Tania Kindersley's Blog, page 60

Special Forces.

The sun shines. The Horse Talker and I take out our mares on the sweetest, happiest, most relaxed ride ever. I’m not sure I ever felt Red more gentle and at one with herself and the world. I don’t know who is more delighted that the weather has at last grown kind: equines or humans.

I run up to HorseBack. There is a crowd there. There sometimes is a crowd. I plunge in. I have no idea who anyone is. ‘Hello,’ I say, shaking hands, ‘how do you do? I’m Tania Kindersley. I do the Facebook page.’

Eventually, I sort some of them out. Two are from a venerable organisation which I cannot yet name (secret plans). One seems to be some kind of philanthropist, but I never get upsides him. Two are very smiley and jolly and funny and sharp. One is tall, and looks like Hugh Jackman. One is shorter, and is rather like a young Chevy Chase, and just as hilarious. Within minutes, my famous British reserve has fled. There is no more ‘how do you do?’ or firm handshakes. I am doubling up with laughter and actually slapping my thigh and shouting with merriment. I also quickly fall into teasing them, since they take the piss out of themselves, with ruthless irony.

It turns out that they are of the American Special Forces. When people from the services, on either side of the pond, talk of special forces, you can be sure that the special is very bloody special indeed. You can also be sure that the more special their service, the less they will talk about it. They occasionally get that thousand yard stare in their eyes, but they do not do bragging or war stories. They do self-deprecation as if their lives depend on it. (My favourite Para uses ‘when I was shot in the head’ as a gag line, like a stand-up, doing schtick.)

These two are heaven. I want to wrap them up and take them home. They were wounded in Afghan, and have been through the long months of rehabilitation. You would not know it to look at them; they are shining, healthy specimens. One has a barely visible scar at the base of his throat, the only outward sign of what he has been through.

One is back at work, no longer in the forces, but as a contractor. ‘Are you super- secret?’ I say, merrily. ‘Are you deep undercover? Can I take your picture?’

‘As long as you get my best side,’ he says, gravely.

‘I mostly hide under my desk now,’ he says. ‘And look at Facebook.’

‘Facebook is crazy,’ says the other one, in exaggerated alarm. ‘You just don’t know what people will say next.’

I know perfectly well there is no hiding under any desk, or much Facebook either. That is just how they talk.

They crack jokes for another ten minutes, and then HorseBack’s resident Royal Marine comes out to discuss where he should take them. They want to see a bit of Scotland.

‘We could go to Lochnagar,’ he says. ‘It’s not far from Balmoral. Near the Queen.’

‘If you see the Queen,’ says the Chevy Chase one. ‘Say ‘Chip, chip,’ from me.’

‘Chip, chip?’ I say.

‘That’s what you Brits say,’ says Chevy.

‘No Briton has ever said Chip, chip,’ I say. ‘What have you been doing? Watching Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins?’

‘Never?’ He looks bemused.

‘Never,’ I say.

There is a pause. Then a shout of laughter.

‘You British need to learn to speak British,’ he says.

I think how much I love Americans. Obviously, not all Americans. I don’t expect I would have much fun with one of those crazy evangelical GOP types, who thinks that gay people are mentally ill and that the fossil record was put there by Satan. But, oh, a good American is like a gale of fresh air. I never understand where the fantasy comes from that only the British can do irony. Has nobody ever seen The Daily Show? These two are so ironical that it is as if they took a course. There they stand, in the beaming Scottish sunshine, vivid and bright and endlessly funny, and I think of all the things they have done, and all the things they have seen, and the wounds they carry, quietly, with dignity, beneath their smart coats.

As I get older, I really, really understand the idea of one day at a time. It’s an old group therapy saw, its meaning worn thin with use. But I see now that the only way to deal with middle age, and the intimations of mortality, and the griefs which come, and the labyrinthine difficulties that go into trying to live the good life, is to ask the most simple questions. What shall I do today? What did I do today? Did I add one tiny increment to the sum total of human happiness? Did I try hard? Did I read something interesting or say something amusing or do something kind?

If someone were to ask what I did today, I could answer: well, I met a man from the Special Forces who looked like Hugh Jackman, and another who was as hysterical as Chevy Chase in his pomp.

It’s not a bad answer.

