White Horse Pilgrim

The trail

Freshly sown winter crops rise bright like an unexpected clear day. Rank grass along the trail yellows and withers. The valley can still provide contrast and a little new life to balance decay and death. The land may slumber through the long dark months: but not die. The gift of perceiving circularity reminds me that winter is just a necessity that presages another spring.

Circularity is a beautiful concept. I can come around again and find places half-remembered, seeing them differently: seeing them as a person who has grown a little wiser. Then there are dualities: the opposites whose dialectic allows one to better see where one stands. Trinities are rarer, beyond the one that is best-known. There are the Archetypes of Shadow, Anima and Wise Old Man - or my current secular favourite of Anima, Animus and Trickster. Now they need to be woven into a story. Good quaternities seem hardest to find. There again a quaternity might be symbolised by the square within a mandala, which itself represents a microcosm of the world from human perspective: it will be more complex than something formed of two poles or three corners.

But now I am too tired to think: work has become enveloping. Just for a few more weeks it will remain intensely so. The challenge is not to break faith with those who trust me. What a gift a little more stamina would be. I am longing for the quiet and space of the retreat place awaiting in spring: time to sit and think and write. Well perhaps I need a few months to prepare. Why do I write? I'd like to answer that question before simply writing for days on end. How can I turn the story of exile into something beneficial? I don't see the point in keeping on writing that "things are well but I don't get to do much in the short hours of daylight". That's all too banal and obvious. I guess it's time to move on: to tell more of my story in the hope that good will come of it. To liberate a deeper inner creativity that I sense but cannot quite touch.

Riding by a changed chronometer

In summer I rode on weekday evenings, racing the setting sun. I developed a slick technique to drive to the barn hitch my trailer, load Brena and set off. So it was also today, the first Sunday of winter time, as I rushed to ride between the demise of faltering afternoon rain and the beckoning dark of a depressingly early evening.

I was rewarded by bright sun for an hour and, with it, a probing low light that brought out the soft relief of the rolling hills. This landscape, much tilled and subdued by man, nevertheless retains ancient form and character. The heights and curves are there still than ancestors recognised.

Driving down a new road earlier I realised that it possessed no history. It had existed for just a decade or two. The trails that I ride all have history, often gained over centuries and in special instances gleaned across millennia.

Being adopted and having so much of the relics of my grandparents destroyed, that I have no family – not in the sense of history. I know nothing of my birth family, and that which I know of my adoptive family is the result of censorship and whitewash by psychologically stunted parents. The most memorable, my iconoclastic grandfather – traveller, photographer and esoteric – has been scoured leaving just a ghost image.

The one possible source of inspiration has been blotted out. So I will seek what I can, and the only place to look is the great formless chaos of my unconscious. At least my fragment of the collective unconscious might tell me broadly from whence I have come.

I've tried the deep wilderness. Ultimately I found beauty there, but could not reconcile myself to the tragic history of my chosen place of exile. It had horses and trails, remote valleys and places to stay. But I could not establish a connection.

So I am back here, in a land that exerts a peculiar draw. I seem to know these hills, to carry a part of their spirit within me. What is it from deep within that brings me fulfilment in this place?

Can my personal fragment of the collective unconscious of the descendants of my ancestors have transferred from a birth family of whom I know nothing? Or is such transfer just fanciful imagination? (Here I think of the "genetic memory" process expounded to me by a Native American enthusiast.)

In other words what can I learn about the generalities of my past by looking within? I won't find anything useful from the few remaining members of an adoptive family that seemed collectively to have all but abandoned breeding half a century ago.

Anyway I feel at home here. I sense that my ancestors rode. I am just the most recent amongst very many riders to travel these trails.

The peculiarity is that I am one of the first from through the ages to be using my horse neither for transport nor agriculture.

If there is one thing that the fleeting shadowy memory of my grandfather can tell me, it is not to become cowed by conventionality. He became a sad frustrated old man, ending his days in a grey northern town in the company of an unimaginative wife. After years in India capitulation to conservatism of family and society, abandoning hope of growth, must have been heartbreaking for him.

Healing and new horses

Today L brought her new horse down for a quick visit. We had a nice three-hour ride around the hills and lanes. I am pleased for her. She has chosen a lovely, sensible, educated gelding who behaved beautifully all around the ride.

Both L and I suffered the problem of our old horses becoming unsound. Now each of us has a retired old horse to care for and a new younger horse to ride. Each retired horse is happy and well provided for. Our new horses suit us well, though it is true that R and L are clearly well matched from the beginning whilst Brena and I took a while to adjust to one-another. Perhaps that is because R came from one familiar rider whilst Brena was a guest horse ridden by a stream of strangers?

I should not underestimate the challenge that this move and associated transition has been for Brena. But now she has adapted to her new life where she has just one rider who appreciates her as companion and character, and not just as the means of carrying them for a week.

