The landscape is changing. Or rather she is changing her clothes.
Upland grass is bright after rain followed by warmth and hay cutting. The valley is brown with crops ready for harvest - wheat and canola. There is a fruitful vitality spread across the whole land.
To the north clouds hung, not exactly dark but rather charged as if a storm is in the early stages of brewing. From that direction a certain heaviness emanated, such that I checked the direction of the breeze before setting off. The faint wind was cool, as if harbinger of a change in the weather, yet blew from the west bending tall stems of well seeded grass alomng the trail.
In the mountains there would have been a storm, as the riding ground forced hot moist air upwards. But here, despite the low hills, the climate has more of the uniformity associated with a plain.
I rode Brena up the valley, trotting to avoid meeting a combine harvester whose path would otherwise have intersected ours. Brena was not keen to trot far at the end of a hot day, and the big machine and its dust cloud did not seem to concern her in the least.
Riding up the hill alomg a trail hidden between thorn bushes we heard another combine at work to the right. I could not see it through the hedge, though tasting air thick with powdered chaff.
We drew past the noise, then I looked back to see the harvester disgorging canola pods black as soot into a trailer. Once the load was exchanged, a tractor headed after us, coming through an open gate and onto the trail at the top of the hill. On a wider stretch the huge ensemble passed, and the middle-aged cloth-capped farmer and I exchanged momentary greetings. Then off he went, raising yet another cloud of dust for this is an arid land in summer. In fact it amazes me just how much grows from this bone-dry chalk.
Thinking of bones, the ride was less painful than anticipated. My hip joint seems to have settled a bit, though a dull ache persists. Whatever was in that injection may have helped a little. Equally it was a slow ride because I sought relaxation.
In the valley a combine harvester hummed along beneath a low sun. It will work all night taking advantage of fine weather. On and on it runs around the perimeter of a massive field, slowly drawing in towards a notional centre with each successive cut.
The sun slipped down behind a wall of cloud that stood like thick haze. As my horse grazed and the machine rumbled by, I had a sense of sitting beneath a dome of clear sky surrounded by thick grey air, like a drop of clarity within an impenetrable mass. The sun gone, monochrome took over and late evening truly had arrived.
So back home to finish my day's work (for there is a controversy to address) and prepare to sleep. Or, rather, finish preparing, for riding equipped me with a helpful bodily fatigue.
Then off to the world of dreams, a destination that has been lively of late. I must write of these dreams at more length. The best of them, deeply unusual, saw me riding through a virtual world, like an equestrian Matrix. My mount was a facsimile of Brena and all was illusory (indeed doubly so for we travelled in a fantasy within a dream), yet I worried whether the true and real beast was safe as the imaginary version journeyed so strangely. It all seemed so real, but was not. We rode upon a quest, which I recall to have been good and noble. Isn't life a quest? I just need to understand what my quest means, if that isn't asking too much.
Comments