White Horse Pilgrim

Boris and Nikolai locked down...

The two cats, Boris and Nikolai, found it comfortable to lock down with suitable distancing on top of the compost pile...

 

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.

For want of a helmet cam...

...though perhaps I might not have posted the footage! 

So yesterday I was riding a trail near the barn - the very one in the picture. Brena was stepping out on the way home, drawing steadily closer to a woman walking in the same direction. I was just thinking of calling to her when she dropped her trousers to show us her bare bottom. 

Thinking that she must need to pee, and that a barefoot horse does move silently, I stopped Brena and turned her to face sideways. Best not to look. This went on for a couple of minutes. The woman must be too embarrassed to get anything out, I thought. But no. Finally she pulled her trousers up, singing manically to herself, and I slipped by. 

A little later I met two other riders who told told me that the woman had pulled her trousers down for them too. So, a crazy hiker...they do exist. 

Her bottom was pale and looked as if it might benefit from a little sun. However there's none of that on a cold grey windy October afternoon. Crazy indeed...

The other two riders asked whether Brena had been frightened. No, the mare was too busy stuffing vegetation inside her to worry about human peculiarities. 

St. George's day

It was St. George's day last week. Traditionally dragons appear in a village nearby. 

One even appeared in the telephone box. Presumably, in these days of ubiquitous mobile phones, nobody but a dragon needs to use the traditional variety of phone.

If this dragon is anything like Smaug, he (or she) will be cash-rich: the owner of a cave filled with gold. Whereas a credit card would be at risk of melting from a carelessly directed flame. 

Fifteen miles west is the Dragon Hill, a flat-topped mound where local tales tell that St. George fought the dragon.

Irrespective of the tale, the Dragon Hill is a most peculiar thing, obviously man-made to some degree - but when, why and by whom no-one has a clue. Only it would seem to be a few thousand years old.

So peculiar traditions have been a feature of this neighbourhood for millennia. 

There are places indeed deep within the chalk hills' embrace where the strangest things would not surprise me greatly. There are spots that feel as if beyond time. Places where the imagination is curiously enhanced. No wonder this locality inspired Tolkien (and Pratchett). 

Crop circle

Now to the second unusual sight of yesterday - a crop circle. One advantage of riding a horse is the view. So I spotted this creation in a roadside field just before a bus-load of French tourists turned up. 

One isn't quite sure what to say to crop circle enthusiasts. 

Try not to be abducted by the aliens risks causing offence. It also presumes that an alien would want these people. 

Make sure you've got tinfoil in your hats isn't a very kind thing to say. 

You do know that these circles are made by two local men, whilst it might be true, would spoil the visitors' day. 

The local men, who used to be extremely industrious at their nocturnal hobby, were unmasked - so the story goes - when the wife of one laid down the accusation of an affair. After all, what would you think if a spouse kept slipping off at night without a good explanation?

I'd not seen a crop circle before, only pictures in the media. Unsurprisingly in all that broad countryside, there it was conveniently close to a road and a car park. However there was nothing to tie Brena to, so I couldn't leave her to explore on foot. Still, it was just cereal crop beaten down geometrically using pegs, ropes and boards. Nothing to get worked up about. 

The only thing that surprised me, this being Britain, was that no-one had appeared to sell souvenirs or charge for admission. An enterprising farmer could do quite nicely from this kind of thing. 

Today's excitement

Britain is bathed in sunlight, scarcely a cloud covering any fragment of this six hundred-mile long island. Low bright rays illuminated our evening ride, highlighting the rolling hills and the texture of crop and soil. Trees cast long shadows, and so did Brena and I. It was a lovely time to be out and about. Colours were vibrant, the air was clear and the quiet almost tangible.

Brena stepped out keenly. Sunday's tiredness, evidently, was long gone. We rode down the slope and into the lowest point of the meandering dry valley. That's down by the trees in the photo, at the end of the path through the crop - a right of way that the farmer has marked as the law obliges. Then we turned right, walked a curving section of the trail, then cantered as soon as we had a clear view ahead.

It was a fast ascent of the gently rising valley. We flew along in harmony, Brena negotiating the various dips and ruts with fluency. It was as if we had each thought of cantering, translating idea into reality without conscious request or command. Then we paused near the crest, Brena grazing in the lee of a bank of beech trees, panting, her neck wet with sweat.

A roaring sound disturbed my thoughts. I thought that the farmer might be tipping some hard granular material into a metal-bottomed trailer behind the trees. It was that kind of a noise. Again it came in a burst of a few seconds duration, and again. Perhaps a dozen times the roar repeated. Only then did its source become clear.

This hot air balloon crept from behind the trees, the pilot burning his tall yellow gas flare again and again. Brena stared, then decided to turn around, flight in her mind. I had no wish to canter back down the valley, so turned her back to face the airborne peril. This time Brena stood quietly. I dismounted to take some photos whilst she realised that the grass had not disappeared. The danger was not so great that grazing need cease!

The balloon had crept across the ridge after being carried across the steep northern scarp slope by a faint breeze. It looked rather as if the pilot had been caught out by the steepness of the hill, coming practically between clumps of trees. The picture above is not an optical illusion! (The one below is.) Hence the frequent burns to gain altitude. With a surprising amount of noise the drifting balloon slowly gained height, cleared the next copse and climbed away after what might just have been an alarming few minutes for the pilot.

Brena was no longer distracted from her meal. Just a noisy blob in the sky! Then it was time to ride on. Sunset was half an hour off, and we needed at least that long to regain our trailer. Brena was calm as ever, clearly not in the least concerned by what had transpired. We walked briskly. I did not seek more fast work, not wanting to take her back to the barn soaking wet. It's unseasonably warm but Brena has by no means shed her entire winter coat yet.