 

Today’s pictures:

The Special Forces, with HorseBack’s own Royal Marine on the right:

One of my happiest sights is the two girls out together, in the brightness, WITHOUT THEIR RUGS. The sweet Paint has had her breakfast and is waiting politely for the duchess to finish hers, so she may lick the bowl. It’s a little routine between them:

THE FIRST SNOWDROPS:

And the darling old hill, because as one of the Dear Readers reminded me, we have not had the hill for a while. It has been lost in the dreich:

One more very lovely thing did happen today, although I almost do not mention it, because the person concerned is a modest fellow who does not like compliments very much. Someone I like and respect very much gave me an unexpected present. It was a book, chosen with a great deal of thought and care, and it had an inscription written on the front page which was so touching and heartfelt, it actually made me cry.

I dream of Tidal Bay.

Over at Leopardstown today, a late chapter in a long and glorious story will be written. The veteran Tidal Bay is crossing the water to have a pitch at one of Ireland’s best chases.

Old horse runs in race is not the stuff of which headlines or fairy tales are made. But this is not any old horse, nor any old race.

Tidal Bay is one of the most intriguing and idiosyncratic horses in racing. He has a peculiar running style, with his head stuck in the air, star-gazing all the way round. It seems almost as if he defies the laws of physics, for a horse should not be able to travel at velocity whilst making that shape.

He also has very strong ideas about the world and what he wants to do in it. He quite often moseys round at the back, as if he really can’t be fagged, and whilst the rest of the field are getting on with it, he and his jockey (mostly Ruby Walsh, lately Sam Twiston-Davies) will be having what looks like a fairly comprehensive conversation. The chat generally goes on for about three-quarters of the race, and appears to run along the lines of: not sure I want to; yes you do; still not convinced; come on it’s mighty craic; oh, all right.

You cannot tell this horse to do anything. He is stronger and more determined and more cussed than any puny human. Riding him is mostly a matter of nuanced and intelligent persuasion.

Once the conversation is finished, Tidal Bay makes up his mind, starts galloping in earnest, and quite often moves from last to first. In the old days, because of all this head-in-air orneriness, Timeform put the dreaded squiggle next to his name. The squiggle is like the Black Spot. It means unreliable, ungenuine, not to be trusted. But the funny thing is that Tidal Bay, in a tight finish, is all heart and guts. His cussedness comes into its own, as he gets a bugger off look in his eye, and goes from mule to alpha horse in a matter of strides. Suddenly, he damn well is the herd leader, and he’s going to boss the lot of them.

In the Lexus last season, he gave the racing public a finish for the ages. Half a length covered the first four home, and it was Tidal Bay, with a never-say-die surge of speed and guts, pushing his way through an impossible gap between two gallant, fighting horses, who prevailed, to roars of disbelief and joy. I have watched that race ten times, and I still have no idea how he got up.

The squiggle was quietly removed.

This season he has been mighty in victory, and amazingly courageous in defeat. He humped top weight through the mud at Chepstow last time, and finished a running-on third. He still runs with his head in the air, and he still tends to stalk round at the back for the first circuit, but the clever people at the Nicholls stable have found the key to his battling heart.

Today, probably for the last time, he goes up against the best of his peers in a Grade One chase. He is thirteen, which is old, in professional terms. The diamond brilliance usually loses its lustre when racehorses pass eleven. He had a hard race only a month ago, which can take it out of any horse, let alone one of his venerable years. He is up against First Lieutenant, a lovely, talented nine-year-old. First Lieutenant is a favourite of mine; I love his rangy, athletic build and his honest Roman nose. But I shall be shouting for dear Tidal Bay today, although I think the odds are against him.

He will be reunited with his old pal, Ruby Walsh, and who knows what chats they shall have, as they wander along at the back? If anyone can do the improbable, Ruby can.

Tidal Bay is not a horse of ease and grace. He is a horse of character and grit. That is why I love him. I think that is why he is adored by the crowds who come to watch him run. He’s not quite like anything else. And he’s been around so long, and given a huge amount of joy. If the auld fella can pull it out of the bag, there will not be a dry eye in the house. Certainly not in this house.

 

I can’t put a picture of him here, because of copyright. There is the red mare instead, who never won a single thing in her short and undistinguished racing career, but is of course the Grade One champion of my heart. She gave me a canter today of such lightness and delicacy that it was as if we were floating.

