Love and luck.

It’s been a very long and productive day. I went up to HorseBack UK. I am working on a new project for them at the moment and it means I go and see them quite a lot. Today I had the great joy of going up into the hills to see the horses who live there. (They are based at two different locations; one just west of me, and one about five miles to the north.)

The snow has come again. Down here in the valley it is miserable and wet and dirty and slushy. Red the Mare makes her most disapproving duchess face, and uses the filthy weather as an excuse to vamp for extra love. Which of course she gets. But up in the hills, the snow is glorious and white and thick and deep.

The horses were happy as grigs in their good rugs, and gathered round to say hello. There were some old friends and some I did not know so well, so I spent time introducing myself. By the end, I was surrounded by six or seven enquiring faces, all of them sniffing at me and mouthing the toggles on my coat and attempting to eat my fur hood. They were all so dear and gentle, and I was in absolute horse heaven.

Time still continues to gallop away from me, and I read myself stern lectures on self-improvement which do not amount to a hill of beans. One day, I think; one day I shall catch up with everything. In the meantime, I canter about like an unbroken colt, from unfinished thing to unfinished thing. I dream a little dream of The Organised People, and how lovely and calm and clear their lives must be. Still, I suppose it’s not the worst failing in the world. Even though my report card says Could Do Better, some things did get done.

Most of all, today made me keenly aware of luck and chance. The work I do for HorseBack and the people and equines there give me a satisfaction so profound I can’t really put it into words. It was through getting Red the Mare that I met them. And I only got her on the merest whim.

One of the Dear Readers asked a few days ago how it was that I came to have her. The story is so filled with near misses that I can hardly believe it came true.

For some reason, almost a year ago, I decided I would like to go back to horses. I think it had something to do with my dad dying. He was a horseman to his bones, and perhaps the idea was to keep some connection to him.

At that exact time, I was staying with the Beloved Cousin, whose husband makes polo ponies. I mentioned my whim, diffidently, to The Old Fella, and he said he happened to have a mare who was for sale. She was not good enough for high-goal, and she had been sold to China, which has recently rediscovered polo, but the man with the lorry had never pitched up, so she was still in the field.

The Old Fella offered to give me a look. I walked out of the back door to see him riding up on a chestnut mare, and I took one look at her white face and fell in love. ‘I’ll take her,’ I said. I rang up a transport firm and booked her to Scotland, and that was that.

So, if I had not been there at that particular time, and if the man with the lorry to China had arrived, and if she had been brilliant enough for high goal, and if and if – there would have been no Red. Even the thought of not having her in my life leaves me breathless. The fates indeed conspired; the stars aligned.

I worked with her for an hour this morning, and afterwards she stood quietly with her head on my chest. She likes to rest it there and close her eyes and let me gentle her sweet spots. No matter how distrait I am, no matter how fretful about my appalling time management, no matter how many things I have to do, that daily moment never fails to lift my heart and soothe my frayed nerves and bring me peace. It’s an idiot thing to say about a horse, but she is, without a doubt, the love of my life. I don’t need a valentine, because I have this glorious creature.

 

Today’s pictures:

The amazing HorseBack horses and one very special Shetland pony:

The herd, with their astonishing view. That is looking due south over the Dee valley:

It was too blizzardy when I got back to take the camera out, so here is a quick selection from the archive:

My golden girl with her dopey, donkey face on:

With her friend Autumn the Filly:

STANLEY HAS A STICK:

Hill:

In which I apologise to Clare Balding. Or, a small cautionary tale.

Yesterday, I found myself in a little Twitter storm which is so illustrative of the perils of the internet that I am going to tell you the whole story.

It does not start well. I fear that I may have hurt the feelings of one of Britain’s most beloved broadcasters. Yes, even I, always banging on about good manners and kindness, may have not lived up to the standards I set myself.

Here is how it happened.

Channel 4 were showing the racing. I tweet a lot when the racing is on, partly out of excitement, partly to deal with big race nerves, and partly because I am still unsettled with the new coverage. Because the adrenaline is running, I type fast, and sometimes press send before I have thought carefully what it is I say.

As I was making my usual complaint that we do not get to see enough of the horses themselves, particularly in the paddock, two other Twitterers joined in. They were not people I know, but they shared my sense of loss for the old Channel 4 team, and soon we were in an orgy of regret for the departure of John Francome and Alistair Down.

