A fresh day, breezy and bright. Grass thick and appetising. A sky wide and changeable. Ground firm and breeding snowdrops. Is spring creeping upon us? Yes, of course, but remember that she is fickle: a coquette season flirting with farmers' needs and riders' hopes.
It was a satisfying ride. We traversed green hillside and ran the length of tree-lined avenues. Welcome turf invited a gallop and Brena accepted the challenge. The eye sought and found familiar far wooded hills, shapes that ancestors had gazed upon for millennia. And I rode a happy lively horse, a trustworthy travelling horse to bear me across these ancient hills.
Now I have written three-quarters of a first novel. The race is on: to complete the first draft before the evenings are light enough to ride. A time beckons when life will be pared down to three bare elements: sleep, work and ride. By then the words must be set down, another thirty-thousand. Then the next part of that road may be attempted.
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