White Horse Pilgrim

Thinking back

Yesterday I gave an illustrated evening talk to a roomful of riding club members.

To prepare I needed only to pick a few dozen images and order them. The words would come. They always do: the guide's patter. Horses and history, geography and wild animals, folklore and odd experiences - they all slip out prompted by visual stimuli. An hour passed like a few minutes.

I glance at that far-off character who looks a little like me, and wonder. What a life he led! What a strange wild primitive place he lived in!

Could I go back to that life? Probably not, given the battering that my body has taken over the years.

And could I go back and live in a village like that? Oh, yes, with such interesting neighbours and lovely countryside all around, in a heartbeat. Obviously there would need to be the means to earn a living. (That is the point where, in a film, the viewer is asked to suspend belief as to how the hero has money in the bank.)

Perhaps I might regret making such a quick decision? An intuitive decision is fast, based upon a deep - indeed archetypal - understanding of oneself and the surrounding world, and imprecise. Pros and cons are weighed subjectively, assessed qualitatively and balanced by feel. There would be joy and regret, and each strong enough to capture attention. I've been there before...

I wrote "in a heartbeat", and that was one of Kelli's favourite phrases. She made her decisions intuitively, making for an interesting life. I was not slow to decide in that instance, and came away with both happy memories and bitter regrets. But with neither anger nor hatred. It was not entirely a bad decision that I took. I'd prefer to say: intuitive, inspired but risky and based upon too little knowledge. My burnt fingers healed.

So, no regrets. that life was there to be grasped, all of it or none. One could not take just a part of Transylvania. Characters came with the country, and temptations too. I yielded to a few, and learnt from the ensuing pain and penance. But the joys came to heal wounds and sooth hurt. So I walk whole again, and with a happily balanced perspective. It could be a lot worse than that.

Heads down

Brena has the right idea. Head down, concentrate on the task at hand (eating, obviously), and don't worry about things.

Work is a bit like that nowadays. Get on with things (and there are plenty of them) without worrying. This is the cold dark season. It's not so bad being in an office. Make hay (the office kind) whilst the sun isn't shining. Avoid the sort of irritating things that bring out the worst in me. (I'm thinking about not becoming annoyed by processes and procedures.)

Tomorrow I am giving a slide show to a riding club. It's about my time in Transylvania. On one level the slides are easy to talk to: beautiful scenery, plenty of horses and some quaint things. On another level it is tempting to comment about the anal way in which riding can be approached in Britain. Finally all those views of green hills and meadows full of flowers can make me very nostalgic. It's easy to imagine that the weather was always fine and life easy then find this new home claustrophobic. The reality is that I am much less stressed now, if sometimes hungering for open space.

It's time to enjoy the memories and create new ones. Now is the time for perspective. Then, when old images jostle with current reality. it's time to get my head down, concentrate, and distract myself.

Castles crumbling

I had been about to write that, since I want to restart work on my novel, posting will become a little less frequent. I was thinking of posting three times a week, or thereabouts. Then I became intrigued by Jess's account of a Medici castle.

We didn't have the Medici in Transylvania, however Vlad the Impaler came by historically when he felt like burning a town or slaughtering its inhabitants. I'd have chosen the Medici any day. Later on the Habsburgs showed up, and for about a decade that territory was on the frontier between Austro-Hungary and Russia. The military roads cut into the mountains are used to this day by shepherds, and tend to be referred to as the "Maria Theresa Roads". Hurriedly prepared fortifications were thrown up too, probably intended for scouts and advanced guards.

We had a regular lunch stop in the lee of an old fortress. It wasn't as impressive as Jess's Mugelo citadel, however there is a practical limit to what one can build on a mountain top in a hurry. There were two steep-sided earthen ramparts enclosing square spaces some thirty metres across. In-between those lay foundations that might have been barracks and stables. The fort seemed more of a point to sortie from than a defensive structure, though a few troops might have holed up there against lightly armed adversaries.

Later these forts would have been dismantled, the wooden structures turn down, in order to deny them to outlaws. There were highwaymen until a hundred years ago, for this was Austro-Hungary's "Wild West" (other than being to the east).

To this day these hills are remote. One could ride for hours in summer and meet the occasional shepherd. Outside the high grazing period of barely four months one might see no-one all day long. This was not a place to go alone and get hurt. Until recently there was no mobile phone signal out there. Even now there cannot be any road access up there. The occasional cross or stone marked the grave of a shepherd or traveller for whom the journey had proved fatal. I was told that lightning was the most common killer, and needed no persuasion to shun the hilltops when thunderstorms approached. Burnt skeletons of struck trees and bushes proved the point. The morning after one especially violent storm shattered relics of trees smouldered pungently, and that after a night of rain.

