OTHER SIDES.

Firstly I would like to thank all those who sent their congratulations to Marilyn and myself on news of our becoming engaged. So many nice comments, via the blog itself, Elaine’s Facebook pages or direct contact to me, thank you all.

Life continues to move forwards, whether I’ve wanted it to or not, and along the way situations arise which I know I want to write about, but they sometimes have to take a back seat for a while as other things take precedence.

What follows is one of those situations from early last summer

I needed a new key for the Landrover. I say key but in fact it’s a chubby electronic fob that plugs into the dash and charges itself in situ’. Trouble was it had stopped charging, and on my taking it back to the agent we bought the car from, it was declared knackered and so a replacement was duly ordered.

It was going to be about a week in arriving, and would require to be synchronised with the car and, would I mind driving over to the workshop for this to be done. I could wait as it would take less than an hour to sort out.

“To the workshop”- I repeated Marcus the manager’s words back to him.

“Yes, you know where it is don’t you Mark?”

“Yeah I know, though I’ve not been there for a long time now.”

“You’ll find it’s changed quite a bit, the horses are all long gone and so are some of the buildings.”

I’d already heard through the grapevine that this was the case, you see where their workshop is situated is the place where Elaine first stabled Bruce when she got him summer 2009, and I hadn’t been back there since she moved him, as far as I can make out, around six years later.

I was expecting a bumpy trip down memory lane.

It’s a beautiful Thursday morning. The sky is that impossible shade of summer blue that only seems to exist now in childhood memories. There’s a few wisps of cloud on high, lazily drifting along on their personal breezes. There’s warmth to the sun, but not so much that you can leave your coat at home.

This day is an early herald for summer, hinting at good things to come, but for me it’s a morning of mixed emotions as I get in the car and set out to a place that, whether I like it or not, commands a big presence in my past.

I think a bit of history is called for. Elaine named this place Old Roman Farm in her book. That isn’t the correct name, though it is very close. She changed some names and amalgamated some places and people for ease of writing and other reasons. I do not intend to undo that here, so it remains Old Roman Farm.

It lies at the back of the village of Witchampton about five or so miles from Wimborne by the main road. At one time it was mainly a large egg producing unit with several huge poultry sheds and a number of other smaller buildings, plus one house.

When we initially went there only one or possibly two of the sheds still contained chickens. The first large building on arrival had been converted into stables with tack-room and storage. This must have been done many years previously as neglect and the weather were now taking their toll, but the stables were warm and dry and Bruce had company around him.

To the far side and wrapping around the front end, was a large field for the horses to graze, enclosed with barbed wire fence.

There are several routes to get to this place, but the quickest one from home involves a journey of some two miles on narrow country lanes which lead out to a broad, loose chalk surfaced ‘private’ track which undulates across the landscape for a further mile or so to the farm.

It was akin to driving on the moon. Potholes, craters and ridges galore. After rain the surface was a thick gloopy off-white soup, which stuck to everything, it was quite an effort to drive in it. But, when dry, the loose chalk acted like marbles beneath the tyres. Put your foot down and it felt like the car was skating. It was easy to play at rally drivers, which we often did, especially in Elaine’s truck. With its skinny tyres and no weight in the back it was real childish fun, and you were always rewarded with a huge cloud of white dust in the rear-view mirror.

I take the same route this morning.

Though I’ve not driven this way for many years it’s still utterly familiar to me. I’m glad to get the narrow tarmac road done with as it’s near impossible to pass on the latter section should you meet opposing traffic. When it ends, I’m rewarded with the sight of the wide chalk track before me, whitewashed in the morning sunlight.

No one’s around, so I let my right foot do the talking and the car guns forward leaving a ghostly plume in its wake. What memories this brings back! So many times I’ve crossed this land with and without Elaine beside me; horse duties to do, or completed. How hollow it suddenly feels inside that this has all left my life forever.

There’s a downhill section leading to a sweeping uphill bend. Looking to my right I spot a dark shape on the horizon and know immediately what it is. Horse and rider.

The speed drops rapidly as I lift my foot, and the tail of dust conforms to gravity as it loses its cause; a quarter of a mile on we pass each other. The female rider smiles her thanks and waves to me. How many times must Elaine have done the same along here?

Off the chalk and onto a hard road surface for the last few hundred yards, and what a transformation looms up before me. The building that housed the stables has all but gone just the concrete base and sections of the block walls remain. There’s rubble piled in the top corner and dotted all around; weeds are trying to gain a foothold everywhere; a wave of cheerless recognition washes over me.

I drive straight to the workshop which is at right angles to the turn-out field, as was. They are expecting me and say it’ll take about 45 minutes to get things sorted. “I’ll take a walk around” I reply.

Going over to the wire fence I stop and stare across the field. It used to be divided up for grazing and rest with endless ‘miles’ of white electric fence tape, all long gone now; it looks so empty. I’ve never seen it like this before, and despite the gentle warming breeze on my cheeks a cool chill runs through me.

I walk back up the track to what was the entrance to the building. Strangely comforting, the little red brick hut is still here next to where the muck trailer would have been parked.

