Time to settle.

I read an advertisement for a horse today on the internet. It said: ‘He will need time to settle before anyone can ride him.’

In the last six weeks or so, something remarkable has happened between my mare and me. There were many remarkable things before; I’ve banged on about them endlessly. There were marks of trust and moments of revelation. But it felt like 90%. There was the 10% still to go.

That is the part that has now clicked. I rode her today round a huge rough meadow. We ambled round as if we were out on a cowboy trail. You can feel the slightest tension in a horse, like the princess and the pea. I sometimes liken it to the feeling of a faint butterfly, beating its wings, somewhere low in the equine belly. It’s a tremor or a shiver. It’s hardly discernable, but it’s there. There can be a faint feeling of tightness too, the calling ancestral memory of the flight animal, getting ready to run.

Those are not there. There is just a feeling of depth and ease. It’s not just riding her. It’s in everything I do with her: leading, groundwork, guiding her through a gate, bringing her her hay, standing together in the field watching the sun go down.

It is time that did it. We took time to settle. Time gives you the lovely luxury of a routine that reassures and soothes. Time is where you can show your horse that you are consistent and reliable. Time is what gives them the confidence that you will never raise your voice or bring them your problems or punish them or take out your frustrations on them.

I think it is like this with humans too. When you meet a new person, with whom you think you might be friends, you can be charming and funny and show off your better angels. But it’s not like throwing a switch. There must be time, so they can see your faults and your quirks and your messy, muddly bits, and take you anyway. There must be time to settle.

 

Today’s pictures:

The herd:

Red the Good:

This morning at HorseBack, looking south:

Jura, the heavenly HorseBack puppy, with Western instructor Jess March:

He’s getting so grown-up:

Stanley the Dog, giving his enormous stick a good talking-to:

Rather dramatic hill today:

Digest of the day: sunshine, laughter, good horsing, work, family, dog, friendships, learning, gentle feeling of accomplishment. The last one is thanks to my good girl and her remarkable trainer, who just makes everything so much easier for us both.

Oh, and it’s QUEVEGA DAY. An hour to go before the big race at Punchestown and I am quivering with anticipation. It’s her biggest test for a long time, and I can see the brave darling getting beat. There are serious in-form horses up against her, and the ground is testing, and at Punchestown anything can happen. Up hill and down dale they go, bunched tightly through sharp turns and unforgiving undulations. But I stick with the great mare, from love and loyalty. She carries my money and my heart, and if she should taste defeat there will be no disgrace in it. She is so stamped with greatness that nobody can take that away.

One small step

The week gathers itself on its haunches like a barrel racer and charges down the course. (Always good when I start on a really strained simile.) I dream of mastering the art of time management. It remains a dream.
There were about twenty things I wanted to tell you but after a long HorseBack morning and some vital logistics, and ordinary things like doing the herd and eating actual lunch, I can’t remember any of them. My poor old fingers stutter and scratch over the keyboard, no more strength left in them.

It is at this stage that I think: enough, I’ll start again in the morning. The interesting thing about the morning is that it usually dawns bright and dazzling with hope. Very, very occasionally I wake to dull grumps; most mornings, even in the filthy weather, there is some kind of song in my heart. Sometimes I even do actual singing with my actual voice. (Good morning, Starshine is my favourite for starting the day.) By the late afternoon, I am running on empty and prone to tired moments of pessimism. But in the morning, everything is possible again. This feels like a bit of a miracle and a bit of a gift, and is the sort of horse I should not look in the mouth.

There was work; the meeting of interesting new people; the observing of officialdom in action. Officialdom both is and is not everything one might expect. Boxes are literally ticked; acts of parliament are cited. But there is less jargon that I might have thought, and some reason to go with the rhyme.

I also got one very good life lesson from my mare. I love it when she teaches me life lessons, and always need to write them down so I should not forget.

I was working her on the ground this morning, when I spied an excellent obstacle. Taking her across alarming terrain is really good training for us both, and builds trust. This one was a deep double rut, where tractors had carved through black mud. It was rough and uneven and steep, and filled with water. Horses generally do not like water; it’s to do with the fact they have very poor depth perception. They can be spooked by shadows on the ground for the same reason.

Hurrah, hurrah, I thought. Terrifying obstacle. Up went my dander. Forward I marched, when I suddenly felt a pull at the lead rope. When I lead Red, I walk ahead, not looking back; she is on a loose rein and I know by feel how she is doing. The taut rope is very rare, and this was very taut indeed. I looked back to see her planted, head in the air, eyes rolling, every muscle in her big, athletic body saying NO NO NO.

There is absolutely nothing you can do physically with a horse in that condition. It is half a ton; you are ten stone. Your puny plan is worthless. You cannot pull it or force it. I would have to think with my brain.

A journey starts with a single step, I thought. I went back to her, gentled her, and asked for one step forward. That was all I wanted. I forgot the Terrifying Obstacle. Just give me a single step. She, being generous and good, gave it. I congratulated her as if she had won The Oaks.

Then one more step asked for. Kindly given. Vast love and praise.

One more, then two. Then I let the rope out, beamed confidence and goodness at her with every atom on my body, walked across the Terrifying Obstacle, and she came gently and easily with me.

Suddenly, the Terrifying Obstacle went from being a big challenge to being a joyful game. We walked back and forth over it, we did little hops and skips through the mud, we splished and sploshed through the once-scary water. We colonised that damn obstacle, until it was our spiritual home.

I could not have been happier with her than if she had completed a perfect dressage test.

My life lesson was: break it down. Go back to the very, very small elements of what you want to do. I suspect this is not startling or new, but it felt rather revelatory to me. I think that clever shrinks and life coaches and people who know about this stuff do talk about this. In the equine world, good horsemen speak of never over-facing your horse; only ask it what it can do. By going back to one small step, the wider goal was suddenly unimportant, and so was easily and gracefully reached.

There was also a horse lesson, which is: listen to that equine. She was telling me something. She was saying: you can’t just spring stuff on me and expect me to deal with something big like that with no warning. (She also may have been saying: I’m far too much of a duchess to be dragged through hock-deep mud.)

She was asking for reassurance, which is why I went back to her so that we could do it together. In the old school of horsemanship, it might have been thought that she was being nappy or difficult or naughty or bolshy. The old school might have been tempted to punish or berate her.

She wasn’t being bad. She was just asking me for a bit more attention and care, and once I gave it, her trust rose, and harmony broke out, and everything was possible. I heard her voice, and she gave me, in return, a great big existential gift. It was one of the best bargains I ever struck.
 
Today’s pictures:

A very quick selection, as that was rather a long blog, after all that, and my brain really is shutting up shop:









My best and most brilliant beloved:



Stanley the Dog, showing that as well as Butch Burt he can do wistful. Bit more like Montgomery Clift here, I think:



HorseBack UK morning:











The dear old hill: