Perpetual possibility

What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.

T S Eliot

Llanbedr Hill provided a great open wilderness, a high moorland pasture where the wind whistled, blueberry and fern bent underfoot, and the remoteness was tangible. Even in good visibility, the featurelessness and multiplicity of tracks made me think about navigation.

At one level, such a space is good for the soul, allowing humdrum cares to fall away like raindrops from a steep roof.

At another level, I was searching for the soul of the place, and did not quite discover it. Perhaps here the memories lie in the inhabited valleys? For these high places bore relics of drove roads and travellers, but not of habitations - no foundations, no hill forts, not even field walls. Maybe I need to make another visit to begin to appreciate the deeper historical atmosphere? Or maybe this always was a place that travellers gladly left, dropping down one hillside or another to a home or a cozy inn?

One could imagine a party of Hobbits crossing such a waste in search of Bree and the Prancing Pony inn, or Aragorn striding through the tussocks on an errand yet with a warm fire and a mug of ale somewhere at the back of his mind. Oh, to journey with them!

The way was stony and we did not make rapid progress, in deference to Doru's recent entry back into work and his being barefoot. There will be more about the latter in a subsequent post, however I did feel that too much of this week-long ride took place on asphalt roads. On reflection, I would use hoof boots were this ride to be repeated. But, as you will read, I have a different format of ride in mind for the future.

As we plodded along, two escarpments reared up one after another. How curious that such a powerful feature should appear so suddenly in a relatively featureless terrain? Like islets sighted from an oceangoing ship, they were sighted, for fleeting moments revealed in detail, then fell behind and soon were forgotten. This green, airy, rolling land did seem a little like an ocean. Perhaps that is why (unfairly, I think, to both sea and moor) Robert Louis Stephenson described the great undulating mass of Rannoch Moor as being as waste as the sea?

There was life, nevertheless, clustered like fugitives in the hollows. Silent and wary, this mare and foal watched us pass.

I had ridden for two days and a half by this point. Doru and I had tired a little, found our travelling pace, settled down on the trail. There is space to journey, time to walk, liberty to think - we are blessed.

On one hand, I have realised - indeed remembered; been reminded - of why I gave up the job of riding full time. After two days, my back was stiff and sore. At night I struggled to find a position comfortable enough to permit me to surrender to sleep. I am too worn out by eight years of that work and somewhere around twenty thousand miles in the saddle to pursue the vocation professionally. In this I am momentarily sad, and yet happy to have gained so much from that unique period: a time varied, in turns joyful and heart rending, inspirational and character building, therefore a gift if I choose to view it as such. Not every gift is immediately recognisable as such.

On the other hand, I have more fully understood - walking Doru in hand by the river Wye, on a hot early afternoon in bright sunshine, through long grass in air that seemed nearly liquid with heat - that I am travelling with a horse. I am not on a riding holiday, indeed I am doing something quite different. I'm travelling with a big roan stallion who is my companion. It's quite different to a riding holiday - our progress and indeed our fates are bound together as we share moments of joy, satisfaction, frustration, and problems. We both feel the warm west wind and that from the north, the sun and rain, heat and cold. We travel together, get tired, rest, he grazes whilst I sleep in the long grass. I lead him to save his energy even as I expend mine. We travel together as companions. And this seems better, more satisfying, indeed more real than simply having a horse in order to climb a hill or gallop across the turf, to obtain a thrill, to buy the commodity of riding. More real, yes, and more of a challenge to me to match up to the rigours of being a horseman.

Here we are walking down from Llanbedr Hill to the river Wye. I don't necessarily lead Doru like that, from way out in front, however it's difficult to photograph one's led horse other than at the extremity of the split reins. Doru's quizzical look is special and typical.

This realisation, that I am travelling with a horse - which I knew in my heart - informs how I travel. In antithesis to equine sport, I am aiming neither for speed nor distance. Of course it may be necessary to cross a certain mountain simply to reach shelter, requiring a particular distance to be covered on that day. But, in general, I am becoming inclined towards shorter distances and richer days. I am seeking time and space to appreciate travelling with Doru, to enjoy the views, to let him graze, to speak to people, to let Doru pick a good way for his bare feet. I have not become unambitious, only that I am moving beyond mere statistics: how far, how long. This was not a perfect ride, for overnight stays were fixed in advance (and on two occasions further away than I would have wished), but it was an inspirational ride and one that will help guide what Doru and I shall do in future.

Comments

[Becky]

As always it's a joy to read your prose. Nothing I could write and so far more enjoyable too.

It amuses me that in your typical fantasy stories, our hero go cross country riding for days and the horse manages it all without any food but the barest grass given at night when our hero sleeps with his sword at his side. When you camp out with a bunch of 8 year old Girl Scouts you realize how much your entire world is ordered by food - getting it ready and cleaning up - and how long it takes to lay a fire and keep it going. Survival isn't as easy as the books portray.

Hope Doru is okay with all his travels...

[Kimberly]

Now that's some pretty country. Kind of reminds me of the thousands of acres of empty mesa above my house. Lots of open country with big pines on the tops of rolling hills and scrubby juniper and pinon the rest of the way.

Unfortunately, my young Percheron Toby feels compelled to trot for miles at a time, especially if there's an intriguing looking herd of cattle up ahead. Poor cows are afraid to see that big boy chugging right at them like a steam locomotive. This is fine for me, because Toby has big lofty gaits and is like riding a sofa, but not too cool for my husband who is accompanying me on his little Arabian mare with her teeth jarring trot!

I continue to be green with envy over all of that green green grass.

Pax. Kimberly

[Transylvanianhorseman]

Becky: yes, the heroes of fiction did seem to have it easy, whilst their horses seemed to live on air! Well, there is the odd exception - Tolkien has Gandalf meet Radagast the Brown as the latter grazes his horse. It's true that a travelling horse eats a great deal and cannot actually go all that far. The US Cavalry reckoned on a maximum of 150 miles a week, beyond which a horse would lose weight irrespective of how much he was fed.

I wondered too how the Elves and Riders of Rohan were comfortable before lycra had been invented.

Kimberly: it's curious how similar our respective landscapes might be beneath the superficial cover of vegetation. Seems like you have a useful horse if he likes to trot and is comfortable. I can imagine you tearing through a magnificent landscape like a hero of old, gazing ahead keenly, blade glinting, but of course making the requisite number of grazing stops en-route because you have a real horse rather than mythical or fictitious.

[Becky]

Also of course I have many memories of John Wayne running cross country to enact justice. I think the calvary was involved in that :P

I always can tell what writers understand horses and who just romaniticizes them. The former usually slips some way of getting grain, a walking rest, or a remount in there someplace.

Yes, I have referred your blog to hubby (Miles) as he is a huge Tolkien fan. He lived in England for a year when he was a child; and was actually there about two years back when his mother was presenting a paper at Cambridge (both of his parents are professors).

Personally, I just enjoy the poetry, the photos, Doru (what a hunky stallion), and your wisdom (it can get a bit tiresome reading horse journals written by 14 year old girls :)