A tiny political glimmer in a dream of horse

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Another sunny day. This now seems like some kind of hilarious meteorological joke. We normally expect our last snow at about this time of year.

I am rather later than normal up to the mare. Through my excitement about my morning ride, I take in vaguely that Mr Maude can’t really answer the question on the Today Programme. Oh dear, a fellow appears to have been caught bragging that he can provide access to the Prime Minister for cash.

Goodness, I think, normality must be returning. The first political thing has broken through my horse dream.

But because of the horse, and the delight, and the love, I find I can’t get that exercised about the whole thing. Twitter is alight, Nick Robinson is beside himself, the commentators and pundits and bloggers are blogging and commenting and punditing like crazy. I am a concerned citizen; I am a politics geek; surely I should have at least three contrasting opinions (my usual state of mind).

Instead, I think: must call the vet about the tetanus shot.

Instead, I think: goodness she was good this morning. What a collected canter that was. How fast and well she trotted up that hill. How sweetly and gently she walked with me back to her paddock. How funny her little quirks are turning out to be.

That affecting to be freaked out by the post box was a very naughty joke. I can’t believe she was suddenly alarmed by a small post box, which she has walked past quite happily every day, and then did not bat an ear at the properly scary coiled black pipes which disturbed her on Friday.

I start to suspect that she is now in the testing phase. She’s seeing how in charge I am, how much she can rely on me, what she can get away with, where the boundaries lie. I am not certain of this; it is my suspicion. Just in case it is true, I stay calm and firm and determined. Ha, I think. I am calm and firm; nothing can faze me. I attempt to send this state of mind by telepathy, so she gets the message as efficiently as if it were sent by pigeon post.

As I write this, Eddie Mair is getting into the weeds of the donor dinners, and the amounts of cash handed over, and the matter of caps and reform. It is really quite interesting, although I start to think that perhaps it is more storm in a teacup than anything else. I believe the government is capable of being mistaken; I do not think it institutionally corrupt.

Much more fascinating to me, just now, is the thought of my glorious little red mare. No wonder they use horses for therapy. Turns out, there is nothing like a sweet equine to quiet the mind.

As for the rest of the day: I do work. I admire the sunshine. I inspect the garden. Things are really growing now, new items are springing up overnight. Because I can never remember what I planted where, quite a lot of the new arrivals are a delightful surprise. I gaze in admiration at the green shoots, lit by the afternoon sun; they are that singing spring green which seems hardly believable.

I throw the ball for the Pigeon. I eat a pastrami sandwich. Every hour or so, I pause for a moment, and dream of my dear little horse.

 

Pictures of the day:

One more Red eating hay picture, because you can't have enough of those:

And the Pigeon was looking particularly ravishing in the spring light:

Today's hill:

A sunshiny Sunday

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Today was going to be a family walk round the glen, with me riding, like the Queen of the May. It was my idea. I had visions of us trooping over the hills like the Von Trapps. In the end, the logistics were too much, and it turned out just to be The Older Brother and his Beloved, The Pigeon, Red, and me.

It was quite enchanting.

The only thing about the glen on Sundays, it transpires, is that it is like Piccadilly Circus. There was a marvellous moment when a perfect troupe of hikers wearing quite extraordinary headgear appeared over the hill, all kitted out with rucksacks and special poles. The mare stared at them in rank disbelief.

‘They are only humans,’ I said, out loud, to their slight surprise.

The Brother regarded their retreating hats with some interest. He contemplated for a moment.

‘Finnish, do you think?’ he said.

Then there were the cyclists, in their day-glo colours, and one rather alarming moment when Red spotted a bright scarlet boat out on the loch and decided that was too astounding for words. Then there was a sudden train of small riding school ponies, which made her snort a bit.

‘Come on, old lady,’ I said. ‘No mountain lions. We are perfectly all right.’

And we were. It was one of the finest walks I ever took. It was lovely to have the company and we talked and laughed all the way round, and Red, apart from her couple of moments of startle, was immaculate.

I do think that riding out with two strange humans and a dog, and with all the hikers and bikers and trail riders and boaters in the glittering sunshine, was really quite a test for a thoroughbred in a new place. She was bloody brilliant and I love her. I rewarded her with a fast two furlong canter to get the twinkles out of her toes, and she went like the wind.

One interesting riding note. (Or, at least, interesting to me. Perhaps not quite so fascinating for the general readership.) The Brother’s Beloved took some pictures, and in them, I see I am leaning a little too far forward in the saddle. My legs and seat are fine, but, where I thought I was sitting straight, I see I am on a slight incline. I think that subliminally I must be so intent on willing the mare on, that instead of sitting straight and deep, and urging her forward with my bottom, I am doing a faint lean. Thank goodness I have caught it in time. As the Cousin’s Old Fella says, very wisely: good habits make good horses.

