The dark and light of the internet. Or, in which I salute Rebecca Curtis.

One of the things I find curious about the internet is how so many people seem to accept that the rules are different. Of course, they say sagely, people are rude or inappropriate or pushy or blatantly offensive, because it’s the internet.

I see no logical reason for this. One of the basic marks of character is that one behaves in exactly the same way when unobserved. A decent person does not snoop or pinch or cheat, just because there is no one there to watch. In the same way, there is no reason why a human should fall to ranting or rudeness just because they can type in an empty room under the folding cloak of anonymity. It seems perfectly obvious to me that one would not say anything to anyone in the virtual world that one would not say in the real world.

One of the things that puzzles me most is the element of bossiness that creeps into internet life. Complete strangers instruct other complete strangers in what they should or should not say, how they should live, what they should think, how they should proceed. I would not march up to someone in the street and say: ‘You know, your work-life balance is clearly all wrong.’ Or, your opinion on this thing is absurd, or your obsession with that thing is nuts, or you are clearly in need of some kind of serious retrenching.

I would no more tell a sentient human how to life their life than I would walk into their house and start rearranging the pictures. Yet people do this online all the time. I do not get it. I am not being disingenuous; I am genuinely perplexed.

I also find there is an odd sense of entitlement, as if these strangers have some kind of right over the lives of anyone who ever ventures into any form of social media. It’s as if there is an odd insistence that the moment a human says something in any public forum, they grant permission for other people to tell them what to do.

I loathe bossiness and prescription. I find it startling and claustrophobic. I don’t do it in real life, and I don’t do it virtual life. Grown-ups are grown-ups, and may make their own decisions. They have brains and agency and hopes and dreams; they do not need to be told.

On the flip side of this, there is a lot of gentleness and politeness and sweetness, out there in the ether. This does not make headlines, because, rather like happiness, it writes white. People console on the loss of beloved animals, or send congratulations on a grand success; they share comparable experiences and give generous encouragement. There is a lot of the lovely balm of Me Too.

I was thinking of all this because a very charming thing happened to me this week. There is a chaser I really love called Teaforthree. He’s just my kind of horse: big and bonny and handsome; brave and bold; honest and genuine as the day is long. I fell in love with him last year and followed him all season. He ran a blinder in the Grand National to finish third, and I was there, cheering him on in the glittering Aintree sunshine.

He is trained in Wales by Rebecca Curtis. She is young for a trainer, only 33, and she does a hard job in a thoughtful and imaginative way. Her horses are out a lot, instead of confined always to boxes, and encouraged to play and express their horsey selves. In a game increasingly dominated by the giant yards, she is having a great success.

I know, from watching my father, how tough the job is. The work is endless, the emotional demands are acute, and there are never enough hours in the day. Yet Curtis maintains an excellent Facebook page, where she generously takes the time to update people on the progress of her horses. Tentatively, because I don’t like to be a bore and take up precious moments in a packed life, I posted a couple of comments about the glorious Teaforthree and my admiration for him. To my delight and amazement, she sent a kind message back.

I’ve had a really good week this week, but I have to say that getting that message was a shining highlight. Lucinda Russell once did the same thing, when I sent her a note of consolation about the loss of her lovely young hurdler, Brindisi Breeze. How elegant these women are, I think. They are the diametrical opposite of the shouty voices, the raucous opinionators, the unasked-for advisors. They behave just as beautifully online as off. They are pursuing a profoundly difficult profession, in an arena still largely dominated by men, and they still manage to be incredibly polite and thoughtful.

Often, when I write here, I like to have a shining note of optimism. The weather may be buggery bollocks, the news may be dark, the existential bafflements may multiply. Yet there is always a lovely light somewhere, if only one will look for it. My lovely light was that moment of human generosity, in the rush and scramble of the online world.

I raise an actual and metaphorical glass to Rebecca Curtis, and all who sail in her. And to put my money where my mouth is, I’ve had a tiny little punt on Teaforthree in next year’s National. Wherever he goes next, the bonny fella stays in pride of place in the notebook, number one in my Horses to Follow. And, if I ever manage to write a best-selling book, I shall buy two chasers in the same stamp and send them to be trained in Scotland and Wales.

 

Today’s pictures:

Lovely morning at HorseBack UK:

Very happy herd, feeling the first spring sun on their backs:

Red the Mare doing her Minnie the Moocher:

General spring:

Mr Stanley the Dog:

Hill:

Time management fail. Excellent rolling success.

