Tania Kindersley's Blog, page 34

Ascot: Day Five. And there is yet more love.

In the old days, this was the quiet Saturday, the Heath Meeting after all the royal hoopla, when everyone could put their hats away and let their hair down. Now, it is the final blast of the week, all the pomp and circumstance still going, and just as grand and thrilling as the first Tuesday.

It seems years ago that the bold and beautiful French grey, Solow, got the meeting off on a roar. Every story has been told. Ryan Moore has smashed the course record with nine winners, setting the crowds alight and leaving the bookies in despair. Richard Hughes, after a torrid week, had a lovely double on his last Ascot Friday in the saddle. Frankie Dettori hit fifty Ascot winners and did his customary leap in the air. The Master of Ballydoyle has sent out his traditional flying posse, all in perfect order, and Willie Mullins put aside his Cheltenham green for a top hat and made a lightning raid on the flat with Clondaw Warrior.

The princes and potentates have gathered many of the spoils, but, to my intense pleasure, it has not all been about the billionaires. Goldream held on brilliantly in a fighting finish for his two owners: a farmer and a butcher. The French have been dazzling; the Americans gave us a superstar in Acapulco; today, perhaps, the Australians may have their moment in the sun.

My biggest love of today comes not from the flat-racing headquarters of Newmarket, but out of Ireland, from the jumping yard of Willie Mullins. I love it when the jumps boys come to Ascot, putting away their Trilbys and dusting off their morning coats, always looking slightly like naughty schoolboys bunking off lessons. Today, Mullins sends out Wicklow Brave, whom I have adored since he was a baby in bumpers. He started off his career in flying fashion, then slightly lost his way for a while, almost as if he suddenly couldn’t see the point of the whole shooting match, before roaring back to form, all his early promise blooming again. Lately, he’s been running on the flat, which he has taken to like a duck to water. I’ll be shouting my head off for the fine fella in the last race, hoping that he sends the majestic Ryan Moore out of this remarkable week with a bang.

My other love is Telescope. He’s a classically handsome, strong, athletic bay, with a fine aristocratic head and a long, dancing stride. He’s up against two really good horses in Eagle Top and Postponed, and his trainer, Sir Michael Stoute, one of the grand old racing knights, has had a horrible week. Although Telescope is short odds, in some ways all the odds are against him. I’d like him to put a smile on Sir Michael’s face, and on mine too.

As for the rest – I’m very excited about Brazen Beau, the shining Australian sprinter, and think he could show that he is world class. He’s travelled an awful long way, thousands of miles from the other side of the world, and I hope the journey will have been worth it. Today’s Ryan Moore placepot is not beyond the realms of possibility, because quite frankly I start to think that man could do anything. And for my long-shots, I’ve got a little feeling for three Mark Johnston toughies at huge prices. It’s always important to have a sporting bet, and I do it in memory of my father, who taught me never to back an odds-on favourite. I’m particularly sweet on Dessertoflife, a charming grey filly. She only ran six days ago, she’s up against the colts, and she might not quite have the class for this, but there is something very taking about her and she’s worth a little chance at sixteen-to-one.

And then, after all that, I’m going to have a very, very long rest in a darkened room.

 

Today’s pictures:

Just time for two quick snaps. Apparently, the Queen likes to ride for an hour before the Royal Meeting. I naturally follow her example. Today, for no known reason, I got on my own little champion without a saddle or a bridle and had a bareback moment just a halter on. I have not ridden bareback for over thirty years. I genuinely thought I might just fall off. But the duchess was immaculate:

Oh, and PS. I don’t know what is going to win the Wokingham, because nobody knows what is going to win the Wokingham. I’d love to see Intrinsic run well, but I really like Algar Lad for the very, very clever David O’Meara. He travelled incredibly well last time out at York, and won cosily, and he’s got course form and experience in these huge fields. Who knows, with a bit of luck in running?

Ascot, Day Four. All about the love.

At 11.45am on a quiet Scottish Friday morning, the following telephone conversation takes place.

Older Brother: ‘What are your thoughts?’

Me: ‘Well, I’ve got to go with Illuminate because of the twinkle in Richard Hannon’s eyes every time he mentions her name, and Hughesie has got to have a winner at some stage this week, and she was so impressive first time out. And then I love Stravagante but I know they are very sweet on Balios and you can’t rule out Ol’ Man River; he’s in my Ryan Moore placepot, because, well, Ryan Moore. The new sprint is going to kill me, because Tiggy Wiggy is one of the loves of my life, and I’m also a huge Limato fan, but I think the American horse might blast past them both, and when Wesley Ward says he likes a horse he is not messing around. So I have to have a Tiggy loyalty bet at eights, because I can’t desert her and if I did she would know, and I’m putting Hootenanny in an accumulator. And then I’m incredibly fond of Lucida and Found, but I think Arabian Queen is a huge price at 16-1 and she might be my little each-way shout of the day, she ran so well at Epsom and David Elsworth is so clever. The next is impossible, but I’ve got Dashing Star in my Ryan Moore placepot, because, well, Ryan Moore, and my each-way fancy at twelves is Watersmeet because I’m such a fan of Mark Johnston and his whole team and his horses are so brave and tough. By the time the Queen’s Vase comes around I’ll be on my knees. I don’t understand about Aloft, because he’s never gone anything like this distance, but he is the class horse in the race and it’s Ballydoyle and, well, Ryan Moore. My each-way saver is on Great Glen because I have so much admiration for Ralph Beckett and I’d love him to have a winner at the Royal Meeting. But really, I don’t know at all. It’s all love and hope today.’

