White Horse Pilgrim

Valley of Rocks mid-winter

Thin winter sunshine lit the sandstone blocks scattered across the Valley of Rocks. Jumbled remnant of a stratum long ago ground to fragments by Ice Age glaciers, they lie incongruous amidst thick upland grass. This is how great  swathes of the hills looked thousands of years ago. Quite why this valley kept its rocks isn't clear.

But I'm glad that it did. The Valley of Rocks feels archaic in a way that only a place long untouched really can. It's a tiny scrap of wilderness within the busy south of a populous island. Coming here is to step away from the pedestrian reality of life. It's like riding into a dream landscape that invites one to pause. Maybe not for long on a cold breezy day, but to stop and take in the atmosphere nonetheless.

It's a good place to remind a horse to think about where to place feet. Brena stepped carefully, picking a way across this peculiar landscape. She's familiar with rough ground, of course. It's a place too where a horse can be shown new things. To begin with, lots of rocks. Some horses do find this valley intimidating to begin with. I've met people lost down here too, and some of them were decidedly glad for directions.

I'd like to see the Valley of Rocks in moonlight. Now that would be very atmospheric. Maybe I'd come on foot. At least first I might try Brena in the moonlight closer to home on a familiar trail.

In crisp moonlight, through the heat of a midsummer day, veiled by drifting mist, sparking in dewy dawn, blanketed by fresh snow, lingering on a warm evening. There are so many ways to see this valley. I'll try to experience a few more this year.

The hidden path

 

It's a regular feature of my dreams. I'm travelling through imagined woods knowing that somewhere ahead lies a path. I need to take that path. Shady and inviting, it leads gently uphill. The going is good, most often sandy. Invariably I am riding, sometimes walking, occasionally cantering.

Inevitably I lose my way. It's inexplicable. One moment I headed for the path. Next moment I've turned away, distracted by something. In my dreams I don't end up in bad places. Simply I lose that path. It's one of those 'hidden in plain sight' features, so easy to lose or miss.

In other dreams I'm planning to get to that path. Sometimes I have a map, and every time the path is somewhere away towards the top-right. It's not far, and it's not secret. I need to ascend the scarp slope of a broad ridge not unlike the one south of my home, but greener and more cultivated. It seems as if the path is up there on a plateau.

A couple of nights ago I rode right up to the foot of that path. It seemed a little steeper than I was used to, surfaced with turf rather than sand, and bearing a few imprints of hooves. As usual it led between the great trees of a broad forest. I wasn't alone. Another ride bade me come with her. We were going to ride the path so that I could see where it led.

It was a peculiar dream, the sort that left me bright and cheerful in the morning. I'm not surprised. The previous day a new friend and I had been discussing music and dance and adventures with horses. At the time it felt as if I was being invited to leave behind pedestrian conceptions of life. Clearly that message has percolated down into my unconscious.

So, without further ado, I'll stop typing and get back to making music...

Skeletal

A bare, tenuous time of year. Trees stand in living metaphor. Life is simple and favours the prepared.

We slip out for a chilly afternoon ride. Few are about to share the land with us. It's very quiet.

The thin thorn bushes provide little shelter. They're a metaphor too. These hills may be beautiful, but they aren't hospitable. Not openly. Cottages have thick walls and deep thatch for good reason. And stout barns and store rooms too. The chalk country isn't easy. It's not as generous as it looks. Still, I love this great sweep of land.

Gazing into the depth of the skeletal woods I see deeply but not far. Wizened boughs coalesce, protecting the secret of distance. A path twists and turns, heading who knows where. The gamekeeper made it, and momentarily I think of Bombadil, tenuous guardian of mysterious leagues. How wonderful to imagine a path leading to....green pastures....a wise guide....fresh adventures....fellow travellers....a nook by the fire.

Beyond this peculiar wood lies a realm where one's skills nicely fit the problems that crop up. Where effort is rewarded by results. Where the way ahead becomes clear as one crests each fold in the land. It's a pleasant thought. As for reality, well, it's a bit like a fairy tale. There's the gatekeeper who demands the right password. There are obstacles which might as well be walls of thorns. Outlandish characters appear, twisting truth, a few coveting gold just a little less intently than Smaug. Difficult are the quests, and the weak fall away. Tolkien and the Grimms, they weren't wrong. Now where will I find that slumbering princess whom, this not being Disneyland, I shall choose to represent wisdom?

 

First ride of 2015

I picked an interesting location for our first ride of 2015, a bleak windswept place that seemed just perfect for mid-winter.

A weather-beaten old gibbet still stands on the ridge above tiny Combe village. Back in the 18th century a local man and his lover murdered his wife and, duly apprehended, were sent up here to swing. Their skeletons remained aloft until picked clean and bleached, the old bones wired together. I expect that they creaked and rattled in the breeze. This isn't a cheery spot, though the view is lovely.

I try to come up here at quiet times, not so much for aesthetic reasons as simply because the parking area is small. This time it was a squeeze to slip truck and trailer into a suitable space, on a pronounced grassy slope. Handbrakes were applied hard. Few people come up here with horses, judging by the curiosity with which Brena was regarded. Some people even photographed her.

A rare sunny day was welcome, even if accompanied by a biting wind. The weather had improved from the previous day - 15mph gusting to 25 mph rather than double that - and the sky had cleared. I planned our ride to keep out of the wind as far as possible, and we headed south into the sunlit valley. Half a mile from the parking area we were beyond the range of casual hikers, enveloped by silence, treading a parallel world beyond industry and towns and the web of highways.

And so Brena carried me into a world of curiosity and imagination, a place with the time and space for me to think.

The trail slid downhill, camouflaged by a belt of woodland between pasture and arable. Brena trod carefully upon the slippery leaf litter, stopping now and again to check out movements in the open land beyond. Sheep grazed here, a bird of prey flew there. Distantly a farm Land Rover returned from feeding livestock. Brena saw them all. That's how a horse behaves that has spent much time in the hills and mountains, knowing the sight and scent of wild creatures.

I ducked beneath low branches. Clearly few ride this way. Judging by the tracks, just a handful have walked or ridden bicycles this way. Out here a map is necessary, and the confidence to set out where no-one else may come for a day or a week.

The low sun shone oblique through the branches, dazzling lichen-crusted trunks. Brena and I flitted between bright light and inky shadow. Mystery swirled about, for what strange thing might not appear? People will say that they love woodland. But it isn't coincidence that fantasy tales - be they Tolkien or Grimm - or their Hollywood realisations - cast woodland as the home of nameless evil. The antidote is found beneath forest bough too, however even those who do good - be they Tolkien's Elves or even Disney's more recent Dwarves - are complex and prone to compromising behaviour. Nothing in the woodland of fiction is benign, and that which isn't evil is only guardedly, selfishly good. In short, a facsimile of reality is to be found here. One should look out and take care of oneself in the woods.

Back at the ridge we bathed in the last golden rays of sunshine. A full moon looked down from the pale winter sky. Good grass being available, Brena suspended her interest in people, places or things.