It was wonderful to feel completely attuned to Brena, as if I was meant to ride her and she to carry me. I felt unusually balanced upon her. I was sitting nicely, naturally upon my seat-bones, with a little weight in my feet. My lower back, all too often stiff, was rocking to absorb her motion. I needed no contact with her mouth. On we went, like good friends who scarcely need to speak in order to understand one-another. Except that I do talk to Brena. Quite a lot in fact. I like to talk to my horses, softly and warmly, for I appreciate them.

Trimming chestnuts

Today I set to trimming Brena's chestnuts, which had grown to impressive proportions. They showed no sign of being shed, and I was beginning to be concerned that they might become caught on long vegetation. On occasions we do find ourselves picking through bushes fallen across the trail or thick tough scrub.

I removed about half the length of each easily with a good pair of hoof nippers, then smoothed the ends of the remaining parts with the less aggressive side of a hoof rasp leaving them tidy.

The inside of a chestnut proved to be rubbery, indeed almost waxy, rather like the inside of the frog. I had expected hard horn all the way through, though I had no reason to imagine them hard or soft inside.

There are some curious folk tales about chestnuts. Foals are said to be born without them, which in fact is not true. Back in Transylvania I looked at a newborn foal in order to check - and that mysterious land is just the place where a superstition ought to be true.

Other people hold that a foal's legs are held together at the chestnuts in the womb, which is also untrue. At least that might have sounded plausible back in the days before x-rays and ultrasound enabled us to look inside a pregnant mare.

Then there is the superstition that one can catch a loose horse more easily when carrying a piece of chestnut. Apparently the chestnut emanates a peculiar smell that somehow attracts horses. (I checked. The pieces cut from Brena were almost odourless.)

However a piece of chestnut is by no means the only thing supposed to grant a man power over his horse. In days gone by there were the ploughman's 'knowledge' that was secret to the uninitiated. Perhaps it was something strong smelling that masked or modified a horse's senses?There were 'magic' words to be whispered into a horse's ear too. They might just have been a hoax to put others off the trail of just what a skilled horseman really did. After all knowledge is power. It's best to keep the competition off the scent - or, rather, on the wrong scent.

The horn regrown

Working from home today (and indeed still working thirteen hours after I started) I did manage to slip out at lunchtime to see Brena and Doru. The low mid-day sun cast long shadows as the affectionate mare followed me around the field. I'd fed her and hung around for a while.

She has a way of hanging over the fence when I am leaving that makes me really regret going away. This is one mare that I would like to spend a lot more time with.

An affectionate horse makes ownership a whole lot more pleasurable for me. I'm not interested in going out and winning things with her. the enjoyment comes through relationship: with a horse and with the land that we travel.

Even when eating she likes me to be close and give her attention - unlike Doru who will threaten to bite anyone who gets too close when he is eating hard feed.

It was whilst looking at her mass of muddy mane looking forward to the spring - when I might just manage to get her clean again - that I saw how Brena's ear horn has regrown. This is an odd and apparently benign growth in her left ear. Last May the horn separated leaving a tiny root. Now a replica has grown.

I've never before seen such a thing on a horse. It is Brena's individual personal peculiarity.

Meanwhile I stood to let her rub her nose and forehead on my shoulder, for which reason I always wear an old fleece when I visit her. In Brena's company clothes will become ingrained with shed hair and dirt. She does enjoy a good rub on her human. Then I stood with a shoulder under her throat, reached up, and gently pulled both her ears. Brena likes this, and so does Doru. (Siegfried Sassoon also wrote of how his horse enjoyed having his ears pulled, especially when tired.)

Finally I picked smooth hard clods of mud from Brena's mane. I'll have done that plenty more times before this winter is through.

Silent visitors

Riding this afternoon we came across these two visitors to the upland meadows, where the grass had been mown and the hay made just in time to create a fine smooth landing strip.

 
From above the land looks relatively flat. So I suspect that the two glider pilots, having carefully avoided standing crop which they are trained to recognise from the air, had a little surprise. The field on which they landed slopes fairly sharply uphill. Even this photo is deceptive, for Brena had just plodded uphill carrying me up the parallel trail. At least they managed to land into the breeze, making their task easier.

Brena appreciated the distraction. A stop to take photos means the opportunity to graze lush upland grass. She will make a fine travelling horse as she eats at every opportunity. Our journeys may not be fast however she will be well nourished. After all a travelling horse does need to eat a great deal, a lesson first pointed out to me nearly twenty years ago as I prepared to spend two months riding across Transylvania and Moldavia.

 

The pilot was waiting for help to come. And it did come, in the form of a vehicle pulling a very long trailer into which the dismatled glider fitted, when we rode past again half an hour later.

Sometimes I hear a faint whistling when out riding. Looking above, there is a glider a couple of thousand feet up. I think that they only make any noise when flying fast between thermals. But today the sky clouded over and thermals, presumably, were stifled.

A curiosity gone

I have referred to the small horn in Brena's left ear previously. Well it is no more.

A comment was made that it seemed to be getting longer. So I took the horn very gently between finger and thumb to check. It dropped off without so much as being pulled. Brena did not seem to notice, there was no bleeding, nothing. All that remains is a tiny waxy stub reminiscent of the soft clear material of a new-born foal's frog.

I wonder whether it will grow back? If it is a type of sarcoid then perhaps it will. However it seems quite benign, and certainly isn't spreading elsewhere.

On this evening's windy ride we passed a troop of boy scouts flying kites. Brena was not in the least bit perturbed. I was proud of her.