A little walk

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Wild insomnia last night. It comes sometimes, when my mind starts monkeying around and won’t settle. Mad staring eyes at the ceiling, whilst the Pigeon snores and twitches in her sleep.

After a paltry three hours’ sleep, I stomp up to see the mare. A bitter east wind is blowing, and what with that and the lack of sleep, I decide not to ride today. Also, since she was a bit fussy and jumpy yesterday, I think it is a good idea to go back to the drawing board.

We do groundwork. I love this expression; it sounds so grand and professional. What I really mean, in practice, is that I walk Red around her field. It’s not exactly reinventing the Large Hadron Collider. But this creative walking is one of the best new things I have learnt since I have been riding again.

We go back and forth and round in circles and this way and that. I make my body language very strong and free; I stand up straight, open my shoulders, face the direction in which I am going with blithe confidence and joy. The idea is that the mare senses this, with her horsey telepathy, and will follow me with calm and joy.

Because it is about being the leader, in whom my horse can repose complete trust, I walk slightly in front of her, and do not look behind me. This, apparently, is crucial. I am also trusting her not to push me or barge into me. (The trust thing has to go both ways.) She keeps a very respectful couple of feet distance, which feels right, although when we turn sharply, I can see her head at my shoulder, in a rather enchanting way. The other thing I love is that I can hear her, behind me, blowing gently out of her nose. The gentle blowing is good language; it says she is relaxed and docile.

She puts her head up on predator alert a couple of times, but for the vast majority of time she is low and forward, her neck stretched out in a curving arc, her ears forward, her stride swinging. I absolutely love to see a horse like this; it is the most pleasing thing. Everything about it looks right. Of course, horses can look lovely when they are on their toes, with their heads up and their legs describing dancing steps. (You see this often at the races, because they are excited.) But there is almost nothing better than when they fall into an easy lope.

The walk was also particularly touching because the Pigeon came with. So it was the three of us, out for an amble.

The other rather thrilling thing is that Red will now follow me without the headcollar. I have not worked out how to do that proper horse whispery locking on thing, the one that Monty Roberts teaches. So this is not deliberate. She just suddenly did it last night, when I went out to check her in the field. She was standing by the far fence, and I walked out to her, and she turned to greet me and then walked beside me all the way back to the gate. I felt a soaring sense of love and achievement; it was as if she had just made a huge deposit in the trust bank.

This small walking work feels very important to me, more important in a way than the actual riding. I love riding her, but in some ways, in these early, new days, the building up of a simple bond on the ground is more delightful. It is a profound communion. It feels like a very precious gift.

 

It's another flat, blah day today, and also I have temporarily mislaid my camera, so here are a few garden snaps from when the weather was fine:

My walking companions:

I was going back through the files, and I found this lovely pictures of the Duchess. It's almost a year since she died, and I still miss her, with an old ache in my heart:

There just aren't that many faces like that in the world.

The hill:

One step forward, one step back

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

My brain is recalcitrant today. I do low level, unsatisfactory work. I wrestle and tangle with my material and can’t quite find the right place to put it. I spend a lot of time staring out of the window with a perplexed expression on my face. (Many writers will tell you that this is a vital part of the process.)

Sometimes coffee and loud Mozart helps. Someone discovered once that Mozart lights up the creative areas of the brain; they did MRI scans and everything. Sometimes, these stratagems do not work. Sometimes it is just a bit of a blah, wading through mud day.

The problem with writing is that when it is good, it gives you a feeling like almost nothing else. Sometimes the sentences really do come out fully formed, and the thoughts are lucid, and the exact right word presents itself at the exact right moment. This is rather spoiling for the workaday grind; because one has known the sense of flight, the contrasting plod is harder to take.

Also, even though I know better, the very fact that people think it a delightful, pleasurable, almost jaunty calling does not help. I should be drifting about in a bohemian manner, producing profound apercus about the human condition, and dashing off the odd perfect glittering paragraph. It should not feel as if I am grinding out wood chippings.

Because I have been frowning at the computer all day, I have absolutely no idea what happened in the news. Missing the news always gives me a strange, magical feeling. The barbarian hordes could have marched up Whitehall, for all I know. My best guess: the government has announced something mildly unpopular and someone has said something controversial on Twitter, and everyone is very, very cross. Oh, and of course it is a bank holiday, so there will be weather news. Ordinary Decent Britons love almost nothing more than a bit of bank holiday weather.

The mare and I continue our deepening friendship. She does have moods, though, I am discovering. People always say this about mares, and I always think it is rank prejudice, but there may be something in it. I suppose an old gelding has many fewer hormones to worry about, what with one thing and another. She got a bit tense in her back and started jumping at shadows at one point. There really was nothing there, but for whatever reason, she decided to put her startle reflex on. But then, I took her down to the pair of scary bridges, and she went over them as willing as pie. Considering that yesterday it took twenty minutes to get her over the first strange bridge, I thought this was a triumph.