At which point, I pause for breath.

‘What do you think?’ I say.

Pause. Older Brother: ‘I have no strong feelings.’

I look at my mother. ‘He has no strong feelings.’

She shakes her head.

‘Our mother is shaking her head,’ I say.

Today is all about the love. I thought that yesterday was not, so much, but then I fell head over heels for Time Test, who gave perhaps the most supremely satisfying performance of the week. You can’t really choose, because there have been so many great horses, great rides, great finishes, mighty displays. But there was something about Time Test which promised glory in the months ahead. And he was such a nice, handsome fellow. He’d been difficult and fractious as a youngster, but Roger Charlton had worked some magic on him, and got him to settle and feel comfortable in his own skin, and he went through the preliminaries with aplomb, and relaxed beautifully in the race itself, and when Frankie pressed the button, the horse stretched out his lovely stride and powered away.

The love for Tiggy Wiggy is for lots of reasons. She’s very beautiful and full of character. She’s a fiery little person, and she has to be ridden on her own at home, to keep the lid on her. When she gets to the races, it’s as if she can’t stand all the nonsense, she only wants to get on and run. She’ll do circus tricks in the paddock and going down, but the moment she gets to the start, she calms down and focuses, and when she blasts out of the stalls, she just wants to go as fast as her fine legs will carry her, which is very fast indeed. There are people who say she hasn’t trained on, which is quite an odd thing to say about a filly who finished third in the Guineas, even though a mile is not really her distance. But there is, I suppose, a suspicion that she may never be as imperious again as she was in her first season. I love her because she is idiosyncratic, and ravishing, and as fleet as fleet, and I hope they just let her go today, and she puts her best foot forward. The mighty American challenger may get the better of her, but all I want is to see her run her race.

All I want for any of them, really, is to run their race, and come home safe. I have thesauruses filled with adjectives at my disposal, but it is hard to put into mere words the joy that these dazzling thoroughbreds give me. They are all power and beauty and heart, with that hint of wildness still in them, that herd memory, which raises them above the common. There is a purity in them, which lifts the most jaded human heart. This human heart, anyway.

 

And down in her quiet field, my own little champion, so slow she could not even win a selling plate, is enjoying her breakfast:

With a little help from her friend:

Day three. I need iron tonic.

Luckily, today there is no horse with whom I am in love. The emotion is too exhausting. Yesterday, my heart almost broke when little Integral inexplicably started going backwards instead of forwards half-way through her race. I was almost torn in two between admiration and affection for Dermot Weld and Free Eagle, and my old, enduring love for The Grey Gatsby. For one breath-stopping minute, I thought they had dead-heated, almost a dream result. In the end, I was glad it was Free Eagle who stuck his brave head just in front. I said yesterday he was a dark horse; that is because he kept having training problems and not appearing on the track. They all thought he was a champion, but then he would get something as entirely unstellar as a ‘head cold’ and stay at home, leaving everyone to wonder how good he really was.

Yesterday, he showed that he was very good indeed.

Today starts with some speedy two-year-olds who might glitter and shine, and then later in the day, the mighty stayers in the Gold Cup. I am nearly in love with Forgotten Rules, but not yet, quite. I don’t know him well enough. I’m not a complete slapper; you need to take me on more than one date. Funnily enough, my old friend of the day is dear old Simenon, who loves it at Ascot and has run some astonishingly brave races in defeat. He’s getting on now, and he’s had his problems, but for old love and loyalty, and because it’s Willie Mullins, I think he’s worth a little bit each way. Forgotten Rules could be one of the great ones, but he has never been this far and he likes a bit of give in the ground. I’d rather love him to dazzle, but my head says that it’s a mountain to climb.

I won’t be yelping and howling so much today. Or at least, that is my plan. I’m going to take iron tonic instead of Guinness and calm down. I shall need all my resources, because tomorrow is Tiggy Wiggy, a flying filly I love so much she makes me cry. And there is still Saturday to go.

