There’s something about mares. Or, one for the girls.

In the horse world, just as in the human one, there is prejudice against the female of the species. Mares are widely supposed to be hormonal, unpredictable, difficult and generally unreliable. My experience is that the complete opposite is true.

I’ve been having a ball with the girls over the last couple of days. On Sunday, a delightful filly called Miss Dashwood, trained by the most excellent James Fanshawe, roared from last to first in the Goodwood sunshine, producing a withering burst of speed in the final yards to catch the long-time leader. According to her yard, the next day when she was taken out for a gentle recuperative walk after her great efforts, she ‘looked very pleased with herself.’ I know that look. Then, yesterday, in the Amateur Derby, run at Epsom over the same distance as the actual Derby, Mr Patrick Mullins was up on another lovely, determined filly called Beacon Lady.

She had won her last two races, and bagging a three-timer is always difficult. Epsom is a famously treacherous course and she had a big field up against her, including a well-backed favourite.

Mullins gave her one of the kindest, cleverest, most sympathetic rides I’ve ever seen on a racecourse. He dropped her out the back door and gave her time and space to find her feet over the crazy cambers and turns. Admittedly, as I saw her five lengths behind the field, and about twenty off the leader, I said, out loud, to Stanley the Dog, ‘not even Dancing Brave could win from there.’ I was wrong, and canny Mr Mullins was right. He knew his girl. He nursed her into the race. (My fanciful brain decided her was surely crooning at her in his Irish accent, telling her what a fine lady she was.) And then, when she was at last vaguely in touch with her field, he took her wide, down the centre of the track, so she could have a good look at everything and not get stuck in traffic. Everything else was motoring, and yet he still did not ask her for her effort. He sat quite still, and kept her balanced, and let her deepen her stride.

Finally, finally, he said go, in the politest possible way, just shaking up the reins a little and crouching lower in the saddle. And perhaps because he had been so courteous and gentlemanly, the bold filly gave him everything she had, and flashed past the post a length in front. I don’t think her jockey even picked up his stick.

I had money on both fillies and I shouted them home.

Today, the Remarkable Trainer pitched up, back from holiday. Red the mare, seeing there was serious groundwork to be done, was at her most spirited, waltzing about and putting in a bronco buck and showing all her thoroughbred blood. For all that she spends most of her time like a dozy old donkey, occasionally she likes to test the boundaries, to remind us that she is descended from a Derby winner, to show that she is not to be taken for granted. At moments like that, a lot of people would shake their heads and say, darkly, ‘mare-ish’, and start digging out all the old stereotypes. I laughed my head off. The Remarkable Trainer said, ‘she’s just being a horse’. (I think sometimes people forget this about equines.)

Once she saw that this sort of Spanish Riding School of Vienna farrago was not going to fly, Red settled into her work. After a while, I got on, and the Remarkable Trainer suddenly got a rush of blood to the head and started dragging silver birch trees across the grass. ‘There,’ she said, looking at her handiwork. ‘Working Hunter fence.’ It was actually a proper jump, at least TWO FEET HIGH.

‘Bugger it,’ I said. ‘We’re going to jump it.’

So we did. I let Red find her own stride, and concentrated on sticking with her and not bothering her. She is still very, very new at this, and I wanted to give her confidence. At first, she was so amazed that she gave the thing about five feet of air; I could feel it whooshing underneath me, and whooped in astonishment and amazement. Then, she grew more sure-footed, and starting popping over like an old pro. Each time, she came back to a gentle halt, and turned her face back to me as if to say: did you see what I did?

At the time, it was just fun, something interesting and experimental to do. I like to amuse her, to keep her interested, not to let her get stale. It’s lovely, teaching her something new. It was only afterwards that I realised that I’d been blasting about a wide open green space on an ex-racing, ex-polo mare, who half an hour earlier had been bucking as if she were in the Calgary stampede. I’d been asking my posh old duchess, who has only just learnt what a jump is, to leap over a fence whilst wearing only a rope halter. She could have charged off into the blue yonder if she’d wanted to, but each time she came kindly back, despite all the excitement.

‘Bloody hell,’ I said to The Remarkable Trainer. ‘Do you realise what she just did?’

It’s not because I am clever or accomplished or a particularly good horsewoman. I am still tremendously rusty and have forgotten more than I probably ever knew. It’s because I trust her. It’s because I don’t believe any of that bullshit about mares. It’s because she fills my heart with gladness and she is as kind and brilliant and willing as any creature I ever met. Just like her two distant relations out there on the racecourse, she will give you everything if you ask politely. Sometimes she shakes her head and throws a little spirit into the mix, but she comes back at once, docile and biddable and absolutely honest. She is different each day, not because she is a slave to her hormones or suffers from the disadvantage of having ovaries, but because she is a sentient creature, and each day is new to her and will bring its own challenges, which she will meet in her own sweet way.