We rode through the quiet hills one May week and nearly had them to ourselves. On a sunny day that was delightful. The whole world seemed at peace. I suppose that we might have felt a little differently in the 19th century, had we been Austrians in what was a conquered fragment of Romania. Back then we'd have stuck to the roads where gendarmes were posted for protection. But if back then we'd have been ourselves - an Englishman accompanied by two American ladies - we should have been intrepid travellers well on the way to writing a book about exploring lovely remote countryside - and how we survived deep rural food, rustic board and eye-wateringly primitive sanitation. Just as Bram Stoker was fabricating a tale set just a few miles away, we'd have brought back a refreshingly authentic tale.

The real and the illusory

Our first ride for a week - and Brena was full of life and keen to step out. That manipulation by the chiropractor clearly was needed.

I kept the ride slow in recognition that Brena had just been adjusted. She needs to settle back into alignment with muscles that were supporting the problem area relaxed. We can get back into faster work next weekend.

The sun was low as we travelled along the ridge. I was curious to see a peculiar optical phenomenon reappear - the intriguing (if faint) halo around the shadow of my body. It's a kind of solar glory, presumably depending upon dew droplets on the grass. A bank of mist might show up a proper glory and even a Brocken spectre. Now that would be something: a real mountain phenomenon on our gentle hills.

Deer were out on the northerly hillside, lit by the last rays of the sun of the day to cross the ridge before shadow arose to blanket them and the green slope. As usual Brena and the deer ignored one-another, however a hiker put his dog on its lead as a precaution. The man was fascinated by the deer, as town-dwellers often are, whilst his urban dog did not seem to recognise their scent. Out here a fragment of the wild world happily extends close by.

My illusory halo dissipated as we journeyed into the valley.

Tethered to graze behind the trailer, Brena stared at a car travelling slowly along the lane. This is a familiar parking place for hikers so cars do come and go. Every vehicle fascinates the ever-curious mare in a way that deer do not. They do not alarm her, simply something about a moving object intrigues.

With the old white Lipizzaner Pintea it was hot air balloons. He would stare intently at the most distant balloon. I'm not surprised: he would never have seen one of those in Transylvania.

I don't recall Doru staring at anything. He was just too solid and aloof to be interested in anything but food.

Then it was head down to guzzle the rough winter grass, of which there is a surprising amount out here. After years in the mountains, it comes as a pleasant surprise that the vegetation does not retreat to desiccated brown for months on end.

The sun slid down to touch the horizon. I loaded Brena and we headed back. Before dark fell I still had two dogs to walk.

The first ice

This morning we cleared the first ice of this winter from the horses' troughs and the dogs' bowl.

The day was lovely and bright beneath a clear blue sky. I reflected on how common such days were in a Transylvanian winter.

But there the temperature would have been at least ten degrees below zero on a cloudless day, not hovering around freezing point. There would not have been just a few milimetres of ice in the morning, more like a few centimetres. The ground would have been hard as iron, not mushy below a crisp surface.

I miss the hard ground of a good cold winter. I miss the banishment of mud for months on end.

Brena ate hungrily. Here she is, viewed from her field shelter.

Last week's minor illness is now well behind her. She's as hungry and lively as ever. However she gained another day off post-manipulation.

Yesterday the chiropractor adjusted Brena's back. She'd thrown in a buck at the canter last weekend, and seemed uncomfortable. In fact she was out of adjustment, probably through slipping in the mud.

The adjustment made, Brena was very much full of herself. The newly enlivened pulling mare needed the lead rope around her nose to walk back to her field. Otherwise she'd have got there a good deal faster. I've been caught out in that way before.

There is a sunny spot behind the field shelter in view of the other horses. That's where Brena stands out of preference when not eating, leaving a patch of flattened trodden earth.

It's good to have a favourite comfortable spot. My study at home is rather like that: a place to unwind, think and create. It's quiet, there are lots of books, and my computer is there. That's enough.

Besides, I need to do some creating. There is a part-complete novel beckoning. I've had some good feedback from a literature professor, sufficient to encourage a fresh start.

Anyway, back to riding tomorrow. We'll start gently, or I intend to do so anyway.

Jug and sleeper

That would make a good pub name - The Jug and Sleeper. In the US I guess that it would be the Jug and Cross-tie. (Do pubs have names over there? Or just not quaint English-style names?)

It's normal to see old sleepers used to make fences. But why has an earthenware jug been left on a bleak hillside? The wilderness made me observant: I'd spot a fresh animal track, the place where a tree had been felled, or a new mark. I'd have notices that jug had it been there last month.

I chose not to seek an answer within. On these ancient uplands culled moles and crows are tied to fences to desiccate in the wind. Who knows what weird tradition has been followed? What has the collective unconscious of Old Berkshire cast up?

Reflecting

So I was greeted by an alert mare keen to be fed whatever I might have in my hand.

It wasn't light when I reached the field, unlike this picture, nor was the ground so dry. Brena was not that clean. However I cannot record in pictures the shadowy image of tramping through the dark looking for a shaggy equine silhouette and wishing that the moon would rise and help me.

