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Thanks to Emma, here is a photo from the ride of two weekends ago. There are Lesley and I out in that beautiful light. It was so scenic, especially when we managed to dodge the rain. The horses' tails show just what a breeze was blowing. The metalled road heads merely to a farm and it is rare to meet traffic.
I reached the field as grey twilight receded before the first inky darkness of night. A faint blur lighter than the gloom moved towards me at speed, hooves drumming before the outline of a familiar skewbald mare appeared in the beam of my lights. I was making the first visit in darkness of nascent autumn.
By torchlight I put together her feed, including a handful of small apples freshly picked. Already I have three dustbins of apples stored, so the horses will enjoy plenty of fruit through autumn and winter. Then as she ate I stood by her listening to chewing, and slobbering too for these apples are good juicy ones. The rubber bowl needed to be licked absolutely clean, and a visit to the water trough followed.
I found satisfaction in standing next to the big friendly mare as she ate. Unlike Doru she is happy to receive visitors whilst eating. Her contentment was infectious. I leaned upon Brena, my cheek flat against her soft coat in the dip behind her shoulder, feeling her warmth and smelling the unique fragrance that is horse. It was comforting, reducing my life to a pleasant simplicity.
Then I dreamt a waking dream, as I am apt to do. I imagined the last stage of a journey and our arrival at a house with a stable, walking inside and finding a box prepared, being welcomed and bringing my welcome also to good people. In this there is unconscious hope and perhaps a little allegory.
Here is the splendid sight that awaited me this afternoon. Her ladyship Brena awaits the attention of her subjects: the human minions whose task it is to clean her before her appearance to the world saddled.
Once Brena was loaded into her trailer, the heavens opened. It poured for the whole fifteen minute journey to the Ridgeway, and then we stayed in our respective vehicles for another ten minutes whilst the rain cleared.
Some walkers appeared from the downpour quite soaked. It was proving to be another day of alternating bright sunshine and deluge. The periodic clear skies lulled some unsuspecting visitors into a false sense of security without their coats. Here is the view through the windscreen of my truck.
The view cleared and our neighbourhood landmark, the power station, emerged like ships from a storm. Weather permitting, the cooling towers are visible for miles. There is an urban myth locally that people have called the emergency services and, on being asked where they are, have answered that they can see the power station.
But the power station is closing next year. It fails to meet modern pollution criteria, and the cost of upgrading it is more than the operator is willing to pay. I wonder whether the cooling towers will be demolished, or maintained 'just in case'?
As soon as the rain ceased, I unloaded Brena and quickly brushed her paying most attention to the areas where tack would fit. Knowing what she would do upon her return to pasture, it would have been a fool's errand to try and clean her mane and tail. So her minion did not make a great job of grooming, just a "good enough" job.
We set off, to be swept by a weak rearguard of the preceding storm. Spattered by heavy spots we turned south, across the course of the northwesterly breeze, escaping its feeble clutches. At last the true beauty of the newly ploughed autumn landscape was revealed. Roan hills stood sculptural in their broad curves, the swells and billows of a vast petrified chalk sea. Soon winter crops will begin to green these fields, taking away their rawness, covering the bones of this land. But for now the land lies exposed and promising.
We rode the exposed limbs of the land and slipped down into the sheltered place between limbs. Then up and out, walking then trotting and cantering a hidden green valley, an oasis of nature amidst all that ploughing, harrowing and sowing. Hooves covered the span of her natural covering until once again we stood on the airy ridge that is the backbone of this land.
Up there the broad sky dominates, and that ever-changing hemisphere leads the eye down to a ring of mysterious horizon. South and east and west roll the chalk hills like smooth green wave crests, and one can but wonder what lies in each dip tantalisingly out of sight. But the north is different, for there is the vale. It's a peculiar place, for when visited the places down there do not seem like the places that a traveller sees from up here. Down there is old and full of history, yet from up here that broad tree-filled expanse looks many times more mysterious. From up here, how much different did the vale look to my Saxon predecessors?
On the very crest there is the illusion, in places, of being on a cultivated steppe. Storms roll across that imaginary spaciousness. So it was that, turning east again, I saw the great dark cloud and sheet of rain that had missed us. Our excursion southward had kept us dry. Intuition, for that is what it was, had served well this time: the guide's instinct plus a bit of good fortune (for I do not believe in "luck").
Heading east the illusory plain petered out, the Ridgeway resuming its traditional roller-coaster character. Now the turf and bare chalk were freshly soaked. We tried a short canter however Brena found the footing slippery. We walked on, me appreciating the fresh scent of land refreshed by rain, Brena enjoying the grass that I let her eat. She enjoyed that which she snatched unbidden too, for this is an appetising trail for all horses and most particularly my horse.
