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.