Good and bad, light and dark, up and down, round the houses. Or: usual ramble.

1342 words today. I am still doing my twenty minute rule. Everything is broken down into increments of twenty minutes. I actually set a timer. When the thing beeps, I reset it, so that the work may spread into hours, but because all I am faced with is twenty minutes, I do not feel overwhelmed. I love this new experiment and think perhaps I shall do it forever.

Down at the paddock, the sun has come out and the winds have dropped and all is golden and calm. The red mare is so delighted that she falls into her softest and sweetest self, her lower lip curving itself into an equine smile. The floods which cover half the fields have frozen over, so that we have skating rinks everywhere. The Horse Talker and I wonder what the dear equines will do. They consider for a while, then strike out across the ice to reach us, not flinching as it cracks under their hooves. They break the ice to make their way through, as if they are pioneer women, going out to settle the west. They pick up their feet like dowager duchesses on their way to a ball, as they feel the slivering shards against their fetlocks. It is one of the most charming sights I ever saw. I think how good and brave they are.

I have a ride of such ease and joy that I don’t have words for it.

I work with the mare in many different ways. Some days I concentrate on collection, or straightness, or not dropping her shoulder. Some days I work on soft cues, or steering. Some days I simply want to get her to be her best, most relaxed self. Today, I go for the cowgirl and cowpony. I want to be able to ride her with one hand, on a loose rope (we are in the halter), and to get her to keep a steady pace, going kindly within herself without me having to niggle or nag. I want to ride with thought, almost more than cues. We’ve been stymied by the weather lately, and are out of practice, and I’m not sure if this programme is too ambitious. But suddenly, there she is, going right when I merely think right, loping into a steady trot when I think trot, gathering herself for a joyful canter when I think canter.

There have been a few two steps forward one step back lately. I had to go back to the beginning, and concentrate on the fundamentals. I was reminded keenly of the humility that horses teach, and how you cannot tick boxes, or take them for granted. Today, that going back to Square One was rewarded with such loveliness that I whooped out loud and fell on her neck and showered her with garlands of love. She is one of the most remarkable creatures I ever met. Today, she gave me the great gift of making me feel like a champion.

And then, just as I was finishing the section above, smiling, with happy memories of a gentle morning, the demands of work crashed in, and the twenty minute rule did not help, and my head became stretched and maddened, and suddenly I had forty-seven things to do and not enough time to do them all.

I think this is called: being human.

As I dashed back to the field, fraught and tense, desperate to get the evening stables done in the smallest time possible, so I could tear back to my desk and attempt to dig myself out of the avalanche, I suddenly saw the look on my mare’s face. It was very, very slightly disapproving. Are we such creatures to be done in a rush? she seemed to be saying.

She was right, of course. Bugger the work. I’ll get it done. I took a deep breath and looked at the sky and looked at the trees and looked at the floods which lay like mirrors on the winter land. I looked at the light, which we have not seen for so long. I stood, perfectly still, with the mares, one on either side.

Don’t miss your life, I told myself, just because you have things to do.

 

Today’s pictures:

Really are from today.

Horse Talker leading Autumn the Filly across another stretch of cracking ice:

The fields:

My lovely girl, posing after our ride:

And looking pretty pleased with herself, as well she should:

Stan the Manly Man, striking out:

The little HorseBack filly, in surgery as we speak, still fighting the filthy infection which has her in its grip:

No idea what I am talking about.

2291 words today. The sun shone in the morning. I rode my mare. Lovely Rock on Ruby put in an exhibition round at Donny, to book his ticket to Cheltenham. I thought, on and off, all day, of the little HorseBack foal, battling for her life. The clever surgeon and his team at Glasgow are giving it all they have. I do not know if it shall be enough. I wait for news.

There is a lot of kindness about, from people I know and people I do not. I think of how it bolsters one, and how one needs that daily bolstering. When I say one, of course I mean I. One is a Mitfordian distancing device. I sometimes do not wish to admit that I need strokes. I should like to be self-contained, independent of people’s good opinion, cantering away across the Mongolian plains without asking for anything. I have a faint horror of neediness, I have no idea why. It frightens me when I see it in other people, and I do not care for it in myself. But no woman is an island. I suspect that most people sometimes crave a pat on the back or a bit of a compliment or an encouraging word. Perhaps the secret is to learn to like them, but not absolutely need them. So that if there is a day when everyone else is too preoccupied or a bit scratchy or simply thinking of something else, then one may make do, just with oneself. A little bit of island living is not a bad thing.

This is a most terrible mazy wander. I think I did have something pointful and serious to say, but I just ended up vaguely theorising out loud. I suppose that is slightly the point of this blog, but I sometimes wish for a little more sharpness. The brain has gone to mush and I am now going to sit quietly in a room until my cerebral cortex regroups. Which is pretty much what I do every day.

 

Some pictures from the last week:

My red duchess may look pretty scruffy and woolly and damp, but she is amazingly sanguine, considering the weather she has had to put up with. As always, I am in awe of her goodness and stoicism:

And I bless the glorious Amigo rug which keeps her warm and dry, no matter what the elements throw at her.

A fighting spirit.

Some of you will know that I volunteer at a charity called HorseBack UK. It does the rather wonderful and novel thing of using horses to help wounded servicemen and women and veterans back on the path to recovery, and inspires them to a meaningful future. It is particularly effective for those with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Through it, I have met remarkable humans, and heard stories of such terror and courage that they make me humble.

What I had to offer HorseBack was writing. It turned out they needed words. I write everything from grant applications to leaflets, and run their Facebook page. Quite often, when I say there is No Blog Today, it is because after I have done my own work and done the HorseBack work, I have no words left. Some days, it is quite easy, and I put up something antic and light. Some days there is something concrete to report and what must be said is obvious. On other days, I must wrangle and wrestle the words to the ground, and by the time it gets to tea, I have had it. It always astonishes me how physically draining writing is. I tell myself I am not heaving concrete blocks, or working down a mine. But there: the addled old brain apparently uses up idiot amounts of energy.

Today, I am all emptied out.  It is one of those times when there would usually be no blog, but I’m going to reproduce here what I wrote for them, so that you can see why I’m done for the day.

As well as the remarkable humans I have met at HorseBack, there are remarkable horses too. It’s quite a thing to work with complete novices, and these are not old riding school ponies, but proper Quarter Horses, some of them out of the Western competition circuit. A lot is asked of them, and they give it willingly and with open hearts. This summer, a dear little filly foal was born, and I have been watching her grow. She was bred to do this hard and important work, and she had all the fine qualities that would be needed, in spades. Last week, she fell ill. Today, I had to tell the HorseBack readers. This is what I wrote:

 

Last year, we lost a brave and well-beloved member of the HorseBack family. Paul Burns served in Northern Ireland, where he survived a bomb. Despite having no legs, he sailed boats, jumped out of aeroplanes, rode horses, and threw himself into fund-raising challenges which would have defeated lesser men, even those with all their limbs. He lived life with humour and courage and grace, and everyone who met him went away feeling a little better about the world. His sudden death came as a shocking blow. Only days before, he had been part of the HorseBack team which went with the inspiring pupils of Banchory Academy as they cycled and canoed and hiked across Scotland. Paul, on his specially designed bike, led, as always, from the front.

We wanted to do something to mark his memory. In the blinding heat of August, our mare, Awesome, gave birth to a filly foal. We named her Awesome Spirit, after Paul, whose own spirit shone so brightly.

From the start, the filly was special. She was bold and beautiful, curious and questing, funny and fleet. We watched her grow with pride, and thought with hope of the important job she would do in the future.

Last week, she went lame. The vets came and went and came again. They were baffled. Her hind leg swelled to terrifying proportions, and an infection was at last diagnosed. Pus was drained, the most powerful antibiotics administered. But whatever was ailing her would not go away. Two nights ago, we thought we had lost her. The pain and the mystery infection had mastered her; the light went out of her eyes. Animals have a way of shutting down, when their bodies fail. It seemed that our little Spirit was for the dark.

But it turns out that she was better named than we knew. She has the same battling heart that we loved in Paul Burns. Miraculously, she rallied. She was not going down without a fight. She damn well was not going gently into that good night.

As she will not give up on us, so we will not give up on her. This morning, she and Awesome were driven away on the long road to Glasgow. She will be operated on at the University Equine Hospital, under the care of one of the most innovative and talented surgeons in the business, Patrick Pollock. She could not be in better hands.