Luckily, the duchess was stateliness itself this morning, as if sensing that I needed a moment of stillness and sanity in the middle of the hurly burly. We wandered about on a loose rein and I thought calm thoughts and looked at the trees. It really was very lucky that she did not live up to her pedigree. If she had been as good as her ancestors, they would have sent her to stud and we would never have met and she would not hang around outside the shed practicing for the Standing Still Olympics.

 

Some quick calming pictures:

Ascot: Day Two.

I laughed, I cried, I shouted and whooped and hollered.

The first day of the Royal Meeting lived up to its billing. The flying French grey streaked home. He has a glorious combination of sheer talent, phlegmatism and doughty determination. He walked round the paddock like a dear old show pony, gave a little ah here’s business plunging leap as his lad let him go, and then cantered down to the start as composed as an ambassador. When a fast-finishing horse came to his flank, he stuck his dear head out and found a little bit more. ‘He’s the boss,’ said his beaming jockey.

My sweet, steely Buratino lived up to his youthful promise. Everyone was talking about the Irish horses, but Buratino has drunk deep at the Yorkshire water, which has flint and granite in it. His trainer, a charming, smiling Scot also has a streak of flint in him, and his string is famously tough as teak. He likes them out on the racecourse, doing their job, and they try and try for him. Buratino flew past the best two-year-olds in the world as if they weren’t there, with a poised William Buick on top, using on his hands and heels. I shouted with delighted laughter.

Gleneagles put his doubters to bed with a nice show of class. He only does what he has to do, but he does it in imperious fashion. He has said This is Mine to seven of his last eight races, and he knows where the winning line is. He’s got a streaking, raking stride, the stride of a pure aristocrat, but he can dig deep when he has to. Thoroughbreds have moods and mysteries, just as humans do. There are days when they don’t run their race. ‘No excuses,’ say the connections, smiling philosophically. This kind of consistency at the top level is not only a huge tribute to the horse, but to the entire team around him.

The old standing dish Sole Power was not quite quick enough on the day, and finished an undisgraced fifth, as Goldream and the dear old Medicean Man, fierce as a tiger at the age of nine, fought out a thrilling finish. I got the stayers’ race all wrong, but was never so glad to lose my money, as the mighty Ryan Moore guided Clondaw Warrior from last to first and blinded the crowd with his biggest smile of the day. Willie Mullins, that cool magician, put away his winter green for a shiny black top hat, and looked as pleased as if he’d just won the Gold Cup at Cheltenham. Ruby Walsh, whose wife part-owns the good galloping fella, was dancing about in the winner’s enclosure making jokes about the Galway Hurdle, looking as happy as I’ve ever seen him.

And in the last, Washington DC came home for my money, putting the Royal Seal of Approval on Aidan O’Brien’s glittering day.

And talking of royal seals, The Queen looked as delighted as a girl as she observed the feast of equine beauty. She knows more about bloodlines than almost anyone, and has been known to leave experts floundering in her wake. She’s been trotting up the course behind her match greys since before most of the jockeys riding today were born, and you would have thought she had seen everything, but the smile on her face suggests that this fine festival never gets old for her.

Today, one of my favourite fillies, Integral will be the beat of my heart. She’s five now, so she’s really a mare, but she’s a light, delicate creature, and she still looks like a filly to me. She may have the looks of a princess, but she does not shy away from a fight, and I’ll be roaring her on. I’d love the big, bonny Ivawood to win the first, and I’ve got a sneaking feeling for the bold William Haggas filly in the Queen Mary. I can’t work out the Prince of Wales at all. The dark horse, Free Eagle, might show all his brilliance, but I can’t ever quite let go of my love for The Grey Gatsby, who has not been at his crest and peak this season, but could bounce back. I’d love to see Frankie do his flying dismount after the Royal Hunt Cup, and I hope Always Smile will put a smile on my face in the last.

More hopes and dreams; more flying finishes; more of those beautiful, brave thoroughbreds dazzling on the emerald turf. What a week.

Meanwhile, someone is dozing in her quiet field:

The Royal Meeting.

In the end, because I gave myself permission not to write the blog, I wanted to write the blog. I am stupidly cussed.

I was thinking, as I rode this morning, getting the mare to do her dowager duchess dressage diva schtick, which she eventually did after some persuasion, about the things about Ascot that I shall miss and those I shan’t.

In the very old days, I used to see my father in the Irish Bar, usually with a tall elegant gentleman whom he would introduce as ‘my friend Bill.’ My friend Bill, charming, very funny, dry as a bone, and so self-deprecating it was as if he had done a course, turned out to be a man of some distinction. I only discovered much later that he had fought with the Royal Hussars in the Second World War.

Eventually Dad turned against Ascot. He grew tired of the hats and the heels and the cocktail party crowds, and he lost so much money there each year that he said it was cheaper to go on holiday, so he would firmly take himself off abroad.