Brena wandered over and took one carrot then another. I made her evening feed, noting that every fragment of hay had been eaten. Once the bowl was down, her nose did not come up until all had gone. I think that a complete recovery has been made.

It is a pleasure to bond closely with one horse. Doru is not the bonding sort. He did not welcome visitors whilst he eats. He's not too sociable in his field except when food is on offer. Simply he was a big strong working horse who did a reliable job - which has much to commend it whether or not the horse is sociable. Brena, however, enjoys attention as well as being a good worker. She hasn't Doru's raw power and, being a mare, is a more sensitive. Brena hasn't been worked hard by peasants for whom she was a draught animal pure and simple. So, for me, owning her is a new experience on several levels. She's more of a test, a catalyst to growth, and more rewarding too.

Improving

Fortunately Brena is doing better by the day. Tonight she seemed completely her normal self: alert, keen for food, and happy to rub her head on me. Breathing was no longer elevated and she did not feel unusually cool beneath her rug.

I can report that carrots were appreciated. Doubtless these contribute to healing. A large handful vanished rather quickly, whilst Doru enjoyed apples. In respect of treats their preferences vary.

Now I reflect on my reactions. I left work at the drop of a hat on Monday upon hearing that Brena was ill. I knew that it wasn't as serious as, say, colic or a deep wound. However I wanted to be there and find out what was wrong directly from the vet. For Brena's welfare, and for my peace of mind.

For now I have a helper as I write. It is pleasant when animals seek one's company.

Nice as cats are, back to horses. I do behave as if Brena is a family member. It's rewarding to be able to: I could not regard horses in this way back when I had a herd of two dozen. I had neither enough time nor sufficient emotional capacity with all the other things that were going on.

I miss being able to spend my days with horses. But when I had the herd I rode one horse most days (Doru for a year, others in previous years) with time only to check the others daily for loose shoes and injuries. Staff groomed and tacked them. It was a luxury to be able to ride a lot (not that it seemed so every day!) and now it is a luxury to be able to fuss over just two horses (and ride two days a week). Swings and roundabouts really. But this, I think, is the better place.

A little illness

All was well on Sunday. Our ride was quiet. Afterwards, released into her field, Brena cantered to the hay in the opposite corner, bucking exuberantly.

On Monday afternoon I received a call to say that Brena was ill. She was lying down a lot and hadn't eaten her hay or hard feed. I got out of work and met the vet at the field. It transpired that Brena had a bit of an infection, with noticeably elevated temperature and respiration.

There was no sign of colic however I did take a walk around the field checking for fresh droppings, which there were, though none was actually warm or steaming. (I did poke a couple to check.)

After a day on medication plus some bute, Brena is much brighter. The listlessness has gone and her appetite has returned in full.  

It seems like that time of year when people and horses catch small but irritating infections. In fact people seem rather more susceptible judging by experience at work.

Anyway the medication will last for another three days. After a week or so resting Brena will be ready for work again. We'll see how she is doing by the weekend. I'd expect her to be back to normal.

On wars and horses

D and I were discussing what do do over the coming week when she reminded me that the film War Horse is about to start showing in our town's cinema.

I have avoided going to see the theatre production chiefly because I expected to find it upsetting. I've read too much about the slaughter of the 1914-18 war to see this production as a simple play. I have too deep an imagination not to visualise the whole pointless bloody slaughter of innocents. Plus I have seen a modern army with gun horses only just over a decade ago, and that makes it all the easier to imagine another army with its horses in war.

Today I rode across the broad fields of Churn, where cavalry trained from the late 1800s to the beginning of the Second World War. Try to imagine this scene in summer with tents ranged across turf, lines of horses tied, khaki-clad men riding or working, and a railway station to the right with a siding full of horse boxes. Try to imagine the smell of hundred of horses and their droppings, the scent of trodden grass and lay, and the odour of men who labour in a place with little water for washing. Think of the crack of arms from the rifle range that lay straight ahead at the end of the road.

I've even dreamt of going to see the film. Dreams do throw up some peculiarities: for instance I travelled to a cinema in a city by tram (which some of you would call a streetcar). The film did upset me, and I was comforted by two strangers. On some level I recognise them, however I simply cannot place whom they might be. Maybe another dream will reveal more?

It all happened long ago, those men with their horses in that awful war. However my grandfather fought in the First World War (in the Engineer Corps, not with the Cavalry). Within living memory these fields were used to train and exercise cavalry. A handful of the final generation of cavalry soldiers may still be alive: they would be in their mid-nineties by now.

From the hill above I gazed down into the quiet valley. The horsemen have gone, and their horses are long dead. The camp has gone too, and the railway as well. The station platform lies beneath a thicket, silent and ruined. None of them have any memorial here of stone or bronze. Nor have they a memorial of peace. Day and night their successor, the helicopter units, exercise in the skies above preparing for dispatch to another foreign war.