White Horse Pilgrim

Activity amidst tranquility

Doru and Eve continue to enjoy one-another's company. He will remain with her until a scan confirms pregnancy. Probably at least another month. Lucky boy.

A short evening ride was tranquil and sensual. Golden light, green grass and white flowers. The fragrance of a sweaty horse. Smooth leather reins and a coarse mane. It was a lovely time to be out, an antidote to a busy day at work, and further inspiration to write. (A fresh idea for creative writing germinated out there.)

As we stood still to graze a noise started behind the ridge. Brena is a good one for alerting me to the unusual. So she looked straight at this military helicopter, then put her head back down to continue cropping the rich grass. This is lower than they fly usually, training to stay alive in our foreign war.

Blue

After a ride through vibrant canola, a different ride today accompanied by the relaxed hue of bluebells. Each copse and belt of woodland is floored with a hazy blue. Rain or not, irrespective of the mud, truly spring is here.

Usually we canter along the shady path threading the long wood growing on a long-abandoned drove road. On this stretch we're homeward bound and energy is plentiful. But today it was better to linger, savouring the delicate colour and fragrance.

As ever it surprised me how few people were to be seen out here. So much beauty, so few people. Is it that I am surrounded by young souls, newbies, people seduced by goods and technology, too busy rushing around to notice mere nature? It is as if these woods have been bypassed not just by roads but by thought and memory too.

Valley view

I love to look down from the hills. Here's the Thames valley looking rather tame, if you will forgive the expression. It's pretty and evovative, if not vertiginous. But I love such places with their tranquillity and history.

I spent the evening at a work function for a colleague who is leaving. Not for the first time someone remarked that, in effect, I don't fit the stereotype of an office-based project manager. Well of course not. Eight years in Transylvania did their bit. I don't see life and work in the West through the same lens as those for whom urban Britain is confirmed home. I wouldn't. That is no judgment. Simply it is the broad open spaces that offer me comfort. The land that, somehow and quite inexplicably, feels like my home. It's tame compared to former haunts. But I love the hills here.

I love the hills. But if only I had a good and trusty human trail companion. I've passed beyond the point where solitude has special virtue. If only there was a refuge in the hills at which to stop over. Back in Transylvania there were stopping places, but no-one thoughtful to talk to. Here I have friends few of whom ride and no haven in which to hide away. What am I missing? I have a sense that, unseeing, I'm passing by someone or something. Or looking too hard.

 

Between showers

The day brightened enough to suggest a trip out to ride. My slick machine swept into action. Just over an hour later I was aboard Brena in a quiet valley several miles away. Another half-hour saw us on the ridge looking down across the Thames Valley. This is Dean's Bottom, where King Alfred and his men chased the defeated Danes (i.e. Vikings) after the Battle of Ashdown - just one thousand one hundred and forty one years ago. In the hills memories are long.

The power station in the valley threw up a huge cloud. See the sheep grazing in the shady foreground, on the old turf covering the remains of a Roman temple. Today's edifice throws up a spectacle to stand above the relics of a long-dead empire. And I traversed the Roman road imagining a legion marching towards me: the tramp of the boots, the clink of armour and weapons, their raucous voices and the greeting of their officer to an august traveller. (Well, I'm not going to imagine myself a tramp!)

The sun was low. It was time to turn back towards the trailer. At one point we cast a shadow across a meadow yellow with cowslips. It's not a lofty exciting hill, but it's still attractive in green and yellow. Years ago I used to ride up a hill like that leading trail rides - usually the first day of a week out - stopping to picnic at the top. One of these days I'll pause atop this little local hill with victuals to consume.

We rode into a pretty sunset. Just in time because we would be arriving back at the trailer at twilight and would get to the field with just the faintest glimmer still in the westerly sky. Slithering through the mud in darkness is such fun. A little bit of light just makes the difference. But I did not dwell on logistics. I enjoyed the view across to the golden-fringed pink clouds above pastel fields.

Parallel world

Slipping out between storms we explored the quiet ways of the parallel world out there amidst the chalk hills. An old farm track set off south, heading uphill from a village that has a pub but no shop or post office, then down into a dry valley.

Here the track leads gently downhill. We walked, my eye on an approaching shower. With a little luck it would pass by us to the north - and it did. The field on the right, behind the hedge, belongs to a racing stud. One day I cantered Brena up the track only to notice a group of young Thoroughbreds watching us. They did not move, and I imagined a thought bubble rising from them: "you call that galloping?"