For a long time, I agreed with him. Pushing through crowds who are all looking the wrong way (at each other rather than at the horses) became rather dispiriting. There is a yahoo element that is a little bit sad. But however crowded it becomes, however many absurd tottery shoes there are, and self-parodying braying hoorahs, and people who don’t know a pastern from a hock, through it all runs the enduring element: the finest thoroughbreds in the world. So I went back.

I had forgotten how beautiful Ascot was. The new stand is perfectly hideous, but it is well-laid out and convenient, and it cannot take away from that ravishing emerald sward that opens up in front of it like a history book. The history lives, out on that storied course. It was Queen Anne who started the Royal Meeting, because she wanted something nice and close to Windsor, and it is from Windsor that our own dear Queen comes, trotting down the straight mile in her open carriage with her match greys, an elegant echo of her ancestress. A band, usually someone like the Welsh Guards, strikes up, and all the gentlemen take their top hats off and wave them, with old school courtesy, at their monarch. I understand perfectly well all the arguments against a hereditary monarchy, in this day and age, but when I see that, I get chills up my spine, and I love the Queen and all who sail in her. No race meeting in the world has such a beginning.

Up where the old paddock was, there is now the pre-parade ring, a gentle calm before the storm, with ancient trees and quiet grass, and a perfect hidden place right at the end where one can observe the dazzling athletes, walking round like old dressage horses, before they are saddled. It’s as hushed as a church service, and the only time I’ve seen it mobbed was when Black Caviar flew over from Australia, and every single trainer, even the jumps boys, poured into the place to catch a glimpse of the super-mare. In my secret spot, away from the crowds, there is usually just me and another reminder of the old Ascot, a lady of venerable age and immense chic (and sensible shoes), with whom I made friends, both of us being wild about the fillies.

I can’t go this year, and I shall miss that moment of communion in the pre-parade ring, the extraordinary privilege of getting up close to that much equine beauty and talent. Television can’t quite capture the full majesty of the thoroughbred; it’s as if half a dimension is missing. Frankel, who brought me back to Ascot for his rampaging Queen Anne victory, was much more fine and delicate and handsome in life than he was in front of the cameras. It sounds odd, but there’s something too about getting the smell of them, and seeing the relationship they have with their lads and lasses, and being able to look into their deep eyes.

I’ll miss the wild roar that starts when a favourite hits the front and starts to motor, a soaring, swelling sound, so visceral that it runs right through your body, so overwhelming that it brings on magical thinking. In that Frankel Queen Anne, I quite genuinely wondered whether the roof would come off the stands.

I’ll miss running into my racing friends. I like seeing George Baker, with whom I used to go and watch Desert Orchid when we were in our raw twenties. He loved racing so much that he chucked in a perfectly respectable job and took out a training licence. When I see him, he twinkles at me, all those old memories still alive, and says, with some amazement: ‘I’m living the dream.’ I’ll miss going to see the horses with James and Jacko Fanshawe. James Fanshawe is not a trainer that many people outside racing have ever heard of, he is so modest and low-key, but he’s a flat specialist who has won two Champion Hurdles. Most National Hunt trainers have not won one Champion Hurdle, so for a flat trainer to win two is something out of the common. He’s a horseman to his bones, and watching him assess a young sprinter is one of my all-time great pleasures. (His brother sold me the red mare, so the Fanshawe family is very, very high in my hall of fame.)

I won’t miss the frantic dash to the train and the panicky picking up of the tickets and the failure to find a seat and the rather tiring uphill walk to the course. I won’t miss the crowds and the queuing and having to canter my way through the throng in my sensible boots to see my equine heroines and heroes, and getting stuck with a dead bore just when I want to go and see a Best Beloved in the paddock. I’ll miss my sneaky half pints of ice-cold Guinness and making friends with the random American military gentlemen who seem to favour the Guinness bar. (I love a bit of gold braid.) I’ll miss the august old gents in their special uniforms who guard the entrance to the Royal Enclosure. I’ll miss the atmosphere.

But the television is a good show. Channel Four Racing, after a rocky start with its new team, have settled down into harness now, and Nick Luck with his sharp tailoring and his sense of humour and his enthusiasm has grown into an outstanding broadcaster. I can watch the replays and see clearly the pattern of each race. I don’t get that on the course, because my race glasses are usually shaking too much. I’ll still have a great shout, and Stanley the Dog will bark and jump up and down, and I’ve even shipped it in a bit of Guinness, which is very, very naughty on a school day.

It’s all power and glory. The best in the world, up against the best in the world. They are flying in from Australia, America, France, Ireland, Hong Kong and Japan. All those hopes and dreams, all that thought and care, all that breeding and brilliance will be out there, where the flying hooves thunder down the track. It really is like Christmas and Easter.
 
