Giving up

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

I have, finally, Given Up. I hate and loathe giving up; would much rather bash on. I rather despise the fact I do not have that much physical stamina. I am hoping that is going to change once I get all fit and my muscles harden from riding every day. So, I have conceded defeat to the aches and pains and heavy head and eyes like hot boiled eggs and general malaise and light-sensitivity.

I love all the Dear Readers being doctor. I am now choosing between low grade virus, too much excitement, over-tiredness, Vitamin B12 deficiency, and low blood pressure. Oddly, I have always had very low blood pressure, sometimes the doc has to take it twice, she can’t believe it is so low. I am oddly proud of this, although it is nothing to do with me. But I like the idea of not being in the danger zone for stroke and heart attack. Much better low than high.

Whatever the thing is, I have had to chuck a meeting with publisher and co-writer, since I cannot get down the stairs, let alone on a train. I am quite grumpy about the whole thing. I am typing this in bed, with a dozy Pigeon by my side.

I was worrying about the blog, since my plan is to sleep all day, so I can be well for Saturday, when I drive back north. I must be fit for the five hundred and fifty miles.

Luckily, one of the Dear Readers left a quite enchanting comment yesterday, about Nijinsky. It is such a lovely story that I am going to put it up here for today’s blog. This is very naughty, since I have not asked permission. I am trusting that the Reader will not mind if I share with the group.

This is what she wrote:

I met Nijinsky once when he was an old fellow. Had gone to the farm to visit another stallion and my guide that day was an elderly stud groom just off retirement named Clay Arnold. It was a quiet morning and I was by myself, so Clay took out several of the big names for me to look over (quite nice, as I hadn't a dime and clearly was not a potential client - he must have seen that I just loved 'em.

At the end, as I got ready to leave, he said, "Wait a moment, you can't go until you've see the best of them all. I'm not supposed to, but it's nearly time for him to go to his paddock." In a few minutes he came back with a dark bay stallion who was obviously a senior citizen (he was 24 at the time), but still a looker.

He walked pretty slowly, as old aches had caught up with him, but he had that indefinable air of greatness about him. They were so touching, Clay and Nijinsky, two old campaigners, very quiet and gentle with each other. They're both gone now, but I still have the photo I shot of them and have never forgotten the moment.

Nijinsky was everyone's champion, but he was one man's best friend.

Isn’t that the best story you have ever heard? I love it. Thank you, Bird.

Here are some glorious pictures of the old champion. Still can't quite believe he is the grandsire of my lovely Red:

Lovely to see old Lester in action. The photograph is uncredited, but I think that is Pat Eddery behind him. My guess is that it's the Derby. Wish I knew what that second horse was though.

Another delightful shot:

This is my mare's great-grandsire, the mighty Northern Dancer. Another uncredited photograph, but isn't it rather extraordinary?

Their little descendant, with her rather flashy bay friend:

My very own Northern Dancer:

Some tulips, because you really have had to put up with an awful lot of horse pictures lately:

And a really glorious picture of Kauto Star working at home, taken yesterday by Edward Whitaker, for the Racing Post. Whitaker has always taken absolutely luminous pictures of Kauto Star, I think he has a feeling for the horse. The mighty fella on the right is Big Buck's. So, not so shabby:

The news on the great horse continues good. Now I start to think of serious reality. Even if he does get fit enough, he is still twelve years old, and no twelve-year-old has won the Gold Cup for something like fifty years. (The Older Brother would know the exact stats; he has a steel trap brain for racing facts.) I saw a picture of Long Run on the gallops two days ago, and he looks magnificent. If Grand Crus runs, all bets are off. I still think that dear old Midnight Chase might run a big race, if he gets a bit of luck in running. He stays all day and loves Cheltenham; that hill has no fears for him.

But look at the determination on that face on the left. As I always say, he might be a handsome devil, but he is no show pony. He is tough and true and honest as the day is long. I think he deserves his chance. My heart and my cash are on him anyway. It's a loyalty thing. It's an if wishing could make it so thing.

And now I am going to have a damn good sleep and see if I can't feel better.

Up and down

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

The very first thought I have when I wake is:

I have a horse.

I think this happy thought as I eat my breakfast sausages and drink my breakfast coffee and check my breakfast Kauto Star news. (Racing Post website, Twitter, general Google search; it is belt and braces with me.)

