White Horse Pilgrim

Upon spring's marches?

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.

Today's lesson

Today's lesson is a simple one. If the day is windy and rain threatens, it's more comfortable to start upwind.

We rode downwind, on some nice trails. Then cold drizzle came, driven by a sharp wind. Riding back to the trailer, into the teeth of the wind, was quite character building. At least Brena plodded on where Doru would have rebelled - the stout stallion hates having the rain on his face.

Here she is after our ride, actually quite clean despite the muddy conditions. Down in the valley calm prevailed. I've just removed her bridle and thrown it across the saddle. Next I will remove the saddle and rug her. Then it would be time for coffee from a flask and a pie to eat. Brena has a hay net that will soon become emptier. It's a routine, and one that suits us well. Then off to the barn.

As I drove down the road, heater on and music playing, a torrential downpour lashed the landscape. I was glad that stubbornness hadn't provoked me to set off on a longer ride.

Ready....

A wise woman once reminded me not to forget to take care of my deepest needs.

The trail is ready and beckoning. Brena is ready to carry me. Truck and trailer are ready, tack and equipment too. I am ready to set out with my mare and all the things that I need on a journey of exploration.

It's easy to become distracted. In the face of work, distracted by my needs. Isn't it strange in this modern world how it is our needs that become the distractions.

This season gnaws at my soul. Long hours of darkness weigh heavily, and yet a hint of more light awakens a desire to wander. Tramping the lanes is a spirit begging me to uproot , seek the hills rolling away to the horizon and wander with her waiting for the white hawthorn blossom. I'm unsettled, longing to break free from a life constrained by trains and buildings. She's the spirit that led soldiers to desert - think of Detering in All Quiet on the Western Front who runs away to see the cheery trees in blossom.

That's depressing. perhaps I should think of Svejk rather than Detering?

Ah, Svejk, how to survive a great mass of absurdity and stay sane. You could teach me a thing or two, good soldier, as I labour in a company in the midst of reorganisation.

A wise woman once reminded me not to forget to take care of my deepest needs. I shall not forget that advice, nor shall I neglect to apply it.

Of course...

Writing, of course, is therapeutic. Creativity stems from deep within. To write creatively, whether prose, poetry or lyrics, is to explore ones inner being. I've said that much before. To me recognition as a writer is a validation of ones skill as a wordsmith, obviously, but also of one as a person. This is personal, of course. Someone turning out books for money may not be writing from their soul. As an engineer, do I turn out structures that represent my inner being? Well I might if I happen to be influencing architecture. But structures follow laws and so, I suppose, does a certain type of formulaic book. Well, that's not the type that I wish to write.

Riding empties the mind and opens it to inspiration. It is pleasurable, however I would not call it a therapeutic activity. Working with my horse is educational for every once in a while she acts as a mirror, showing me some part of my character that encourages me or, more often, demonstrates a rough edge to be polished. But riding is not a creative outpouring in the way that writing is. Good feedback is getting back safely with my mare in good condition having looked after her carefully. Most often I can judge this for myself.

Guiding is a skill, and one part of that is storytelling. Many were the tales of the hills, of events long ago that formed history and culture. There is a creativity inherent to storytelling for a good tale is a living thing, a moral and a myth: and not just a dry collection of facts. From emotional resources within each tale must be brought to life, interpreted and presented. So each tale that I tell carries a part of me. I'm not being economical with the truth for myth is organic. As for feedback, most often I weight how I tell a tale and think how to tell it better. Usually I can do this for myself, though a bit of advice helps.

Writing probes deeper, is more finely crafted and lasts longer. My writing tells more about me than a tale told verbally. It's more serious. So that's why validation is so important. Of course.

Me too!

A friend and I were talking about our desire to see our written work published: stories and poetry.

I've bought some more music to listen to at home and on an iPod whilst travelling.

There is a link between these two, which I am going to call the "me too" factor. Here I speak for myself - I don't pretend to divine my friend's motivation.

Plenty of creative work is published, it seems more than ever. So why not ours? My frustration centres on shortage of time to complete a major work or send out something smaller for consideration rather than actual rejection. I am confident in my ability as a writer, though my style can be a little archaic.

Music is another thing. I love to listen, however I never did develop any talent here. Not one of my family played any instrument or sang, no music was listened to. The pop music of the era was held responsible for all kind of degeneracy. I grew up in a cultural desert. Now at last I am regretting this. It pains me not to be able to play or sing. Maybe there is time still, though dexterity is less nearing fifty.

I worked as a wilderness guide for seven years, the only horseback outfitter in a vast area of mountain and forest. I was well enough known (or sufficiently odd) to appear on television in that country at least yearly. Journalists travelled from the West to interview me, and I appeared in several foreign documentaries. Once I wore a cape and drove two black horses, appearing - hat brim turned down - as Count Dracula.

Compared to that I live now in obscurity. Perhaps I should be grateful: the media is as quick to dig up dirt as leave one smelling or roses.

But that obscurity irritates me. It whispers of mediocrity and promises ennui. It makes me feel as if all my energies are being directed to enrich my employer whilst creative talent goes unnoticed and undeveloped. I feel quite dull and unnoticed, in fact, working on a huge project with hundreds of others.

I need to see something published this year. This might sound arrogant, and it may well become this year's obsession. However I want to be given a break - earned, of course, but not withheld for the unfamiliarity of my name or because I am not a member of some clique or other.

