White Horse Pilgrim

The Riding Holiday Centre Handbook - eBook now available

Good news - the eBook edition of The Riding Holiday Centre Handbook is now available.

As the publisher's blurb says: This unique and comprehensive guide is aimed primarily at anyone who is considering starting a riding holiday centre. It will also be valuable to equestrian professionals who already own or manage established tourism businesses.

After outlining the nature of the riding holiday industry, the authors consider the market research and planning required to found a successful riding holiday centre. The essentials of premises and equipment are examined, followed by selection of suitable horses. Excellent equine management at home and on the trail­—the foundations of a successful riding operation—is considered in detail. The authors elucidate the specific skills, rarely covered in equine literature, that are required to manage trail riding horses covering appreciable distances away from home. A combination of able guiding and thorough support is central to the operation, and both specialized equestrian guiding skills and suitable general staffing are considered. Examples drawn directly from the authors’ experience are highlighted throughout.

Trail planning and customer care are vital to success and are discussed next. Each riding centre owner needs a sound grounding in marketing, operating a booking system, and commercial and legal matters, which are explained in the closing chapters. The book ends by bringing everything together with a typical trail ride programme. Annexes include a bibliography, sample itineraries, equipment lists, booking forms and disclaimers. 

Both the eBook and the traditional softback are available from Lulu.com. 

Last video of Doru

I've managed to get the video clips taken on Doru's last morning alive converted to a format that I can upload. 

On the last morning Doru got to eat a lot of apples, all of which he ate with customary enjoyment as I consciously spoiled him. His appetite never failed. You can see how his left hind leg, the arthritic one, was being rested most of the time. By this point it was right to put the old stallion to sleep. 

  

Here he is lying down shortly before the vet arrived. It was as if Doru knew that his end was approaching. There was a profound sense of peace at the end. I'll carry that memory of dignity and tranquility with me for a long time. 

 

Memories

Meet Felted Doru. He's six inches tall and roams the hills and open spaces of my desk. D had him made for me after the real Doru left this world. The little fellow even captures the roan coat, frosty behind and dark points of his inspiration. He's such a nice reminder of an old horse no longer with us. 

The other memory is less fun. Out riding on Sunday I caught my right knee on a steel gate post. There was sufficient room to get through. However I was a little preoccupied with Brena, who was quite lively after a week without being ridden. I was busier looking at things going on further away: other horses, people walking and cycling, and deer in the fields. The gateway was muddy and Brena was in a hurry. My attention was elsewhere so I didn't get my leg out of the way. 

The impact ripped through leather chaps and two layers of clothing below that. It was enough to make me feel sick to the core. Still, it was a nice day, so I continued to ride for another couple of hours. I can be stubborn, and Brena needed to work the energy out of her system. When I got back to the truck it was difficult to bend the leg or walk. Driving back was awkward and painful, but safe. 

Now the leg is swollen adding a good couple of inches to its girth. I can walk with a stick - fortunately I bought one back when my hip was operated on. I got a day working at home out of this. Now it's back to the office. As the boss was a soldier and has tales of people who repelled a hundred hostiles whilst full of holes it's difficult to plead much sympathy for a bruised knee. 

With a bit of luck I'll be ready to ride again next weekend. The ripped chaps are being sewn back together as I write. 

Obscurity

Obscurity is the hard bit. Invisibility after being on stage as a guide. Settling back into a hidden role within an ordinary life takes some getting used to. It weighs heavy upon me. 

I might have guided just a few people across an obscure bit of wilderness, but it was a unique occupation all the same. I knew plenty about that trail and the land across which it wound, and I enjoyed sharing. 

Perhaps life is settling back into a familiar track? After some pushing I've been giving the task of managing communications for a large construction project with a staff of hundreds plus thousands of contractors. Again, I'm becoming a guide. 

It was the combination of knowing, telling and being in the limelight that appealed before. That mix is attractive still. In the old days I kept two dozen horses in fine condition. Now I'm a pedant concerning use of the English language. It's important to do something well - and to be noticed. 

The matter of being seen, that's a hangover from adoptive parents who depended vicariously for their satisfaction upon whatever I achieved, real or imaginary. They achieved little, not having striven for anything greater. Leadership they shirked. As for opening young minds the less said the better. I was supposed to provide the family with honour. Instead I flew to exile. Well, screw the honour of people who were absent whenever advice or support were needed. 

I am working through anger and frustration. In a way I came back from exile to do this, stepping back in order to move further ahead. That's the way it is. Well at last I've seen through the lies. Life isn't just about work. Leisure isn't predicated by the need to achieve something. Only old habits die hard. 