I do work. I then go to a saddler in Cirencester and buy a bridle and a headcollar. Bridles, it turns out, are amazingly good value. A nice headcollar, on the other hand, is an arm and a bloody leg.

My agent calls. I tell her about the horse. She sounds momentarily frightened, worried that I shall now be so busy on horse and dog island that I shall never write a word again. 'It won't be the dog ate my homework?' she says, nervously.

'Don't be silly,' I say. 'I shall have to write twice as many books because horses are so damn expensive.'

Gusty sighs of relief issue down the telephone.

Also: I have a theory that the physical fitness will mean my brain is firing on forty-seven cylinders. This means production will soar.

Then I get a very nice rug and take home two chic saddles to try.

I'll just do some more work, I think. At which point the brick wall strikes again. Same as day before yesterday, like a combination of fog and stone. I am typing this whilst lying on my bed, attempting to chivvy my poor bashed brain into some kind of coherence.

I have tried iron tonic, caffeine, vitamin C, vitamin D, and green tea capsules. I am drinking plenty of water. I had a very healthy lunch. I don't know what this horrid physical feeling is. My mind could not be happier or more joyful, it's just the body is all fagged and fogged.

I wonder if perhaps I have sleep debt. I have been getting up at six-thirty every morning to try and get work done whilst being in the middle of family life. (I say again, to you parentals: HOW DO YOU DO IT?) I am not used to such early rising; at home, I amble downstairs at nine. Perhaps my circadian cycles are in turmoil.

If my mother were here she would look at me sternly and say: Too much excitement. Certainly the thrill of the glorious new equine has exercised my adrenal glands to their very limit.

Either that, or there is just some horrid low grade virus going round, and even the brilliant bottle of Floradix is no match for it. My glands are up like footballs.

I wonder: if I lie very, very still, and go to bed like an old lady at seven, will I feel normal again in the morning? Because I must feel fit enough to do my I've got a horse dance.

 

PS.

I did look up the breeding. I can hardly tell you who her ancestors were, they are so grand. She was an absolutely rotten racehorse though; thirteen out of thirteen at Thirsk last time out, after which they clearly gave up.

I do remember how breeding can be deceptive. There was the famous Seattle Dancer in the eighties, the most expensive yearling ever sold, bred like a dream. Thirteen million guineas later, and all the owners were left with was one paltry Grade One as a three-year-old. No Guineas, Derby, Leger, Arc De Triomphe; no classics at all. And his progeny did not win much either. So bloodlines are not everything.

On the other hand, I am slightly hysterical that my mare appears to be descended from Hyperion and Gainsborough, two of the most brilliant horses of their generation.

Gainsborough:

Hyperion:

This is Red's grandsire, Nijinsky. I almost didn't want to say his name, because it would just sound like bragging. It's sort of like saying oh, my grandfather was the Duke of Devonshire, or the King of France:

Can you see the family resemblance? Really not sure. That fella was a world-beater. My lovely girl is just a very dear, ordinary creature, who happens to have some champions in her distant past:

In some ways, she is a perfect example of the vagaries of the horse world. After all, Desert Orchid was by nothing, out of nothing. One horsey neighbour told his breeder to shoot the dam and start again, if he wanted to make a success of breeding. Luckily Jimmy Burridge ignored this sage advice, and the resulting grey foal went on to win a Gold Cup, two Whitbreads and four King Georges, and became one of the most beloved horses in an entire century, perhaps ever.

And, talking of breeding, this mutt would be disdained by the Kennel Club, not let anywhere near Crufts, and sniffed at by all serious dog breeders everywhere. Yet just look at the beauty:

Stopping now, because my head feels as if it's about to fall off.

But thank you thank you for all your kind wishes. It does seem to be very popular that the blog now has a horse. So that is double joy for me.

An ordinary day, ending with some slightly surprising news

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Slept ten hours last night and woke feeling more human. The sun was shining; I rode the lovely mare. The very act of riding always makes me feel stronger and better.

Did work; then got in the car and drove across country to have lunch with The Older Brother and his beloved. The Younger Brother called from Bali on the Skype, and we all yelled into the computer at each other. Lunch was very funny and sweet and delicious.

Took the Pigeon to collect the children from school. The other small pupils eyed the Pidge with interest and admiration.