I suppose I’ve been thinking about this because one of the inexplicable UKIP fellows has been going on again about the frailties and incapabilities of women. (Apparently, women are better at ‘finding mustard in the pantry’ than driving cars.) And just now, I heard a woman in Pakistan interviewed on the radio say, without a trace of self-pity, that the fight for equality which happened in the West has not even started in her own country. She made it a simple statement of fact. I thought it was one of the saddest things I ever heard.

I’m a tremendous believer in the sisterhood. I think women are brilliant, not just because of all the things that they are brilliant at, but because most of them put up with this kind of thing with an extraordinary patience and grace. It goes on every day, even in the enlightened West. We ladies may have the vote and the right to own property and the freedom to do jobs, but the hum of low-level bigotry and tired assumptions infects society still. The women could be working to rule and setting their hair on fire and withholding their favours, and yet, mostly, they just get on with it. They laugh, sometimes a little tiredly, and don’t make a fuss. I have a bottomless admiration for that.

So I suppose when I get furious about the prejudice against mares, it’s a proxy for my crossness about the slurs that all females must put up with. When Miss Dashwood and Beacon Lady show such resolution and doughtiness and pure, thrilling speed, when my beloved Red soars over her birch trees, I think, nuttily, that they are striking a blow for females everywhere. I whoop in delirious triumph, because it is one for the girls.

 

Today’s pictures:

A very random selection, because I’ve been going back through the files and trying to winnow them. Despite my soaring adoration for my girl and my manly Stanley, I really probably don’t need three hundred photographs of them. Each. (Conservative estimate.)

HorseBack girls:

My mum’s new little chap:

MY chap:

With his big red friend:

Scotland:

Oh, that handsome face:

More lovely girls, human and equine:

I am not sure anyone ever made me so proud as this person does:

r

Hill:

The funny thing is that I was not going to do a blog today. I was just going to put up some pictures. I’m very tired and it’s been a long day. Then this all just fell out of my fingers. Brain to fogged to tell if ANY of it makes any sense, so please forgive.

The day in pictures.

A lovely, gentle Bank Holiday.

I had a rest, backed three winners, watched Mr Patrick Mullins give the glorious Beacon Lady one of the sweetest and most sympathetic rides I’ve ever seen on a racecourse (tactically astute too), hung out with my mare, played with my dog, and generally did bugger all. The sun shone all day long, and is still dappling golden over the line of beeches outside my window.

This is what it looked like:

Red got a damn good groom this evening. She adores being brushed, and goes into a sort of hazy trance of pleasure. As you can see:

With her small friend:

Love this one, even though it is slightly out of focus:

Stanley was not quite manly enough to go into the burn. Turns out he is not a water dog:

His friends had no such qualms:

One last one of my dozy beloved. When she is like this, I’m not sure I ever saw a horse so at ease with herself and the green world:

This picture is slightly blurry too, but I like the timeless effect it gives, as if it could have been taken some time in the early 1960s.

Hope you all had a very happy Bank Holiday.

No blog

No blog today. Time comprehensively defeats me. I gaze in bafflement as it flashes past my eyes.

Just two pictures for you.

Another of Stanley and his new friend. The whole thing with the stick kills me. They already adore each other and spent the whole of breakfast time this morning playing an antic game of hide and seek. It turns out that Edward the Puppy has a finely developed sense of humour. My mother, who feared that Stanley might be jealous or growly, is beside herself with delight that he has taken so sweetly to her new little chap:

And my best beloved, having a little wander through the shady trees:

Shared experience. Or, a still small moment of calm.

This morning, I woke to a low sky and a light, misty rain. It’s that kind of rain where there is just a sense of water in the air; less falling than swirling, almost like a flying dew.

The Horse Talker and I arrived at the paddock at the exact same moment. At the exact same moment, we saw the exact same thing. All three of the girls were lying down in the paddock, in a delightful collective doze. We made Did You See That faces at each other, and walked in cat-like silence through the gate so as not to disturb the glorious picture.

The little pony decided to get up, and performed some astonishing yoga stretches with her hind legs, which made us double up with laughter. Then we each went to our own horses and sat with them and stroked their dear faces and entered into the circle of calm which they had created.

It’s quite rare that we see them lying down. Autumn the Filly was flat on her side, completely flaked out. Red was resting on her belly, her long legs curled up under her, her chin resting dreamily on the grass. It’s also quite rare that a horse will stay down when a human approaches. Often they get up and shake themselves. Their flight instincts mean that they have to trust you a lot to stay in the vulnerable prone position. That is why it is always very touching when you see pictures of people lying with their equines.

They were both so still it was as if every atom in their bodies was at rest. They were in a low, humming dream state, every part of them existing in peace. The field was very quiet, apart from the lone cry of a circling buzzard. The misty rain had driven away all the flies and brought a sort of suspended animation with it, as if the world was on hold. Nothing existed but these beautiful creatures and these two grateful humans.