Some habits linger. But prejudices are cast aside to be trampled. So the culture that they despised I'm back here to explore. There is so much to investigate and enjoy. I wish that I had tried my hand at music and song years ago. But I grew up in a home from which such things were banished, unless it was some bourgeois easy-listening to fill the gaps between the nice safe acts of some dull Saturday evening television show. Does life begin at fifty? I don't know. Free thinking maybe. But life, extruded through the gaps between work, more work and other responsibilities? It's a challenge to expand at an age when work demands so much whilst energy is beginning to flag. 

There were times out guiding - usually by around September when exhaustion had set in but the season was by no means over - when I day-dreamed about a drug that could invigorate my body. Nowadays that drug would be nice year-round. 

I know my enemy: ingrained habits aided by tiredness. Recognising my foe I can fight or avoid him as I choose. I shall not carry any longer the chains thrown upon me by others. 

Authenticity

It's a perplexing pleasure to look at old photos. I know that I was there, but it all just looks so different to today's nice easy comfortable tame world. I remember that meeting with the shepherds. We'd cantered up behind with the rank fragrance of the herd growing in our nostrils, slowed to a walk and slipped past easily for sheep are not quick afoot. As usual the shepherds had need of cigarettes. 

The funny thing is that I sat in the office today complaining to myself that I'd like more responsibility. But now I have a significant role in delivering $3bn of investment. Back then I fed some horses and took a few people riding. (There was a bit more than that. But I didn't need a university education to run a riding holiday business.) Now I'm hungry for life, and work is just a part of that. Suddenly there is a rush to catch up, whatever that may entail. 

There's a desire to be involved at the very core of things, to employ the wisdom born of those years in the wilderness. 

I spent the evening writing, adding a couple of thousand words to the tale that I am weaving. It crosses the hills that I used to ride, and soon a horse will appear. Writing is hunger satisfied. Words on the page are appetite fulfilled. 

In fact I'm intrigued and delighted at the fruits of fresh desire. That village of exile was picturesque oblivion, banality amidst scenery. Writing is one thing. Music is another, though here I listen rather than create. Last month brought a splendid concert. In two weeks time I'll be away at a folk festival based at a woodland cottage. There's another eagerly anticipated concert before Christmas. Next year plenty of things will happen, I am sure. Plans are afoot. In the meantime Amazon is benefiting from the aftermath of all those years of drought. So much growth...I'm thrilled. 

And tomorrow I'll be liberated through riding. That will be good. 

Rugs again

It's that time of year. Brena's rugged again. I know that she is a tough outdoor Noriker, unclipped and possessor of a good coat. I've provided a field shelter, and the earth inside is beaten flat with hoof prints. But the wind is whistling across the field, cold and rain-bearing. 

In the wild, I thought tonight, she and the other horses would be down in the valley, seeking shelter from terrain and the trees. Up here on the hill we've constrained them with fences. So a rug seems a good and fair compromise. 

In some ways I've become soft. My horses used to go out unrugged in -20C, and I was content with that. I lived in more primitive conditions too, working long and hard outdoors. 

But they had a big shelter where they stood or lay together, out of the wind and rain (or snow, more likely), and they received as much hay as they could eat. The tips of their ears were warm, which was a good sign that they were not suffering. I felt the cold more in my draughty old house. 

I stood by Brena as she ate a dinner of mix, alfalfa and carrots, dreaming of my perfect home. It would be a simple cottage by the field, a balcony running the length of the front below broad eaves. But my dreams have moved on: this would be a thick-walled warm straw-bale house with a well insulated roof. I'd be cozy inside. I don't need a lot of space. A combined kitchen and living room plus a bedroom and a study, that would be enough. The study would be lined all around with bookshelves of course. And it would be a nice warm house. All those Transylvanian winters I dreamed of warmth for me. Now I'm warm in my home. The cottage seems like a lovely idea, out in the fields at the frings of the woods. Maybe one day? 

March of autumn

We rode the far march of autumn, a bright trail bordering winter's bleak days. The sun warmed and the breeze did not chill unduly. Yes, it was a splendid day to be out. 

In bright sunshine we passed the new white gates of Ashdown house with their tall finials. What a smart sight they make, newly restored and repainted. The house and grounds are now a preserved part of the national heritage and, when they are open, one can go in and walk around. It looks like a great place for historical films to be made too. I could just imagine a smart carriage drawn by fine horses turning into the drive and trotting up to the house. 

Ashdown House was a hunting lodge for some aristocratic landowner long ago. Back then he could ride to hounds as far as the eye could see, across the rolling countryside that today Brena carried me across in a much more leisurely way. Times have changed, whilst the hills which cradle Ashdown House and its woodland stand as mute witnesses to all that has passed. 

There were other old buildings too. In fact we were passing through the midst of a complex, for the House required stables, barns, and cottages for labourers. The low sun prevented me from photographing most of these. 

