A welcome visitor, the sun finally shone for a couple of hours this afternoon, illuminating the damp countryside with the crisp vibrancy of a painting.
It would have been nice to write "watercolour" to match the metaphor of dampness, but this was more of an oil painting, bright and sharply detailed. I was taken by surprise, expecting another grey afternoon, and was all the more delighted for it.
On returning home I discovered more to cheer me. A farmer has agreed to take Brena from Saturday. The new location is drier and offers direct access to various trails. It's ten miles from home rather than three, however I'll be able to ride without trailering. That will make a huge difference in the summer as well as making weekend riding easier.
I think that perhaps I have escaped a growing storm at the old barn. The consequences of poor management were building up, not just in mud everywhere but poor fences and horse-sick pastures too. In the midst of this the latest vanity project, an indoor riding arena, will need to be paid for. Almost without fail when a barn management puts up an indoor arena the prices go up for everyone, whether or not they use the arena. And this one is flooding even before it's finished, just like their outdoor arena that needed to be rebuilt from the ground up because it flooded.
So the nice sunny view matched how I feel, relief that a grey spell is over and joy at the new enfolding view. Here is a typical downland view. It will be good to enjoy this without trailering Brena.

There's a horizon beyond the briar. There's a wide world beyond the detail that transfixes the vision of one preoccupied. I've always been one to look afar. I'm from the hills and it is my way to seek the horizon.
That's always been my way. Looking over the plains to the hills beyond. Gazing from one hill to its fellows.
Then there is the pleasure of discovering hidden valleys, and old roads now little used. If not plentiful these are sufficient for the casual explorer.
The landscape around Brena's new home is like a manuscript, old and a little unclear, requiring deciphering and a little imagination. Riding around there one can create an inner narrative akin to those novels "based on a true story". One can imagine the farmers and travellers of old riding and tramping the trails just like they might have done. I can imagine the conversations that I might have had as I wandered like Turgenev's hunter, a man who walked hither and thither with license to do so and sufficient status to attract the right kind of attention.
Come to think of it I was like Turgenev's hunter back in Transylvania too. Perhaps I was just a little short on status. However adventures and conversation came aplenty. And nor have they deserted me though I have changed sky and shire.