White Horse Pilgrim

Exploring lanes

We took a fresh trail today. A new way across familiar hills, deep amidst the parallel world that mirrors and avoids the motor roads. It's always fun to do this, exploring the chalk hills from a different perspective. Today I committed a section of map to memory and set off. It's easy to do if one has a feel for topography. 

It was a pleasure to canter up short rises, Brena responding as if to my thoughts. What a splendid partnership! I felt really out there in the moment, living life by the second. We were travelling, covering ground, responding to surface and terrain. I watched the passage of meadow, crop and wood, saw the broad changing sky, and noticed hovering hawk and soaring kite. For an hour or two we were almost at one with the land through which we travelled. Almost. But, if not exactly a part of the landscape - for neither am I a farmer nor Brena a plough-horse - we are benign. I understand. She does no harm. I love and care. We are both descendants of those who worked the land. This land and other hills perhaps a little like them. 

As I rode, I thought of how familiar riding has again become. More rides, more hours in the saddle and it's as familiar as walking down the road or across the office. Riding is comfortable, straightforward, and nothing about it causes alarm. I feel as if Brena and I can face nearly every circumstance. We are a partnership. Together we could go on for very many miles. No, Brena is not perfect. She snatches at vegetation, that is her principal weakness. As faults go it's safe. Nor am I perfect as a rider, not absolutely balanced thanks to my back and hip joints. At least I think about this as I am riding, trying to inconvenience her as little as possible. However, imperfections notwithstanding, she and I do look after one-another. 

Travelling

I'm back from a business trip to assess graduates on a company training scheme, a night away followed by an intensive day of interviews and presentations. Now I've encountered the term Generation Y, which seems to sum up well the young people who I reviewed. With inflated views of their value, brash demands for advancement, easily bored and less spiritual than their predecessors, they do not fill me with joy. Yes, I can recognise the demographic that displays next to no interest in the bluebell woods and the quiet lanes. 

It will be refreshing to get out with Brena in the morning. I'll be hiding, of course, savouring a still point in the turning world. Just as in exile I'll be seeking places unspoiled. Fortunately we still have plenty of these. The green trackways will reach out to embrace us, as they do week after week. 

Life has become a pilgrimage. A succession of secular pilgrimages in the sense that I am seeking a goal that isn’t a shrine or some other religious place. But each has a spiritual dimension. Each is about growth, and that is spiritual for man is made in the image of God. To be more fully human is to draw closer to God. I am travelling and struggling in order to develop faculties that are weak or stunted. At some level necessarily that journey must be hard. If I has gone to hear Joan Baez ten miles away in Oxford, that would have been too easy. (Though it would have been nice to have known about the concert!) The trip must be long enough to be significant. It must add gravitas to the experience, involving difficulty, perseverance, even sacrifice. July's trip will take me to Nuremburg, six hundred miles each way. That is sufficient to enhance expectation and indeed the very meaning of the trip. 

Leaves that are green

Leaves that are green will turn brown, Paul Simon wrote. But not if Brena can eat them first. These leaves were being devoured at quite a rate. Beech leaves seem especially palatable to horses, though Doru was also partial to Horse Chestnut leaves. Yes, this is a fine time for horses: vegetation flourishing in the sunshine after all that rain. And a time for the rider of such a horse as mine to remain vigilant. That mare can drop her head with lightning speed. 

Life circles around laying to rest harmful myths. A small one was the belief that Brena would buck when transitioning to a canter. For a while there was a nagging fear in the back of my mind that she would put in a respectable buck and remove me. It happened once in the arena, a place that I tend to avoid. But in the end I needed to go out and canter her. There was a little high-spiritedness at times that might have been taken for a small buck. But nothing mean or unsafe. Cantering became fun again. 

A much older and deeper myth came from school. Back then music was a compulsory subject up to around the age of fourteen. A number of us were told by our music teacher that we were devoid of talent. We were ordered to mouth the words when the class had to sing, and made to keep our hands away from the school's musical instruments. 

A desire to sing or play isn't just a matter of having some fun with friends. It's also about tearing down the barrier established by a couple of lazy thoughtless teachers. I don't need their blight upon my life. Enough damage has been done. It's not as if that school wrecked my life. Pity the children who left semi-literate or barely numerate because "lack of talent" justified a lack of investment in their growth. But that school sowed a doubt in my mind, locked a door and told me that worthless things lay behind. Now it's time to insert the key, turn and push. I hope that a new teacher will have something encouraging to say. 

The broad plains spread out below, green and soothing, encouraging a foundation of tranquility. That's the true backdrop to my life, more than the office or work or former exile. It's the hills that I return to. A little time up there and I am ready for the next challenge. Looking down on a timeless sea of green, upon an ages-old canopy, I reflect that the big challenge is an ancient one. As a friend put it, to become more of a Renaissance character. (I don't mean dressing up for a Renaissance Fair. Please no!) No, it's about become broad in knowledge, skill and enthusiasm. Being an engineer and having artistic proficiency. Managing processes and being creative. This is a whole new trail to explore. A new land to ride around. It's exciting. Leaves that are brown can turn green. 

