This evening the hills seemed like a sea of green heaving in great billows, its surface rippled by the clutches of a firm wind. Like foam the white cow-parsley dances and is driven by the breeze.
The chalk tracks along which we ride are like beaches at the edge of the ocean, like causeways through the verdant flood. Firm and definate, they stand out through the soft grass and crops.
The crest of the ridge led us westward into the setting sun and crisp breeze alike. How alive I felt up there amidst a world so vivid.
Meanwhile Brena stepped out and we worked on lessons from the weekend. The new motto is: "forward is fun". The aim is crisp transitions to a steady trot that is maintained readily.
We did well. I am concentrating on making it easy for Brena to hold my desired pace and she is responding with some enthusiasm. There were no problems with snatching at vegetation. Indeed I sense a bit more respect flowing in both directions.
After the ride Brena grazed whilst I drank cofee and ate apples, the cores of which she finished for me. Here she is standing part on the chalk and part on the grass, like a horse with her front feet in a stream - a nice edible stream in this case.
Brena is looking at a horse and rider approaching. A lady rode up on a tall bay gelding who stared intently at my skewbald mare. His rider explained that he is quite nervous of coloured horses and wanted him to take a good look at Brena.
The gelding was brave and stood still. Meanwhile Brena, unabashed - and clearly not so frightening after all, put her head back down to graze.
Looking at the pictures, those splodges of brown really do break up her outline. A cursory glance or, say, looking through slits of nearly closed eyes does not necessarily return the recognition of a horse. (I have commented upon this before in the depths of winter having seen Brena barely recognisable in twilight against a backdrop of dark tree trunks.)
The evening cooled and the sun fled earthwards taking refuge behind the trees. In the shadow I was grateful for hot coffee and a wind break. It took a few moments for the truth to sink in that the hour really was late, around nine o'clock. Truly I have entered the summer cycle of sleep-work-ride-sleep.
As for truth I love this wide open ancient nearly mythical landscape. I am fascinated by a place of which one can say "the Romans used that track" and "the Saxons fought the Vikings there" as if these events happened only just beyond living memory.
Mythical time takes over from pure chronological time. Strong are the times that created the atmosphere and history of this place, that gave it such a powerful aura. On a knoll still visible Saint Birinus converted the local Saxons, and there too are the towers of their thousand year-old churches.
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