Here is the old lady, many of whose cousins will be running today, very happy that she is no longer required to do all that galloping at top speed nonsense:



I’m hoping that the cream will rise to the top today, and that Solow and Gleneagles do the business. If my old friend Sole Power can weave his way through the field with his thrilling late run, I shall cry tears of joy. And my each-way bet is the very lovely Buratino , a juvenile who is more exposed than his rivals, but with such a turn of foot that I hope he might see them off.
Be lucky, my darlings.

Pictures.

Although I have vast amounts of work to do, I’ve run myself into the ground a bit, so I’m going to give myself a little stay-at-home holiday. I’m taking the week off to ride my mare and throw sticks for Stanley the Dog and potter about and watch Ascot. I always feel faintly guilty about taking time off, because it’s not as if my job involves going down mines or putting in widgets on an assembly line, but there is always a moment when my brain starts to twang and stutter and I know that I will achieve nothing good by bashing on. I have to try and turn my mind off, so it will work again. That is my plan.

So, there may be a blog, there may not be a blog. Probably not, unless something very marvellous happens on dear old Queen Anne’s racecourse this week. I hope to the hit the ground running again on Monday.

In the meantime, here are some pictures for you. I took these this morning:

An awful lot of love.

I woke to blinding sunshine and ridiculously loud birdsong, as if the local avians were having some kind of arcane competition. I arrived at the field this morning to find two horses and a human fast asleep. It was one of the all-time great sights.

My little great-niece came for a ride. The red mare was, as she always is, utterly enchanting when faced with a small child. It is as if she knows, deep in her bones, that absolute gentleness is required.

We played around with the mare on the ground, and she showed off her paces in delightful fashion. Then the little jockey got up. She was suddenly a tiny bit doubtful, as it was the first time she had been on the mare, but her mother and I delicately encouraged, and she lifted her chin and screwed her courage to the sticking place and got into the plate.

‘Just sit there for a bit and feel the mare under you,’ I said, smiling up at the little face, which had a mixture of joy and uncertainty in it. ‘Feel the peace coming off her. That’s it. Now breathe, big deep breaths in and out.’

She thought this game was very funny, so we did silly breathing for a while. The red mare went to sleep. ‘Now,’ I said. ‘Big smile. And wave your arms in the air.’

The arms went up, into the blue Scottish sky. The mare stood like a statue, still dozing. ‘Now give her a good old rub on the neck to say well done,’ I said.

By this time, as the small hand ran up and down the great chestnut neck, there was no need to instruct the smile. It was beaming out into the day, as bright as the sun.

We walked, very very slowly. The good mare, understanding that she had precious cargo, perhaps sensing that her young passenger was not brimful of cavalier spirit but feeling her way, put each foot on the ground with as much fine delicacy as if she were treading on bone china.

‘Feel her moving under you,’ I said. ‘And just go with her. Don’t forget to breathe.’

And so we did a little walk, and then we did some more standing, and the smile stayed steadily in place, without wavering.

‘And say thank you,’ I said, laughing.

So the little person thanked the big thoroughbred, and everyone was smiling, and the swifts flew low over our heads, and Stanley the Dog larked about by the treeline, looking for pheasants, and everything was merry as a marriage bell.

I was very impressed, and said so. Some children leap up onto that mare as if she were a Shetland pony, with no fear. Some of them want to go off on their own, and I take my hand from the reins, and, even though staying close and keeping a strict weather eye, let them ride by themselves. Some of them are so excited that they would probably kick off into the horizon if I would let them.

This small person had adored the idea, but was daunted by the reality. She loves the mare, and knows her quite well, but when it came to it, that big athletic body did suddenly seem quite a climb. She had to grit her teeth a little, and face her doubts, and she did, in fine style. Her mother and I were quite prepared to say: never mind, another day. But I’m so glad she did get on, because facing your fears is the greatest triumph of all, and that tiny girl could teach a lot of burly grown-ups a good life lesson.

I loved the mare very much for being so tender with her, and felt profoundly touched to know that I can trust this horse with one of the best of the Best Beloveds.

Then I drove the long way round to buy some delicious meadow chaff for my good girl, because it’s the least she deserves, and looked at the blue hills basking in the sunshine, and wrote half a book in my head, mapping out each scene as if I were watching a film, and felt lucky. The Beloved Cousin rang up, and I pulled over and had a long and fond conversation, and then went home and did my work and reflected that it was hard to think of a day filled with more love.

I think sometimes about the people I know who have had great worldly success, and earned money, and got their existential passports rubber-stamped. I admire them vastly and don’t know how they do it. I could no more build a business up from scratch or transform an ailing company or star in a film than fly over the moon. My successes and rewards are tiny, private, and make no headlines. They bring in no great salary or tremendous bonus. But they are worth more than diamonds to me.

A girl on a horse, the smiles of my family, the voice of my dear friend on the telephone, the rolling Scottish hills – these are my glittering prizes. It’s more cheesy than cheese on toast with extra cheese, but there it is: the truest fact I know.