The other very sweet thing is that the Pigeon has decided the big red dog is not a threat, but a joyous and welcome addition to the pack. The old girl adored her walk. I don’t take her usually, because of her great age, but since we were going slowly, and there were two people on foot, I thought it would be a Sunday treat. She is so alive and agile for her years that I don’t want to start treating her like an old-age pensioner. We all ambled along at an easy pace, and the Pidge scampered about in the woods and went off and flirted with some of the hikers in a most shameless fashion.

When we came to the canter, I said I would circle back and meet my walkers. I expected the Pigeon to stay with the Brother, of whom she is inordinately fond. As I rounded a turn, I caught a flash of a little black figure behind me. The Pigeon was galloping with us. As I pulled up, I looked round in concern, worried it would have taken it out of her. She was grinning in delight, hardly out of breath. My faithful shadow, I thought. She really is my very own little Kauto Star.

The other rather touching thing was that the mare seemed very happy to have a canine companion. Perhaps she thinks the Pigeon is a very small black pony, just as the Pidge clearly assumes she is an enormous dog.

So, that was my Sunday delight. It was a high delight, on about eight different levels.

The Brother’s Beloved said such a nice thing, as we were tracing the path that runs along the river. She looked up and said: ‘You are very happy here, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I am. I have all the melancholies and griefs that flesh is heir to, but mostly, I am happy.’

I looked down at the mare, and stroked her neck. ‘And,’ I said, ‘I am even happier now I have this.’

I wrote to the Cousin’s Old Fella a couple of days ago. He sold me the horse, and I like to keep him informed of her progress. ‘Thank you for letting me have her,’ I wrote. ‘Best thing I ever did.’

Perhaps not quite the very best thing. But up in the pantheon of best things, it ranks pretty high. My beautiful, brave girl; I love her so.

 

Pictures of the Day.

The river, from the high bridge where we cross over:

The loch:

The path through the woods:

Red the Mare, The Brother, The Pigeon, and me:

Her glorious face, staring out over the wilderness:

I put this one into sepia, for some reason. If it weren't for that awful hat, we would look like an Edwardian lady and her horse. I got the basic helmet because I was in a rush. I must get a nicer one, eventually:

Doesn't she look good, though? You can see she is already building up some muscle. She will be fit as a butcher's dog before you can say knife.

Back in the garden, a few flowers:

The Pigeon in the glen, happy as a clam:

And taking a little rest on the lawn at home afterwards:

And the hill, faint and blue in the dazzle:

Question: do you think this horse looks happy?

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Finally managed to rush up and see the mare. Oh, poor thing, I thought. I have not visited her all day. What a brute I am. Felt really quite angsty.

Got there, with the Pidge. Red looked up politely when I arrived, pricked her ears, gave me a courteous but perfunctory nod, and then went back to eating her hay. It was a bit like when you fuss over a teenager and they really don't get it. They shrug and grimace and say: yeah, well, whatever. It was as if she were thinking, better humour the old girl, and then she'll let me eat my tea in peace.

It made me laugh and laugh.

She is a horse, after all. As long as she has a sunny paddock to loaf in and some top quality hay, she will be happy as a clam. She is so relaxed now that it is as if she has been here always. A huge tractor roared down from the farm, and she did not even turn her head to look.

I sat on a little stone wall and watched her for a bit. She likes rearranging her hay into neat little piles and then eating delicately from the top. She was so dozy that at times she appeared to be eating and sleeping at the same time.

I think she has settled. Even the Pigeon seems to have come round to the idea. We are family now, and that is that.

These are her views, from the field:

The Pigeon looked pretty happy with the arrangement:

And, finally, finally – the return of The Hill:

These pictures are dedicated to my friend Miss Whistle, who lost her glorious spotted dog yesterday. I send out an RIP for the lovely old gentleman.

I know all about that dog grief; the tear at the heart, the yearning sense of loss, the shock of the grief. Even when they are old and have had their time, the sense of rupture is startling. I remember the Duchess as if it were yesterday. She stays with me always.

Miss W lives six thousand miles from here, but she loves and knows Scotland, and loves horses too. So these are specially for her.

Saturday; or, in which I do something very, very naughty

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

As the regular readers will know, the camera charger has gone for a little walk. I thought it might be left at the Beloved Cousin's house; or in the depths of the car. The search has been fruitless.

