White Horse Pilgrim

Bleak day

Doru standing, bottom into the wind and drizzle, thick winter coat keeping him warm on a bleak field. That sums up today - a grey day when relentless wind drove successive sheets of rain across an already sodden land.

His coat is dark now, gone is the light roan of summer. Now Doru is a heavy dark horse, squat and powerful, set to withstand the bleak winter weather. There in the windswept field, he seems strangely mysterious, primitive, timeless - as if his spirit had been there all along, though seasons whirled and ages passed.

Now I am longing for crisp clear days, or even the misty frigidity of midwinter when the ground is frozen and frost hangs in the trees. Then I can dress warmly - for Doru is prepared already - and we can head out into the quiet beautiful seductive hills.

Lively beast

Placid, he looks, if a little caked in mud. however the signs are there that Doru is feeling a whole lot better.

He has been distinctly lively (by draught horse standards anyway) when led to or from his field. He has been seen cantering about his field, which was rare before the steroid injection.

Ridden in the wind-blown rain of a damp twilight, he gave me quite a surprise. Now I know that Doru doesn't appreciate driving rain unless his bottom is turned towards it, and it was rather an unpleasant evening. Nevertheless I did not expect him to take off and career a couple of hundred yards towards home just as we passed what I term the "magic corner". (That is the place part-way along a familiar ride - whether an hour or a week in duration - when a horse turns a corner and decides that he is "going home".)

One one hand he wasn't listening at all. On the other hand, if Doru was bolting (which I doubt) then he was doing so very carefully - avoiding fences, trees and puddles, for instance. And then he decided that it was all rather a lot of effort, and slowed down, having been sound throughout the whole escapade.

Doru was asserting his new feeling of wellbeing and his dislike of driving rain through manifesting boisterousness but not malice. It seems as if he needs more work together with a bit of schooling. I might show him a little more respect too when the weather is awful, as it was selfish to take him out in heavy driving rain, even if I can only scrape the occasional weekday hour at one end of the day or the other. I shall have two weeks free from work for Christmas, and I am looking forward to those days.

Life's labours expanding

Today I was faced with a new challenge at work. I had been feeling rather under-employed, however a small team of us has been convened to find solutions to a problem that is troubling our major project. It is curious how feelings of ennui have dissipated now that I have rather more to think about, and some bright motivated people to join forces with. I'm still working (part-time as evidenced by my posting too) on the problem at 10pm tonight.

I put much of this down to a greater feeling of self-worth when asked to contribute something meaningful. Plus there is the buzz of activity that comes from working with energetic collaborative people. This is the positive side of working for an organisation.

Well, perhaps I won't be seeking a transfer to the north of Scotland this week.

I shall enjoy riding all the more when I get out to the barn next, for both the work and the leisure elements of my life will be fulfilled. I do like it when work provides for my creative needs rather than simply paying the bills.  

Canopus enlightening

Yield not to misfortune: the far-off Danube shall know thee,
the cold North-wind and the untroubled kingdom of Canopus,
and the men who gaze upon the new birth of Phoebus or upon his setting.

I admit that Titus Petronius Arbiter is far from my usual repertoire, and that only infrequently do I encounter men who watch the sun rise.

Yet the wind and the ever-changing sky bring me joy and remind me of my freedom.

Briefly in the grey dawn, I took my horse out across the springy turf, wind and flurries of drizzle caressing my face and washing the sleep from my eyes. Suddenly, even on a cloudy morning in short moments of liberty, I was enveloped by the beauty of the natural world. I was reunited with my past, with memories echoing through my Old Soul, and with the great and the humble who had trodden these hills.

Not all who wander are lost. Sometimes I need to relinquish control in order to be taken to places that truly will speak to me.

Some things that are free are also priceless, and the great wide sky in all her varied moods is one of these.

Mystery cannot be pre-planned, nor reduced to logic, but must be approached in simplicity with open heart and mind. The hills and sky are on the road to mystery, though I discern not whither goes that road nor foresee what I shall find.

Winter fire

When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire,
The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches,
In windless cold that is the heart's heat,
Reflecting in a watery mirror
A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon.
And glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier,
Stirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but pentecostal fire
In the dark time of the year. Between melting and freezing
The soul's sap quivers. There is no earth smell
Or smell of living thing.

The mystery of Little Gidding enthralls me. Here is a work so accomplished, so esoteric in expression that I can only gaze up from a lower level. There are writers who, one imagines, it might be possible to emulate. T S Eliot is not one of those.

There is no earth smell, no smell of living thing, for this is winter, this life of shifting paper and typing memos, meeting people and agreeing "actions". So where is the fire that illuminates and enlivens? Where is life?

Can I be a prophet? Perhaps to a handful, a remnant, for most find security in the rat race and see only confusion in the mentality of exile. Who are those few with whom I might commune? Are they people, or the hills and woods, the meadows and valleys, and the spirits of past exiles who tramp those trails silently, invisibly?