‘Love the small things,’ the Cousin and I shouted at each other, laughter in our voices, mostly at ourselves, at our own follies and idiosyncrasies. But the older I get, the more I think it is the secret of life, if there is a secret. Take joy in the very, very small and the big things will take care of themselves. That’s my damn theory, and I’m sticking to it.

 

Today’s pictures:

Two drowsing horses, one drowsing human:

We were concentrating so hard on the riding that there was no time for pictures, but here is the small great-niece and her mother before the Great Ride. You can see the Paint in the background, contemplating where she should actually get up or not. (The answer was: not.)

The long way round to buy the meadow chaff. Not a bad drive to the shops:

I’m not sure why everything was quite so blue today. The light was doing something fascinating, as if it were throwing a fine azure veil over the sleeping land:

After everyone woke up, the Paint and her human went out for a ride, closely overseen by the red mare. She does not like her charge to go anywhere without a permission slip:

Every day I think I could not love this mare more, and every day I do. It’s as if she breaks all the laws of physics and human emotion and neurobiology and I don’t know what all. She is a sort of miracle:

Age cannot wither her. Or, bugger the menopause.

I am, for no known reason, re-reading Middlemarch. I picked it up because I was thinking about my father and the racing world I grew up in. It was a marvellous world, and I remember it with flinging fondness, but it had absolutely no thought in it that was not about horses. When I first plunged into the wide prairies of Middlemarch, I thought I had died and gone to heaven. I could not stop talking about it. (What a dead bore I must have been.) After a while, my father patted my hand gently and murmured, very kindly: ‘And this George Eliot, has he written any other good books?’

He was a horseman, what can I tell you? He read Timeform and The Sporting Life.

I was fourteen. Now, thirty-four years later, I come back to it and it is just as dazzling as I remember. But the perspective of age has changed it all. I had quite forgotten Eliot’s sly jokes, so naughty that they make me laugh out loud. (I don’t recall laughing at the time, I was far too earnest.) I now understand, after only a moment, exactly why Dorothea marries Mr Casaubon. At the time, stupidly romantic, I could not understand one word of that. Those moles. Now, I see why her ardent soul could not bear all those well-meaning relations and friends and neighbours, why poor Sir James with his ridiculous puppy and his good-hearted cottage schemes would not do for her.

I think: how funny it is that schools gave me these books to read when I could not comprehend half of them. The summer after Middlemarch, I was reading The Knight’s Tale, L’Étranger and George Herbert. After that: Huis Clos, Macbeth, Antony and Cleopatra, Keats and Robert Lowell. I must admit I never got on with pious Mr Herbert for a solitary second, but I was all over the existentialists and convinced that I had the measure of Lowell’s knotty Nantucket poems. I was living proof of the correctness of Donald Rumsfeld (not a phrase I ever thought I would write): a perfect festival of unknown unknowns. I had no idea how little I knew.

When I am not wigging out about mortality, or getting cross with myself for making schoolgirl errors when I really do know better, I like age. As I motor towards fifty, I think that there are lots of lovely things I have now which I did not then. My vanity has almost entirely disappeared. I have a ten-second moment of despair when I see pictures of myself looking bonkers, with terrible hair and no chin. (I never had much of a jawline, and it is running away now, gravity taking its toll.) But most of the time, I don’t really care what I look like. I have a uniform, suitable for doing horses and writing books, and I stay at a reasonable weight so that I do not burden the red mare’s delicate back. I brush up for the races, because it’s the least those fine thoroughbreds deserve, but that’s it.

I know that, apart from actual life and actual death, things really are not a matter of life or death. I was thinking this morning, as I happily walked my horse out into the long meadow, the view reminiscent of the green grass of Wyoming, of the broken hearts of my twenties, when I really believed that not being loved by a certain gentleman meant my life was over. I don’t do that any more. I keep emotions saved up, until I see the whites of their eyes. At this age, there is death and loss and sickness, a great generation going, brilliant minds fading. I save my sorrows for those.

I can work out now which is Object A and which is Object B. I know that when some people seem scratchy or distant or cross, it is not always because I have done something wrong. It’s usually their stuff. (This is the technical term.) I understand that the humane thing is to leave them alone to work it out, and not make it my drama. I know too that turning everything into a drama is dull and selfish, and drains away the life force from those around you. I think I was a bit of a drama queen in my youth. I’m glad I grew out of that.

I know now, which I did not then, that not everyone sees the world in the way I do, and that is all right.

There’s so much about growing older which is a relief. There are so many circuses which are not my circuses, and so many monkeys which are not my monkeys. The ability to step away does not sound like much, but I think it’s a life-changer.