Minutes after we returned to truck and trailer, the rain started again. We journed homeward under a leaden sky, the road swathed in spray from speeding vehicles. What a contrast to the damp solitude of the storm-swept Ridgeway. A mercifully quiet side road took us to the farm. Leaving Brena in her field to eat a welcome bowl of feed, I parked the trailer. Then the hardest rain of all fell, and I got wettest whilst fitting the wheel-clamp and hitch-lock. But only on my back as I was bending over to fit those necessary items.
Changeable weather continues. I awoke to bright sun. By the time that I'd eaten breakfast rain was drumming against the windows. The sky cleared so I headed for the barn. With Brena loaded rain poured, this time beating on the trailer's metal roof. I rode for an hour and a half in sunshine, watching leaden clouds rush upon us from the south. Back in our respective vehicles we avoided the latest downpour. And so it went on through the day, showers and sunshine alternating.
Here is the easterly view. It seemed as if the ploughed chalk hill was brighter than the sky. Even the grass, now dull after summer's end, radiated a lightness retained from previous months. Near-luminous hills jostled with dark vibrant clouds, the two combining to form a scene of spellbinding natural beauty. Here is my land freshly alive and authentic.
To the north, the broad plain of the Thames attracted blue skies. It is true that, further north, thunderclouds rose majestic. But the valley was warm and sunny. What a contrast, for of late it has been the valley route that storms took. How many times have I ridden the airy ridge watching grey sheets of rain, even sudden jagged blades of lightning, brusquely parade that broad riverine realm.
I took both photos from the same spot within seconds of one-another. It was as if Brena and I travelled the marches of two rival kingdoms, a knife-edge cusp between sun and rain. We loved it up there, me for the rich beauty on display, Brena because she could graze whenever I stopped to look or photograph.
Brena stepped out. Jess was right: this mare prefers cooler weather. On she went over turf and flinty soil, irrespective of wearing no shoes. She is becoming a horse of the chalk hills, this half-Noriker from Slovenia. (What, I wonder, is her other half? Being a romantic at heart, I'd like to think Lipizzaner.)
In the evening I went out and collected apples from a couple of roadside trees. These filled two dustbins at home, and will soon contribute to feeding a pair of horses. It amazes me that apples ripen and fall to rot uncollected year after year. I do my best to minimise the waste. That's another sign of September. It's an annual pleasure for me to collect apples.
I was reflecting on what a big change Doru has seen over the course of his fifteen or so years.
He began life as a foal who was pulled about tied to the cart of his peasant owner. That did at least accustom him to roads, traffic and many other things.
As a working horse he would have been stalled the whole time that he was not harnessed for work. I doubt whether he would ever have had turnout. Where he came from, horses were not stabled in boxes, just stalled tied with chains.
When I bought Doru, we made a box for him. At least he wasn't tied up. We put him out in the round pen when we could, and he proved to be a well adjusted and sensible beast never trying to escape.
In Britain he was turned out all day to begin with, and then all the time. It's the most freedom that he's ever had. It shocks me that so many horses have little or no freedom to move about, run, play and explore their habitat. Yes, Doru lives in a single field, however that's the most space that he's ever had to move about of his own accord.
Brena was turned out in Italy, so this new life is less of a liberation for her. She has an easier life now, but is no stranger to having space to wander. Like Doru, she likes to canter down the field to meet me. Or is food the lure?
At work I've picked up the task of designing some training material to get across what change will mean - from a simple regulated environment to a more commercial set-up where work needs to be bid for. There is a huge culture shock coming. I've run a company and had to go out and find clients. Few of my colleagues have been in that place.
On one hand it's a bit like Doru's story - moving from a constrained place (but the only one that he knew) to a more open, free and interesting environment.
On the other hand this change may be seen as a move from a safe, predictable place to one of insecurity. That's more likely.
Either way, the situation is the same. What varies is mindset. How confident is the individual in their aptitude, abilities and ability to gain new skills?
I think that I shall need to start with an exposition of reality - just what life can be like in the big wide commercial world out there. That will shock some of my colleagues. I've a few stories from my own life.
After that, well I'm not quite sure which way to go. All that I have learned along the trail may be useful as a colelctive and to provide specifics. Perhaps the most relevant is how I adapted, and what I thought and felt whilst took place happened. Often it was not easy. Then there are the lessons from psychology. My mind will be busy over the coming days.