One of them objected, in quite personal terms, to the choice of Clare Balding as the new front-woman for the show. I said that I like her as a broadcaster, which is absolutely true, but think that she is a generalist. By this I mean that she has a wide knowledge of all different kinds of sport, and works in a range of different mediums. (On a very personal level, what I crave from Channel 4 is a tight focus on specialist racing knowledge.)

However, in context, the whole Twitter chat came across as an ad hominem objection to Balding herself. I spend days twisting myself up like a pretzel to avoid ad hominem. So I was already started to feel uncomfortable, when Balding herself entered the conversation. I work hard, she said, and try to get people interested in racing.

Oh God, I thought. This is what happens when the internet flies too fast and tempers get heated. It can be forgotten that there are real people out there, with real feelings, who are only doing their jobs. I imagine that anyone in public life gets more slings and arrows than any human deserves, now that the green ink brigade has gone viral.

I was overcome with crushing angst. I sent Balding what I hoped was a polite tweet saying that all I too wanted was for more people to be interested in racing, and emphasised that really what I was crying out for was a view of the horses in the paddock. (This is an editorial decision, and absolutely not her fault.)

And here is the amazing thing. She tweeted back at once, saying that she would mention it, and that it might be possible once they were covering fewer races. I am a complete stranger, howling and yowling out on the prairies of the internet, and yet she took the time and trouble to reply.

How is that for grace?

The problem is that she was so generous and well-mannered that my angst only grew. I was now convinced that I had behaved badly and unfairly. I could not get the thing out of my head. I woke up this morning worrying about it.

So here is my own question for the day. It is: how may one object, without being objectionable?

I love racing with an unbridled passion. I loved the old Channel 4 team, and spent so much time with them that they felt like family. It’s a slightly peculiar thing to say, but it’s true. I loved that Alistair Down could recall every single Cheltenham since he was a boy. I loved that John Francome could tell you that an ordinary horse down the handicap had run a blinder on a wet Wednesday at Wetherby. Francome in particular wore his knowledge so lightly that it was easy to overlook how profound it was.

I am still a bit raw from the sudden change, and in danger of taking it personally. Channel 4 Racing, after all, does not exist just to serve me. Not everyone is a racing geek, and perhaps not everyone does need to know what happened in a mid-week card at Wetherby.

Where Clare Balding is brilliant is in her ability to translate the language of racing for a wider audience. She knows the world inside out, having grown up in it, and she knows the people. She is also an ultimately professional and accomplished broadcaster, who can take anything that a live programme throws at her.

It’s all very well, my yelping like a scalded dog, every time the programme does something I do not like. But this small episode reminded me that there is a danger, in this rushing internet age, of developing a nasty sense of entitlement. It is too easy for me to throw my toys out of the pram, and take to Twitter to shout and scream and set my hair on fire. Perhaps it is not a very edifying thing to do. My new resolution is to think before I tweet. Because, much as I hate to admit it, it really is not all about me.

Clare Balding is far too busy to read an obscure blog like this. But just today, I really wish she were one of the Dear Readers. Because I would like to say sorry. And to thank her for reminding me of a valuable lesson in manners.
 
Today’s pictures:

Too dull and snowy today to take out the camera. So here is a random selection from the last few days:















Autumn the Filly:



Myfanwy the Pony:



Can’t resist the free-schooling pictures:





Red the Mare, living up to her name in the winter sun:





Stanley the Dog enjoying some top ball action:





The hill, from a sunnier day:

A good Saturday

Exhausted after a tremendous afternoon’s racing. I had a wild accumulator which hinged on two of the tightest of photo finishes, so I was screaming ‘Get up, get up’ and my blood pressure was shooting through the roof. (Luckily, it is historically low, so this may count as an excellent medical intervention.) Stanley the Dog has taken to yowling in protest every time the commentator says ‘Photograph; photograph.’

It all ended well as my brave fancies stuck their dear, doughty noses in front and kept them there for the judge.

There was keen pleasure too in seeing AP McCoy back in the winning enclosure in the JP McManus colours, after their tragic loss of Darlan this week. AP is one of the toughest jockeys I have ever seen in my life. His will to win and his ability to drag himself back from injury are extraordinary. He puts himself through constant physical hardship of a kind difficult for an ordinary human to imagine. But even five days on, that man, who appears to be composed of iron filings, was too distraught to speak of the tragedy.