Here's the back of the stables. Look at the lovely decorative brickwork and the ornate chimneys, for this was no mere functional building. Or, at least, its function was more than just housing the estate's horses. There were visitors to impress. There were staff who needed to be reminded just what a great man they worked for. The landowner probably wanted to feel good about himself too. 

I'd love to have seen this place when it was a massive working farm, with grooms and horses, carts and carriages, ploughs and wains. What a sight that would have been. Now I can just imagine. But of course I have a head-start, having seen draught horses at work, cared for them, even working them myself. It wasn't romantic but, in its own way, it was impressive. And it was unforgettable. 

Through the window in the wall facing the track a face appeared. The stables are still occupied. What a pretty face, and what a splendid home! 

Where one writes from

It's a  peculiar thing to reflect upon just where one writes from. From what part of ones inner being, from which experiences, from where. 

How I came to realise where ideas came from was a bit of a shock. 

When I was writing a fantasy novel all those ideas seemed to pour out the easier for a nice glass of wine...or two. 

Well, of course. Alcohol sets super-ego at bay. So many of those creative ideas crept from the shadows of my unconscious. That was a fascinating place to explore. Enlightening, even. For the present, though, I've seen sufficient of what that place has to offer. 

The new novel is set on my old home, my erstwhile place of exile. Now that's a tale to be written sober, bright and early in the morning. It's a story about truth, about real people and the circumstances that befall them. Imaginative it may be, but not fanciful. Now super-ego is back supervising, only put into his place as overseer rather than dictator. 

I suppose that, in my writing, I've moved from (to take a metaphor from the art world) from impressionism to realism. Now I'm thinking of the precise landscapes of Ivan Shishkin and the lovingly painted characters of Ilya Repin. And now, at last, my affection for my former home can spring forth. Transylvania was a difficult place in which to live but, for all that, treated me with a surprising generosity. 

Yes, I want to give a true picture, embracing the beauty whilst not brushing over the faults. I want to record just what goodness, absurdity and downright wrong-headedness foreigners imported, myself amongst them. 

Now that is a quest well worth concentrating some effort on. I'm excited. I've received some really helpful advice from the writing group too, guiding me towards a work in which the main characters speak rather than me as narrator. As a writer I'm learning to listen rather than tell. I'm listening to the voices of the many people who inspired me when we met during many journeys followed by eight years of exile. 

My pony

It became clear the other day. Brena really is a big pony. Her former owner J told me about another part-bred Noriker with a similar pony mentality. I hadn't thought of Brena in those terms, perhaps because my old herd of Huzul mountain horses - which were really amongst the largest ponies - had got me used to that kind of mindset. 

The Huzuls were wise animals, well aware of their surroundings and quick to stay safe and secure. The fundamentals concerned them, food chiefly. One did not just tell a Huzul what to do. More than once a Huzul mare, by refusing to take a step forward, kept me off treacherous ground. One had to find a meeting point in order to work with those horses. In return they were honest, hardy and ready to work. 

Brena is a bit like that. She simply isn't a horse that one gets on, points at a jump and drives forward to do one bidding. Schooling bores her in a way that work seldom does. But if it's a matter of riding for miles along diverse trails, crossing varied terrain and dealing with all that we meet then she is ideal. She looks after herself, and me too if we stick together. Fortunately that is just the sort of horse that I need. I just need to see her as kin to the Huzuls - most of which were part-bred, like Brena - with which I worked with for eight years. I hadn't thought of it that way until now. 

November riding

It's cool and clear. A fresh wind blew across the rain-sodden hills, drying the exposed ridge trail.

So, back to winter riding wear. Several layers, long underwear, scarf. But not gloves yet. I'll need them soon. In sheltered spots I was warm. On the ridge the wind sliced through a wool sweater and a fleece. 

The sun was welcome. Let's make a bit of vitamin D. Yes, and banish any hint of depression, healing the shadow of one grey rainy day after another. 

The sweeping curves of the hills were welcome as a friend's embrace. With the chill wind I had the hills to myself most of the way. 

It was good to clear my mind for writing. Work has been intense, and parts of it annoying. The politics, mainly. Some people do not seem to have grown up. The directness of a horse's responses are refreshing. Again life is straightforward, until Monday morning at least. 

And meanwhile the words are pouring out, flooding the page with memories of my former home. Well, not exactly memories, more the essence of the place and the psyche of the people who lived there. And now, a little time having passed, it's grown into a work of compassion, a manuscript that tries to explain and understand. 

Now, at last, amidst the broad airy spaces of these hills, I can write openly and lovingly about those greater wider mountains. I can write about events that took place there and events that might have occurred. The 'might-have-beens' fill out the essence and the psyche.