Bashing on

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

The stressometer hovers at Mach Ten. I continue in a fairly filthy temper, not helped by some stupid and disastrous bets at the Curragh. An hour of racing was supposed to be my afternoon treat; instead I felt like an absolute idiot as I watched my hot things go backwards. I even decided the weather was a bore; all this blasting sun, and what about my poor hot horse?

The animals took it upon themselves to cheer me up. In the gold of the evening, the Pigeon put on such a display of virtuoso ball action that I had to clap and laugh. She looked so happy and eager and pleased with herself.

Up at Red’s field, the pony was friendly and funny, the chickens were beautiful and busy, the swallows were sweeping low over the paddock, and her ladyship herself put up her head and trotted to the gate, with her ears pricked.

She never does this. She is so damn posh that she stands, very elegantly and politely, until I deign to come to her, even if I have to walk all the way across to the north wood. Yesterday, she was grumpy as fuck. This evening, it was as if she had decided to make it all up to me. (I know I keep writing about how she is imparting wisdom and great life lessons, and she is, but when I am sad I lose all perspective, and then of course I do take it personally, and think she is bored to hell of me and just wants to go back to The Auld Fella in the south.)

But then she came all the way from the absolute farthest corner of the field, starting to move the moment she heard the car, and lifting her head and swinging her hips with every appearance of delight.

I felt elation fill me like helium. She stood like a statue whilst I gave her a huge brush, to get the flies and the heat off her, and she gave me her head to scratch, and I gave her carrots and love, and everything, for that half hour, was entirely perfect and lovely and all right.

So on we all bash, our funny little ménage, despite everything. On we bloody well bash.

 

This evening’s pictures:

The Duchess’s tree:

The pretty chickens:

Myfanwy the Pony:

Red, doing her dear old donkey amble:

From another angle, with the evening sun full on her, this is the colour she goes, living up to her name:

Red’s view:

And my little ball champion:

Hill: