White Horse Pilgrim

Attraction

Magnetically the cats are drawn to my office, where one lies awash with contentment merely to be admitted to such hallowed ground, yet another must climb upon me in ratification of his superiority. What happy lives, always finding interest and comfort, pens and paper-clips to hunt, places to become centre of attention or doze. Or indeed places where, languidly ensconsed, a cat may both doze and yet remain the focal point of human fascination.

That, of course, exposes the doom of a friendly and pretty cat. Forever such a beast tries to rest, and yet is stroked, petted and picked up. But I do not think that our three felines mind very much. Plentiful are the hours available for slumber whilst Danielle and I are out at work. A glimpse at the energetic night-craziness of the small creatures is evidence enough that their day-time hours are spent unrestrainedly in restful repose. And now our better insulated house is cozier for people and pets.

I visited Doru in the last horizontal rays of golden sunshine, enjoying the wake of a cold front that left cool clear air and a blue sky scattered with fractured fragments of cloud. We rode a little, and I relaxed into my deep comfortable saddle, feeling at one with the big stallion. The malaise of the previous autumn is cast off, and again riding is simple and natural as walking down the road. It seems so normal to be up there riding a good horse, he and I eager and curious about our surroundings. A few miles in the saddle, some sunshine, a little quiet, and life seems all the brighter. A cloak of timelessness is upon me, and I am at one with those who wandered these hills over millennia. No longer does technology separate us, neither speed nor glass distance me from the Downlands and their memories. I fell to thinking, and wondered at the Norsemen who flew the Raven Banner. Then I caught myself reflecting that Canute the Great wielded a Raven Banner, and that was "quite recently" in the year 1016. So, the writing of Downlanders, which is set in a time not "recent" - the early sixth century - has imposed a curious sense of chronology upon me. But I returned home refreshed, with new ideas for my book, and was able to write creatively. The dialogue between my heroine and three equestrian nomad teenagers came readily, and she showed them mercy for an indiscretion, surprising her band of companions. But through this she learns that the ethereal meadow-daughter chose her new name, and that unbeknown to her a great favour was granted by one she thought aloof. The story bounds on: and all that from a bright rays of a setting sun upon a dreamy ride pondering a Danish warrior's flag.

Two years ago - part 2

Two years ago last weekend four new carriages were delivered to my Transylvanian farm. It was supposed to be the beginning of a carriage driving holiday venture. As longer-standing readers know, a change in the law out there rendered that business no longer viable. Shortly afterwards my health and that of the global economy dictated a move back to the West, where I resumed my former employment as a railway engineer - with a few backward glances but little deep regret.

However a couple of carriages came westward too, and now sit in my garage. One, like that pictured, will shortly go to join Pintea at his new home a few miles away. The other, an older vehicle (probably built in the 1930's, but fitted with modern wheels) requires some restoration of the steel parts (chieflly straightening a turntable bent by many miles on rough roads) and a repaint, and forms a project for my leisure time.

There were four new carriages in total, plus two older vehicles used for purely local journeys. All were fitted with good spring steel suspensions and hydraulic disc brakes, so were well suited to rough roads and steep terrain. Two newer carriages and one older were sold with the ill-fated foursome of Gelu, Tudor, Olga and Luciana. Probably those carriages are by now ruined through standing outside unsheltered; or perhaps they too were stolen? The last, a big four-wheeled wagonette, was wrecked even more quickly. I had sold it to an expatriate who likewise wished to offer riding holidays. He in turn employed a drunken fool (probably the local unemployable, for a peasant short of work warrants suspicion and a drunkard should never be employed) who beat the horses until they bolted, overturning the carriage which was smashed (and so nearly were two English passengers.)

So the two remaining carriages are survivors. I am looking forward to seeing Pintea pulling the smaller, and to restoring the larger four-wheeler so that Doru and I can go away on driving trips.

Two years ago

Seeing the tractors and combine harvesters at work in the wide fields around here heightens the contrast with the very different world that I left behind just sixteen months ago.

Two years ago this week I led a ride amidst a flurry of hay-making and rick-building. Up here in the high Carpathians there were no tractors or balers, no plastic-wrapped silage - just people at work with hand tools and a lot of fresh fragrant loose hay.

Helpers on the ground forked hay up to the most skilled who arranged the rising rick around a central pole. This work needed to be done well in order that the rick was stable and shaped to shed rain and snow. When the rick was complete, the builder would slide down the outside to land on the turf below. Then the outermost hay would be raked to point down so that, as on a thatched roof, rain ran off rather than pentrate. A well-made rick would be good for three or four years, providing insurance against drought.

