White Horse Pilgrim

Snow again

It snowed again last night and this morning, taking us all by surprise. 

The horses were all kept in owing to the poor weather and to save the fields from further damage.

It didn't take long to get Brena ready since she came from a dry stable rather than a muddy field.

As we set off the weather closed in. Mist descended and fresh snow swept in. For the first few minutes the overall whiteness was hard on my eyes, even beneath the overcast. As for Brena, she plodded on, slipping a little here and there - and keeping a keen eye out for any vegetation poking through the snowy blanket. 

A little bit of eating did take place. It's a well understood arrangement: I take photos and Brena grazes.

Just a little sun shone through, adding a nice touch to the end of the ride. There, up on the hill, is the village where Brena lives. It's an intriguing landscape positively encouraging engagement. 

These hills just lead the eye onward presenting scenes begging to be explored. Where is that grassy hillside now covered by snow? I can look at a view that has changed little in a century or more, perhaps not for much longer than that. The sheer amount of woodland in particular is redolent of a past age. 

Spring?

The image is an aspiration, a hope....desire. It rained yesterday and all night long, soaking the already damp ground. And today storms swept across the hills, driven by a chill wind. When will this end?

Brena splashed through puddles, hooves slithering.I looked for a nice place to canter but didn't find one with sufficiently firm going. Brena picked her way forward. I weighed whether the drizzle was hard enough yet to put a coat on. This has all become so familiar. It's as if there isn't much else to tell. 

There is more, of course. I've been busy arranging Karen's plans for the summer. That's a dozen accommodations required, meaning research followed by emails and telephone calls. Equestrian businesses aren't the most computer literate so this will become an exercise in cold calling. Still, what a tale to tell - 1,700 miles in horseback - and what an event to be a part of. Sufficient people along the route will be enthusiastic enough to want to help once I tell them. 

All this organising makes me reflect on the equestrian scene over here. For the most part we are a pretty insular bunch, doing our own thing, wanting to be noticed only by our friends. There are few equestrian blogs, just a whole lot of 'look at me' Facebook stuff. It would be nice to be part of a community, but there doesn't seem to be one outside of the hunting scene. A part of me is glad to be able to ride quietly, privately, introspectively: and another part is a little frustrated. It's much like my riding, which has alternated between the poles of solitude and organised groups. Still, now that Brena is based at a proper country barn there are links to be cultivated, and that is a step forward. 

 

Mist and song

Mist and quiet. These are what the weekend brought. Two cool tranquil rides through a landscape almost devoid of people. Soft weather into which trees and hills melted. It was beautiful, melancholy and healing all at once.

Karen mentioned how she misses music out on her long ride, and how she sings to herself on the way. I've been using my rides across the empty fields to practice singing too. I do struggle learning lyrics, which are about the longest narrative I've had to learn by heart - we weren't set to memorise poems at school. However repetition is imprinting a couple of songs. One of my favourites is the Bonny Black Hare. This is a great song to belt out for the fun of it. 

On the fourteenth of May, at the dawn of the day
With me gun on me shoulder to the woods I did stray
In search of some game, if the weather prove fair
To see can I get a shot at the bonny black hare

I met a young girl there with her face like a rose
And her skin was as fair as the lily that grows
I says, my fair maid, why ramble you so
Can you tell me where the bonny black hare do go

The answer she gave me, O, the answer was no
But under me apron they say it do go
And if you'll not deceive me, I vow and declare
We'll both go together to hunt the bonny black hare

Well, you can see where that song is going....

I passed the old barn slowly decaying into the hills. The people who built that barn and used it are gone. Now the mist drifts around crumbling beams. Rain drips through the cracks.

Today it occurred to me that through the old songs I do have a link with the era when that barn mattered, when these tracks were used by farmers and their labourers. It was such a long time ago when the hills were busy, hiring fairs punctuated the years, and sheep were sold in their thousands at great gatherings.Through song I have the sense of a simpler era. It might have been no less tragic than today, no safer, perhaps even more unfair, crueller too. But it was simpler. The certainties were greater, or so it seemed back then. 