We have no prognosis. We cannot tell you her chances. If courage alone could win the day, then she would be in the clear. As it is, we can only wait for news.

At HorseBack, we have seen a lot of humans who have defied the odds. We have veterans here who have been shot, crashed, bashed, blown up and bloodied in ways that the frail body should not survive. But there they are, walking and talking, still in the world. We believe in long shots, because we witness them every day. We hope that our bonny filly will come in at 100-1. We hope her fighting heart will see her through.

Hold her in your own generous hearts today.

 

And this was the picture I posted to go with it:

As I write this, I hear that the sweet girl has arrived in Glasgow. They will be operating as we speak. She is too young to have to fight such a fight, and I hope more than anything that she wins it.

Oh, and here is a small PS. I loved the comment yesterday from the Dear Reader all the way away in California who really does worry that I am dead in a ditch. (Are you related to my mother, by any chance?) And I was rather touched by those of you who said you are disappointed when there is No Blog Today. Quite frankly, I would not blame you if you were secretly relieved, I do ramble on so. Kindness of strangers, as always.

Twenty minutes.

Today there was literally sunshine and shade. The sun suddenly appeared, then fled for the hills, and some sulky, chill rain took its place. Now there is a light outside the colour of honey, with an indigo sky behind the beeches.

The red mare was perfect. I know nothing is perfect, but today she was. We could not ride for logistical reasons (how I sometimes hate logistics) so we went back to groundwork school and did our ABCs. She adores this. It’s as if she can relax because she knows all the answers. So as I did the standard desensitising, which involves flicking ropes all over her body and cracking whips like a stockgirl, right next to her head, she went to sleep. She’s supposed to be a crazy thoroughbred. Nobody told her.

Wrote 1233 words of book.

Did a new experiment in time management. I put everything into twenty minute increments. It is astonishing what you can get done in twenty minutes.

I don’t know where this idea came from and I don’t expect it will last, but it was interesting, and I grew less panicked about time whizzing past my ear so that I can hear it whoosh.

Started to write this. It is getting late and I am tired and the cerebellum is packing up for the day.

‘Oh, stop it,’ says the practical voice, who is quite ruthless. ‘You don’t have to do a blog.’

‘But the Dear Readers,’ the impractical voice wails.

‘The Dear Readers have lives,’ says the practical voice. ‘They really don’t need to know all about yours, every single damn day.’

The impractical voice knows this is true. But the wail continues. There must be blog. Or, or – THE SPACE-TIME CONTINUUM WILL FAIL.

The impractical voice says, sullenly, scuffing its shoe on the floor: ‘They’ll think I am dead in the ditch.’

‘Let them,’ says the practical voice, who really can’t be arsed and wants to have its first gin of the evening. (The practical voice turns out in fact to be a flinty dipso.)

‘I’ll just do a quick one with no pictures,’ says the impractical voice, compromising, rationalising, pleading.

‘Yeah,’ says the practical voice, heading for the drinks cupboard. ‘Because you know if they don’t see ONE MORE PICTURE OF THE RED MARE they will survive.’

So that’s how this got written in under twenty minutes. See? It’s my new miracle.

The griefs. Or, a little light and shade.

I think quite a lot about ordinary griefs. I know that really one should not put things on a scale and that not everything is relative, but I do think that some losses are worse than others. So I think of griefs as coming in two kinds: the ordinary griefs, and the rip-up-your-life griefs.

The ones that rip up your life are the ones I can’t imagine. I think of those as the violent, sudden, or too soon ones: the children, the young brother, the just-married wife. Or the too many ones: when a whole family is lost, in a car crash or hurricane. Or, right at the other end of the scale, the ones where two people have been together for fifty years, and one of them goes. The other often does not survive for long. People really do die of broken hearts.

The ordinary ones are all the ones I know: the old men, the old dogs, the old pony. They are the ones who have had their time. The loss hurts, but the natural order of things has been preserved. There is, in the end, consolation in that. In that strange season of death three years ago, when I went to three funerals in three weeks, two of the departed were untimely ripped. Two of them were too young, but I was saved by just enough distance. They were people I loved and knew, but they were not in the immediate circle. They were people I fell on with delight and affection when I saw them, but I did not see them very often. The distance was geographical and circumstantial, and it was enough. The heart was sore, the awfulness and stupidness of fine spirits snuffed out too early was keenly felt, but the life was not ripped.