Brena is becoming thickly hairy in her developing winter coat. As if suddenly, she is gaining the insulation that so soon she will need. How the months have flown by! Is it not true that, as one gets older, time seems to pass more quickly? I am not sure whether that is because one grows busier with the passage of time, or simply becomes more philosophical. Am I too busy to notice time passing, or just worrying less about life's minutiae?

That odd wound on Brena's shoulder has shed its scab and there is fresh pink new skin below. In writing about something so mundane I feel like those people who write tedious circular letters for Christmas. However I am surprised and delighted at the speed in which the skin has regenerated and the scab shed.

That's one thing about no longer having a herd of horses to care for. There is time to be concerned about an individual. I welcome that privilege.

It's a pleasure to concentrate on riding an individual. Today I was so happy that Brena liked going out with R. I sensed her appreciation of his company and the enthusiasm that brought her. That made our ride especially worthwhile.

Something to look forward to

Whilst I was away on holiday, I had time to do some thinking. I've been pondering the dreams about cottages and woods and trails, about quiet places to pause and think. It's a change of mindset from moving - travelling and exploring the wide world - to pausing.

After some investigation I've (re)discovered a beautiful, hilly, part-wooded and quite spiritual place. It's a very small Orthodox monastery that owns some land and in fact already has a couple of horses grazing to keep the vegetation down. I should have thought of it - I passed by there some fifteen years ago. But, back then, I was too busy rushing about to notice stillness.

I've a little while to wait - it isn't especially accessible in winter. Plus work will be quite mad for the next few months. So spring will be my target to go there for a week. It's about four hours away.

This does give me hope, even to have a place to try out as a retreat with Brena. I'm not quite sure how it will work out seeking quiet and time to think with a horse. However it seems like the sort of place where the outside world need not exist whilst I'm there. That will suit me well, as there's a whole wide world inside to explore. Meanwhile the renewed hope gives me something good to hold onto.

Waste not...

Brena became quite focused riding across a field where maize had been harvested. Her attention turned downward even more than usual. Perhaps she remembered maize from Italy or Slovenia?

It surprised me just how many maize cobs littered a small field: enough to feed a horse for a few days, perhaps longer. I ought to take Brena back there next weekend.

I'm used to a land where crops were harvested by hand. Nothing was droped and left to rot. But here it isn't "cost-effective" to reduce waste below a certain level. How sad, in a country where people are unemployed and food is expensive.

On Sunday the ground was dry and flinty, a last relic of a vanished summer. Now the rain has swept in. The ground is wet and slippery. I'm driving in 4WD at the barn. Brena is filthy from rolling, and I am considering cleaning her at the weekend then rugging her for the duration.

The dark wet grim months have begun. I look back grateful that I did not waste warrm days and bright evenings through the summer. Tired or not, I got out to ride. From now on every dry Saturday and Sunday will count. Each fine view and inspiring landscape or cloudscape will buoy my spirit. I'll strive to get through winter with beauty and philosophy.

The reality of now...

In the past this time of year represented the end of the riding season. Beech trees had long since changed colour, the high peaks were dusted with snow and puddles lower down were icy each morning. One might set off in the morning wearing a couple of layers. But after an hour climbing out would come another couple of fleeces, and I'd already be wearing lumberjack boots, long underwear, trousers and leather chaps.

Over here the climate is temperate, the countryside mellow, and temperatures moderate. Here is the view last Sunday, complete with a couple of pheasants - colourful vermin that will soon be exterminated for the landowner's profit. Well at least then rides won't be punctuated by a stream of the dimwitted birds starting up under a horse's hooves.

Back on holiday I made a vow to write more creative, perceptive posts. Well, exhausted again by work, that does not seem to be happening. There isn't time right now to think deeply about anything but work. The nexy four weeks will be desperately busy.

Meanwhile at least the little driving that I do is more fun than previously. I had a truck just like this four years ago, and had to sell it when I left the riding business. It paid for six months rent and expenses. Now I feel a certain satisfaction that I have "made it" sufficiently to have a decent vehicle again.

When I was learning to ride almost twenty years ago an instructor remarked: "maybe one day you will own a horse". At the time I laughed in disbelief. I marvel at all that has happened since.

Brena has managed to pick up a scab on her right shoulder well in front of where the saddle sits. Treated with purple spray then iodine it looks horrible. In fact it's a couple of square inches of rough scab in her coat the centre of which has separated. It's dry and there is no sign of continuing infection. I have no idea what caused this. There is nothing like this anywhere else on her, and no contagion going around the horses at the barn.