On to The Google I do. Olympus battery charger, I type. It's the kind of thing I hate buying; boring, pointless, waste of money due to my own carelessness.

As I googled about, I discovered that Olympus has brought out two new models of my old camera. It is two editions out of date. I'm not an updating sort of person when it comes to tech; I just want something I like which works. I have no snobbism about the newest thing.

But then I saw the PEN EP-3. (I do wish they would give them nicer names which do not involve so many caps.) It really is a thing of beauty. The reviews were gushing. At which point, a very, very naughty thought entered my mind.

Those of you who were reading last week will know I had a pretty good Cheltenham. I won a rather vulgar amount of money. The season started exceptionally well when I had a crazed forty quid on dear old Kauto Star at 6-1 in the Betfair at Haydock, mostly out of cussedness. I get very cross when people write off great horses. It's always when I have my biggest bets. It's a sort of I'll show 'em all mentality. I remember doing it on Desert Orchid, years ago, when some people gloomily said he couldn't win his fourth King George.

The season has ended well (although there is still Aintree and the Whitbread to go) with a rather successful Cheltenham, mostly thanks to a Lucky 15 which had Riverside Theatre, Sprinter Sacre, and Quevega, the lovely Irish mare, in it. A Lucky 15 is the sort of nuts bet my dad used to love: a combination of doubles and trebles and singles, where your initial stake rolls over and the odds stack up. It also allows latitude. My fourth choice, Zarkandar, did not win, but the other three did, so the bet still paid a huge dividend. The good old Lucky 15 really was lucky. I've never won one before, and I was beside myself.

Anyway, I suddenly thought: why not spend my winnings on the new Olympus PEN? Perhaps the lost charger is a sign? Such is the sinuous whisper of the magical thinking.

But the new PEN is very expensive indeed, even for me, even when I have the extravagant bit between my teeth. Oh well, I thought, never mind. Silly idea.

I did one final desultory search. It was then I found a very lovely man on Ebay called Mr Adam Williamson. He just happened to have a very smart silver PEN, second-hand, but as new. It was hundreds of pound cheaper than the new ones. At which point, the magical thinking started whispering in my ear. Rude not to, it said.

Bugger it, said my extremely naughty mind. I pressed the button; the thing was done.

Mr Adam Williamson turns out to be a man of celerity and efficiency. The button was pressed on Thursday evening. An email arrived yesterday to say Royal Mail would be bringing me my order. This morning, the Pigeon greeted the postman with a faint attempt at her scary guard dog persona. 'Oh, shush,' I said. 'It's the lovely postie with my parcel.'

The postman and I grinned madly at each other. I love the postman. I have missed him all week because of the riding. This morning, Red is having a deserved rest, after all the work I have put into her, so I was here to sign for my package.

And what a package it turned out to be. It may be the most brilliant camera I have ever owned. It is streets ahead of its earlier sister. I don't know what the clever people at Olympus have been doing, but it's not sitting around clicking their teeth that is for sure.

From the first touch, I could tell the difference. It is beautifully responsive, sharp as a tack, smooth and pleasing to use. I don't know enough about cameras to tell you exactly why it is so good, or what precisely has changed. It's just streets ahead, that's all. In particular, the auto-focus, which was rather maddeningly mulish on the EP-1, is now marvellously eager to please.

That's enough talk. Here's the proof of the pudding.

The blossom is out on the Japanese cherries. I have been yearning to show it to you. Here it is, at last:

And this is my favourite of the little apple trees:

The hellebores are going like gangbusters this year:

The grape hyacinths are perhaps my favourites, if I had to choose one flower in my entire garden. I got down on the ground to take this one:

This is my dear blueberry bush, only planted last year, and looking very happy:

The dwarf euphorbia:

And, and – THE RETURN OF THE PIGEON:

Sometimes, when I look at this face, I wonder how any living thing could be this beautiful:

Thing is, when they made this one, they broke the mould:

Doing her famous downward-facing dog:

Bear in mind these were taken on a very dull, murky day. There was hardly any light. The cloud was so low that I cannot even take a picture of the hill to show you, since it is not visible today. So I do think those results are very impressive, and it's all the camera, not me.

It's funny. I have been hating not taking photographs. I discover that I do not like putting up other people's pictures on my own blog. I missed the acute looking that carrying a camera makes me do. I'm sure that the readership has not missed the hill, but I have missed being able to bring it to you. I also love the thing of being able to have a visual record of each day.

I'm not an expert with a camera; I pretty much just point and shoot. But I have missed it, almost like a limb. I had no idea how much pleasure doing the daily photos for the blog had given me, until I was forced to take a break from it.