I shall try to avoid nostalgic pining for the Edwardian era. However I am reading the late Tony Judt's Thinking the Twentieth Century. It's the book that I've been hungering for, clarifying pre-First World War Middle Europe. Yes, for a few decades there was a peculiar stability across Europe, here too. It seemed as if history had ended. (Didn't it feel like that for a couple of years after the Soviet Bloc fell? How we deceived ourselves!) And then that great unifier, the Austro-Hungarian Empire, fell. Well, no wonder the European project gives such a sense of comfort across great swathes of the continent. For some a distant protector is better than locally-brewed repression. So, I am nostalgic for that long-lost era. And, I think, I am feeling that way principally because of places a thousand miles further east - or, rather, the people that lived there, or might have done so. I am thinking of the intellect which grew up there, and the ideas. I'm thinking of places to the east where I lived and worked amongst the ruins. So I can't consider European history without pangs of loss. Whereas the history of these hills inspires plain curiosity and an awareness that, a century ago, I'd most probably have been toiling rather than reflecting. 

Sometimes it's a lot easier and far jollier to daydream about the Bonny Black Hare....

Journey Europe

The internet has brought me a new and intrepid acquaintance - Karen Hardy. 

Karen and her daughter Olivia are riding from Italy to England, a 1,500 mile, five-month journey, to raise awareness of abandoned and neglected horses. You can read more about their trip here. 

They will be arriving in England at the beginning of July. I'm arranging their route for the final two hundred miles across southern England, ending at the famous Uffington White Horse. 

I am really impressed by Karen and Olivia's courage and energy. They have set off in the snow with three rescue horses, crossing foreign lands where English is by no means universally understood.

They have triumphed over border bureaucracy and succeeded in finding accommodation and new friends. Now the media has picked up on their trip too, and they are becoming adept at being interviewed and filmed. 

Do follow Karen and Olivia via their blog, and please do pass on their address to your friends. 

 

A little adventure

We had a little adventure today. I'm not quite sure how it happened. 

There was a nice gently rising slope with a secure surface, perfect for a gallop. So we set off, Brena accelerating hard as she is accustomed to do. We'd gone a few hundred yards when my right foot lost its support. As I had adopted a forward seat this loss came as a surprise. Had my foot slipped out of the stirrup? No, there it was on my boot, but with the leather dangling. By now Brena was slowing. As a draught-type her gallops tend to be short affairs. I brought her to a controlled stop, jumped down and took a look. The leather had slipped off the bar. Presumably it had worked its way off over time. Or maybe it had been pulled back when I'd handled the tack? Maybe Brena had rubbed her side when tied up at the yard, pulling back the run-up stirrup? I don't know. But I'll check the tack more carefully when I set off in future. 

Anyway it was encouraging in one way. I rode through the problem without it becoming a catastrophe. Brena responded by keeping going straight. Riding at speed without stirrups isn't as hard as I'd thought. 

Everything back in order, we had another gallop a mile further up the trail. After having been pulled up, Brena needed a good run. She loved it, and so did I. 

Creatures

The sunny afternoon brought out a wealth of wildlife. We didn't go far before a herd of deer appeared, grazing on the first shoots of crop. 

I rode quite close to the deer before they began to bunch up, staring at Brena and I. Then, like a single fluid mass, they moved. Slowly at first, pausing to turn and stare, the deer retreated to a more distant vantage point. By the end they were running in close formation. Then, once more content, it was back to grazing. 

A little further and I spotted a buzzard feasting on the remains of a pigeon. I didn't manage to get quite close enough to take a photo before the bird of prey took off to circle warily. Meanwhile a Red Kite circled too looking for its opportunity. Wide field margins left unploughed provide habitat for small rodents that also feed the birds of prey, owls especially. 

There were hares, too, watching warily from the broad fields. Too big for any local birds of prey, distance alone makes the hares feel safe. 

A few fields away more deer grazed. Their numbers seem to be growing. Certainly there is plenty for them to eat and the regular bird-scarers no longer have any effect. There are no predators around here that eat deer, and won't be - wolves really wouldn't fit into the ecology of southern England. 

Riding to escape

I went out to escape. I do not want to read any more news stories about the horse-meat scandal. Not today. I do not want to read about how importers and retailers are blaming consumers, government, schools - anyone but themselves. Though one might argue that individual consumers might become more 'politically active' - now there's an old-fashioned term!