Other tracks converged to join mine. Here's a view looking down into the valley. Many are the times that I have ridden here, and most often I see no-one else. Occasionally a farm worker is out in a field. However the tracks don't lead anywhere in particular, which is why they were never made into asphalt roads. Once, however, I did come across a group of Japanese tourists on foot with a map. They seemed to know where they were going.

Then we plunged into the tangled woodland that lines the valley bottom, an old coppice wood of spindly willows and whatever else can survive the dense vegetation and dry soil. For this is a chalk valley and there is no surface water. The surface remains just a little damp after two days and nights of hard storms. Once the villagers would have come here to cut osier for baskets and hurdles. But no more, alas, and probably the craft ceased to have commercial value half a century ago.

Here's a coppice tree that has just grown and grown. This one looks like recent growth that has been cut back - it may have begun to obstruct the trail - then thrown up a flurry of shoots. Caught at the right diameter, cut and trimmed nicely these make great riding crops. See how bright the foliage blooms after all that rain.

Away into the distance the trail led, rough and hoary. If Hobbits or Dwarves had appeared I might not have been terribly surprised. Tolkien was a local man after all. This is a place where the imagination can run wild, at least in a certain general direction. And very often it does just that. Like Aragorn I should be riding in long supple boots and a travel-worn green cloak.

Emerging onto an arable plateau at the valley head I gazed across a stormy vista. Grey sheets of rain swept across a sodden land. Wind gusted in mockery of man and beast, threatening a soaking. However I was not alarmed. My raincoat was tied across the front of Brena's saddle whilst she is quite waterproof. And a rainy day does make for undisturbed riding. A few gusts, a little rain, and the day-trippers scatter back to town.

Back on the ridge storm clouds sped past, a dark contrast to the bright canola fields and the righ green chalk-land grass. Now, the ride over, sun graced our stopping point. There was no more need to wield the mailed fist of storm, rain sheet and thunder. Brena and I had regained our transport and mobile shelter. "But look," the sky told me, "your parallel world can be a wild place. It will be just whenever I choose. You are the guest who treads these trails by nature's grace and favour."

Over the northerly vale a temporary blue sky smiled down, knowing full well that another downpour would follow a couple of hours later. But for now we basked in the sun here on the very fringe of our parallel world. Here mystery ended and modernity began, a surprisingly sharp division. Is that why most people who park here don't go a mile from the safety of their cars? True, a few ride bicycles or motorcycles off the beaten track, however speed and machinery tend to favour a certain blindness.

Here on the fringe we relaxed. Brena grazed. I drank coffee and lay in the grass. How much longer could I postpone our return to the busy modern world? At least until the next bank of dark clouds drew close.

Atmospheric evening

The clouds drew aside after a day of rain providing an atmospheric evening on which to ride.

Behind the hill the power station sent up vapours into the damp air like the smoke of a lingering volcano.

A hint of rainbow graced the retreating tail of a sharp shower that I had avoided riding through.

In the midst of all that atmosphere and (power station excepted) natural beauty I rode a filthy horse. She must have rolled minutes before I came to fetch her, and was thoroughly wet and muddy.

My muddy companion carried me into a fresh world of damp grass and wet woods, a fragrant land of emerging spring smells. Everywhere growth was apace, crops becoming tall and blossom like snow on the hawthorn. Burgeoning vegetation made the trackway seem narrower. Thus are Spring rides after April showers.

Brena was quite lively in the cool air with the going good. Two days of rain had softened the hard ground. A couple of times I felt a foot slip beneath us. As each occasion happened at a gallop the sensation interested me more than usual. A patch of wet chalk can be greasy. But no harm was done.

As the sun went down the country took on a mysterious quantity, broad fields and belts of trees silent beneath a fractured and changeable sky. Far away thunderclouds loomed. It's a long time since I slept out on the edge of the Russian steppe watching the soundless flashes of distant thunderclouds reflected on high cirrus clouds. Those storms must have been a hundred miles away. I think of them each time I see a thundercloud away towards the horizon at evening.

Brena looked all about. There is much to interest an inquisitive horse: crows, hares, dog-walkers and the occasional far-off car. My goodness, there are things more interesting than grazing.

As if to reward us an owl appeared. Though it was not dark the little predator circled the trailer than hovered for perhaps half a minute just twenty yards from me perhaps ten feet up. I saw clearly the characteristic flat white face and the speckled brown and grey markings of his wings and body. Then, as if without a care in the world, he flapped away to hunt behind a hedgerow. Never before has I seen an owl so close for more than a fleeting second.  