‘Whose dog is that?’ asked one tiny, black-haired girl. She eyed me with very slight suspicion, as if she thought I might have been dog-napping.

‘Mine,’ I said, with absurd amounts of pride.

The small girl smiled. ‘Oh, good,’ she said. Having checked everything was as it should be, she wandered happily away.

Got back, made tomato soup for children's tea, settled down to the computer to type this.

In other words, it was a day like any ordinary day.

Except that I appear to have bought a horse.

I was saving up for a new car. The mileage is racking up; I was contemplating trading the motor in for a newer model. Bugger that for a game of soldiers, I suddenly thought. I’d rather have an old banger and a new horse.

It seems that some of the Dear Readers may have had their suspicions about the darling little chestnut mare. One of you made a joke about her and the Pigeon having to share a bed. It won’t quite be that intime, but I am going to take her home with me.

Or rather, I have put in an offer. She belongs to the husband of The Beloved Cousin, and I have just this moment whacked off an email to the other side of the world, where he is working, asking if he will accept my price. If he is happy, she shall be mine. Keep all your fingers crossed.

I grew up with horses. My father was a jockey and then a trainer; my early life was spent in a racing stable. I had ponies since I was two years old. Riding is one of the things I have no memory of not being able to do. Then I moved to London and, apart from an occasional guest ride, I have not really been involved with horses for thirty years.

Lately, I have been conscious that I spend all my days at a desk, typing away, staring at my computer. A few months ago, I read that leading a sedentary life is as bad for you as smoking, in terms of health and longevity. The Pigeon is so old that we only go out for a couple of very gentle rambles a day. I need to be active, to build up some muscles, to get my body strong. I hate and loathe exercise for its own sake. I must be realistic: I am never going to take up yoga, or pilates. I am never going to do squats, or lunges.

So, the horse.

It is very, very naughty and extravagant. I shall have to tighten my belt a bit, and write hard as hell, so I can sell lots of books. (My agent will be delighted.) It’s worth it though. I can’t tell you what a lovely person the mare is. She is gentle and steady, but she’s got a bit of quality about her, which I like. She is a thoroughbred, and once I get my hands on her passport, I can bore you all about her breeding. I am beside myself with excitement at the thought of us starting a whole new life together.

What with everything, no time for photographs today. Here is a quick shot of a very happy Pigeon:



(She is still a bit suspicious of what she patently regards as a huge red dog, but she'll come round.)

And the new member of the family:



Subject to offer, I should say. Deal not quite done yet.

Imagine how smart she shall look once her summer coat comes through and her hog grows out and I get her a nice new rug:



And, as a cherry on the cake, the Kauto Star news is good. He is not a certainty to run at Cheltenham yet, but he is working well, having lots of physiotherapy, showing some of his old swagger, and eating up. Even if they do decide the Gold Cup is not to be, I am intensely relieved that the auld fella is coming back to himself.

UPDATE:


Adding this at 9.59pm. The vital email just came through. The glorious horseman accepted my bid. THE GIRL IS MINE.

Tiny part of my mind is thinking: what have I done? Huge, happy part of my mind is just grinning all over its face and going HURRAH, HURRAH.

Sorry for all those exuberant capitals. But oh, oh - I have a horse. 


And, in honour of the Dear Readers, and your clever suggestions, her blog name shall be Red. She actually does have rather an enchanting real name, which I may yet reveal. But since the tradition here is strict pseudonyms at all times, I think I should continue that rule. And Red the Mare is really a most delightful stage name. It also feels rather appropriate that she should be christened by the Readership.

So, the thing is done.

Too weak to blog

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Every so often, I crash, hurtling, into a brick wall. My glands go up, my head feels like someone has balanced an iron plate on top of it, my eyeballs feel like boiled eggs. I move through a low haze.

It's normally a combination of fret, too many nights of not quite enough sleep, obsessive work habits, and too much outside stimulation. My essentially solitary nature gets worn out, sometimes, by too many people, even when they are people I love.

At this point, no amount of caffeine, vitamin C, green soup, or iron tonic will help. The only thing is to go to bed. So that is what I have done. I have a pathetically low level of stamina.

Better tomorrow.

Sunday pictures

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Lovely weekend. Very, very old friends. Lots of children. Lots of laughter. No riding because of weather; this morning there was sudden sleet and pouring rain. Later, the sun came out, I took the Pigeon up to see the chestnut mare in the field.