This may be the year to try to start to sing too. Yes, there is an element of "me too" about this. A latent frustration at not having having developed at all in this direction. I want to surprise myself, to discover something new and good within.

Or at least this year might be the time to test my ability as a storyteller. (One must allow for the possibility of having no musical talent!) I'm thinking of the spoken story here.

It will just be good to be recognised as a creative person. To become more than an engineer who writes reports. To be accepted within a new group. I missed that earlier in life. However there is the peculiar rebirth that seems to happen in middle age. Call it the coming of self-awareness or wisdom or whatever. One lives in hope.

A year anyway to thrust my head beyond pointless obscurity.

Some for me too...

Brena found a little grass too. Maybe not as much as the sheep on the hill fort, there again they don't receive hay, hard feed and carrots. Still it's a good deal - she eats whilst I take photos or simply enjoy the view.

Actually I am encouraged. The trimmer, who is particular in her observation of condition and weight, thought that Brena is 'just right'. It's true, she does look good, and behaves like a happy horse.

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.

A flying of crows

A mass of crows wheeled above the hilltop, the air loud with the beating of their wings. When they settled it was to rest rather than to eat. Black against the grey sky, the birds seemed timeless. A raw, bleak sight they made, glimpse of a world depending not upon men or horses. Ravens, of course, would have been a different matter.

Snow lingered in the woods. Winter remained amidst the trees, quiet and undisturbed. Other than the trees it seemed that nothing lived, and they clung on in hibernation. Beyond, a little green buoys hope of new life for we have passed the low point. Seasonally we are past what, metaphorically, is represented by the dark hour before dawn when birds have not yet begun to sing. But only just.

There is always a little novelty somewhere. This morning 6024 King Edward I hauling on an excursion to Bristol. One cannot miss such a sight, though 6024 will be making this trip three times over the next month. It's not a great photo however capturing fast-moving objects in poor light isn't what a pocket camera is designed to do. Trains, unlike horses, cannot be bribed with food to stand still.

Winter sun

Last night bright stars shone from a clear sky, cold and sharp. By morning no clouds had arrived, and the temperature had fallen to -11C (10F). The sky was soft blue, a little hazy. In short it was a beautiful day.

Snow lingered on the hills, lending a sculptural quality to an old landscape. Bleak minimalism reigned in the hidden hollows. In every direction vignettes caught the eye, full of texture and light, shapely and luminous.

The low sun cast shadows and created silhouettes of diverse shapes. Layers of landscape receded towards an indefinite horizon. Beauty lay upon the whole and within the detail, numinous and fascinating.

Sunlit slopes had shed most of their snow. Bare trees and frozen ground contrasted with the optimistic green shoots of flourishing winter crops. Though air temperature did not rise above freezing point, it was warm in the sun. I was comfortable wearing five layers on top anyway.

The going was safe, and far less slippery than I had expected. Brena walked or trotted, covering plenty of ground. Red Kites soared above, and animal tracks were plentiful in what snow remained. Once three deer crashed through a coppice, heading south to our north.

Sheep grazed the ramparts of the neolithic hill fort. How curious to see a place that figures in my storytelling so quiet and prosaic. These rides are so inspirational to the creative impulse. Out and about with Brena I travel as ancestors travelled, perceiving distance according to their scale.

When I stopped to photograph, Brena nosed about in the snow seeking grass to eat. How evocative that was of a harsh bleak landscape - scenic, indeed, but tough to survive upon - in which my characters lived. It would not have been a life of plenty: certainly not if the harvest had not proven bountiful.

Brena's were the only hoof prints in miles of snow. I'd expected at least the occasional horse to be out. There were a few walkers, even a couple of people managing to ride bicycles successfully. Are riders that timid? Does barefoot give Brena such an advantage over shod horses?

Warm as it was in the sun, cold permeated the shade. This ride slipped in and out of banks of trees, alternating between sun and shade. I was glad for a new acquisition, sold in Europe as the Buff. It did keep my neck, ears and chin warm. It could have been pulled up across my nose too, the upper fabric being breathable - the lower part is fleece. I do like new gadgets - when they work! (The sun was low and bright, as you can see from my expression. My body should have made some vitamin D today.)

Back at the trailer Brena grazed whilst I drank coffee. An army blanket soaked up the sweat from her coat. I looked about, taking in details of the scenery as this place features too in the story that I am writing. Two characters hiding in the trees on the ridge watch events unfold below, more or less where I had parked.

Silence permeated the valley, tangible as it is rare. Just a handful of vehicles passed. Summer or winter this one of the best places to park for a ride. I'm looking forward to summer, when I shall be able to lie in the grass after a ride. Brena will have no complaints at such lush grazing.

Snow.....work

Snow fell, but only a couple of inches. Against my expectations I could travel. Work was busy. Horse stuff was limited to feeding and petting. But the week is over. Riding beckons. In the snow again if it doesn't melt. That will be fun, in a white landscape where the beautiful and the ascetic meet.

Ahead of the weekend I slipped away from the real world of work and responsibility, adding words to a growing manuscript. Paid creativity and unpaid coexist, remunerative curiosity and a labour or love. Curiosity about the concrete world without and that within, groped for amidst shadows.

A life of antinomy which represents attainment of a measure of maturity. Apparent conflict which isn't. Complexity which ceases to confuse. Divergence that enriches and enlightens, Simply it is, like snow on steel. Delicacy upon hardness, and yet in time the rails might be swept away. Snow shall continue to fall.