I did enjoy the wonderful light over the weekend, a product of a cold front driven by a stiff breeze. The beauty is a bonus of living on a large island, and the rain a collateral penalty. I miss living far inland where the weather was drier and brighter, however that place for the most part lacked the spectacular light that we enjoy here. Thanks to all that damp air we just get more "weather" here.
Four years ago I was getting hay in. A long hard winter beckoned. By then every farmer for miles around knew that I bought good quality hay for a fair price and that I weighed loads accurately. Hay came loose in carts, to be unloaded and stacked by hand. For my herd I needed around a hundred and fifty tons of hay, so I built two splendid great barns one of which is seen here.
These activities epitomised the dual romance and struggle of that life. One felt close to the earth, close to God too, if one thought at all about these things. Even the unthinking sensed it. There was an honesty in the natural rhythm of life. Yet also it was hard, very hard. Physical exhaustion was the norm. Bodies became bent and hurting before true old age was reached. At its worst a grinding dullness pervaded labour. But it was lust for money that turned people against rural life. I did not covet wealth therefore I loved the outdoor life to the last. I am strange, and perhaps the more resillient for it.
Those barns make me think of Gin's story. I feel for her. I built and created as if I would spend a lifetime in that place. Then it became clear that the time was ripe to move on. I did not have much choice in the matter, having worked through the options to stay and found them wanting. To leave things that one has made with love and thought is an ill fate. It's a horrible shock, a stripping away of security, and a psychic tragedy.
However, as Jung wrote, life demands for its completion and fulfilment a balance between joy and sorrow. Happiness is itself poisoned if the measure of suffering has not been fulfilled. Some sadness back then should lead to a better appreciation of happiness now. Besides, true happiness comes from inner enlightenment rather than the amassing of possessions. It's not that a nice barn is a bad thing, far from it, only it's not necessary. But if I do gain what I don't need and know that I'm not entitled to, I'll appreciate all the more. It may be trite to say that much to another, but I can address myself thus without criticism.
Standing around was normal out there. Our life was not so stressful. Or, rather, life was not worrisome for my employees with their simple peasant outlook. Only I worried, for I had to manage the finances and attract sufficient trade in a weak economy. They had straightforward lives, and I was glad to have happy staff. I cared about them. There was something nearly feudal in this, and not in a negative sense. The bad thing was that, with concern deferred to the top of the chain, hardly anyone took responsibility for their work (or idleness). I had to think for everyone. That made for an inefficient business (mirroring the whole country), and it was the lack of wealth (for I was no Count Banffy) to pay for such a straightforward happy system that led to its demise.
The chestnut trees are rusty with the advance of autumn, their hard fruit heavy with encroaching ripeness. In eveng as we passed they receded into grey shadow, becoming colourless as in old photographs. Then I passed that grove and looked back through it, now inky filigree silhouette, far away to a red sky at the soft bright westerly horizon.
Nearby I looked, and the remote past stared back at me. This sarsen half as high as a man is the Blowing Stone, signal of kings. In it is a hole linked to a peculiar channel. When blown through with sufficient vigour, a decidedly bovine bellow emits, loud enough to be heard for some distance. Back in 871 King Alfred the Great is supposed to have used this very stone to summon his men in time to defeat a Viking invasion.
Now the Blowing Stone lies by the roadside, by a house that used to be an inn whose keeper blew the stone for money to entertain guests. Sic transit gloria mundi. Once it stood on the ridge above, where perhaps it had been located since iron age times, cult object of some forgotten tribe. Then its time came and this piece of rock became the focal point of a formative deed of this land, for Alfred was victorious and went on to be the only English king called the Great.
Now, cozy at home, I have a mug of cider: the old sort made without sugar such as men have drunk for hundreds of years - indeed until quite recently when factory-made fizzy muck took over. There's another link to the past, a humble happy touch linking me to the men of the fields and hills who trod the trails that I tread. They have passed away, but I can taste that which they tasted and be both happy in that knowledge and refreshed.
The demise of the evening ride is much exaggerated. Our combined long shadow preceded us across the valley bottom, down the straight concrete road that leads to the erstwhile cavalry training area.
Brena stepped out keenly. After a weekend of riding I sat easily and gazed far, quite at home again mounted. Now Brena has been here for almost a year. She is calm and settled, and so am I.
A stiff cool wind blew beneath a clear clean sky in the aftermath of all that rain. The very blue above looked cold, becoming a steely and almost arctic shade where it slipped into the thin haze hugging the encircling hills. The evening was tangibly autumnal, not with the softness of a multi-coloured woodland leaf-blanket, but with the promise of cold and darkness. Are the hills whispering a hint of mountain magic? Now I'll be looking longingly for the first ice crystals in shaded pools, for frost on cobwebs and finally that peculiar purple shade that heralds snow-bearing clouds.
