiring and brain cells dying lonely deaths. Squint at HorseBack stuff, which must be done. Pause for a moment, to remember the insane courage of the people I see there, the people I take photographs of and write about for the HorseBack Facebook page. Imagination is my job; I cannot imagine what they have done and seen and felt.

Siren voice: oh, oh, there is racing from Worcester. Proper voice: bugger off, there is no time. Unacceptable voice: but just one tiny little double??

Small afternoon pause to watch video clip of cavalrymen from 1920 do lunatic but lovely things with horses. This is how I rest my brain. I am allowed fifteen minutes of Facebook diversion. If it were not for Facebook, I would never know of the cavalrymen of 1920. Feel grateful. Wonder if Red the Mare would leap into a ravine if I asked her to. (OF COURSE SHE WOULD.)

Must do admin. No time for admin. Proper voice: are you remembering to breathe? Lunatic voice: don’t be ridiculous, there is no call for breathing in and out when the hours are flying past your ears like bats.

Think, suddenly, for no reason at all, of my dad. He was so naughty and not like anyone else and he would have ridden down a ravine without blinking and how absurd he would find all this, that I am doing now. He would blink and pat my hand and laugh and laugh and laugh.

Pause. WRITE THE BLOG, shouts the sergeant-major voice. The Dear Readers are dear, and you must give them something. (Try not to make it too much about how perfect your bloody horse is, says the tired, resigned, seen-it-all-before voice.)

One last coherent thought: should I really confess to having quite this many voices in my head?

 

Pictures. No time for captions:

One final, final thought: should I really admit to all the things I admit? Bugger it. People shall think what they shall think. The only seed that grows from secrecy is the dirty shoot of shame. Which is a very muddled metaphor indeed.

No time

The hours have defeated me. There just are not enough of them. Also, there is a bug going round the village and I can feel it trying to get me, its crabbed old fingers stretching and clutching at my poor body. Bastard. I cannot be ill. I have too many responsibilities. I shall dose with Echinacea and iron tonic and chicken soup and, if that fails, bottles of whisky. The bugger shall rue the day.

Just time for two very important pieces of equine news:

THE HORSEBACK FOAL HAS LEARNT TO GALLOP:

She just figured it out yesterday. She is so overcome with delight at this new skill that she suddenly takes off, zooming round the field like a barrel racer, squealing with delight as she goes. Then she stops and stares at us, incredibly pleased with herself, asking DID YOU SEE THAT????

Her dear, calm mum, who has seen it all before, looks at her as if to say: steady on, small person, don’t run before you can walk. But the two-week-old filly foal will not be quelled. Two, three, four times she makes the circuit, at top speed, cornering as if she is on rails. Then comes the Look at Me whinny again, which is hysterical, because she may be fast, but she has not worked out the voice thing at all. The whinny comes out pitched high, rather ragged, completely unsyncopated. It slightly startles her, because it is clearly not the sound she intended, and she takes on a thoughtful look, as if she knows she must go back to the drawing board.

There is something irresistibly comical about her. If she were a human, she would be Lucille Ball.

 

And then there was my own mare, who was at her peak and crest of delightfulness and dearness this morning. We did extended walk, quick transitions, yielding the hindquarters, backing one foot at a time. I am teaching her all this on a long rein, hardly using my hands at all. It’s coming from the body. The idea is to teach her to stretch out her neck, which would have been carried taut and high most of her working life, and develop a new set of long, low muscles. She learns so quickly, and pays such good attention, and is so willing to give me a try, even when she is not entirely sure what I am asking, that it makes me want to explode with pride and gratitude.

After her brilliant work, I got off and stood with her for a while, just communing. She put her head on my chest and we contemplated the green world.

I love her every day, but there are times when the love is so intense that I can’t find words for it, when I think that my beating old heart will just lift off into the ether, and float away into the blue sky. This was one of those days.

Time and love

An astoundingly long week, so by the time I stump out to meet the Remarkable Trainer and Red the Mare I don’t know what my name is. Usually my dander would not let me admit defeat, but this time I say: ‘Can you do the hard riding, and I’ll watch?’ So off they go together, doing all kinds of manoeuvres, yielding at the shoulder and the quarters, snaking in and out of the slalom course we have set up. Once I might have felt a tinge of jealousy or defeat. It should be me. Now, I think: how lovely that the good mare has two riders, and it’s a little circle of learning. Ego, schmego.

At the end, I get on and I don’t think about my seat or my position or all the new things I am absorbing. The Remarkable Trainer comes on foot, and the three of us just amble about, beating the bounds, as if we are cowgirls out on the trail. Sometimes that is just as satisfying as any kind of clever schooling. The very fact that my racing thoroughbred is perfectly happy to walk at her ease, confined by nothing more than a bit of rope, in a vast pasture, feels like the most golden of gold cups.

She is the most relaxed horse I have ever met. She was not always like this. She came from a good yard, from one of the best horseman I ever met, but she is a sensitive soul, and she was alarmed and uncertain and tense at first in her new surroundings. She used to jump three feet vertically in the air if she saw a bird or a moving shadow. She got like she is now because of time and patience and love. I had brilliant raw materials to work with, but there was work. There was thought and care. She likes to have a person to trust and I had to show her that I was worthy of that trust.