I must admit, it made me weep. It’s always the most moving when the really strong ones find their voices cracking under the weight of emotion.

Tired too because I actually did social life last night. This almost never happens. It was a tremendous evening, and I roared with laughter and shouted about politics and waved my hands around in the air. I do sometimes wonder what it would be like to be one of those calm, composed people, who speak in quiet sentences and do not shriek and bellow. If anything, it’s getting worse as I get older. Quite soon, I shall not allow myself out of the house at all.

So now I am going to keep old lady hours and stump upstairs very soon with a fat slice of ginger cake and a nice, soothing book.

No time for pictures today. Just this most beloved face:

Last night, one of the interesting people I met was a proper, serious horseman. He is a seasoned professional. Imagine my delight when I discovered that he has a colt he adores so much he actually keeps a picture of the fellow on his telephone. I spend a lot of time feeling rather idiotic about the wild love I have for Red the Mare. It seems I am not alone. Even the hardened pros may succumb. Nicky Henderson, who has been training since I was a little girl, was in inconsolable tears after the loss of his champion on Monday.

There is something about horses. It is a combination of authenticity, beauty, bravery, even mystery. The good ones, the kind, intelligent, bonny, bold ones, can gallop into your heart like nothing else.

A fleeting glimpse of spring

There are intimations of spring. This morning, I found the very first snowdrops. There were just two tiny clumps, on the rough ground, their buds still tightly furled. But there they were, brave harbingers of life to come. I was so excited that I exclaimed out loud.

The birds are suddenly singing their heads off. The woodpeckers are sending out their rhythmic rattle from the woods. The robins and tits are pairing off, and chasing each other around in a frankly blatant manner.

Even Beryl the Bird, the hen pheasant who visits the horses most mornings, pitched up today with a boyfriend. He is a big cock pheasant of several seasons, and the Horse Talker and I have now got it into our heads that Beryl has run off with a dirty old man. She’s clearly after his money. We are quite shocked. We did not think she was such a wanton.

There was even sunshine today, and the mercury climbed to a dizzying four degrees. We took all the rugs off, to let the equines stretch and bask in the sudden warmth. (We are talking in relatives here. It’s still glove and hat weather, but after so many days of windchill and zero degrees, it feels like the South of France.)

Stanley the Dog catches the new spirit in the air, and plays wild games with his ball. He has a very funny habit of burying balls all over the place. He carefully takes one, makes a little hole, puts the ball in it, and replaces the earth with his nose. Then he has the crazy fun of going about digging them all up again. Once discovered, the ball is thrown in the air, caught, chased, and practically juggled on the end of his nose. He is a one-dog circus act of his very own.

It has been a long, hard winter. It’s not over yet. More snow is forecast for the weekend. But just today, as the sun shines, and the air is gentle, and the frost goes out of the earth, my heart lifts with the thought of spring.

 

Today’s pictures:

SNOWDROPS:

The naughty Blue Tits, flirting their heads off:

The limes:

The old oaks and beeches:

One of the very few sadnesses about living so far north is that it is almost impossible to keep rosemary alive. It gets done by the ruthless winds, and turns brown overnight, as if someone has gone at it with a flame-thrower. This is the very first one that I have kept going for more than one season. I don’t count chickens yet, but I live in hope:

One of the things we do with the herd is give them a morning haynet. It means the hay lasts longer than if you just put it on the ground, and it keeps the horses occupied, because they have to pull the stuff through the small holes. We are very lucky to have a magnificent farmer who gets us the best stuff, and the girls absolutely love it. It’s one of their favourite parts of the day:

Autumn the Filly:

Myfanwy the Pony:

Red the Mare, with her goofy hay-heaven face on:

And looking a little more demure:

Stanley the Dog, going ball crazy:

Two views of the hill today:

One of the Dear Readers asked if there was a structure on top of the hill. There is indeed. You can see it more clearly on some days than others. It is a perfect cairn, a built pyramid rather than an ad hoc mound, and it was put up by a widow as a memorial to her husband and son. I do not know who they were or how they died, but it’s very touching.