And, finally, in Red news:

Even though it's quite nice to have a slow morning, instead of getting up at six-thirty and rushing up to the glen, I find myself missing my horse. I imagine her, dozing in her box, being put out into her paddock in her little blue rug. I picture, vividly, her sweet head and her kind eye. I have a sense memory of her lovely, clean, horse smell. I smile as I think of her funny little lower lip; it protrudes slightly and wobbles a bit when she is happy.

What a creature she is, and how intensely lucky I feel to have found her. I shall go up to see her a bit later, and then there shall be pictures a go-go.

 

Oh, and I do not generally do promotions for shops and things on this blog. Not sure why, really. It might be a useful thing for the Dear Readers. Anyway, if any of you ever want to get a good camera at an excellent price, I cannot recommend more the excellent shop of Mr Williamson:

http://stores.ebay.co.uk/Adams-Discount-Electronics

Best and most efficient service I have ever had. And that includes John Lewis.

In which I meet the farrier

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

TODAY I MET THE FARRIER.

I’m sorry, but that is so thrilling that it has to go into capital letters. I have a deep obsession with two professions, that of dry stone waller and farrier. If I walked into a party and was introduced to George Clooney and someone who knew the art of dry stone walling, I would talk all night to the wall person. I have no explanation for this.

I was giving the mare a pick of grass, and a smiling fellow in a blue van drove past. I said good morning, he paused, leaned out of the window, and we exchanged small talk about the weather. There was blinding sun again and that is always a serious subject of conversation in these parts.

Then I put Red out, stood for a while at the gate, entranced by her sweetness and beauty, gazing at her like a loom with my mouth open in a goofy smile, and walked back to the yard. There was my friend in the van, leather apron on, shoeing a horse.

‘Oh,’ I cried. ‘You are the farrier.’

As you know, my attempts at charm do not always work. There is a particular flintiness and authenticity to the character of the North-East of Scotland which does not fall for exclamation and hyperbole. But this gentleman, perhaps undone by my transparent excitement and delight, gave me a smiling shake of the hand and stood and talked in the sun for a quarter hour. He even laughed at my jokes. We are now fully bonded and the mare will be shod next week. (She has front shoes on, but her back hooves are bare and need seeing to.)

This all came at the end of a very lovely morning indeed. The first enormously important thing to report is that when I went into the box this morning, the mare yawned. This is huge. Yawning in a horse is a sign of relaxation and security. She has been a bit jittery in the mornings up until now. Today, she was mooching about, nudging my side with her muzzle, head low, chilled as you like. I felt it was a huge breakthrough.

As we went off through the woods, there was one small spook, a couple of pauses, and then – just delightful, calm, onward momentum. The sun glittered and shimmered off the loch but that did not faze her. The fast reverse, her speciality move, has gone back into its box of tricks. I sat deep in the saddle, feeling my legs strengthen and lengthen, sensing the movement of the horse. I suddenly felt something in her I’m not sure I have before. It took me a moment to work out what it was.

It was enjoyment.

I looked down at her. Her neck was stretched out, her ears were pricked, not looking for danger, but set in the alert, happy position. There was a little swing in her stride.

I was so happy that I sang her a song. I’ve been noodling about on the internet, looking at some pretty hokey websites. One of them said that horses like to be sung to. I never used to sing to my horses when I was a child, but what the hell. The secret hippy in me does come out when surrounded by trees. I sang her The Outlaw Raparee, which my father used to sing to me when I was little.

It goes:

My spurs are rusted, my coat is rent, my plume is damp with rain; the thistle down and the barley beard are thick on my horse’s mane.

I’m not sure if she liked it or not. It made me laugh anyway. I hoped that no dog walkers would come out of the woodwork and find some crazed horse lady singing Irish rebel songs. The people in the glen already think I am peculiar enough.

We went out into some new wilderness, taking a right instead of yesterday’s left. Up a forestry track, the country opened out like a book, singed with yellow gorse. The blue mountains hovered on three sides. The mare looked about her, as if to say: this is new. There was a lazy old river and a tiny oxbow lake.

Back past the old chapel, we took a fast two furlong canter, and pulled up perfectly at the end. ‘Bloody marvellous,’ I told Red.

After I untacked her and brushed her down and put on her headcollar to lead her out to her field, I paused for a few minutes to let her have a go at the good grass on the corner. It’s a very peaceful thing, standing with a grazing horse. I leant on her withers, and put my hand on her neck.

‘You got my heart,’ I said. ‘You came and took it and it is yours.’

She carried on eating. She is a horse, after all.

 

This was the chapel we cantered past:

By Martin Gorman for Creative Commons, found on the Geograph website.