And I do not need to hear from any more Romanians trying to tell me that 'no horses were ever maltreated in their country' and that anyway 'the horse-meat their country exported was all of great quality' (or that 'no horse-meat was exported').

With my own eyes I have seen the gangs that round up horses out there for slaughter. I knew people whose horses vanished in the night. And I have spoken to people who worked in slaughterhouses. No, I do not need assh*les telling me that I must have imagined it all. 

No, on a Sunday I don't need to hear from the butt-end of humanity.

So we had a nice quiet ride out on a sunny day.

Here the trail is going uphill from the bottom of a dry valley. It's a good place to have a little canter. Then it was into the woods where a flurry of deer ran across in front of us. 

The blue sky and sun were so welcome after grey rainy days and too many hours indoors. At last the sun warmed my face and I could gaze across to a sharp distant horizon. 

Away from the roads this landscape feels timeless. Of course I know that it isn't. A few generations ago there would have been more people out here tending animals, gathering firewood or simply travelling between hamlets. The noise of a motor would have been a rarity, but this trail would have been busier. I'd have needed to be wealthy to own a riding horse, or to have been a farmer. 

Yes, it's good to dream. 

I started to write that I'd experienced a rural society that depended on horses. And so I had, but was England like that? I wonder. I don't read much about cruelty to animals in Thomas Hardy's works, for instance, though he could be open enough about the raw truths of human failings. (There is an incident in Jude the Obscure where the protagonist castigates a carter who is rough on his horse.) 

These past few days have confirmed just how right it was for me to have left Transylvania. I am too sensitive to cruelty and insufficiently tolerant of deceit. It's a strange part of the world though. I fluctuate between nostalgia for the good times up in the mountains and something else. What is that? Well, some mixture of frustration at the corruption, annoyance at the liberties taken, anger at the cruelty and sheer fatigue. Yes, fatigue at the toll those emotions wrought. Exhaustion at the mental gymnastics necessary to suppress enough of the negative that I could live there with a moderately clear conscience. Feeling dirty knowing that I had sold out morally by tolerating all that went on around me, tacitly giving it all my seal of approval. I don't need this toxic legacy, and I don't like the way in which its tentacles reach out for me. 

As for Jude the Obscure, here we are entering his home village, Marygreen. It's called Fawley in real life. Hardy describes the village in detail. One day I'll go around Fawley on foot and work out where Hardy places the homes of the various characters. Nowadays it's a pretty little village on a dead-end road surrounded by fields. I can ride around here focusing on that which is bright, picturesque and lovely. 

On the way back we found a couple of nice places to gallop. The raw experience of a horse willingly flinging itself across the turf in a burst of exuberance is a fine way to banish all other thought. It's as if Brena and I come to a common understanding in harmony. Each of us wants to cross that field rapidly, the wind whistling past our ears, and she is happy to carry me. The immediacy of a fresh strong reality is enough to take my mind off the world. 

Now, back to a week at work. There are reports to read and make recommendations on, a new starter to train, a presentation to prepare for a director, and a programme of works to review. All ways to make a difference for the better. I'm glad for that. Being able to do something positive through my work is a powerful motivator. I can't carry the world's worries on my shoulders, nor - as I have discovered - even a single concern of just one small nation. 

 

A little excitement

I was excited to see the crocuses in my garden. The beginning of spring, at last. I didn't notice the crocuses until I went to live in Transylvania. After a really long winter the first colourful flowers were a joy, and so prolific too. 

Then I took Brena out. There was a hint of sun, the ground was drying out - how pleasant! Off we went, through the village and onto the old road that is now a dirt track between hedges. A tree was down so we scrambled up through the bushes and took the field margin for a short distance. Then it was back to the trail, a few strides slithering down a muddy slope. Time to sit back and give Brena a loose rein. 

Crossing the fields a horn call carried to us. It meant nothing to Brena however I recognised the hunt. Up on the hill a black-clad rider appeared. (Only the huntsmen wear pink.) The horn called again. Yes, they were getting closer, not that a fox ran by. He'd long gone, if he had ever been there. 

I was riding up a dry valley. The hunt was somewhere off my left my shoulder, out of sight behind scrub but close enough. I set Brena to canter up the valley, covering half a mile to reach a nice vantage point. Now I could look down the length of the valley. My timing was good. 

Most of the hunt rode off the down the valley, drawn out into a line across the hill as if they were looking for lost property rather than a fox. Four riders, however, came up the valley flat out. Presumably they were trying to head off something. Something one learns from first encountering the hunt is that their riders don't slow down for anyone or anything. So they passed Brena going flat out, then went hammering past a group of hikers. I let them ride a quarter mile further on, then turned Brena up the valley to follow. Most often we canter or gallop that stretch anyway. After passing the hikers slowly - because I have some trail manners - she needed no persuasion, quickly covering a half mile to the head of the valley. We saw the hunt riders heading off to the right however Brena turned left, to my surprise displaying no interest in following. For the next five minutes she was livelier than usual without being a handful. 

It was a reminder that one needs a certain level of competence to ride out. The unexpected may visit, be it the hunt passing at speed or a herd of deer crashing out of the woods. Last year brought a hot air balloon at very low altitude, and vehicles can appear as if from nowhere too. So, yes, one needs to be able to ride - and to possess a nice mix of calm and boldness. The countryside may appear tame and predictable, but it isn't. And it helps to have a quiet horse that is reasonably experienced. 

Weekend riding

The deer were out in large numbers. Today I counted two herds each comprising at least fifty and a third that was smaller, and all in the course of an hour. An owl was flying in daylight too, white against grey. 

Now if I hailed from some traditions I'd see that owl as a portent of death. However I'm not superstitious. Anyway I've witnessed death already, figuratively speaking. Now it's life that I'm seeking. 

As if to affirm life Brena gave me a lovely ride today. She went forward with a quiet and untroubled enthusiasm. It felt like partnership. Nothing was a problem, and we finished with a nice gallop on the way home. 

Yesterday S joined us. Here we are on the way home, feet out of stirrups relaxing. At this point we'd been riding for three and a half hours. How different the field looks with new crop just starting to sprout. Last time I rode this way an unbroken blanket of snow covered the ground. 

It is great to be able to ride out without trailering. Suddenly riding for an hour is easy again. There are several good hour rides and many that are longer, right up to a long summer day out riding. 

Today's ride grasped that fluency that used to be such a feature of riding when I spent several hours a day on horseback. The degree of partnership was really satisfying. It stems from knowing one-another and being relaxed. And it can only happen when one has spent a great many hours on a horse, to the point where riding is as natural as walking. It's important that I am familiar with Brena, and perhaps even more important that she is familiar with me. I'm the person who keeps her safe when we're out and and brings her home each time. I don't get alarmed when we see something strange. 

Yes, in  being able to really work with a special horse I feel like I am reclaiming something from my past. It's good to be in that position without being obliged to ride in all weathers for a living. And it's great to be able to enjoy facets that I have brought to my life, uninherited and chosen by me alone. 

Shadows

I do like this photo, peculiar as it may be. We're heading precisely down-sun casting a splendidly tall shadow. Normally I prefer to have the sun on my face. However off-photo hung a large grey storm cloud which the wind was driving towards me. The cloud trailed a veil of rain so, not having a coat with me, I encouraged Brena homeward, the sun shining on our backs. We dodged the rain too, the cloud passing ineffectually across our wake. 

What a pleasure it was to encounter a little sunshine. Even after all that rain and snow the countryside was stunningly bright. 

After the events of the past few days I'm not sure whether or not I've avoided one of the storm clouds of life. On the face of it, yes. Events might have turned out very much worse. But the journey was exhausting. I feel drained. The butt end of humanity always is so much more wearisome than a plain simple storm. The wilderness would be so much simpler. Wild places are honest. One expects no kindness and is not disappointed. 

So it's off to mourn a dream. To shake off the persistent and quite illusory dream of a kind, decent mother. To bury an image which does not exist. I'm not sure what kind of ceremony that calls for. Something needs to be laid to rest, and I need to discern what. I'll cast that into the pit of unconsciousness and wait for a response to beckon.