An hour's riding saw the golden orb fall to earth, his demise orange-cloaked with hope for a bright day tomorrow. Coincidentally the moon rose opposite, pale and delicate, over the northeasterly ridge. This was a magical moment, the cold satellite not yet bright lifting tenderly above a milky-pale slope of newly ploughed chalk. Once again the world seemed mysterious, lovely to her admirers, yet obscure to those without eyes or heart to perceive her charm.
On Saturday evening Brena stood on bright grass with a lively sky for a backdrop. A fresh wind bent stem and bough, and drove great streets of cloud aloft. It was splendid, a great day to feel fully alive.
On Sunday the weather was harsher. A fresh wind flung across the hills dark clouds trailing slate-grey sheets of rain. From our hillside vantage point we watched these behemoths of precipitation tear past, wondering how long our luck would last.
We did well, gaining the ridge and getting a few miles beneath our belts. Two riders needed to return home early, leaving just myself and a companion to ride on. We cantered across a dry grassy valley bottom then headed upward, slowing through a silent grove. More dips we walked down then cantered out of. Then the rain came, stealthy, inevitable.
We sheltered beneath a bank of trees, still amidst the flapping, dripping vegetation. Then the rain stopped as quickly as it had begun, for we had just caught its edge like a few skirmishers at the flank of an army too powerful to pay any attention to a pair of riders. Emerging from cover, we returned to the farm across a bright world freshly washed, her colours vivid, her surface fragrant with rain-released perfume.
This morning I drove out amidst a downpour, wet gusts rocking my truck, flinging spray aloft like a boat on a rough sea. The weekend had been kind to us.
Across the broad expanse of chalk hills the final crops of the summer are being harvested: a few fields of peas, their dry stems and black pods looking more than ready to be taken. Swathes of land lie under a short stubble, ripe to be ridden across. Roads may be avoided by riding along parallel fields. Expanses are open to canter and gallop across, an invitation that is hard to refuse. Farmers do not seem to mind for there is no harm to be done. Indeed a dash or two across stubble fields seems like a bonus for good behaviour earlier in the year when we did not trespass into the crops.
I had a weekend of riding to lead: two rides each of between three and four hours spread across two days. To my pleasure and slight surprise these rides were straightforward and painless just two weeks after surgery. An hour into the first ride I had the choice to take a slower route or one that afforded several good opportunities to canter. I took the bold decision to lead the group along the faster route.
The first canter was restrained. I requested that the steadiest horses were used to lead, mainly so that we could pull up if necessary. I wasn't sure how my hip would put up with the strain. We completed a clear half mile of canter without the slightest difficulty. After passing the sweeping ramparts of Uffington Castle and the ancient stones of Wayland's Smithy barrow, another opportunity to canter presented itself. I set off up a grassy lane with two others whilst the final pair prepared to set off at full speed across a stubble field. They did, as I like to put it, "open the taps".
These are large fields. There is no difficulty in finding a good half mile to gallop across and, in a few places, a mile or more. At such times this is an exhilarating countryside to enjoy. Space can be used to advantage whilst constraints are at their fewest.
Nowadays the burning of stubble isn't permitted. Thirty years ago this would all have been set aflame, and the skyline would have been pock-marked with sooty black clouds. Back then I flew gliders for a hobby. We looked forward to the stubble burning, for the pillars of dark cloud carried within them powerful updrafts. I cannot forget being half a mile above the ground circling tighly in turbulent air that smelled like a bonfire, going upward like a lift whilst pieces of burning straw passed me. It was an exciting experience, and one that required firm piloting.
I was glad to get out again for a couple rides that, although not very long, were enough to make me feel fit and satisfied again. With this speed of recovery I have been very fortunate. Really, to be galloping a horse sixteen days after surgery is rewarding beyond hope.
On the last hill, leading out of a silent valley where once a Roman villa lay, I led the headlong charge up a flinty stubbly slope. For the early stretch I was out in front, riding with a good forward seat taking the shocks with my knees. Brena slipped into a full gallop, smooth and powerful. Then the others slipped past one by one, for Brena - having not a hint of Thoroughbred in her - was intrinsically the slowest of the five. But later she passed a herd of big orange bristly pigs without the slightest fuss, so speed isn't everything.
My thanks go to Rob, Lesley, Emma, Jake, Caroline and Danielle for being such good company.