Practically every scrap of grass in this view, near and far, was cut by scythe. Every bit of hay was turned by hand. Hard work that life certainly was, and yet the people of that community were happy and satisfied until advertisers dangled plentiful shiny consumer goods in front of them and banks inundated them with offers of credit.

New home

As morning advanced, we made our way with both joy and trepidation in our hearts. For this was the moment to move Doru, and to escape with our gear from that barn where our lives had been made so needlessly miserable.

I prepared the great roan stallion and rode away, up onto the ancient Ridgeway, turning eastward. Steadily we rode, a speck slowly moving along the crest of a grassy chalk wave.

On a little, and our goal became clear. There it is, in the middle distance, at the foot of the sunlit hill. There, in a light spot, below Churn Hill where Saint Birinius preached, in the lee of Thorndown where King Alfred led the defeat of the Norsemen. That is Doru's new home, where he will live in the care of good people, history and spirituality washing over him.

The contrast was reinforced by the rudeness of the barn manager (and family) at the old place when we returned by vehicle to collect my gear. One would have thought that Doru's departure was a calculated personal slight rather than an expression of customer choice. Well, all that is over now.

Quickly Doru settled in, without noise of fuss. And why make any trouble when that would merely waste valuable eating time?

Or indeed marking his new territory? That cannot be left to chance!

Here Doru will stay outside 24 hours a day through the summer unless the weather is vile. Much better than staying confined in a box. I am sure that he will be less stiff.

Plus, someone did comment that, at unhappy barns, horses just go wrong more often. That is behind us now.

I paid Doru an evening visit, where he made it clear that he ought to come in. "Forgetful owner", he seemed to say, "where is my hay net and my bowl of feed? Do I not come in now and eat?" But I replied: "No, you have your dinner all about you, as you well knew before uttering a word." Then Doru commented: "Perhaps I may nip you because I am a large and important horse", and I told him that no he wouldn't, his new dwelling was better, this was nice grass, and being outside was healthier than standing for most for the day in a small box. He stumped off to add to the dung pile, incidentally (though he would not acknowledge it) confirming that a steady supply of food was passing his lips.

Back home

I'm just back from a three day training course. Whilst the work was not more onerous than Project Safety Management needs to be, and the hotel was comfortable and offered good and plentiful food, I am glad to be back home.

Doru meanwhile enjoyed some sunny days out in the field. He has a pleasant daytime environment to wander and graze. Pleasant enough that when the landowner left the gate open one day recently, Doru stayed inside. (Incidentally, that is not my house in the background - I live in a humbler abode.)

It's only a couple of days until the weekend when I can ride, and indeed do some exercise to combat the effects of three days enjoying good and plentiful food.

Easy to catch

The horses are easy to catch. Of course, as the sun sinks towards the horizon, they never are far from the gate. Nor do they forget that pockets can contain carrots and often do.

It seems that I catch other things easily. The latest is responsibility for night-time surveys along a section of railway. I don't have to go out on site, however the phone rings at 4am some mornings to report that work has safely been completed. Usually this happens at weekends. I should like to report that I then go and clean the stables and ride, however I do need my sleep.

It still is a pleasure to visit the horses each weekday evening, when I clean their boxes, groom them, prepare their feeds, and occasionally ride in the indoor school.

For D and I, riding indoors is rather an alien experience. However we are grateful for a dry, well lit place to ride when all is dark and dismal outside. Every ride out of doors is, to some degree, a training ride. However some schooling in the arena is a good thing, sharpening up both he and I. It allows concentration on precision (rather than, I suppose, simply lurching through the countryside!)  

Winter walk

The two horses spend each day in a field a quarter mile up the road from the barn. This evening, after a pleasant Boxing Day lunch with Danielle and my mother at a country pub a couple of miles away, I brought them back to the barn.

D is the larger of the two, however he is walking with his head quite low so he appears shorter than the grey P. Meanwhile P has managed to get rather dirty rolling in the field, though it is by no means a muddy field.

The two are a little competitive. However, walking between them, I can keep them in order. It pays to remain alert and be assertive with these two, after all D is a stallion and P a fairly high-ranking gelding. Whilst this places them relatively close in hierarchy terms, therefore one does not bully the other in the field, they can try to trade nips at close quarters. Part of my job leading them is to make sure that nipping does not break out. If D cannot reach P, it is not unknown for him to attempt a playful nip to my arm, and that is something else that I am alert for. Indeed assertiveness is a useful character trait when handling these large beasts.