In the news, there is a rip-up death. I never know what to say about people I admire but do not know. Philip Seymour Hoffman was in many of my favourite films, and was a blazing talent. He had that sense of familiarity that great actors carry, because you’ve seen them in the darkened cinema and your front room, and the vivid sense that the great ones carry makes them very real and present. His death was so abrupt and unexpected and pointless that the lives around him must feel as if they have been torn to pieces. Out on the internet, there is a great outpouring of regret. Some of the messages are touching and elegant, but I find myself resisting adding to them. I put up no Facebook picture and tweeted no tweet. He was not my friend. I do not know how to say anything which would not sound mawkish or bandwagon-jumping.

Yet, the internet is rather wonderful in times like this. The loss of a brilliant man may be marked. Strangers may record their admiration for him. Perhaps the ones who did know and love him will find their broken hearts soothed, just a little, to see that he was held in such esteem. All the same, I feel an odd shyness about posting anything about it on my own internet pages. He was not mine; he did not belong to me.

This morning, someone wrote something beautiful and touching about the old gentleman who was mine. This is another of the ordinary griefs. A man of venerable age went gently into that good night. The sorrow is real, and lies heavy, but it may be managed. I know that time will do its thing.

I circle back to the start of this post – the thinking about these ordinary griefs, and how they are folded into a life. They must be folded in, because every human has them, and one of the most important existential talents is to learn how to carry them, so that they do not sink the ship.

This morning, I had a little lesson in that. I came away from reading the lovely tribute very doleful and tearful. The weight of loss pressed on me. But then the dog made me laugh, and the Horse Talker was down at the field and we made jokes about the equines, who show such daily comedy skills, and then I got on my red mare and rode out. I had thought that would be the time when sadness might return, but she was in her most racehorsey mood, and I had to concentrate hard to settle and relax her.

Then, on the way home, I bumped into some of the extended family who are visiting, and we had a happy chat and they admired my glorious girl, which lifted my spirits. Then there was HorseBack work, and many things to think about. Then there was the writing of the secret project. Then, it was time to go back to the field and feed the horses and put out the hay and check the rugs and give the love. And then it was back to the desk. I even did errands and very ordinary domestic duties.

The sorrow got put away, because there was life instead, and I can’t mope about like a wet weekend. I suppose the lesson in this small parable is that life goes on, and that is exactly what it must do. I think what I was reminded of, particularly in the unexpected laughter with the living people I saw today, was that sorrow does not need to blot out everything else. Moments of joy can exist alongside, cantering in tandem. There is room for both.

At the same time, for all my belief in bashing on, I think that one can be too stoical. There must be a marking, and a grieving, and room for regret. The thing must be felt, and expressed, in its correct place and time. Perhaps it is finding that right place that is the secret of it all. I hunt for it as Mr Stanley hunts for the mice in the feed shed, although perhaps with slightly less snuffling.

As I finish this, I think: I did not quite get all the good words in the good order. I wanted to say something profound, and I ended up with a bit of a muddle. I often do this. But then the whole shooting match is a bit of a muddle, so I don’t mind so much. You clever Dear Readers shall find your way through the tangle, because you always do.

 

Much too tired now to frame proper pictures for you. I scrolled through the archive and stopped at a random place. It was this, all glory and what-the-hell, from a time before the floods and the sleet and the applying of the new rug technology. It’s just a horse, having a damn good roll:

A great old gentleman

Quite often, sadly often, I write here: one of the great old gentlemen has gone. Today, it is one of my great old gentlemen.

My very dear godfather has died. He was eighty-nine, and had been in rotten health for years, but he kept buggering on in the most doughty and astonishing fashion. I had come to think he would live forever, as each new diagnosis was somehow survived.

He was one of the tremendous generation that fought in the war. He served with the Welsh Guards, and would sometimes say to me startling things like: ‘Well, after the war I went back and blew up bridges and things. Great fun.’