I can still twist myself into a pretzel of angst, and I don’t expect I’ll ever learn about how to deal with the Cupboard of Doom, and I still get stupidly easily hurt and take things to heart which should not be taken to heart. I’m a bit of a muddler and a bit of an obsessive and my geekiness has never left me. I can fly to vertiginous heights of enthusiasm, which means there is usually a crash afterwards. I can get out the twisty little firestarter of self-sabotage, when things are going too well, as if it’s too scary to sit with good fortune or calm seas.

But there really are a lot of things which have changed for the better since I first picked up that mighty novel. I’m writing them now because I like the idea of them, and I think they should be marked. Women are told so often that age is a disaster, that they become invisible, that the mean old menopause and the hideous wrinkles and the sagging skin tone will render them sad and sexless and altogether negligible. I think this is a big fat lie. I say: bugger the menopause. I say: be as visible as you want to be. I say: those wrinkles, which society says you must despise and regret, are the story of every smile and every frown. Think of the brain. Think of all the things it now has in it which it did not have, when the skin was smooth and unlined. Think of the human heart, which has been beaten and battered and bruised, but which somehow survives, expanding against all the odds, which now has the love of many, many years in it, which can tell the difference between the lasting adoration and the fleeting fancy, which beats steadily on, as the years roll by.

Who needs a Grace Kelly jawline, when they have all that?

 

Today’s pictures:

Actually weren’t very good, apart from the HorseBack ones, so here is a small selection from the last few days:

Not caring about a really bad hair day:

The mare’s hair is a bit scruffy too, but she cares even less than I do:

The Younger Brother took those two last ones. Always credit the photographer. That’s another of the important things I have learnt.

The Power of Admission.

I was going to give this post the title: The Answer to Everything. Obviously, that would be crazed hyperbole, so I restrained myself. However, it’s not that far off.

Here, instead, is the Answer to Really Quite a Lot:

1. Do something foolish.

2. Hurl yourself into a defensive cringe, covered in angst.

3. Raise your head, and admit the folly.

4. Share the experience with a group of kind people.

5. Smile and smile as they all say: oh yes, I did the exact same thing.

6. Realise that everything is perfectly all right.

Everybody knows that everybody does perfectly idiotic things from time to time. Everybody forgets that everybody does those things, and so when they themselves do them, their irrational mind believes they are the only one. And that is the point when one goes into the garden to eat worms.

The power of admission is one of the great overlooked powers in life. It’s as strong as love. It’s incredibly tempting, when something horrid and stupid happens, to run away into a cross little lair, to turn in on oneself, to sit alone in a world shrunk to just you and your angst. The critical voices in your head, who are on their third Negroni and are punchy by now, are yelling that you are pointless and useless and feckless and there is no health in you. They find this hysterically funny. It’s impossible to argue with them because they are so convinced of their own rightness and they do that annoying drunk thing of moving the goalpoasts.

To use the simple declarative sentence, to say plainly this is what I did, becomes almost impossible, because everyone is surely going to laugh and point. Your folly is then compounded and shame comes storming down the outside with an unstoppable run and wins the race.

Admission is the only thing which can beat these brutal battalions. Because people really don’t laugh and point. What they do is say, kindly, ruefully, empathetically: oh yes, I did that too. At which point the sun rises, the orchestra strikes up, the bluebirds begin singing, and the world, which was dark and angry, is suddenly filled with light.

The thing is still the thing. It was folly, or silliness, or wrongness, or carelessness. But usually, it can be fixed right up, amends made, lessons learnt. The power of the thing, however, has been completely taken away by the kindness. The kindness is quite often, in this rushing age of social media, that of strangers. It can also come from one human you love. Either way, it works in spectacular fashion.

Words are important too. Yesterday, I chose my words wrongly, because I was so in the grip of the critical voices that I could not see straight. I wrote: I am an idiot. I was wrong. I’m not an idiot. I sometimes do idiotish things. (More often, perhaps, than I would like.) This is quite different. That nice shift of perspective was also what was brought about by the admission and the generous reaction.

I sometimes think the sweetest words in the English language are: me too.

Thank you. Thank you all.

 

Today’s pictures:

The hill:

The oystercatchers on the roof, singing their dear heads off:

The Younger Brother, who is off to Ireland, looking at the view of the hill from his bedroom:

The Sister, who is moving south, standing in front of her hill for the last time. I’m very sad, but I’m not making a big thing about it. Or, not too much of a big thing:

There was a lovely photograph of the Brother-In-Law too, who has generously completely forgiven me for the car fiasco, but he says he does not want to be on the internet. ‘You won’t put me on that blog?’ he says. I think guiltily of the times I have snuck in the odd close-up and shake my head. Here are the ears of the red mare instead, on our ride this morning:

And here she is, graciously standing for her photograph after the ride. She can do this for many, many minutes, untethered, only sighing a very little at the absurd antics of her human:

I am an idiot.