This is a "real" part of horse ownership such as I used to manage with two dozen animals to care for. Lately I've had next to nothing to manage in the cuts and scrapes department. Having a healthy horse one sees little wrong therefore tends to worry unnecessarily at what little does go wrong. It's easy for every little lump and bump to cause alarm.

 

Hitch details

Since the details of the hitch that I use have generated some interest, here are photos of the ball on the truck and the hitch on the trailer.

The truck hitch is brand new. I added the red tape as a visual marker for backing up using the mirror. Normally when not in use the ball is covered by a rubber cap.

The trailer hitch is older but generally typical of European equipment. When the ball is engaged, the short handle on the top of the hitch unit drops down and locks. Raising this allows the ball to disengage. 

The trailer unit incorporates an automatic brake which works nicely now that it has been regulated. I've been advised to take the trailer out empty once in a while, find a quiet bit of road, and brake sharply in order to keep the brakes from seizing up.

Exploring

I do find this view meaningful. It shows a way into the woods perpendicular to one of my favourite rides. That triangle of grass is tantalising. But I have not been up there, for the meaning of the place is metaphorical.

There is no notice fixed to a tree telling me the route ahead. There is no buried treasure awaiting discovery. There is no tin half-hidden in the leaf litter than may be pried open to find a crumpled map. No, the value of the place is in the enlightening of mind that it offers.

There is a way oblique to the flow, neither drifting with it nor struggling against. It's the way to a different mode of thinking, a vocation that is extra-ordinary in the sense of lying beyond merely dull, unthinking conforming ordinariness.

To gaze up there is a refreshing step into wilderness. To remember that quiet tree-fringed grassy triangle is a reminder of that alternative way. Indeed that place - that which it represents - is a window into my unconscious. For have I not dreamed of forest trails that I strive to follow to their distant wonderful conclusions? One day I shall arrive in a dream. As for life, one significant arrival is the moment of finding equilibrium in a changing world, like newly riding smoothly over rough terrain. It is the terrain itself that forces horse and rider to seek balance: both awkward obstancle and generous catalyst for growth. Again a duality, for life's second lesson to me revolves around synthesis: the reconciliation of seemingly opposed parts. But two are needed: joy would not be real without sadness, nor achievement without struggle.

Reversing mirror

Here is the reversing mirror that I have just fitted to my trailer.

It's a simple wing mirror screwed to a metal bracket. The bracket is bonded onto the aluminium trailer siding using industrial adhesive tape.

Viewed from the driver's seat of the truck, the mirror seems rather small. Therefore I marked the truck hitch bracket with a piece of reflective tape as a guide. However a better method became clear - leave the big red hitch lock on place (it's huge and easy to see even in a small mirror ) and reverse up to within a few inches. Then take the lock off and gently back up the last bit using the red tape as a marker. Meanwhile here is the view (much bigger than the driver sees) of the hitch connected.

First trip with new truck

At risk of causing further truck envy - here is the ensemble that I took out this afternoon. Brena was inside the trailer already when I took the photo.

I felt so much safer towing with the new truck. It has 50% more power than the old truck and double the torque. This means being able to accelerate readily beyond 40mph up a moderate hill where we used to crawl at 25mph unable to go any faster. I can also join the main highway (much like an Interstate) at the end of the entry lane at 60mph rather than struggling to reach 40mph whilst trying to merge with fast traffic. Besides, the whole towing dynamic is smoother and more stable.

The trailer has just been overhauled. The brakes are adjusted, the electrical socket that plugs into the truck replaced, everything checked, and all the bearings greased. It runs more quietly, and I feel happier knowing that it has been checked thoroughly. I have noticed that the hitch sits more firmly too: presumably the ball on the old truck was well worn.

Overall, I am much more content through having a rig that is fit for purpose, and not just "making do".

The day was bright but cool and breezy. It being late October, I was grateful for the clear dry weather.

Harvesting is long completed, ploughing done too, and the winter crops where sown are beginning to sprout. New growth has mitigated the bare aridity of early autumn. After years spent in a place where the ground was frozen solid from November to March, winter growth is a joyful surprise. The mud can be a nuisance, however snow and ice posed other and greater challenges.

But there is no mud yet, just dry soil and the not-inconsiderable remains of summer foliage. Having not been out for two weeks, Brena made it her mission to eat as much as possible. After all that practice as a riding holiday horse, she can get her head down very quickly indeed. The warning sign, usually, is a slight turn of her head to the left. Why to the left I am not sure: perhaps an adaptation to riding on the left side of the road? However we're riding on wide traffic-free trails here.

On the final strech we cantered up a grassy lane, Brena extending herself enthusiastically. Through a gap in the hedge I noticed a herd of young thoroughbreds grazing. They were too interested in the grass to race us, and I was grateful. Youngsters in the racing yards around here do seem pleasantly mellow in their fine great lush pastures, just as Brena is happy in her humbler but sufficient field.