I had no idea about the blowing up of bridges, and he did not elaborate. I thought it must have been some hush-hush sabotage job, and I wish now I had asked. I wish so many things. I had been meaning and meaning to ring, but kept putting it off. He was so tired and ill and I thought I did not want to bother the poor old gentleman. Now I think: you fool, you should just have picked up that damn telephone. Now it is too late. I remember that regret with my father too, although the last time I had tried to call him he could not speak because he was watching the 3.30 at Kempton. This still makes me laugh.

The dear old godfather was loyal and funny and true. We used to write each other long letters and whenever I was in London he would take me out to lunch and talk in a very loud voice about kings and dukes, to the slight astonishment of the other patrons. He adored kings and dukes, and queens too. He liked dead, historical ones, about whom he wrote, and alive, actual ones, with whom he sometimes dined. He was a glorious, calamitous snob, carrying a very unfashionable delight in lineage. If he asked me to a party he was giving, he would tell me who else was coming, giving them all their full titles. He loved achievement too: this one won that prize for fiction, he would tell me, or that one won the Military Cross. And yet his snobbishness was not a horrid thing. He liked poshness as people like football or art, but he loved those of us who were not duchesses too.

His friendship with my father always astonished me. He had known Dad since my fa was a schoolboy; the godfather taught at the school my father attended. He then met my mother quite separately and was delighted when they married. He came to the house often, and I have an enduring childhood memory of him sitting in the sun, in a deck chair, wearing his immaculate panama hat with its Welsh Guards band. His love for my mother was perfectly explicable – she was elegant and graceful and a perfect hostess and looked like Grace Kelly. But Dad was a roisterer and boisterer, a singer of songs, a crazy rider of chasers, a drinker, a gambler, a teller of bawdy tales. The respectable, academic godfather seemed a most unlikely person to take to such a man. Yet they adored each other. They were good companions for many years – the wild, larger-than-life horseman, and the small, precise historian. I think what it really was was that my father made the godfather laugh and laugh, in a way, perhaps, that the duchesses did not, quite.

He was a very splendid old gentleman, funny himself, in a wry, intellectual way. He was kind and generous and thoughtful. He encouraged me in my writing, even though my early, appalling novels must have made him wince a little. ‘I never knew people drank so much coffee,’ was all he said, of those terrible first books, in which my characters did spend an awful lot of time in espresso bars. He was quietly proud of his own work, but never grew puffed up when his historical biographies were awarded prizes. He loved his Welsh Guards with a passion, but apart from the thing about the bridges, did not speak of his war fighting. I wish I had asked more about that too. What courage he must have had then; I think of it now. I saw it in his later years, as he stoically faced one illness after another. ‘How are you?’ I would say. ‘Oh, you know,’ he would reply. ‘Still here.’

For all my regrets, I am glad that not many months ago, I did write him a letter telling him what a marvellous godfather he had always been, and how much I loved and appreciated him. He did not do shows of emotion; as it was with so many of that mighty generation, understatement was his hallmark. But I wrote anyway, even though he would have thought the words a little excessive, because I wanted him to know.

I wanted to mark the passing of this remarkable man, but as always, I feel that these paltry scratches on the page do not quite capture him, or do him justice. I miss the good old men and wish they were not going. I shall miss this one sorely. I hear his voice in my head as I write. He would laugh, and tell me not to grow melancholy, but to keep buggering on, just as he did. And so I shall, in his honour.

 

I usually do not put up other people’s pictures, being keenly aware of copyright. I hope that, on this occasion, Eric Roberts, who took this lovely and very characteristic photograph, will forgive me.

A pause.

Off the blog for a few days.

Anyone needing a fix of red mare pictures and handsome studies of Stanley the Dog may find them here:

https://www.facebook.com/tania.kindersley

Because OBVIOUSLY there will be withdrawal symptoms at the lack of those beautiful faces.

A host of silver linings.

Here is the thing I should have said about moods. They pass.

They pass, they pass, they pass, they pass.

The weather is catastrophically filthy today, so it is like living in a big bowl of dirty washing-up water, but I DON’T CARE.

I took the red mare out into the small paddock and did a join-up so entrancing and graceful and effortless that was as if she were a demonstration horse in a Warwick Schiller clinic. (Schiller is an Australian horseman by whom I am currently entranced, as he combines thoughtfulness with intense, no-messing practicality.)