Suddenly, violently, in amidst all the happiness and jokes, I missed my dad so much I could hardly speak. It's coming up to Cheltenham, I suppose. Perhaps it's just what happens. The gaps between the acute missing widen; there is room for other things, there is a place for joy. When it comes though, it is still a blow at the heart.

A few pictures for you. More flowers, from my Constance Spry moment:

The flowers outside, in the earth:

The mare:

Middle cousin, with dogs. Face bleached as usual, for privacy, but I did want to show you the Look of Love which the Pigeon, on the left, is bestowing. She adores that child. She follows her gently and patiently about the house. Occasionally, the small cousin stops what she is doing, turns, and gives the very old dog a hug. 'Oh, Pigeon-Face,' I hear her say, with a crooning, dying fall. That sort of breaks my heart, too:

And Herself, looking at her most regal. Perhaps she is getting ready for the Jubilee:

I do sometimes wonder what she is thinking, in her doggy old head, when she makes that face. I like to think it's a bit of a Look of Love. Mostly, I think it is likely that she is really saying Where, oh where, is my BISCUIT? (And: if I look regally yearny enough, will you just give it to me?)

Saturday

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Today I rode a horse and arranged flowers. I am clearly morphing into some kind of genteel lady from 1762. If I start doing needlepoint and playing the harpsichord, then it shall be official that there is a tear in the space-time continuum.

The horses and flowers took up so much time that I do not even have a moment to write this blog. I had no idea Georgian women were so busy. Now there are guests coming, and I must attempt to remember my creaking social graces, and not get too over-excited and start shouting. (This is always a very, very real danger with me.)

In the meantime, some pictures of my absurd pursuits:

(The punk mane is because her hog is now at the vertical Mohican stage. It shall lie down, eventually.)

The Pigeon is giving me that look because she is not at all sure about this riding lark. I think she suspects that I have suddenly taken up with a huge, chestnut dog, on which I appear to be galloping about in fields. I do see how this would be a bit irritating:

I sincerely hope that I have a rather more expansive and proper post for you tomorrow. I can only apologise for this really very poor effort. And now I must go and put my lipstick on and think of some interesting conversation. (Must must must try not to bore the guests with my theories about the Gold Cup.)

The Wheel of Fortune turns

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Just as I sat down to write the blog last night, all filled with The Cousin’s birthday, I saw the news on Twitter that Kauto Star had suffered a fall in training, and was doubtful for the Gold Cup.

I felt as sick and sorry as if it had been my own little mare, the one I have been riding each morning for the last two weeks. It’s an odd, dual feeling. There is the crashing regret that I think anyone might feel when a great athlete they admire undergoes an injury. It’s a sadness from afar. The champion exists on the mountain top; I only watch from the foothills.

But because I love horses, and because I have been living with horses here in the south, and because I am growing increasingly connected to one horse, also a gentle thoroughbred, there was an extra empathy, a disproportionate whack to the stomach. When I read that he had fallen in training, I could almost hear the crunch, feel the heavy thud of a half a ton of horse hitting the earth.

The birthday was still going on, when I got the news. I did not write anything here, or say anything to the Cousin. It was her special day, and I did not want to put the mockers on it. I attempted to call in the perspective police: it is only a horse, whom I have never met.

But the melancholy lingers. He may shrug off the stiffness, get fit enough for his final blue riband. After the first shock and sorrow, my raging optimistic instinct kicked in. He’s a horse in a generation; he’s as brave and bold and strong as the steeliest lion; he has a heart the size of twenty houses.

My fantastic, romantic, narrative sense went into overdrive: this will be the story of the century. Not only was he written off at the beginning of the season, not only was he considered too old, past his prime, but just at the moment when people thought he could break all records by winning his third Gold Cup, this happened. If he could come back from this and storm up that hill, then I never need watch a race again. It would be every fairy tale in the world, rolled into one, glorious, impossible story. People would talk to their children and grandchildren of it, for years to come.

Then, the low, rational, realistic mind asserted itself. Horses come back from falls all the time. The racehorse, despite being a finely bred creature, is also tough as nails. But, like humans, they are tough when they are young. A seven-year-old can get bashed about a bit, and recover quickly, the scars of battle healing, the stretches and strains knitting back to wholeness. At the age of twelve, which is sure veteran country, a horse is slower to get back on his feet. Two weeks is not long. It may be the end of the road for this fine, brilliant creature.