The road is rather narrow. If a vehicle comes, I can hold P back whilst D walks ahead at the end of his long lead rope, so that effectively the two horses walk in single file. Generally I would not position them the other way round as D might well try to bite P's bottom. Whilst this is a public road, it is used by a lot of horse traffic and drivers are local people, so no-one seems to drive too fast.

My office

Now that I have gathered my tack from the four corners of my little equestrian world - the barn, a storage facility, the garage and the truck - my office is nearly full. It is difficult to photograph a small space with any degree of completeness, however here is a view of the crowded northern corner.

My chair is cozy with two Transylvanian sheepskins covering it. Danielle says that they smell. Well, they will do, previously I used them in place of saddle blankets. (OK, I have washed them since then!) I'm tempted to take another to work for my chair there.

The chest is Transylvanian too, and has the date 1890 painted inside the lid in the large letters of someone not overly familiar with writing. That makes it a Habsburg chest, a relic from a wild wonderful world that had not yet been disturbed by two world wars.

As for having seven saddles for two horses, well I am trying to sell two of the saddles.

Books are everywhere, and why not? As well as horse books, there is a copy of Herodotus' The Histories on top. Close by his work lies his near-neighbour Xenophon's On Horsemanship, and apositely adjacent a bottle of leather oil.

An excellent Christmas present (out of sight) from Danielle is a CD player. I have been missing music since my old CD player expired, and now I can listen to my small but beautiful classical collection. I started collecting CDs after a painful divorce in 2005, and Tchaikovsky, Dvorak, Brahms et al helped keep me sane through some difficult months. Now they are like friends, familiar, close and trustworthy.

Cultural reverberations

The round of company social events has passed, and I am free from work for a welcome two weeks. I am glad, for I am exhausted. Certainly it has been a contrast to the preceding Christmas. Gone is the slaughtering of pigs, the sleigh rides through snowy twilight, the round of visits to spartan village homes to attain communal inebriation. Instead - recession notwithstanding - car parks are crowded, shops are awash with "Christmas" music, and some neighbours' houses bear so many decorative lights that they probably could be seen from space.

A rare throwback was provided by a Polish colleague, who got sufficiently drunk at the office party to flirt pushily with a director before falling over due to intoxication. Next day she remembered nothing. Where I used to live, that kind of thing was socially quite acceptable - and not just at Christmas!

I am still a curiosity at work, a figure who emerged from the shadowy Carpathian forests, yet has adapted surprisingly well to the world of business. I have come from a place almost beyond their wilder imaginings: a world of peasants, wolves and bears; of mountains, crags and glens where strange, rustic goings on are the norm.

In fact that place bred a useful combination of patience and cunning, tolerance and self-preservation, that are quite useful here too. The skill of identifying and husbanding allies is a useful one, the proverb of kissing the hand one cannot bite a useful lesson in survival. There are hands to kiss; and indeed it is better to bite none, for one never can tell when a favour may be repaid, and likewise an ill gesture.

I miss the snow, lying clean and crisp, though not the struggle to stay warm and maintain a water supply. There were winters when the well ran dry and the stream nearly so beneath the ice too. Nor do I miss the month of liquid mud spread across every road and path before and after the snow. We survived the snow because the pace of life was slow. Here, with the endemic rushing around, scheduled and deadlines, our lives would be crippled rather than brightened by snow. Are we missing something, with our focus on bustle rather than quality, output rather than friendship?

I am reminded of how much sunshine there was shining on the Carpathian lands. This is a greyer place, if warmer and better provided with goods and services. The sunshine was a great bonus. The wilderness was a bonus too, at least the farther parts not strewn with litter by a seemingly blind populace.

It was a curiously socially inclusive place too, at least amongst the peasants, and this diverse writers have observed for the past couple of centuries. As often as not, it helped that the writer - like the narrator of Turgenev's Sketches from a Hunter's Album - was funding much of the merriment. There is a certain earthy, hedonistic pleasure in enjoying a place where intoxication is accepted, indeed welcomed, along with the mirth, gossip and storeytelling that accompany the diverse and palatable fruits of the vine, plum tree and barley field. Indeed, as many a peasant will know, brandy dulls the pangs of an empty stomach and makes a tough life seem bearable.

The world is full of people, though, and most of us are not so very different from one-another. So it was not so strange to drink beer with colleagues in the upstairs saloon of a rather seedy London pub rather than drink beer with peasants in an over-heated rug-strewn village room. And I do have a few tales, the tall and the prosaic, to tell. Sufficient to gather a bit of an audience from time to time, anyway.