I like that she is not a novice ride. It means I can't just slop about in the saddle. I have to ride her with care and concentration. I have to use my legs and my brain. I have to remember everything I ever learnt. There is a great satisfaction in that.

She will settle more and more, as each day passes. Also, this week, she shall get a companion, which will make a huge difference. Although she seems peaceful and docile in the field, and quite happy with the sheep in the next field and the wandering chickens for company, I think it will be soothing for her to have another pony. I may be establishing myself as her lead horse, but let’s face it, I only have two legs. It’s not the same thing at all.

 

Some quick pictures for you:

Trees and hills:

The sun came out, in the end, and shone on the sedum:

And these little wild things whose name I do not know:

And I became interested by a bit of old iron:

At one point, the work got so dispiriting that I started playing about with my photography software. I have discovered a new effect, for Red and the Pigeon:

I think it makes them look like film stars.

The hill:

Happy Easter

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Happy Easter to all the dear Dear Readers. You are marvellous and deserve many, many eggs of the finest chocolate.

I hope you are having a lovely day.

I wanted to say Happy Easter from all the family, but obviously they are a horse and a dog and do not deal in the concept of resurrection or the nature of deity. Still, if they could speak English I am perfectly certain they would hope you are having a tremendous Easter day:

Hill:

PS. Big, big ride today. We tackled a bridge of such scariness that I actually thought it would defeat me. It was crucial we did it, not only because of maintaining my alpha status, but also because it is the track that leads up to the high woods, where I want to go.

Tried every trick in the book – patience, circling, reassurance. Almost thought we might have to give up. She was very, very trepidatious indeed, and the toes had been dug in. Then, in a final throw of the dice, I tried something quite risky. I appealed to her competitive spirit. Her grandfather won the Derby for God's sake. Instead of calming her down, I revved her up. Come on, Red, hell yeah, you can do it, go go go. And suddenly, with a great leap, she went, and we were over the scary bridge and far away. 

I'm not sure I was ever so pleased with a living creature in my life. There is a bit of an echo up in the hills, and the sound of me saying good girl, oh good girl, must have been heard across half the county.

Bloody, bloody brave and good and true. I think now: nothing can stop us. Not one thing.

Sweetness

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Something amazing happened today. I think the mare has decided this is home. She is all soft and dreamy, head low, leaning her forehead against me for love, no longer scanning the horizon for predators.

I give her a day off because we worked hard yesterday, and it was so good that I wanted her to have a little rest. I went up to see her in the field, to check her over and give her some love. I read an interview with the good jockey Christian Williams in the Racing Post this week, where he said that people who work with horses are only really happy when they are around horses. ‘A horse is your friend,’ he said.

It is true. My horse is my friend. Something in her has shifted. She has made her big decision. I am her person. This is her place.

When I went up tonight, she walked towards me for the first time. Normally she stands, like the Queen of Sheba, graciously assenting to being approached. Now, she shook her head, and ambled to me, staring straight into my eyes, and presenting her head to be stroked. I cannot tell you how that one, small, insignificant thing made my heart dance. It was as if she said: oh, I’m glad it’s you.

I stood with her for a long time. I found the precise location of her sweet spot. I was close before but tonight I found it definitively. It is in the small hollow just behind her ears, and if I scratch there she goes into a kind of trance. When a horse is at peace, that peace radiates out, like a balm. You can almost feel it, coming in waves. I stood with her, smiling like a loon. I said: ‘It would not be possible for me to love you more, even if I had two hearts.’

The Pigeon looked up, slightly reproachful. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And I could not love you more, either.’

So this is what I have become. The sort of woman who speaks aloud to horses and dogs of love. I frown and screw up my face as I stare at the screen, wondering what conclusion I should draw from that. Is it a good thing or a bad thing? Should I try and make a little joke, quickly change the subject, draw a veil? There is an absurdity to it, after all. But you know, as someone once said to me, I think it was my wise sister, after my dog died and I was having trouble mourning her and my dad at the same time: love is love. Dog, horse, human; love is love. I think that is the thing that matters, more than anything else.

Some quick pictures for you:

Easter table:







Red's view:







My darling mare:







It kills me when the Pigeon does her moony face:





And the hill:

A small test

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Author's penitent note: I do hope to write about something apart from horses at some time in the future. Until that day comes, I can only apologise.

 

The ebb and flow of this new relationship with Red the Mare fascinates me. I find it so interesting I almost want to retrain as a horse psychologist, if there is such a thing, and write books about nothing else for the rest of my life. (It is so, so lucky my agent does not read this blog.)