I stand in silence, like I’m saluting a fallen comrade. Birds are twittering high in the sky but apart from them an uncommon hush seems to have fallen over everything. The memories of what was rush to greet me, as though they’ve been waiting all these years for me to come back so that they may briefly live again.

For a few moments I dare not move as I fear emotion will overwhelm me. I shut my eyes, take a deep breath or two, then looking up I walk forward into the past, my past.

I walk the length of a building that is no longer here except in my mind. At the far end I turn and look back. The white concrete base is bleaching in the early sunlight. It looks impossibly narrow now, it seemed so much wider before. But then, of course, it was so dark in here with the heavy walls and roof.

 A store room, the tack room come kitchen come everything else were first on the left as you entered, then the stables, then storage for hay and feed etc. The back end of the building and the roof space were crammed with all the crap and detritus that always builds up in old farm buildings. Wood, metal, bits of engines, an old Range Rover awaiting a new motor, an old tractor used to harrow the field, all were present; God alone knows where it all rests now.

 Scrambling over the rubble I stand and look back. How many times have I reversed the truck down through there laden with hay or horse feed? Once even a ‘Hen Hotel’ which I built at home and brought here so our four chickens could be looked after whilst we went to America, (one of the ungrateful bastards died the following day, probably the shock of the move).

Climbing back again I walk over to what was the window of Bruce’s stable. The only windows in the whole place were in the back wall of the horse boxes overlooking the field. Unless you opened the main doors it was always dingy inside, as the few light bulbs fought a losing battle with the dust and cobwebs.

The window used to open outwards and Elaine would often leave it open as Bruce liked to poke his head out to look around. The glass was always filthy, until one day she cleaned both sides until sparkling. Unfortunately, she forgot to open it again and Bruce not realising it was shut and unable to see the spotless glass poked his muzzle straight through it. He wasn’t hurt and I replaced the glass with clear Perspex, but it remained unwashed from then onwards.

 I lean against the broken wall and run my fingers along the crumbling remains of the sill.

 An idea interrupts my thoughts and I slip a few tiny bits of rubble into my pocket.

This always was a strangely brooding sort of place. Big landscape and skies, ancient burial mounds dotted around the surrounding fields and something of an aura of melancholy loneliness, even on the brightest of days.

If Elaine had to come here in the evening I would come with her, as I never liked the idea of her being here alone after dark; neither did she. Not that she was a nervous person but it could feel somewhat remote with no one else around.

One night I was waiting for her when I took a stroll past the outside of the building to the open gated field at the top end. The sun was rapidly descending and the horizon was a mass of orange and gold spread along the upper ridge of the land. It all resembled a huge slice of burnt toast topped with rich butter and marmalade. Above it was a band of violet light which became purple and dark blue the higher you looked.

I was quite entranced with the raw beauty of it when suddenly I was aware that I was no longer alone. I looked around me convinced that I was being watched but could see no one. I turned back to the landscape but the feeling remained to such an extent that I went back to the truck to wait for my wife.

I mentioned this to her on the way home, she listened but made little comment that I can remember now. Later however, as I watched TV she came downstairs after showering, wrapped up in a towel, and sat on the settee arm next to me.

“What you said earlier Mark, was that true?”

I knew it was time to turn the telly out. “You mean about feeling I was being watched tonight? Yes it was.”

“It’s happened to me too. Not long after I got Bruce I was mucking-out one morning, when I had the overwhelming feeling that I was being watched. I felt that something had come in from outside and was stood watching –no, observing me. I looked outside and around but nobody was about. It continued for a while then was just gone. Some weeks later it happened again, I hope it doesn’t continue like this, it’s a bit unnerving.”

“You said something, not someone.” I pointed out.

“That’s how it felt, it didn’t feel to me like a person, I don’t really know how else to put it. I think there’s something of the ‘other side’ to the place Mark. I’ve noticed sometimes that the horses seem to be following things with their eyes, things that I can’t see. It’s all a bit weird.”

I remember that conversation as I stand here now, like it happened yesterday. We never did come to any conclusions about it, I never again had a similar experience here and if Elaine did she kept it to herself.

Maybe she was right, maybe there is another side to this place, another side that can’t or won’t show itself to us. Perhaps we can just sense it when the moment is right, who knows? 

Personally, I always liked it here and I do believe Elaine did too, but in later years it became very quiet as several of the other horses passed away and the boxes stayed empty. I think then the loneliness became an issue for her, coupled with a lack of good local riding, she eventually decided to move Bruce to a busier yard just outside of town.

Both horse and owner made new friends, but after eighteen months or so the landowner wanted everyone to go full livery, which never was going to suit Elaine. So Bruce was moved again to a new home at the village of Stur’ Marshall, this time the other side of town; he was there until his death.

Once again new and lasting friendships were made, some thankfully that have passed over to me.

(It’s this last yard I would love to visit again one day, to stand alone by that stable door – and remember).

The sound of an engine breaks my daydream, and glancing across the now open space I see my car being backed-out of the workshop and parked-up.

Time has passed quickly.

