White Horse Pilgrim

Smeathe's Ridge

A hour away by trailer there is a lovely circular ride of a few hours duration. A highlight is the long, gentle climb up the grassy slopes of Smeathe's Ridge. This outlier to the chalk plateau north of Marlborough provides excellent riding. The trail is ideal for long stretches of fast work, and the views are expansive. It's one of the best public trails for many miles.

I captured the first photo near the bottom of the ridge. We had just watered the horses at a large round cattle trough. The day was hot, the horses thirsty, so Brena tried to climb into the water trough. She can be rather determined, however it really didn't seem like a good idea so I stopped her. I should find a river or pond for the mare to explore, without tack or me on her. I've owned a mare before that liked to get down and roll in streams, including the one that formed the boundary to her pasture.

Higher up the ridge opens up into a flat-topped expanse of turf. We'd cantered some distance before I took this photo, and our horses were hot and breathless after some competition between them. Of course they had needed no persuasion to head off at speed. It was a lot of fun to pound away, four abreast, up the fine turf. Hooves thundered, manes blew back over our hands. Brena is fast over a short distance, rather like a Quarter Horse, surprisingly so for a draught-cross. The others passed her after a couple of hundred yards. But, as you can see from the photo, she had stepped out into the lead by the top of the ridge.

The way back was slower and gentler. After a short, sharp descent from the ridge, the trail followed a shallow valley. We four riders were the only people here. Often the trails are like that. Away from the Ridgeway and its car parks, travellers are few.

August clouds

A cold front swept through, a band of rain dousing the land. But forecast thunderstorms passed us by. By late afternoon a clear sky invited me out to ride. Well, I couldn't refuse, could I? Green fields glittering in the bright tangential sun. Woodland redolent with earthy post-rain fragrance. Tall clouds majestically dominating the rolling hills. Quiet. A hint of mystery. It all made for a lovely summer evening ride.

Harvest ride

Bare.

Dry.

Dusty.

The harvested land stands naked, each fold exposed, bristling with stalks of stripped crops.

Riding here in summer is like traversing a desert.

Empty and waterless.

Arid and superficially lifeless, the land appears unwelcoming. But it's just an old acquaintance sparsely clad. I know and love this valley.

Thin clouds drag the sky releasing no rain.

Of course I am being dramatic. It really does rain in England. Sometimes a lot. But I like to let my imagination play. And deserts do open the mind.

Each footstep raises a little puff of dust.

Even on our horses my companion and I are just specks in an expansive landscape. Urging our horses into a canter, we scarcely seem to move.

I could readily stop here for an hour or three, sit with a book, look out for the occasional deer and red kites.

I could even live in the lee of a clump of trees, for it feels as if a little cover, a modicum of protection, might be needed in this expanse.

Strange things in Wiltshire

Saturday saw me trailering Brena thirty-five miles to ride in Wiltshire, where the chalk hills stand proud above the westerly plains. There's a good spot to park, and a range of trails to make rides from a couple of hours to a whole day.

It was a hot day. During a three-hour ride I drank the entire content of my water canteen. It was a good idea to order a canteen to hang from my saddle when I ordered the latter. Many of the fields crossed by trails have water troughs as this is grazing country, so there is no difficulty finding water for horses.

There was a breeze which served to make the afternoon more comfortable, however the flies were there, the more so in fields where cattle grazed. One group of cattle stood downwind of a fire where the farmer was burning dung, presumably because this was the only spot free from flies. They looked odd, strangely primitive in the smoky spot, like primeval beasts in some ancient fog.

This area is crossed by a deep ditch and rampart constructed in a period of tribal warfare sometime after the Romans left. Apparently the ancient Britons built it to try and keep the expanding Saxons out. The Wansdyke, as it is called, stretches for dozens of miles. Ultimately it proved to be a failure, as such barriers tend to be, and the Saxons soon grabbed all the land. But the earthwork remains as a relic of turbulent times a millennium and a half ago. Much of its length is now a public trail which, following the crest of a ridge, offers lovely views.

Here K and G are riding after me along the Wansdyke. The line of the fence shows just how deep the ditch still is, despite centuries of natural erosion. Mostly the trail runs along the crest, but drops down for gates. When freshly built, the sides would have been smooth bright white chalk, eye-catching and slippery. What a tremendous piece of work the Wansdyke is, hewn with hand tools from tough chalk, stretching for miles and miles. The natural wild grassland on the sloping sides is strewn with wild flowers.

A little further along our way a bullock stood on top of the Wansdyke, which ran through his pasture. He was happy to watch us from a little way away, but not brave enough to approach closely. With his mixed colouring and woolly coat, he seems to belong to a rare breed.

And then we spotted the llama. The llama spotted us and trotted down to take a look. The horses exhibited mixed reactions. Brena seemed to think that this was a type of pony, and decided that the best thing was to start to eat, presumably to devour all the grass before the dumpy skewbald got there. K's horse went up to touch noses with the llama, which they concluded like a pair of horses, fortunately without squealing (or spitting on the part of the llama). G's horse was afraid and clearly would have preferred to run away as fast as he could. However control was maintained and we left at a brisk walk, with the llama on the far side of a pasture fence.

 

August weekend

Blue skies, warmth, a little breeze. Clear air. The occasional hum of a tractor. Fields deep under ripe crop, and fields newly bare. Quiet trails. Hours out and about. Such is a good day on the chalk downlands in August.

C and I covered a fair mileage today. It was the sort of ride that left me pleasantly tired, with a warm glow to my already tanned face and arms. A ride after which I slept an hour on the sofa with my old cat curled up next to me. A good day, then. Friendship, riding, resting.

The horses went so well. Brena was calmly energetic, seemingly happy to be out. She felt like such a sensible, reliable horse. I felt as if we could have gone on for days and weeks. Past crispy canola and the huge machines harvesting it. Down overgrown trails deep in burgeoning vegetation. Over warm welcoming hills beneath the wide sky. It was a perfect summer day.