White horse country

Today I rode across the broad swathe of land beyond the famous Uffington White Horse, that is to the south of that ancient and wonderful emblem cut into the chalk hillside.

Here is the material that I chose to carry me upon that ride: filthy after days of rain that created copious mud for her to roll in, and interested only in what there is to eat. But I love her.

 

We rode west into the teeth of an unrepentant wind, showers passing us to left and right for we rode beneath the clear blue separating cloud streets of epic proportions. Fluries of rain drops hit is, but not enough to warrant wearing a coat. My faithful stockman's coat was tied to the pommel, but I did not need it.

At one point the trail was obliterated by crops, so I took another track that seemed broadly parallel. Usually one does not trespass in England, partly because such ways tend to be obstructed, also because the farmer might see. But out here trails are wide open, and one sees neither farmer nor labourer outside the days of ploughing and harvesting.We traversed headlands, dropped down hangers and trotted up coombes until the correct track was regained, mapless and relying on the sun and a general knowledge of the topography. For a little while I rode as I had done in Transylvania, freely and by instinct.

 
Here is the Neolithic hill fort called Ufington Castle on the horizon, with the four thousand year-old Ridgeway track crossing from bottom left to top right. The White Horse lies just beyond the concentric chalk ramparts of the fort.

The weather was exciting. Storms swept by, bright sunlight and deep shadow strove for dominion of the earth, and all the while wind tore and roared. There was a raw quality to the weather, a deep authenticity, a powerful reality that drew me into a conspiracy of enjoyment.

Then Brena and I plunged southward, deep into a quiet land that sees few travellers. Great belts of woodland attenuated the breeze. A sense of tranquility fell upon us.

 

There are miles of trails like this. We walked so that I could enjoy the scenery. But in truth we could have gone a whole lot faster. The going was good after all that rain.

Later we did go faster. A canter up a rising slope became a gallop, and I was treated to the spectacle of a draught horse going very fast indeed. Brena seems to have a very good footing at speed, and that was a lesson to trust her.

 
I'm organising a riding club camp here in a couple of months time. Here's the place where we shall stay. It's the farm in the distance, barely visible beneath a triangular-shaped wood. The owner of the farm is an Arabian breeder and retired endurance rider.

This view does give a flavour of the downland countryside, which is all hills, meadows, fields and woods. This is a land that curiously combines spaciousness with intimacy: a friendly place yet big enough that one must work hard to maintain the relationship.

 

Here is the view from the place where I parked the trailer. It is such a typical downland view. There are fields and belts of trees, the occasional railinmg to turn racehorsse, and a bit of of the exotic. Do you see the field of Linseed turning into blue?

I love this place. And soon I shall have the opportunity to share these hills with a group of guests.

Comments

[Horseideology]

What struck me about your post was that one little line: "But I love her."

It doesn't seem that long ago to me when you were looking to buy a horse and the trials and tribulations of shopping. How it all comes full circle and you two have bonded and become friends with many more adventures to come :)

[White Horse Pilgrim]

The last few months have flown by, Brena and I have bonded, and I have grown as a rider. I feel as if I have regained a part of my old fluency.

I seem to have reached a point in life where there are fewer simple facts or givens. So much is searching, balancing, intuition. It's an exhilerating trail, sometimes lonely, and full of surprises.

In this the simplicity of riding a good horse is a great comfort.