You would think by now that I would have got used to being an idiot. I have a fairly high level of folly. Some of it I am aware of; some of it I am not. There are things which I think quite normal, which make other humans look frankly terrified. (‘What have I said?’ I ask myself.) Some of the idiocies I try to fix up, to make better, to smooth out. Some I think do no harm, and may be left. Some make me want to cry.

Today was my mother’s 81st birthday. All her children are here, which is a very rare thing, since we are geographically scattered. It all started very well. There was the sweet birthday breakfast, with flowers and laughter. I brought roses. Then I went off and did the horse and did my HorseBack work and walked with the Younger Brother and ran back to my mother’s house to make smoked mackerel paté and tomato and red pepper salsa and guacamole. The extended family arrived, right down to the smallest great-niece, and the sun shone, and everyone was in harmony.

I left early to go back to my desk, since it is a school day. Smiling, I leapt in the motor and reversed very slowly into the brother-in-law’s shining new car.

I AM AN IDIOT.

It’s a turn I make every day. Each morning, I go down and cook my mother breakfast, and each morning I leap in the motor and reverse into that space to make the turn for home, and, this lunchtime, because I’m used to there being a big space there, not a gleaming blue car, I did not look. I just drove, heedlessly, thoughtlessly, without care or attention.

I had to go in and confess. I walked slowly, with the steps of a condemned woman. The brother-in-law, who was having a lovely time, looked up. ‘I’ve done something terrible,’ I started to say. But he knew. He knew before the words were out of my mouth. ‘You’ve hit my car,’ he said, sadly. He loves that car. He was having a perfectly delightful time and then some idiot female smashes up his motor.

He is a gentleman and he was incredibly polite and kind about it. But I could tell how sad he was. There was a dying fall in his voice and a mournful look in his eye. I could hardly speak, I was so mortified. I did that awful incoherent apologising which does not make anything better. He was manful.

It’s all very well being a bit of a flake. I’m used to it and most of the time I don’t think it so very bad. But could I not at least look where I am going?

I reflected, as I came home, entirely down in the dumpiest of dumps, about the little things. The regular readers know that I am slightly obsessed with the little things. This is usually in a good way. I cherish the moss, the trees, the stone walls, the low whicker of the mare when she gets her breakfast, the look on Stanley the Dog’s face when he emerges, triumphant, from the vast tunnel he has dug under the feed shed. If I am feeling a little sorrowful, I cast my eyes up to these hills, and everything is all right. But the little things work the other way round too. Everything was enchanting today. Even the dear old Scottish weather was on our side. My mum was having a grand birthday, all the family was there, everyone was in fine form. It will not be all the delight I shall remember, because the stupid unnecessary shunt has wrecked all that.

It won’t wreck it forever. I’ll ring up the perspective police and they will do a raid. I’ve written a note to the poor brother-in-law and enclosed vast lumps of cash so he won’t be out of pocket, although of course that is not really the point. But for the rest of the day I’ll have that awful sick feeling of angst as I recall his stricken face, caused by my folly.

There is a very dear horse forum I belong to. The people there are very kind and encouraging, and everyone writes about their small steps of progress with their horses and everyone else says well done, you’re doing a great job. This morning, a young girl in Australia posted a video of the work she is doing with her beloved mare. I’ve seen the young girl’s posts before, and she is a polite, enthusiastic, rather sensitive person. She tries vastly hard with her horse and is learning all the time. Even though she is thousands of miles away, I feel very fond of her, oddly protective, and quite often leave comments saying how well she is doing and how lovely her horse is. Today, someone chose to write a blighting comment. The burden of the song was that people should know what they are doing. (I wish I knew what I was doing, and quite often don’t, so it rather struck my heart.) The young girl, who is only sixteen, was devastated. The whole group rallied round her, and by the end of the morning there were a hundred kind, supportive comments to the one mean-spirited one. But I suspect that young girl will remember the ungenerous rather than the generous. Her rational mind will be soothed by the good stuff, but her irrational, undefended mind will be laid waste by the bad stuff.

I sometimes think this phenomenon is like smell. How is it that one bad smell will always linger, no matter how many good smells there are to combat it? Drains will always conquer roses; old rubbish wins out over lavender. To a tender mind, the single poison-tipped arrow will always cut through the finest armour.

Ah, well. I suppose it is just another lesson in life. I really must learn to butch up a bit. Make the mistake, make as many amends as one can, learn the lesson, put right what can be put right, and move on. Nobody’s perfect. But oh, oh, oh, I do wish that I were not quite such an idiot, and that I had not made the brother-in-law sad.

 

Today’s pictures:

The birthday girl:

The family:

The guacamole:

The red mare:

The Paint filly, very dozy and relaxed after being comprehensively anointed with special neem oil to keep off the flies, with her human:

I love this. It’s very slightly out of focus so I think it looks like a painting. The mare was coming up from the set-aside for her breakfast: