White Horse Pilgrim

Meeting the Toad Stone

The Toad Stone is a well-named sarsen in the Valley of the Stones not far from the barn. Looking at the photo, I've just realised that the Toad Stone even has an 'eye'. It's quite landmark by the side of a very pleasant grassy trail.

The Toad Stone is rather large and lies across the trail from a field of scattered smaller sarsens. Some say that's because attempts were made to remove it from the valley. (But why?) Others claim that a part of it was quarried. (Again, why?) It is, after all, the largest sarsen in the valley, and there are many easier to move and take. This valley is a good place in which to desensitise a horse to stones, should it be wary of them.

It isn't a Toadstone, which is a fossilised tooth from a prehistoric fish, once prized as an 'antidote to poison'. That is something quite different. A Toadstone could be mounted on a ring, and there are some good examples in the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford. Our local stone is quite different. With such a curious appearance, I'd like to think that it might an antidote to limited imagination.

 

Woods.....and boar?

After a Saturday of cold wind and heavy rain, Sunday dawned bright and dry. At least I assume that it dawned thus, for I was still asleep at first light, But, when I awoke at 10am after a long and satisfying sleep, it was bright, dry and generally pleasant out. The night must have been cold, though, as the cat had found his way under the duvet by my feet.

Out riding, we crossed through the mossy old copse on Fyfield Down, where Brena devoured some leave whilst I took in the silence. This is a remarkable place where time hangs heavy. I've never seen another person here. If anyone came, they'd need to duck under low branches and weave between gnarled old trees like we did.

Out in the open again, I saw tell-tale signs of rooting wild boar. For many years there were no boar in the UK however, a couple of decades ago, some escaped from a farm where they were being reared for meat. Their range has been extending year after year. Now, for the first time, I've seen signs of boar within riding distance of the barn.

This isn't a worry. Brena has seen boar before, in Italy where she used to live. I've seen them in Romania. And we've encountered domestic pigs turned loose in the New Forest during the pannage season without ill effect.

Anyway, it's unlikely that we'd be up here at dawn (especially) or dusk when boar come out to scavenge. Though it would be most interesting to see these reclusive creatures.

Noticing detail

I was away for the weekend staying in a cottage in the woods. Walking around on Saturday afternoon, there was so much detail all around. I took a few photographs to capture the intricacies of English woodland, rather than the landscapes that I observe more often.

Here's the relic of a tree that fell in the great storm of 1987.

Here are a few of the flints that scatter these chalk hills.

Mosses thrive in damper parts of the woodland.

Gnarled old trees punctuate the woods, amidst the more common beech and birch.

Temperatures fell just below freezing, dusting the woodland floor with a delicate frost.

Walking through the woods as rain started, I thought of California Dreaming - all the leaves are brown and the sky is grey...

Tree roots like an island protruding into a sea of leaves.

Autumn

 

I do enjoy a bright afternoon when the days are drawing in. And it's time for some pretty photos.

I'm beginning to feel like it's time to hibernate. Although a nice couple of hours out in the sunshine temporarily puts to flight that innate desire to curl up by the fire, sup on a hearty stew or pie, consume ale or a heady wine, and slip off to the land of dreams.

It's lovely, too, to travel through a countryside so bright that I don't feel tempted to edit the photo beyond cropping the picture to a satisfying composition. Going out along the muddy trail, I am rewarded with gold, a natural and passing treasure to tide me over until the new spring that seems so distant.

Next week Brena will head to her new home, where I hope that she will receive a more natural and holistic care. I have high hopes. I like the idea that she will wander a sheltered valley in a herd, overseen by people who care about her welfare. And I am keen that her feet are looked after by someone who cares about soundness rather than textbook prettiness.

Spirit of the hills

This is an atmospheric time of year. An afternoon ride not far away was bathed in bright low sun, lovely to perceive even as I felt the temperature fall. And it was quiet, so very quiet, as if none were left on the exposed chalk hills except for the occasional farm worker (in an air-conditioned tractor cab) and me riding Brena. Even as the sky is bright, the valleys seem to have entered a seasonal slumber.

This splendid character was happily grazing a hillside, well equipped for warmth on the most exposed of slopes. This farm seems to specialise in Highland cattle, and they are often to be seen near the trail, complete with magnificent horns.

An hour back to the trailer, forty five minutes by road to the barn, and it was dark. Such are the short days of late autumn. I'm getting back into the habit of taking Brena to the field in the dark, and reversing the trailer into its spot in the dark too.

At least I'll take home memories of lovely sunlit trails, like this section through a wood. Further along, I was ducking beneath low boughs as Brena weaved her way. It's not a trail to ride fast, as if I'd want to with so much to look at.

Rain and sloes

We went out collecting sloes so that K and I can make sloe gin for Christmas. A horse was useful because the best sloes grow out of reach to a pedestrian. Brena and I had a good deal: she grazed the grass by the sloe bush whilst I picked the dark blue fruits. I had to work fast as she is a quick eater. We moved along the trail in strong wind, forecast as 20 miles/hour gusting 40. As we are on top of a hill, it was probably windier than that, and certainly felt strong.

