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July 26th, 2012

26/7/2012

I was musing further on the sight of the deer among the poppies (see my previous post) and remembered a wonderful and wonder-ing poem by W H Davies, our ‘local’ poet as those of us who live in the Nailsworth area like to think. Davies was an extraordinary man, a self-styled ‘supertramp’, an émigré from Wales and late settler in Watledge, on the edge of Nailsworth, where he lived in contentment with his much younger wife, a former prostitute. At last there are signs that his old cottage is being restored – we need a local literary landmark!

See how the restoration is going at http://www.stroudpeople.co.uk/work-restore-Glendower/story-14455261-detail/story.html

More on that, perhaps, later. For now, here’s the poem. The confluence of deer and poppies echoes the rapture that Davies felt when experiencing the cuckoo’s song and the rainbow at the same time.

A Great Time

Sweet Chance, that led my steps abroad,
Beyond the town, where wild flowers grow --
A rainbow and a cuckoo, Lord,
How rich and great the times are now!
Know, all ye sheep
And cows, that keep
On staring that I stand so long
In grass that's wet from heavy rain --
A rainbow and a cuckoo's song
May never come together again;
May never come
This side the tomb.

William Henry Davies 1871-1940

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Deer among the poppies

23/7/2012

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Rarely do I have the camera, the view and a stopping place for the car all together at the right time. But on the busy A46 road we had just that yesterday. We were on our way to Westonbirt Arboretum when our attention was arrested by a scarlet streak of poppies in the field opposite. I took several photos of the field, so that Robert can paint it (he does a mean poppy scene) and then we spotted movement in the poppies themselves. Two small deer were out to play, so far away we could hardly see them. But with the magic of the zoom lens, I could capture them, and with some trimming of the pictures back at home the playful courtship of male and female revealed, as they danced, skimmed and frisked in the poppies. I’ll set the pictures up so that you can see how they were discovered.
Don't forget to click on main pic to start slide show!

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Back in the saddle again

18/7/2012

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Riding Ebene in Fressac

Horses – did I ever think I’d ride again? My last full-on riding days were in my 30s, when I was the proud owner of Orion, a palomino with a good temper and sprightly jumping skills. Since then I have only a) ridden a horse into the rosy city of Petra b) sat on a Kirghiz horse in the Tien Shan mountains, and threatened to ride off with the Kirghiz nomads c) tried out a few ploddy rides with a local stables a few years ago. For some reason, at that time it didn’t gel. Now I’m back on top, in the saddle, sore but triumphant.

When I ask around, I find there are a surprising number of 50 or 60 somethings who yearn to get on a horse again , including those who have done just that. We’re a more cautious breed, don’t want to fall off, don’t want to gallop though maybe the teensiest jump would be OK. But the body remembers, and it’s a marvellous feeling when you just know what to do, even if the muscles aren’t quite back in top form again. Today I am aching in the thigh area, result of two excellent, efficient, and strenuous lessons that have touched parts that nothing else has for a long time.

My inspiration has come mostly from the fact that we’ve booked a gite, a full four weeks in the foothills of the Cevennes mountains in southern France. And they have three fabulous horses on site, which experienced riders can exercise, under the kindly but watchful eye of their owners, who also run the ranch and attached gite.
http://www.gite.com/france/mas-chevalerie

‘I have to be good enough for this,’ I thought. ‘I can’t bear to be living literally next door to horses’ (the gite’s kitchen window opens straight out into the covered alley where they’re groomed and tacked up) ‘and not get on one.’

We had a week’s reccy in June, and two blissful rides on the handsome and gentlemanly Ebene (‘Ebony’) convinced me that I needed to do as much as I could before our return in late August.

Here’s a potted history of me and the horse: My original name ‘Phillips’, means ‘lover of horses’ and there’s Irish stock on that side who I am sure did just that. Rode at Miss Gilbert’s stables in Lapworth, Warwicks from age of 8. No money to have own pony. Jodphurs with baggy tops and jolly good fun at gymkhanas. Object of first affections: Boozy, a hackney pony with an odd high-stepping gait. Stables well kept, secure, formal. Move to other side of Birmingham, go to shambles of a stables where horses kick each other and some are housed in pig sties. Whole place smells of chicken shit, vintage piles of which bear tribute to a failed chicken farm. Move to Streetly Riding School, run by ancient Colonel who whacks his boots with a cane and frequently asks me to sort out Buster, the naughtiest pony. Sultan, a more vicious horse whips off the top of my thumb with one bite while I’m taking off his saddle. him. Texting with two thumbs is not for me. Move again, to two more stables, each with teenage lingerers who have spiteful habits. Did I say that riding was a happy pastime? Well, mostly, as far as the horses were concerned. Age 16 or so, boys take over, horses fade into background.

Age 28, horses back on the agenda; age 34, move to Exmoor means that after several years of riding other people’s horses, I finally have my own. First of all, bad-tempered Cally who rears up and falls over backwards on top of me. Quickly sell him and buy Orion. If he does ever buck me off, he stops immediately in surprise, and comes over to sniff me, as if to say, ‘I didn’t mean to.’ Also half Exmoor pony on loan for children; Eccles masterminds regular breakouts from the field, taking Orion and livery horse along with him down the lane. His secret technique is to lean on the fence till it gives way. Loan of showjumper, Zebedee, a disaster, as his favourite practice is to jump out of the field.

Well, it’s been a big gap since then, and I’m taking it one step or one turn on the forehand at a time. Have hat, jods, and boots, and we’ll see what the summer brings. Updates later, perhaps from the glorious Cevennes.

If you’re reading this and are either a late returner or even a late starter with riding, do leave a comment here. Solidarity in the saddle.

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July 26th, 2012

Deer among the poppies

Back in the saddle again

Cherry Gilchrist

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