Welcome

It is a pleasure when ones clean happy horse trots down the field in energetic welcome. It's not just a carrot that she wants, but attention: her head scratched, her flanks stroked. And soon we'll be riding again. Tomorrow my saddle will be returned, suitably re-stuffed. 

Today I ordered the tickets for my July trip. I'm excited to be making a long train trip, and to be going to a much-anticipated concert. I've not done anything quite that mad for a while. Well, once the tickets are safe in my wallet, I'll have to sit on my hands for a bit. I'm itching to go. 

I've just provided the definitive text of The Riding Holiday Manual to the publisher as a pdf. Of course D found one remaining typo on the one page she looked at. Well, that's why it would have helped if more than one person had proof read the book. But overall it's pretty well checked over. I've just had my eyes tested, only to learn that my eyes have changed so much in a year that I need new glasses.....all that writing and editing! 

Through the ages people looked far, seeking friend and foe, hazard and prey. This close work isn't what we were meant to do. The learning and creating are welcome, of course. But I'm not using my body according to the original operating instructions. 

And the esoteric thread continues. I dreamt last night of receiving news that someone from my past had died, perhaps a little while ago and somewhere foreign. I did not seem to be upset, but was concerned to arrange a memorial upon the earth. It proved difficult to obtain good stone, however eventually two slabs of rough red granite were produced. For some reason these seemed perfect. Was I dreaming about my unknown birth mother having died? A metaphorical death, my unconscious simply telling me that now she is less important. I am creating myself, at last, shrugging off definition by her (or her absence) and by anyone else not of my choice. Dependence is dying, and I am seeking a suitable epitaph to put across her resting place. A good solid stone to walk away from, duty done. A stone that will stay put. It must be a metaphor as I pictured no-one dead nor fresh earth upon a grave. A solid fixed memorial, like the stones and mounds scattered across my familiar hills. Something to remember, but not be bound by. It's a strange but enlightening world where dreams drift. 

 

A walk for music

I travelled an hour and a half by train then walked an hour, all to stay in a medieval building for the enjoyment of an evening of music. I climbed a chalk hill via a narrow track, another part of the great raised-up sea bed that forms our southern uplands.

Upon the crest, a little tired, sweaty and glad that the hardest part was over, I met a glade of bluebells. Fresh and bright after the rain, thickly and confidently they carpeted the forest floor. 

An evening of music and song with friends was welcome, indeed most of the night too. The final few retired for slumber only upon the cool fringe of the silent hour before dawn.

I'd love to be able to sing or play. I've been coming to this cottage, on and off, for a quarter century. There's music here several times a year: it used to be monthly. It's lovely to listen, but I feel as if I've been taking for a very long time. I wonder how difficult it would be to learn to sing or play? Behind that is a simple question: do I have the necessary talent? And the observation that it might be a little selfish to want to be seen writing and making music. (But the last of these might just be the maiming whisper of a troublesome Shadow. Of that voice I am suspicious.) Well, we shall see. Life is there to be grasped. 

The final print of The Riding Holiday Handbook has been produced in the form of a 75Mb pdf. That just needs to be converted to grey-scale and uploaded to the printer's website. It'll take a day, I hope, not more. Then the book can be put on sale, officially and conclusively. Four years of work complete. The marketing falls to my co-author.

One more job out of the way. More time for my live writing projects, the ones that enthuse me and nag when I'm ignoring them, suggest tweaks to plot-lines and new ideas. Characters tug at my sleeve (or shout, some of them) to be included in the next volume. Good: I'm fond of them. 

Progress

Today I got to see my horses unrugged. Not all the mud has gone, but it's warm and dry.

I didn't ride as my saddle is away for maintenance. I attended a music festival instead. 

I've managed to persuade Typepad to post photos again, but only by changing browser.

This has not been the only problem with Typepad. Several readers have had trouble posting, a frustrating matter of comments being deleted and so on. A recent upgrade to that site seems to clash with Internet Explorer. For me it's working adequately on Google Chrome. 

Plans are crystallising for a trip to Nurnberg, Germany in a couple of months to attend a concert and visit some museums. It was to have been Koln sooner however tickets weren't available. That's something to look forward to. It's exciting to engage so energetically with life. 

 

Living life

One of my neighbours has a car bearing a sticker reading "One Life. Live It." In his case this seems to involve driving a chunky 4WD and going fishing. After all the rain we've had lately probably one does need a 4WD to reach the fishing lake, which lies in a hollow below the barn.

This evening was sunny, for a change. I walked the dogs with D rather than riding, as Brena's saddle is away for a couple of days for reflocking. It was beginning to get out of adjustment thanks to a lot of riding and a horse that is muscling up at least a little.

Tomorrow I'll be away for a folk music session. I don't play but I love to listen. A part of living life.

Living life includes catching up on experiences missed earlier. Things missed through almost a decade living in the wilderness. I did so live out in the sticks. Events missed because I simply didn't know that they happened. Like the local premiers of the Lord of the Rings films. Concerts missed because a repressed upbringing closed my mind. Artists I hadn't heard of until just now. Suddenly life has become quite a rush. Lots to do, not enough time. Discovery, fascination, joy, enlightenment, goodness.