The wind blew sheets of rain across the bleak autumnal hills, mostly missing us. It's a raw time of year, wind and showers, authentic for this time of year. The trails are quiet, warm clothing appreciated (I have a new Buff fleece neck warmer which I like very much), and the final fruits of the season just fading. Leaves are changing colour and some have fallen, sycamore first, ash wel underway, and beech just getting going.

There was a full double rainbow whilst I untacked Brena. Not wanting to be caught by a following storm, I didn't photograph it. Perhaps I should, as it was impressive: the farmer came out to photograph it, and probably he sees lots of rainbows and almost everything else that the weather presents. However I did capture a broad, fiery relic on the way home. Puddles in a dip along the undulating road remember recent rain. I love this long, straight road which dips up and down, reminding me of far off (and drier) trips across the US Southwest. In the far dip there is a village with a nice pub, which is a pleasantly English addition to any scenic highway.

Stormy day

A hurricane blew towards Ireland, moderating somewhat but nevertheless causing several tragic deaths and much damage. Here, a couple of hundred miles to the east, the wind blew 25 miles/hr. gusting to 50 miles/hr. The wind carried dust from the Sahara together with some soot from wildfires in Portugal, giving the sky a peculiar orange tinge.

Veiled by dust, the sun glowed a pale orange. Whilst photographing, it was perfectly comfortable to look at the sun with a naked eye, and even to look through a camera magnifying the scene.

The sun thus obscured, the wind whistling and trees creaking, afternoon was both subdued and energetic, mysterious hours that faded into a wild windy night. It was a day to be curious, to enjoy the oddity, and to wonder what our ancestors might have thought.

Despite the wind, and the date, it was relatively warm out as the storm carried air north from a hot Iberian peninsular. There was no need for a coat, but care was needed to avoid hats blowing away.

A little absence

A weekend away in the medieval cottage of Tanners Hatch brought company, conversation, food, drink and music. Lots of music. Late nights were the order - 2.30am on Saturday and 4.40am on Sunday. But there would be time to sleep later. Why sleep when one can talk and sing with friends?

Back amidst my beloved hills I absorbed more of their mystery. Their curves and dips, tree-capped slopes and scrubland fascinate and thrill me.

At Childrey Warren an arm of the uplands sweeps around a secluded valley, sheltering silent slopes where sheep graze the coarse chalkland grass.

From the ridge Brena and I vanished into a mass of ancient trails far from the modern world with its towns and motor roads. I love to do this, shedding the urban skin that employment forces upon me. Out here I can dream, liberating imagination upon the grassy slopes. Once great swathes of the world were like this, and I wish that they had not been lost to what some call progress.  

This felt like my final ride of summer. Autumn is creeping upon us. Trees are beginning to change colour, perhaps a little later than usual. Soon oak, beech and sycamore will brighten the hills and valleys.

Down by Eastbury Grange magnificent trees form a tunnel around a section of trail. Brena and I paused awhile in the afternoon sun, quite alone. The day had matured into a lovely warmth, and there was no reason to push on. Not quite yet.

Like an elven wood, these hills may allow one to leave unharmed, but no-one sensitive will leave unchanged. If I dismounted and let Brena graze, lay in the long grass and dozed, when and where would I awaken? For those old souls gifted with the ability to perceive it, there is an air of enchantment in these hollows.

New Forest ride

We're just back from three days riding in the New Forest area. This expanse of one hundred and fifty square miles was actually 'new' in the year 1079 when William the Conqueror ejected the population to create a deer park for his hunting. It's now a National Park and one of the largest expanses of heathland in Britain.

Brena and I stayed at a stud in the midst of the New Forest. In a nearby field lived a fine Trakhener stallion of superb quality. Meanwhile Brena's overnight pasture was sheltered by splendid oak trees of enormous girth.

 

Just take a look at the vast bole behind the resting mare. This tree might be five hundred years old. There are still numerous ancient oaks in the area, despite storms and wars.

The New Forest requires careful navigation. The trails are many, signposts few, and landmarks subtle. I took a map and compass, and needed both. Brena and I traversed open heathland setting our course by the sun. We dropped down into wooded valleys where the dense foliage restricted views to our immediate surroundings. But there is regular clean drinking water for horses. We didn't get lost, and mostly I knew our location on the map to within a quarter of a mile.

Ponies roam the forest freely to graze. Local people inhabiting certain properties have inherited traditional grazing rights. For six weeks a year stallions are allowed out to breed, and each Autumn mares and foals are rounded up for counting and sale. The ponies walk into villages and use the roads to get about, so there is a rather low mandatory speed limit for vehicles. These ponies tend to ignore ridden horses so they weren't a problem for Brena and I. But we were warned to avoid the weekend in May when the stallions are first turned out!

 

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.