Ha. The new regime of excellent time management took a bit of a hit today. I ran around like a confused pony, attempting to get everything done; rather failing. But still, enough was achieved, even if not in a shiny, linear way.

Somehow, in amidst all the faintly aimless cantering, I managed to have a bet on the lovely filly Hot Snap, trained by Henry Cecil. She was 12-1 in the morning, and the well-informed Cornelius Lycett helpfully reminded his Twitter posse that she was chosen by Sir Henry last year as his shining stable star for this season. Henry Cecil is not a man for hyperbole, so I paid attention and put my money where his mouth was, despite Richard Hannon having the warm favourite.

It was Hot Snap’s first run as a three-year-old and she still looked green and uncertain as she ran in snatches at the back of the pack. At one point the commentator said: ‘She’ll have to pass the whole field.’ My heart rather sank. Then, she found her rhythm, got motoring, went soaring through a tiny gap between the nearest horse and the rail, a really gutsy move, and flashed into a definitive lead. She won going away.

As I shouted my joy, I had a quick look at my William Hill account. My useless time management and rather hopeless goofy day had, in the law of unintended consequences, given me a gift. I was so daffy, I’d backed her twice, obviously having forgotten the first bet.

As you know, I like to pass on any life lessons upon which I stumble. They are most often given to me in equine form, and this one tangentially was. It is: never, ever question the word of Sir Henry Cecil. I admit that this may have fairly limited usage, but when it works, it really works.

No time left for pictures now, so here is a quick photo essay from this morning. My grand duchess quite forgot her poshness for five minutes and got down in the mud for a really, really good roll. We may rue the mud and long for the green grass of spring, but at least the paddock still provides perfect wallowing places:

Stanley joins in the fun:

And finally, it’s back to breakfast, with her friend Autumn:

In which I do something I absolutely hate to do

I did something today which I absolutely hate and loathe doing. I asked for help.

I detest doing this. I resist it with every atom of my being. It is a weak strain in my character and not something of which I am proud.

I don’t quite know where the irrational loathing comes from. I have an idiot idea that I must always be doing things for myself: look, Ma, no hands. Somewhere in my foolish brain, I have a wrong construction which equates asking for help with pitiful weakness. The irony is that of course it is the other way round.

There were several lovely things about the outcome. First of all, it did not feel like help. It felt like pleasure. Second of all, it was educational and instructive and fun. Third of all, it was both beautiful and useful, in my cherished William Morris tradition.

There is a remarkable woman who comes and works with The Horse Talker’s little paint filly. She has backed Autumn and is schooling her and bringing her on, and each week, the lovely filly takes another giant step forward. As the winter closes, and the months of inactivity are over, I want to bring Red back into serious work. We’ve been doing quite a lot of gentle groundwork, but this new method of horsemanship is novel to her and to me, and we are both green at it. I need to step up a level, and for that, I need an expert.

I don’t ever know quite what name to give this sort of approach – natural horsemanship, empathic horsemanship, intelligent horsemanship. There are many schools of it about now, and I pick and choose among them. I listen to my mare and see what works for her. She is my best teacher.

The essence of it is that you work with the horse’s nature, with the grain instead of against it. The way I think of it is speaking politely in horse, instead of shouting in human.

The Remarkable Woman knows all this; she is a keen observer of herd behaviour and can make an equine react with a mere shift of her body position or a movement of her eyes.

Of course there is a part of me that wants to do the whole thing myself. Red is mine; my best beloved, my special project, the beat of my heart. And yet, that is childish and absurd. So, I bite the bullet, The Remarkable Woman appears, the good work is done, Red gets twenty compliments which make my spirit sing, and I do not feel belittled or made to feel a needy failure, but am filled with hope and possibility for the season to come.

Apart from that, it was a day of elemental beauty. Gales roared and rushed and skidded through the trees; the sun dazzled and danced; perfect rainbows hovered over the mountains. I did a little drive, which I have not had time for in a while. It was just a seven mile loop, through the birch woods, past my favourite mountain, into the rich farmland above the river. I was reminded of the ridiculous riches which I have here. This much wild beauty should not really be allowed. And yet, there it all is, on my doorstep. Sometimes I don’t know what I did to deserve it.

As the news comes dark and unreal from the radio, and the people of Boston mourn, I lift my eyes, as I always do when troubles come, to these hills, which stay the same, day after miraculous day.