And after all that, here we are, able to move together in perfect harmony with no tension, no doubt, no fear. That’s quite something, with a half ton flight animal of absurdly high breeding.

I used to know a vast amount about horses and then I went away from them and forgot a lot. When I came back, after all those years, I had to start the learning process almost from scratch. I had old instincts to work with, which helped. Yet in many ways, I am a novice, all over again. I’m not one of those certain experts, who can dole out sure advice without taking a beat. But if anyone did ask me what the one thing was that really counted, with a horse, I would say: time.

And love, of course.

 

Today’s pictures:

The beeches are at last, at last, in leaf:

HorseBack herd, with the dear Polly the Cob taking her place in it, as if she has always been there:

My glorious, beautiful, brilliant girl:

With the Remarkable Trainer up:

(‘This is an EX-RACEHORSE,’ cries the RT. ‘In a ROPE HALTER. On a LOOSE REIN. Cantering in a BIG FIELD.’ We do both go on about this a bit, but there are so many people out there who insist that there is not a thing to be done with a thoroughbred off the track. Too sharp, too crazy, too hot, too Yada, yada, yada, I think, as she comes to a gentle halt from not much more than a voice command.)

Stanley the Dog, with his irresistible ear:

The hill, from a different angle than usual:

Happy Friday.

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:

Horses, work, time and slightly surprising hats. Or, the end of a really rather lovely week.

Another packed day. There was so much to do that I did not have time to do any serious work with my mare. Still, we achieved something rather miraculous yesterday, so I decided to give her a complete day off.

This morning, I found her, with her little herd, standing under the great tree in the middle of the paddock, which is her favourite place. I stood with her for twenty minutes, and told her, for the hundredth time, of the great day in 1970 when her grandsire won the Derby.

‘See,’ I said. ‘No one really knew if he would stay. He’d never run over that distance before. But Lester thought he would stay; Mr O’Brien thought he would stay. And he came rolling down that hill with a double handful.’

She nodded and dozed and rested her head against my chest and let me ramble on. She is very forgiving, like that.

I should really be getting her ready for riding now. I should be doing all the proper groundwork that goes into that. Even though today’s hiatus was officially because my time management is in tatters, actually sometimes I think one of the best things you can ever do with a horse is simply be.

That is my story and I am sticking to it.

Then I went up to HorseBack, to see Jim Dukes, their most excellent vet, in action. There is almost nothing I love more than watching really good vet at work, and, when it comes to horses, Jim is the high crest and peak.

But there was also a serious purpose. I’m trying a new thing with HorseBack, which is to show all the work that goes on behind the scenes.

There are the banner days, such as on Tuesday, when a member of the government comes to visit, and there are the busy days which will start again quite soon, when the courses are in full swing.

Yet, even on the quiet, unsung, ordinary days, keeping an organisation such as theirs ticking over takes a whole team, working hard together. I thought it would be interesting to show some of that, so I took a little photo essay of the vet doing his job.

Then there was work; then there was a very quick peek at the 3.25 at Sandown; then there was the making of a soup and the considering of all the logistical things which keep my own tiny organisation going.

There are so many things that happened this week which I would like to tell you, but the brain is frazzling now, and it is time to stop. My eyes squint and my fingers crab and my grasp of the English language grows faint.

Still, it was a good week. I had high excitement, a moment of very private achievement, some new ideas, a lot of animal love, the good feeling of being part of something more important than I, a great deal of laughter, a handy little treble which came in at 14-1, a surprising hat moment, a rather unexpectedly touching communication with a stranger on the internet, and, just this morning, in real life, one damn fine compliment.

It was a short compliment, not more than five words. It contained no curlicues or flourishes, no flowery language such as I would employ. It came from someone who does not hurl the things about like confetti.

It meant a lot.

 

Today’s pictures:

The vet at work at HorseBack UK:

Rodney, the most patient patient:

With my friend The Horse Talker, who is a long-time volunteer there:

In the beautiful granite stables, for a little box rest:

Meanwhile, out in the paddock, there is my special friend Gus the Foal, with his heavenly white face, and his insatiable curiosity:

Some quick garden pictures for you:

Myfanwy has had a lovely time this week, getting very muddy indeed:

Autumn the Filly, on the other hand, is looking very pretty and pleased with herself, after a series of excellent adventures:

Since the inexplicable hat proved such a hit, I can’t resist giving you a couple more of those:

That dozy face never fails to lift my heart. (Red’s face, not mine.)

I’m starting to think this might have to be my Cheltenham outfit. It’s the kind of thing Sprinter Sacre would surely appreciate:

Stanley the Dog has been exceptionally good and sweet this week, and had a lot of fine stick action:

And through it all, sails the calm blue presence of my beloved hill:

And since it is a Friday, and if you can’t be a bit self-indulgent on your own blog I don’t know where you can be, here is one final shot of Red and me. I like it because there is the funny juxtaposition of my most speccy geekish incarnation with the affectionate dreamy sweetness of Herself:

I hope you are all having a lovely Friday afternoon, wherever you are.