Easy exploration of racing country

There is quite a contrast between Thoroughbreds training on the gallops and my slow, thoughtful exploration of the countryside. A contrast in speed, of course. A focus on the immediate rather than a broad sweep of time. A concern with winning rather than simply being. But, for all that, we all work with horses on one level or another.

Eight racehorses set off in pairs along a distant gallop, heading for the trainer in his car. (Does he check their performance with a speed gun like a traffic policeman?) In contrast I set off on Brena accompanied by D on her bicycle, its first rural outing. I had chosen a circular route that is reasonably flat and offers an acceptable surface for cycling.

At one point the grassy riding track paralleled the farm track that D cycled along. I could canter Brena ahead then stop to take photos. Brena seemed to sense a little competition and was keen to surge ahead, cantering eagerly until the effort became apparent after a quarter mile or so. Then a pang of hunger. That grass looks so tasty!

There are always new things to see. Until today I hadn't noticed how this clump of trees is perched atop a neolithic burial mound. There it is on an inverted saucer of chalky soil.

These mounds dot the landscape around here. Those who farmed this land from antiquity allowed the mounds to remain, whether out of respect or because it was just too much effort to flatten the ground. Or perhaps this land was untilled pasture until recently?

Then on, adding a slight hill for D's benefit. She does need to get fit. However it might be mildly annoying to see Brena carrying me up the hill at a good canter, then stopping to graze whilst she catches up. Horses are quicker than bicycles uphill.

On return to the barn I liberated Brena to do as she pleased in the field. Of course that meant a good roll.

A pleasing roll demands a vigorous shake. So we were all satisfied. I was happy that the trip had gone well. For a while D and I have harboured the idea that we might make trips together by horse and bicycle. Today, on fair terrain and in good weather, the prototype functioned. Brena got to canter whilst the circuit was not excessively tiring for D.

There is always the matter that ideal terrain for horses and bicycles differs. These trips will tend to follow a common route where one or the other is in the lead, with frequent overtaking. However it's not a race. A little waiting doesn't hurt. Some careful planning on my part will keep waiting to a minimum.

A lot of cycling is done around here. Therefore many trails include a narrow strip of earth compacted by the passage of many narrow tyres. That makes for easy summer cycling, and a grim sticky time in wet weather. However I doubt D is planning to come out unless the sun is shining and the ground is dry.

Still, now that I can share my riding trips, I am looking forward to the long dry months ahead.

Ancestors lived here

Silent and mysterious, Segsbury camp lies abandoned on the ridge. A circular chalk rampart nibbled by sheep, it sits incongruous between modern fields. But its organic smoothness, its curves and the very material from which it is made, the camp fits into the rolling hills. Three thousand years old, it might still have been tenuously occupied when the Romans arrived in 43AD. By then its glory days as a centre for tribal agriculture and commerce seem to have passed: so the archaeologists tell us.

Past the camp I rode, another traveller on horseback, a speck upon the long history of this place. But at least I think about that history and wonder. Mostly one can just speculate and wonder. On a quiet day the traveller might stop here, imagining himself or herself a final inhabitant of the place. The group walking, the farmer in his tractor, they might represent the first trudging Roman legion confident in its superiority. Like horses through all antiquity Brena would nibble the grass. Only unlike most of her historical predecessors she's more of a family member than a chattel. And I look at that rampart as a place to take in the view or to sit in the sun rather than a final defence against neighbours. Sic transit gloria mundi. But sometimes the mundane isn''t such a bad thing.

Grazing upon memories

The sheep upon the hill-fort graze upon the memories of millennia.

For nearly three thousand years these concentric chalk ramparts have stood above the vale, in their organic simplicity surmounting rather than dominating. For a few centuries people lived here, then abandoned their home to shepherds and drovers. Invading Romans found the fort empty and disused, and passed by.

Here it is today. Abandoned to shepherds.....and to dreamers. Thomas Hardy knew this spot on the far north fringe of Wessex. Tolkien too was familiar with Uffington castle. It is Weathertop and stands not far from the Barrow Downs - the final photo in this post was taken in their midst. If you had seen the fort on a dark thundery night as I have, each blast of lightning silhouetting those ramparts, you too might have thought of Gandalf fighting off the Ringwraiths.

The sheep graze upon memories, and also upon the imaginations of dreamers both famous and humble.

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.