This has all been so different to how I feared it was going to be. Yes, a tear or two has formed in the corners of my eyes. But instead of feeling miserable and weighted down by the memories that live-on here, I feel uplifted in heart and spirit. They are happy memories, of happy wonderful times and they will always know life as long as I do.

If the other side does exist here-and I’ve come to believe it does- then good luck to it. I hope it recalls me as a friend because that’s how I think of it today.

To see this place in ruins doesn’t seem so bad now, it’s just moved on, its story continues in a new guise, so too must mine. But it’s good to feel that the ‘other side’ is still present and that it too remembers.

Back at the workshop I thank the guys, collect my new key and hop in the car. Pulling out I follow the fence-line around the edge of the field, then Whoa! Looking at the grass, remembering the electric tape suddenly it floods back to me, how the hell could I have forgotten until now. Quickly I pull over turn out the engine and walk back to the field entrance.

Leaning on the fence I cast my mind back…

It was an early summers’ morning but, unlike today, the skies were a featureless uniform shade of   grey. No sign of the sun, just a sharp cold breeze whipping swiftly across the land and tugging constantly at your clothing.

Elaine had asked me to come here and help her this morning as she had a problem, the source of which was Bruce (no surprise there then!).

As I mentioned earlier the turn-out field was always divided up into sections with electric fencing. This was done to prevent over grazing, giving some sections of grass a ‘rest’, it also served to keep various horses apart and stop one animal from bullying any other.

Trouble was, Bruce was such a greedy sod that once he’d cleared his own section he started to get out into the adjoining ones, much to the annoyance of other horses, and owners!

“He must be jumping over Mark, we need to make the fence higher.”  Elaine’s words to me, so here we were on that grey cold morning, with me trying to find some of the metal tipped plastic stakes that weren’t all bent to buggery, whilst Elaine tried to unknot endless lengths of the white tape they carried.

If any of you have ever had to do this job (and I know many have) then you’ll know it’s a bloody thankless task in general.

Drive the stakes in, and they’ll hit and bend on the only stone for six feet around. The tape tangles in the wind as though it is its sole purpose in life. Our tempers didn’t fray, but we both knew we’d rather have been somewhere else.

After nearly three hours we were done. A new line of almost double height fence ran parallel to the outer barbed wire one and turned at right angles to link up with it. We were clammy with the sweat of exertion but pleased with our efforts.

“That ought to keep him in.” Elaine said confidently, and as the fence carried its charge direct from the mains, and not batteries, I felt she was probably right.

Whilst I packed up the last of our tools she went to fetch Houdini from his stable where he had been left in company with a full hay net.

He ambled out genially, wearing his rug that came up around his neck, Elaine having the rope to his head collar just resting in her hand.

Through the open gate and he turned and lowered his head for her to remove the collar and receive his tit-bit. I think it was a carrot, I couldn’t see, but the loud crunching noise gave it away.

We closed up the doors and walked over to the truck. Now with Elaine the welfare of the animal always came first, and she had the habit of standing to watch when she turned a horse out to make sure it was head down and feeding ok. Only then would she leave.

But Bruce didn’t make any attempt to pick at the meagre grass, instead he marched slowly down the length of the new fence. Then across the bottom, then up the other side almost to the top where he turned and re-traced his steps.

“What the hells he up to?” said Elaine, more to herself than me, though I was quite fascinated by now as there was obvious purpose behind his actions.

He came to the mid-way point of the new fence and moved up close, standing now at right angles to it.

“Surely he’s not going to try jumping it from there?” Elaine spoke with an edge of fear in her words. Her back was turned to me and she was watching the horse intently now, as was I.

He moved as close to the fence as he could without actually touching it. Then suddenly he dropped onto his front knees put his head to one side on the ground and pushed himself forwards using his back legs. His head and neck when under the lower tape which rested on the neck part of his rug.

He pushed forwards again so his body was halfway under the fence, then twisted himself, the tape being now stretched to breaking point but running against the rug on his back. One final shove and he stood upright on the other side of the fence.

I could hardly believe what I had just seen. Elaine was lost for words for a moment as she turned to me mouth open. She soon found her voice. “Fucking Hell, the cunning bugger, he’s learnt to insulate himself using the rug.”

She turned again to look at the horse now happily munching on the ‘resting’ grass.

“Do you want to move him back?” I asked.

“What’s the point, he’ll only try it again and I don’t want to risk him getting tangled in the bloody tape, leave him.”

There was resignation in her voice, but I think also I detected an edge of admiration too.

I’m back in the sunshine looking at the now sadly empty field; after a moment or two I turn and go back to the car.

I’m not unhappy, just a bit sad around the edges that it all came to an end, but I know now it’s all still here when, and if, I want it to be.

That cold morning Elaine and I smiled and laughed together as we drove home. After all, it’s not every day that you get to witness a half ton horse doing a reverse limbo under an electric fence – just to get to the other side.

Thank you.

PS. And those bits of rubble from Bruce’s window sill? When I next visited Elaine’s grave I placed them underneath the soil. Maybe memories can exist too, on whatever side she is now.