The thing which has marked Kauto Star this season is his joy in racing. I have watched his victories at Haydock and Kempton over and over, not just because he was magnificent, but because he was having so much fun.

I’m not sure I ever saw an animal delight in his galloping and jumping so much, not since the wild days of Desert Orchid. It sounds fanciful, but I have wondered whether he beat Long Run because he broke the younger horse’s heart, just a little. It was something in the joyous, dancing way that Kauto ran his last two races, which even the determination and gift of Long Run could not match.

Even if they could, by some miracle, get Kauto Star fit enough for the last day of the festival, the danger is that that rampant joy would be gone. There would be the sense memory of his training fall, instead of the muscle memory of the soaring leaps that won him the prize last time out. He is an extraordinary horse, but he is also a sensible horse; he might just decide, quite rightly, that the giddy fun was no longer there. He might take it easy, take it slow, be cautious and careful. The heedlessness might be gone.

It is hard to judge the mind of an animal, especially one which owes so much to its wild, herd heritage. Anthropomorphism is bred of human sentiment, of category errors; it is also not useful, in this context. On the other hand, anyone who has ever worked with horses will tell you that they remember. Even if Kauto is back to fighting strength, which would be a training feat in itself, will he remember the dull Friday at home when he tumbled, or the arching triumph in December, when he made history?

He owes us nothing, not one damn thing. He has done more than any other horse in the last twenty years. He has thrilled and soared.

He has made me cry, laugh, shout, roar, stamp and jump. He has made the Pigeon bark her head off and shoot vertically into the air. He has won me ready cash.

Cheltenham this year will not be the same without him; it will be a drabber, poorer place. (Oddly, I sometimes think of the world like that, without my old dad in it, and he was a little bit of a racing legend too, in his own way.)

If it should be time for the auld fella to go out in the field with the sun on his back, it is the very least he deserves. Even if my fairy tale heart whispers, oh, oh, if only.

A couple of lovely Kauto pictures for you -

Winning The Gold Cup:

Photograph uncredited, from Sportinglife.com.

Look at those front legs. Hard to believe that a horse that can do this could make a schooling error. But they are fallible creatures, not machines:

Photograph by the Press Association.

With his trainer, Paul Nicholls. That man would never let harm come to that horse. Whatever decision he makes will be the right one, for the right reasons:

My own daily ride. Not quite as grand, but very, very dear:

She doesn't look bad, does she, considering she's just come out of the muddy field?

Some garden colour:

The Pigeon, doing her sphinx number:

Trotting on:

Then turning, and looking quizzically, as I dawdle behind, as if to say Are you coming?

Just spoke to my mother. Her fervent wish is that Kauto Star will now retire, and we can remember the glory days, and spend future weeks watching old victories. I sort of know she is quite right, but I can't help but dream of one, last, glorious time.

A very brief birthday

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Tremendous red letter day. It was the Beloved Cousin’s birthday. It started with a birthday breakfast at seven-fifteen; I boiled eggs and made sourdough toast and did the coffee with the frothy milk. Now it is half-past eight and it is not yet over. In between treats and flowers and presents, I managed to do work and gallop the mare. I also made, by request, the special green soup.

As a result, I am so tired, I do not know what my name is. I really have no stamina at all. I even took extra iron tonic, but it makes no odds. The Godson is doing his Latin homework by my side (they really do still say amo, amas, amat) and the lulling repetition is sending me into a gentle trance.

As a result, there is no blog of any name. I know nothing of what is happening in the world; my brain may not form a decent sentence or an interesting thought. But it was a lovely day, and no one deserves a happy birthday more.

Normal business shall resume tomorrow.

A few compensatory pictures for you. There were some very delightful birthday flowers:

Some little beeches in the dancing March sunshine:

Happy Pigeon:

Ready for her very elegant close-up:

With her special southern friends:

They all look a bit fed up at this stage. I had made them pose in eight different positions. I kept promising them a biscuit and then making them sit for one more photograph. I think they were all thinking, by the time I took this one: I bet Kate Moss never has to put up with this shit.

But I think you will admit it really was worth it.