Back to Square One we went, and instead of making us feel foolish and amateur, this return to the basics gave us both intense joy. There are few things in the world more moving than feeling a great flight animal following you at liberty, moving in step, turning when you turn, pausing politely when you pause.

We stood for a long time afterwards, in the rain. I had a goofy grin on my face. The mare lowered her head and wibbled her lower lip and gave me her forehead to scratch, as kind and relaxed as she has been in days. All was ease and harmony and understanding. For a moment, the universe made sense.

I had a sweet family breakfast and there was joyful family news, on several fronts. It is not only sorrows that come in single spies; sometimes joys come in battalions too. The best of the news is: there is a new great-nephew in the world. He is a very tiny fellow indeed, as he surprised us all by arriving early, but he is a fighter and a battler and he is growing like Topsy and I already feel intense admiration for his bold spirit.

At HorseBack, there were Marines. I’m always cheered up by Marines. There were veterans too, bashing on with hard work in the filthy conditions, making jokes and teasing me. I think of what they have been through and what they have seen. Sometimes I think it is the things that cannot be unseen which is the worst of it. But there they are, laughing their heads off, as the sleet falls on them. They are dauntless.

I backed a winner at Taunton, and wrote 1637 words of book, and even had a coherent thought or two.

One of the thoughts was about something that some of the Dear Readers say, quite often. They say, with great kindness and generosity: Don’t be so hard on yourself.

I have a terrible cussed streak. I am stubborn and ornery. I have a visceral reaction against being told what to do, even when the telling is done with love, even when it is wise and right. This is something I need to work on. It is what is technically known, in psychological circles, as my shit. (Actually, you have to say that to yourself in an American accent. It doesn’t quite work on the page in straight British. It suddenly looks rather scatological. But they are always saying it in films and it seems to me very expressive. Normally I would say stuff, but I think I need something stronger.)

Anyway, because of this absurdity, it took me a while to figure out whether the advice was correct. I grow sad when I see other women lashing themselves, so it seems preposterous to do it to myself.

After some contemplation, I have decided that I don’t think I am so very hard on myself. I do believe passionately in striving. That is why I sometimes ask myself: What would AP do? Tony McCoy never settles for second best. He pushes himself mentally and physically, and that is why he is the champ.

There is of course the point where driving oneself on falls into obsession and monomania. Perspective is lost. Life is not all about winning, and no amount of trophies shall equal the simple victory of loving and being loved. Gentleness and kindness, with oneself and others, are as vital as passion and ambition.

On the other hand, I do think one should kick on. I believe I can do better and I believe it is right that I should try. I want to write better prose, be a better human, grow into a better horsewoman. Every day, I want to learn something, or take a small step forward.

It’s not about perfection, nor about castigating oneself for flaws or frailties. I’m pretty good at facing my flaws, because I’ve had many years of practice. The flaws are so very flawed, and if I do not learn to love them and laugh at them I should be sunk.

But one of the things I love most in the world is a trier. I love horses who try, and I love humans who don’t give up. So, I don’t think of it as hardness. I don’t think it is pitiless lashing. I think it is a kind of try.

 

Today’s pictures:

Too wet and lowering for the poor camera today. Instead, in the spirit of public service broadcasting, here are pictures full of light. They are of the three beautiful faces I see every day, from a distant time when there was no need for rugs or hoods or piles of hay, when there were leaves on the trees and grass on the ground, when Stanley the Dog did not leave a little trail of muddy pawprints wherever he went:

This Lady Bracknell face is because the Duchess has just seen a jogger wearing FAR TOO MUCH LYCRA. There is almost nothing she disapproves of more. Autumn the Filly, as you can see, is much more forgiving and really does not give a bugger:

And a bit of the river, just for the hell of it:

Talking of trying, there is a lovely idea in horsemanship called Rewarding the Try. I think it may go right back to the Dorrances, with whom I am currently obsessed, but the good Australian speaks of it a lot. What it means is: don’t wait for your horse to do something perfectly before you give praise and love. It means: celebrate even the smallest move towards the goal.  If you do not do this, the willing equine will turn baffled and discouraged. I like it as an idea because it is generous, but it is also good manners. And that is my final thought for the day.

Very tired now. I know There Will Be Typos. I rely on my kind proof-readers, out there in the ether.