Back in this land I am a nobody, and perhaps that is best, that I might pass by nearly unseen? Where I lived before in uniqueness, I was noticed, my doings inspired others, travellers I led to places beyond their imagination. But it moved full circle to flight, to a crossing of borders and dusty plains, until the past became remote, an intangible memory. In my begining is my end, and those poles are obscurity - or so it would seem.

I think that the time has come to pause, to cease worrying, to stand still so that the small and near are perceived. For neither fretting nor frantic activity will yield the fire than stirs the spirit. A little silence, a season of quiet, and things shall become clearer.

A seasonal winter engulfs, but what of the metaphorical winter of the soul? Is this a season of grieving for the life lost, snatched from my frozen grasping fingers? A time to grieve, perhaps, and to forgive those who knew not what they were doing? To try to begin to understand those around me? For this is a winter leading to a new awakening, a forthcoming season of life and goodness, and not enveloping darkness without end.

Stillness is beautiful, for the senses perceive more lucidly. And when the senses quieten, so may the spirit in tranquility touch what matters. Intuition supercedes logic amidst the emptiness of a peaceful soul.

Then I imagine walking out of the snow and onto the porch of a timber cabin, knocking my boots clean, turning and gazing through the still air to distant mountains and the low sun glinting gold on the river winding through the valley below.

Entering, I feel the warmth of a strong fire blazing and crackling in the grate. Others have arrived before me, stout companions and fellow travellers, friends. In fellowship we wait, conversing, sharing tales, for other solitary souls follow through the deepening twilight.

It is a cozy place, filled with love and compassion, victualled with good food, dark ale and wine, ready for us to weather the storms that sweep up the valley or descend from the rugged peaks above.

When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire, I shall be ready, exile or not.

Fallen debris

You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations -
though their melancholy
was terrible. It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.

At times, it seems as if Mary Oliver has set me as great a puzzle as the one that she helped solve. For I thought that I knew what I had to do - to flee a bad country where ill deeds were befalling me for no fault of my own. Now I may have reached a place where stability and the rule of law are - more or less - the norm, yet that very ordinariness seems infused with pointless tedium.

The road seems filled still with fallen branches and stones.

Am I making a fundamental mistake - selectively viewing just those parts of a former existence that were good, beautiful, uplifting? That is straightforward to correct, just a little remembrance of frustrations and disappointments. But this new life is relapsing towards simply earning enough to pay the bills whilst scraping too few moments to ride. Isn't that where I was a decade ago when I fled towards the high mountains for adventure and change?

How do I fit back into this modern urban life when the usual motivators - workplace ambition, material gain and their fellows - interest me but little?

So, the honeymoon period of drawing a salary and having stability is over. I have rediscovered some old truths - that one can work hard in an organisation but not expect to advance, offer creative input and have it ignored, be enthusiastic and be thought an upstart for it.

I felt at home in the mountains, even as some of their inhabitants stole, obstructed and destroyed. Here is where I feel like an exile.

Perhaps this is the next step - to accept that I am on a journey where I do not know the answers, or even many of the questions?

Is this just a symptom of the long nights and short days, the grey skies and drizzle? In that case it is courage that is required, for I know that spring beckons with green shoots, hawthorn flowers, blue skies and long warm days.

Courage, then, to traverse a way littered with fallen branches and stones - that is what I must find? This is a lonely way, twilit and twisting, where I see myself ageing and a once-fit horse losing condition. What is the meaning of this?

Work may be a means to not one end but two. Paying the bills, of course, but also pushing me to make a few stumbling steps towards enlightenment. There must be something to learn there. How to lead others, perhaps, how to open their eyes, support and encourage the weak? Just as I helped weaker riders and those less confident to traverse high and steep places, perhaps again I shall become a type of guide? Maybe that is what I want to be?

So perhaps I am a traveller fated in turns to guide and be guided? Grant me then the wisdom to guide well when I can, the insight to recognise my guides in moments of need, and the humility to accept their instruction and learn from them.

 

New way to lose weight

I think that, rather than writing a fantasy tale set long ago, my next book will be "Doru - the dirtiest horse in the world". It may influence a generation to continue rugging their horses year-round.

This is the sight that faced me yesterday, after the big beast had found the one muddy space in his nice grassy paddock.

He must have felt a whole lot lighter after I brushed all that mud off. He was practically standing in a little pile of dust and scrapings.

At least this does answer Funder's question - Doru does have a bit of white ring at the top of his tail. Usually his true colours are more clearly visible than in this picture though.

Tornado

No, the weather here is not so extreme as to produce a tornado, lest the title of this piece alarm anyone. The locomotive is called Tornado.

I have pictured Tornado previously, and make no apology for another appearance. What is remarkable is that this is a brand new locomotive, a modern replica of a class built in the late 1940s of which all the original members were scrapped during the 1960s.

So, Saturday afternoon saw me taking a vantage point atop a well placed bridge that carried a public footpath across the Great Western Main Line.

Tornado was scheduled to run fast, at an average of nearly 75mph over this stretch, and was accelerating hard at this point from a station stop four miles back. Allowing for the stops, maximum speed would be around 90mph.

At this speed, a steam train can run in-between the regular express trains, typically four per hour on this busy route. This is the way that I travel to work, but on a more prosaic train.

Passing beneath the bridge, the train rushed on leaving a plume of steam above the trees and fields. Passengers on the station in the distance, waiting for a stopping train on another track, might have had a bit of a surprise. On the other hand, a throng of photographers on the station - whom I could see in the distance - might have given them a clue. On the bridge where I stood, a good walk across the fields from a road, there were a dozen people enjoying the spectacle.

Rain

Rain used to be the bane of my life. When I spent all day outside preparing horses and guiding rides, a wet week truly made life miserable. Even when I had assembled excellent rain gear for myself, rarely were guests so well prepared, hence they might range from disappointed through miserable to the occasionally hypothermic.

I used to eat a lot of chocolate on rainy trails, and then drink a pleasant quantity of plum brandy in the evening.

A few guests were prepared, but then the Californian pictured is an experienced trail rider with her own horses at home - one of those special souls who one meets as an outfitter, then never see again because they live so very far away. It was a very wet, wild day out in the high mountains, dark and dripping in the forest as we descended to a warm welcome at a friendly hostelry in a remote village.

Too much rain brough flash floods in those steep sided valleys, exacerbated by too much logging and too little replanting. In the upper reaches of the valley, where I lived, the result was an overflowing stream and perhaps the odd bridge washed out. Further downstream, homes and fields were flooded, people and livestock drowned. Even the stream at the bottom of the field rushing by, encroaching onto the land, washing over the footbridge, was ample warning of nature's power. In fact the water continued to rise, and by morning my lower field was waterlogged and strewn with driftwood and the inevitable plastic bottles.

For a twilight photo taken on long exposure, this image turned out surprisingly well. I braced my pocket digital camera against a tree and modified the settings until a tolerable result appeared. Alas, I had no means to capture the roar of the water rushing by, chocolate brown with mud.

But, in good measure, the rain sustained us. Of course the rain enabled us to have hay and other crops. Well do I remember the suffering of a drought, the intense difficulty with which we obtained hay, the souls corrupted by greed in time of shortage. Spring rain at the right times and in suitable amounts was such a relief.

I loved the mountain springs where shepherds and travellers drank. Many are the times when I filled my water bottle and slaked the thirst of a hot dusty summer's day at such a spring. That particular spring was equipped with a cup that had a hole, so that a carefully placed finger was needed to plug a jet of escaping water. But such peculiarities, such eccentricity, that only served endear the spring all the more to me. It was a special place, speaking of nature's generosity, of the bond between travellers, of the simplicity of one's true needs.

Wind

Fresh from deepening twilight, the cool evening breeze yielded her cool embrace. For my trail companions are wind and sun, sky and turf.

The wind is fickle, for she can be warm and gentle, cold yet playful, or indeed harsh, brutal.

On a warm day she has cooled me. But even that can be a trick, drawing my mind away from sunburn or heatstroke until her partner the sun has begun his damage.

But I have ridden on the roof of the Carpathian mountains, high on the jumbled bones of a lanscape ripped bare, and felt the raw power of wind. Tearing at my hair, clawing at my clothes, forcibly pushing as if she could buffet me from the saddle (nearly she could!), in her grasp it was as if the very air was being sucked from my lungs.

Each of us should experience the sheer power of unbridled nature. For then we should be in awe of her. Struggling along that bleak blasted ridge, I realised my own weakness - and the tenacity that enabled me to struggle on towards the enveloping shelter of a valley. But I knew  that she had only begun to try, that yet greater force could be employed to dislodge me from that exposed eyrie.

I shall not quickly forget that grim traverse of a high bleak ridge, where eventually I dismounted and led my horse simply to stay warm.

After the elemental vigour of that place, I should appreciate the safe, simple climate of my new home. I am unlikely again to see the carnage of a hillside on which every tree has been blown down. I won't hear the roar, like a long freight train passing, of a gale tearing at the wooded heights above my dwelling. Nor will I see the wind-driven snow banked up or whipped into every crevice.

The elements are wilful neighbour, not enemy. How nice it would be to wake to a foot of snow and realise that the roads will be silent, granting a day free at home! But I cannot pick and choose my weather.

Doru asks merely not to have to travel into driving rain, and that I can understand. He does not like the rain flung into his eyes. Caught out on a wet blustery day, he shakes his head and tries to turn around. In the wild, he would turn his back end into the wind and wait the storm out, grazing with head sheltered by his big bottom.