Lately life has included hearing about a couple of concerts just too late to attend. That really annoyed me. Like, pissed all weekend, and can't readily shake off the frustration and ennui. The performers concerned aren't likely to appear in Britain again any time soon. Like once every three or four years, judging by past schedules. That's a long time to wait.

So, living life properly - with a lot of enthusiasm and a bit of craziness - might just involve jumping onto an international train to enjoy a concert in a neighbouring country. Well, why not? Yes, this is a bit silly. It may not be cheap. It's the kind of spur-of-the-moment thing that makes life fun. It's a way towards unforgettable events. Isn't life supposed to be like that? Just sometimes.

And, hey, the lady who trims Brena's feet flew from Britain to the US for one concert because a band she liked steadfastly failed to come here. (Well, until a few months after she travelled. When they changed their minds and crossed the pond. Life can be like that as well.)

For some reason Typepad won't let me post pictures today. A pity. I had chosen a nice one.

 

Environments

More wet weather swept across. This evening two ducks joined Doru in his pasture. Wish I'd taken my camera.

Oh, and we had a tornado locally. This will make readers in the Midwest laugh. It tore down a tree. Unaided.

There's the power station busy in the cool weather. Usually I'd expect it to be on standby in summer.

I was thinking about Horse Ideology's comments on a previous post. I'm just making my final check of The Riding Holiday Centre Handbook - how long a detailed proof read can take - and recalled taking one particular lady on a week-long trail. The peculiar circumstance is that she'd suffered polio as a child so rode sidesaddle. She brought her own sidesaddle and rode one of my driving horses. It's only now that I realise just how difficult it must have been for her to find a riding holiday that would take her. Yes, maybe I did provide my guests with a special and sometimes eye-opening trip.

Another time I encouraged a lady who suffered from a fear of heights around a mountain trail. (No, I don't know why she booked!) But I got her around and she left a happier and more confident rider.

And then these people left and I never saw them again. They are memories, no more. Perhaps I'm more than a memory to them, however? They took something away, the opportunity to grow that they grasped and applied.

Now here, safe and stable, I can have friends again. Friends who are not neighbours depending on my business for a part of their income. I was happy helping the peasants around me to make a better living, but it strained the relationship and added further stress to my life. What I earned ended up spread wafer-thin. Yes, friends to ride with, laugh with and share serious moments with too. Friends who are educated and cultured. Friends who are fun. In a way I have exchanged exile in the mountains for life.

Letting go

I've just sold one of my three good saddles. It's the narrowest of the three, formerly used on an Arabian, and is nowhere near fitting Brena. Tomorrow a courier will take it to a new home for a fresh and busy life. That's another piece of my old life gone. I'm glad. It will be well used where it's going, which is better than being wasted here unused and useless.

Google satellite has updated its images of the village where I spent eight years in exile. Now I can see that my former home has been wrecked, much of the roof ripped off, the grounds derelict. It was a large house with spacious barns, carefully planned, and now looted to pieces. I wasn't happy to see that picture. Better that someone - anyone - had moved in to make some use of the place.

The boat that carried me across the river beyond exile has been sunk. The far bank of eight years sojourn is in chaos, my former home taken by a whirlwind. There is no further need to dream of that place. It's gone, past, out of sight. From the point of view of those left out there, it might as well never have existed. The benefits of those eight years I carry within me: wisdom and memories. Knowledge and lessons were available to all, but only I made the effort to assimilate them. How wasteful and peculiar is that?

Now I'm glad to be away. If the legacy of my business isn't valued where I lived, better not to be there or waste too much more time thinking about it. Today I'm in a place where fresh growth is taking place, indeed at a pace that surprises and thrills me. The stimuli are here and the challenges, the wise mentor too, plenty of material to study, and a measure of security.

I'm going through that last painstaking trawl of The Riding Holiday Centre Handbook. Back when I operated that kind of a business there wasn't the remotest possibility of me writing about it. Now I can record a couple of hundred pages of wisdom that will benefits others further back on that tough trail. I've received some very helpful and encouraging professional feedback on my embryonic novel, Spirit Horse. It's nearly there, just needs one more thoughtful rewrite. I've begun the second part of that trilogy, and the third is sketched in outline. I do look forward to all that writing. No, I wouldn't have ended up writing more than blog posts in exile. What a change four years of engagement have brought.

I don't regret exile. I've just let go of exile after it served its purpose. It never promised to celebrate me, just to let me live there awhile: and that was generous enough. Those years in Transylvania helped form me into what I am today. They gave me a clean break with the past. And what a foundation they provided. How they blew the dust and cobwebs away to show me just what determination and versatility I can demonstrate in time of need. I'm sorry not to have left more of a legacy where I lived. But any legacy needs a willing receiver. Anyway lessons tend to be transferable. Hence The Riding Holiday Centre Handbook. If the soil isn't fertile in one place, it may prove bountiful in another. Someone, somewhere will take a seed, nurture it and see a lovely plant grow. I'm looking forward to that.

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.