 

Today’s pictures:

Daffs:

Snowdrops:

Red the Mare, being perfect despite the gales, with her remarkable new trainer:

And afterwards, with her friend Autumn:

Very muddy and very happy:

That FACE:

M the P, sunbathing:

Mr Stanley has a stick:

First time since November that the hill is almost free from snow:

Work, life, the whole damn thing. Or, hanging out more flags.

SUNSHINE.

I can’t tell you what it feels like.

I rush to the field to do the herd, have breakfast with the family (The Older Brother and his Beloved are here), and then drive up to HorseBack. Their spring season is swinging into action, which means there is a huge amount of work for me to do. If I did not have a day job, I would spend my every waking moment there, quite frankly.

It’s odd, this kind of volunteering. If you tell someone you are working for a charity, it sounds madly pi and good-workish and holier than thou. Look at me, doing my bit; pin a damn medal on my virtuous chest.

In actual fact, it feels like the biggest luxury in my life right now, alongside the fact that I own a thoroughbred mare. It’s all the things I love the most: good and fascinating people, glorious horses, something that means something in the world. It is hard work, and I take it very seriously, but the pleasure I get from it is such that it feels as if I am getting a vast gift. Every day is like Christmas day.

Also, I learn a huge amount: about equines, and about human experience of which, before now, I was almost entirely ignorant. Sometimes that is very humbling; sometimes it is intensely funny.

For example, this morning, a group of Personnel Recovery Officers were up to see the courses in action for themselves. One of them was a very nice fellow from the Household Cavalry. That would have been enough to send me into transports, since I am utterly obsessed with the Household Cavalry and their extraordinary horses. But the thing that really made me laugh is that he was having a conversation with Paul Burns, a HorseBack volunteer who is up here for a couple of weeks. Paul was a Para, who was blown up in Northern Ireland, and they were discovering mutual friends.

‘Oh, yes,’ they said to each other, of one such. ‘He’s a sniper isn’t he?’ (This alone is a sentence to which my brains responds: does not compute.) Then they talked about various assignments the fellow had tried. ‘Should stick to sniping,’ they said, laughing fondly.

Should stick to sniping is possibly my catchphrase of the day.

As HorseBack really starts cooking for the season to come, I realise that my time management, which is, let’s face it, utter crap, must get polished. Otherwise I shall have to stick to sniping. I think there was a low-level fear that I might not be able to make this new, packed life work. I want to be able to ride my horse, do the HorseBack work, train Stanley the Dog, write my new green-lit secret project, and do the blog. That is quite a lot, for a goofball like me.

As I pondered this, I heard a voice in my head say: Break it down. I remembered the small, potent steps with Red and the lesson I learnt from that. It’s easy to feel overwhelmed, and decide one can do nothing. It’s all too much. So I sat down to the new project with the intention of doing it in increments. I even told myself I’d just do one hour and see what happened, until I can teach myself to get in a better rhythm. Three hours later, I had 828 new words, glittering on the page. Ah, I thought; that was not so hard.

It’s going to be a long summer. There will be no days off; no holidays; no lounging about. I’m already ruthlessly chucking social engagements. There may be afternoons when I really shall not be able to sneak away to watch the 4.30 at Windsor. But the thing is that most of this work is all holiday to me. I’ll need a bit of iron tonic and a lot of discipline. I’ll need to remember the small steps, and not get panicked. There will be days when I shall fail. Yet I can hardly express in words how much profound satisfaction all this gives. I’m hanging out more flags.

 

Today’s photographs:

My morning at HorseBack UK:

The very newest arrival, an enchanting Quarter Horse/Connemara cross gelding called Blue:

JURA THE PUPPY:

The incomparably handsome Archie:

Daffs:

The Best Beloveds:

No hill today. No time. Something has to give.

Brain going phut now, so proof-reading was an impossibility. Forgive any howlers.

Saturday

Tired after a long week, so I’m taking the weekend off. Here are two of the best beloveds instead of a blog. Have a delightful weekend.

Too tired to blog

Second day of acting as guinea pig for the UK Coaching Course at HorseBack UK. Even though these are people just learning how to teach, they were all so excellent that they taught me more than they know. On a horse, and off it too.

Just time for one picture, of me and the enchanting Archie, this time being instructed by the absolutely brilliant Scott Meenagh, who was far too polite and encouraging to remark on my frankly peculiar hand position. I’ll get the hang of those Western reins yet.