Back in the Saddle

I’m not one necessarily to pooh-pooh modern mental health disorders, we live in a relentless world and the pressures that come with it bring forward new issues, but it always struck me that ‘Seasonal Adjustment Disorder’ (SAD) was one of the woolliest of these new fangled maladies. Maybe, and as a direct result of my job, it’s that I spend so much time in darkened rooms or am out late at night that the idea of bleak, dirty grey, long winter days isn’t that much of a culture shock. Also, I find it hard to credit that anyone born in the British Isles would possibly suffer from SAD as most years it’s pretty much the one ‘season’ anyway.
I’ve changed my mind though.
Natalie has always suffered from it. Her desire, need almost, to be outside in the garden is trampled on by the harsh weather and the dark days and her mood – and overall happiness – suffers accordingly as she’s left cooped up like a songbird in a cage, unable to spread her horticultural wings. I have no desire to be outside at all but even I’m getting the winter blues this year. In short, New Year my arse. There’s nothing ‘new’ about it! Look out of the window in January, there’s nothing new there, it’s the same slow lingering death that was in evidence before the somewhat forced jollity of Christmas. It’s cold, damp and drab and this place suffers terribly from an almost Hammer House of Horror desolation.
This month marked our ninth anniversary of being here in France and it’s flown by. How, in that time, we’ve gone from a one child family in a suburban Victorian semi to the Von Trapp’s owning a petting zoo is the result of a mysterious whirlwind and at times like these it feels too much; everything is an effort, everything is a chore. Just going out in the morning for firewood elicits the kind of sullen chuntering you might get from a teenager who’s been told to go and brush his teeth. There’s a stagnation, the place feels bloated and unkempt, too big, too much hassle, in need of change.
The death of Junior the horse hasn’t helped, nor the disappearance and probable death of Vespa. She may come back of course, cats can do that, but it’s been four months and it’s unlikely. Junior’s ultimately swift demise, not to mention the emotionally draining legal process of getting his body removed, was brutal for us all and has left a lingering sadness that Christmas could only temporarily lift. Sensing the mood the hens stopped laying weeks ago and Ultime, Junior’s skittish female companion, spends much of the day whinnying seemingly in grief. As a result Natalie has taken to the internet browsing animal rescue websites and, much worse, house price comparison websites which showed us that if we sold up here we could get a sizeable property in Grimsby. As if things weren’t bleak enough.
It’s possible in these times to get a bit slapdash, cut corners, rush things. Which is presumably exactly how the gate to the paddock came to be left open and I stood in the kitchen one morning washing the dishes and looking balefully through the window while Ultime, only a few yards the other side of the window stood in the potager(allotment) and belligerently evacuated herself while holding my gaze. The goats were out too and as I snapped off the marigolds and let my head fall into my chest I could see potentially the whole day being lost to rounding up livestock. I wasn’t in the mood.
Perhaps the goats sensed my short temper and on seeing me immediately fled back into the paddock, at last I thought, I’m getting some goat respect around here but no, it wasn’t my authority they were scared of, it was Ultime and I could understand why. Having broken out of her paddock she was now in such a state of blind panic that she was charging about the garden and kicking out, she would rush at me and then suddenly stop like a racehorse at a daunting fence, then she’d start again. She was wild. Her eyes were huge and she snorted like a maniac. What you have to do in these circumstances is remain calm apparently, bring an air of serenity to proceedings, show who’s boss. I, on the other hand, ran to the door like a frightened rodeo amateur while the mad horse chased me murderously. I got to the back door which Natalie opened swiftly but rather than letting me in, she just handed me some bread and shut the door again.
This hardly seemed like an effective weapon and Ultime just stared at me with contempt. I managed to lead her (she chased me) back near to the paddock gate, but as we got close she reared up angrily and then came crashing down and started kicking her back legs out. I was genuinely scared by this point and considering getting the hell out of there but instead I banged her on the nose with the three day old baguette and told her to ‘get a bloody grip’. The effect was immediate. Rather than send her even more crazy she stopped jumping around and just stared at me in utter bewilderment. She was so shocked at being ‘baguetted’ on the nose that it seemed to wake her from her madness. She stared at me a while longer and then, after some gentle, albeit nervous, strokes from me, followed me docilely back into the paddock and I fed her the baguette.
I am no ‘countryphile’, I am not a man of the soil, I’m no horse whisperer, but after a few weeks of hard slog where everything had felt like a drag, where we’ve questioned our ability and desire to stay where we are, questioned the very essence of why we came here in the first place, this moment with a now calm Ultime eating from my hand and Natalie emerging to help keep her, and me, calm was priceless. Suddenly everything seemed clear again, suddenly it was all worth it. It’s been a long winter and there’s plenty more to come but as I stood there in my pale blue Gabicci knitwear, light brown Donegal trousers and brogue Loakes I knew I belonged.
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