This morning, on the ground, everything was absolutely calm and lovely. Easy catch, happy grooming, no bother on her as I tacked her up, stood like a statue as I got on. Yes, yes, I thought happily in my horse-filled head, progress. The Whig view of history. Tremendous.

Then, out of nowhere, we had a little battle. It would not have looked like a battle, from the outside, which was quite lucky because the entire window cleaning squad were at work, looking out over the paddock from their high ladders. I love the window cleaners. They are a family, father and sons, the youngest really quite small, and they work harder and more cheerfully than anyone I know. The mere sight of them lifts my spirits. I did not want them to observe me looking like an absolute idiot.

Here is what happened. The mare stopped. She does not do anything naughty; never tries to stand up or whip round. She plants herself, and this is where I am reminded that it is bloody difficult to get half a ton of horse to do anything it does not want to do. She was not frightened, although she had been looking about, head in the high alert position. I felt her neck; when she is scared, you can feel the pulse beating there. There was no beating terror.

All right, I thought. She has done this once before, although that was on the ground, going into her stable, and I remember thinking it was a bit of a test.  Since she is so newly arrived at this second home, I think she is running the test again.

We are still in very early days, the trust is building, but she is pushing the boundaries, seeing how much of a herd leader I really am, wondering if I am truly in charge. It was absolutely vital that I win this, but in a quiet, gentle way. There’s no point just kicking away, it desensitises them, and feels stupid and amateurish. Nor do I, at this stage, want to resort to the stick. It is a battle of wills; I must win with my mind.

Luckily I remember the turning in circles thing. Turning in circles is brilliant for many problems. If a horse is spooking just for the hell of it, sharp turning brings the concentration back to the rider. It also keeps the feet moving, so the horse must think of that, rather than whatever it is making a fuss about. For stopping, it generally works, because after a while they get really bored of going round on the spot, and will do almost anything else to alleviate the dullness.

Round we went. I used a lot of leg, behind the girth, and neck-reined her. She is trained to turn on a sixpence, and so she does. One way, then the other, then back again.

Then I ask her to walk on.

Not bloody likely, she says. She sticks out her wobbly lower lip. I detect a flash of mulishness in her eye.

Right, I say. Circle, circle, circle. I love you and adore you but I am in charge and that’s all she wrote.

Walk on, I say.

What an absolutely excellent idea, she says.

And off we go, as collected and balanced as if we were in the dressage arena.

Going down the hill, she tries it one more time, just in case. Not a chance, I say. Circle, circle; lovely forward walk.

Then it could not have been better. In order to emphasise what I had just done, I schooled her round the fields, instead of going for a long hack. We did figure of eights, slow trots, extended walk, collected canter, one fast canter, but not for long. It was not a day for haring about the place, but for control. The more she knows that I know what I am doing, that she must pay attention to me, the happier and safer she will feel.

I hope I do know what I am doing. I am remembering things on the fly, trusting my old, rusty instincts a lot of the time. But then I think: that’s all right. It does not have to be absolutely perfect equine brilliance. It just has to be good enough. We are muddling along together, step by step.

The strange thing is that I quite like the fact that she gives me tests. It makes me think; it gives me something serious to aim at. I rather respect her for having a bit of a stubborn streak; she is no pushover. And when any little glitch is overcome, it gives me a disproportionate sense of achievement.

After the ride, she is always at her absolute dearest. All the excess energy is out of her, and she goes all dopey and dozy, and drops her head against my chest, and seems ready for the love. (She does not always want to be patted or stroked that much before the ride, as she is getting stoked up for work, I suppose.)

The World Traveller brought the great-nieces out to see her. They are very, very small people indeed, but Red dipped her head down to their level and breathed gently through her nose at them. I always find it a bit risible and platitudinous when people write about eyes sparkling, in books, but the children’s eyes really were sparkling, shooting out delighted points of light as they gazed in wonder at the mare. They put their little hands out, and most delicately and with utmost tenderness, stroked her nose. She stood very, very still, and let them.

That’s your family now, I told her. She seemed pretty pleased.

It was one of the sweetest things I’ve ever seen.

 

Some quick pictures for you:

My lovely girl:

It makes me laugh when the Pigeon does demure:

And then – stop fannying around and get inside and give me my biscuit:

Which I dutifully did.

Easter hyacinths:

Red's view:

There is a place not far from us called Queen's View, because it was where Queen Victoria liked to gaze over Scotland. (One of the funniest things about this neck of the woods is that it has little brown signs everywhere with Queen Victoria's head on them. I don't know why this amuses me so much, but it does.)

My hill, almost certainly never looked at by the old Queen:

I hope you are having a happy Good Friday, and eating lots of hot cross buns. I certainly did.