We laughed and smiled at each other and invented fanciful scenarios as to why they were so dozy. Rather madly, there is to be a techno concert on Saturday in the cut hayfield, and we decided that the girls had clearly been up all night practising their rave moves. No wonder they were so sleepy.

Eventually, Red got to her feet. Autumn was still dozing. The Horse Talker and I went up to the shed to make breakfast. I let Red out into the set-aside so she could do some free grazing. This bit of the field is where the good grass is, and there is no fence. She could, I suppose, gallop off to Tarland if she really wanted, but she doesn’t. She will usually come when I whistle, or if she is too busy eating, stand quietly when I come to collect her.

As we were mixing up the feeds, the Horse Talker and I suddenly heard a swish of grass and a dash of hooves, and Red arrived at a busy trot and poked her white face into the doorway, urgent enquiry in her eyes, as if to say ‘You are making breakfast and you did not tell me?’ She looked so comical that it made us laugh and laugh.

The whole thing was one of the most enchanted hours I’ve ever spent in my life. But what was particularly lovely about it is that it was shared. The Horse Talker and I are now custodians of that collective memory, and we shall be able to say to each other, when the hard snows come and we are trudging through the winter mud, or when we are having a bad day, or when we wake to a grumpy morning – ‘Do you remember that day?’

I am solitary by nature. I do a lot of things alone. I need quiet and peace; I like the space of my silent room. But sometimes, in life, it’s important to have a witness. I thought this as I came back to my desk to start work. I thought suddenly, that is what this blog is all about. I started it, ruthlessly, blatantly, because I thought I could go viral and everyone would buy my book and I should be rich and retire and buy a boat.

The internet gods laughed at that puny plan, but I continued doing it because I discovered I liked it for its own sake. I love the small, tight band of Dear Readers. I love that you remember the Duchess and the Pigeon, and that you have taken Mr Stanley to your hearts. I love the little messages which wing their way from as far as New Zealand and Sri Lanka and California.

People tend to be quite sneery about blogs and social networks. It’s all ghastly self-indulgence, absurd show-boating, awful narcissism. The tired old joke about Twitter is: who cares what you had for breakfast? (Although absolutely nobody I know tweets about bacon and eggs.)

In fact, although these grouchy criticisms have a tiny acorn of truth in them, I think there is something quite profound going on. I think it is to do with having a witness. I think, at its best, this new medium offers something wonderfully collective. Here are our small lives; they are seen.

Of course lives are seen by the real people in the real world; the family and friends and best beloveds. But there is nothing wrong with virtual seeing in the virtual world. It’s not all trick cyclists and Look Ma, no hands. It can be a simple, good-hearted offering of some of the lovely moments.

When the news is dark and the world seems crazed and the big things are so big and bad that the battered brain can hardly take them in, the small, ordinary pleasures in small, ordinary lives can be an anchor to sanity. As much as there is flimsy and nonsense and pointless shouting and idiot arguments in the virtual world, there is also a lot of kindness of strangers. There are shards of wisdom and moments of glad grace. You get a glimpse into lives of which you would otherwise know nothing. I think there is something rather marvellous in that.

 

Today’s pictures:

One from the morning field:

The day was too gloomy for pictures, so here are some of the Beloveds from the last few sunnier days:

The focus is hysterically wrong in this picture, but I love it, because it gives a sense of the happiness of the dear little band:

Free grazing. Two things make me smile: Stanley the Dog channelling his inner horse, and the most excellent colour coordination:

Perfectly synchronised eating:

Is it time for breakfast face:

And a few more of my Hebridean pictures:

I love this one because it could have been taken in 1953:

Happy holiday faces:

The sun shines on the Knavesmire

It’s YORK.

I am beside myself with excitement. I get up early and race around like a sprinter getting all my work done so that I may now sit and watch the racing. The Ebor meeting is one of my favourites of the year. I adore the mighty green sweep of the Knavesmire. And, as Sir Henry Cecil and Tom Queally said last year, when I was there to watch Frankel write another glorious page in racing history, there is nothing like the Yorkshire crowd.

Today, two of my favourite horses go up against each other. I feel almost disloyal having to pick between Toronado and Al Kazeem. Even though most of the time I attempt to resist magical thinking, the lunatic part of my brain is convinced that if I bet against one of my old faithfuls, they will know. Of course, if I were a sensible person, I would not have a bet, and just watch for pleasure. But I am too much of my father’s daughter for that to be possible. Mr William Hill and I shall be on most intimate terms in the next few days.

In the end, I stick with Al Kazeem. I love his toughness and his talent. I love that he came back from injury and has been imperious ever since. I love that he gallops and fights and sticks out his brave neck. I love that his latest form figures read a perfect 1111.

What will now happen is that Hillstar will turn out to be the great improver and thrash both of them.

However the magnificent contest plays out, it will be one of the great races of the summer and I feel lucky to be able to watch it. It is going to be a perfect afternoon.

 

Some quick pictures for you, of HorseBack and my herd and a flower or two and Edward the Puppy and Stan the Man:

o