Meanwhile D stares at me from a year-old photo, standing on the ice-covered stream by the water hole that had to be cleared twice daily with an axe. See how dark is his winter coat, a rich chocolate shade that he has not quite attained in this temperate new home. His life has become much easier and far more comfortable, indeed it has changed almost beyond recognition. Now he and P, the cats, dogs and a pile of rustic artefacts (these now mere souvenirs) are my last tangible links to that other existance. As for the intangibles: greater strength and wisdom, tenacity and patience are gifts for which I am grateful.  

Thinking about shelter and stabling

I have just transfered D and P back on to straw bedding, from wood pellets. Pelleted bedding had seemed ideal back in the summer. But now, in the midst of a long, damp English winter, the timber-based bedding simply could not be kept dry when used for such a messy horse as D. Even adding two or three times the recommended quantities of fresh bedding was not sufficient to keep up with D's production of bodily products. A mass of perpetually damp bedding could not provide him with a warm, dry place to lie down, so it had to be replaced.

There is, in fact, a fair quantity of dry pelleted bedding remaining in D's stable, packed around the edges providing foundations for the banks. He has got cast in the past, so I think that generous banks are important for him.

It takes me back to our former life, and to a quandry. The horses did, out of necessity, spend most of their lives out of doors in a harsh climate that reached -25C routinely during winter. They kept weight on, getting plenty of hay and growing thick winter coats. Clearly they could withstand the conditions, after all they had a roof to shelter under and did not have to forage for food like wild horses. However, I wonder what effect that lifetsyle had on their longevity?

On one hand, the horses kept active, enjoyed plenty of social interaction, and were spared the ills of a cramped, poorly ventilated barn. (Peasant barns tended to be terribly cramped and ventilation was, as far possible, eliminated. Your average Carpathian peasant has a mortal fear of draughts, to the degree of plugging his ears with cotton wool whenever a breeze blows.) On the other hand, the horses did have to live through very low temperatures that would debilitate or kill any human without specialist winter survival equipment. There were a good many infirm people in that place too, thanks to the cold of the valley and poor housing. I can recall waking up one winter morning to find an arm paralysed by a rheumatic disorder, nor did my back prosper in that place.

So I have a feeling that man's penchant for the harsh and heroic (when applied to other people and animals) has not necessarily done these horses a great deal of good. D certainly appreciates a warm straw bed (though I wish that he would not eat it!), and seems to be spending more time lying down than formerly. Perhaps a comfortable box, with a bed of insulating straw, will increase his health and prolong his life? Barn staff relate that, after a night on a wood pellet bed (whether standing, or lying on the cold, damp bedding), D has been stiff and reluctant to move. (The latter can also result, in his case, from unwillingness to walk away from a place associated with food. I'd be tempted to call this greed, however he lived most of his life in a situation where he worked hard and received just enough food to compensate. I might still be just a bit greedy as a result of unreliable and insufficient meals during four bad years of marriage to a very lazy Transylvanian. But that is another story.)

I recall a very successful horse trainer attributing his success in part to making sure that his horses had comfortable, draught-free stables. That is quite a contrast to the "toughening" regime that I had applied in Transylvania. Mid-way through my sojourn, I had switched from keeping the horses stalled at night to keeping them loose outside. In part the change resulted from shortage of space together with a lack of funds to build a bigger barn, in part from advice by a forceful Californian ex who influenced my life at the time. Certainly stalling wasn't ideal, not least because it limited the horses' ability to lie down to sleep (though I noticed that they could get down and sleep in surprisingly small areas, and I never saw an injury resulting from a sleeping horse having been trodden on.) Moreover, providing adequate ventilation without draughts in a barn with small windows and a low headroom barely over 6' was not really achievable. At the time, I thought that turning the horses out definately was the lesser of two evils. As usual in those days, of course there was not the money to provide the facilities that I thought were appropriate for my horses. (Bear in mind that a quarter of the average riding holiday centre's income is handed over to its sales agents. I paid more each year in commission than my budget for hay and hard feed. As the economy tightens, spare a thought for riding centre owners who are squeezed between what the agents take - a number were even trying to hike commission levels - and falling income from a diminishing number of guests.)

Therefore I would like to think that I am doing D and P a favour by providing them with deep, insulating beds in a draught-free barn. I hope that they will live longer and more healthily as a result. I will control their diets so that they don't over-eat (as both put on weight readily, and neither is used to a high protein diet), and I will keep them barefoot too. Overall, I think that I am refining their care regime towards an optimum, at least amongst the options available to me here.