It seems obvious now how similar Bruce and I were. Anxiety overruled logic, we both cloaked ourselves in an armour of false bravado and we were both in permanent flight from our demons. Bruce might have four legs, but I was running as fast from cancer as he was from his nemesis. Kirsty’s ‘quiet place’ would prove as mind-quenching for me as it did for him.

How do you find a quiet place? I began by Googling ‘meditation Dorset’ and found a local MBSR course. Mindfulness Based Stress Release is awareness through paying attention, non-judgementally in the present moment, based on the teachings of John Kabat-Zinn, who ‘brought Buddhism to the West’. I’d got frustrated with meditation before and given up, but it’s easier to do something for someone else than for yourself, so I joined the weekly group to discover what a quiet place looked like, and how I could give it to Bruce. It was hard going! I abhorred silence and always considered my razor-sharp reactions a blessing, so why would I want to pause first? Mindfully chewing raisins wasn’t what I’d expected but I’d paid for the course so I listened to the reasoning, and gradually learnt how to unhook and release the tangle of what-ifs in my mind; when you stop paying attention to the voices, they stop chattering. Mindfulness gave me the simplest coping tool, breathing, and over the years mindful breathing has changed my life. Pause   Breathe   Smile. Yay raisins!

Breathing with Bruce was miraculous. While I groomed him I focused on my breath and spontaneously, great sighs of emotion rose from the pit of my stomach and fell from my mouth like forgotten prisoners fleeing their dungeon. At first, Bruce snorted and cleared his nose, then he yawned. Then he rubbed his nose on his knee, letting out a long out-breath and swishing his tail until it ceased. I thought it was coincidence, but each day I tried to do the same breathing pattern and sometimes he followed suit. Sometimes he just flapped his lips and sometimes he pawed the ground, but he made an action that acknowledged my breathing. (Writing this, I sighed those long out-breaths again without realising!)

With all the vigour of the newly converted, I practised groundwork with Bruce, trying to breathe steadily and stop my mind wandering to a million different locations. Kirsty had me holding the reins as if I was riding, making me aware of how my hands wandered alongside my busy mind. I was also confusing Bruce because I gave no forethought to my directives. Like a garbled phone message, he got snippets of conversation and had to guess the rest. To direct him clearly, I had to set him up not to fail. It sounded straightforward but it meant unlearning everything I knew. Along with Bruce I was also starting again. 

After several weeks of practise and teaching sessions, Kirsty suggested Bruce might like to move on. I hadn’t ridden since the Tractor Dash and was determined to look good, but as the old saying warns us, ‘pride goes only as far as one can spit’. I did however learn the biggest lesson, the art of doing less. Kirsty stood by the fence as I walked and trotted Bruce around the paddock, changing direction and awaiting instruction. I hoped she’d tell me what to do, but as she just stood and watched I thought maybe the lesson hadn’t started yet. Then she walked into the centre.

“What are you asking for?” she said, as Bruce and I laboured around the arena in a vaguely defined circle.

“A loose trot,” I gasped between rising and sitting. “With a good bend,” I added, trying to sound like I knew what I was doing.

“And is it working?”

I rode two more laps while I fought the inevitable answer. “No.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

“Because I don’t know what else to do.” The truth in those words stung me to the quick, my ego as flat as Bruce’s footfall.

“Have you tried doing nothing?” Said Kirsty, with the merest hint of smile.

Needless to say, I’d never considered doing nothing.

On our next lesson, Kirsty asked me to rise one beat and sit two at the trot. I understood the action but my body was clumsy. Sauntering round, Bruce seemed happy not doing anything strenuous but his mood suddenly switched, as if he decided he was being ignored and might just as well go home. He sprang into a gazelle leap and galloped towards the gate. I couldn’t see enough space to stop and prepared myself for a fall, but with cadence that would’ve impressed a dressage judge, he halted square from a gallop and stood quietly with his chest against the gate. I wriggled back into the saddle, open-mouthed and speechless.

Kirsty walked unhurried across the field. “Nice halt.” She said.

“Do you think I could get a stronger bit?” I asked her. “He can’t keep tanking-off with me.”

“Doesn’t matter what you put in his mouth you won’t stop him if he wants to go.” She replied.

I felt crestfallen, more at her seeming lack of concern than my predicament.

“But of course,” she continued, “you can always learn to turn him and that’ll stop anything.”

“Turn him?” I replied, puzzled. “He doesn’t turn.”

“Oh, I think he will if you ask in a way he understands. Tom Dorrance, who was the master of enlightened cowboy training had a phrase called double-your-colt. Basically, if you disengage a horse’s hindquarters and ask them to move laterally, they can’t go forward. It’s a way of directing when things start to go shit-shape. Instead of waiting for Bruce to gallop off and try to stop, be ready to turn as he lands from his leap, keep his quarters moving across, and you’ll slow on a circle and stop. Eventually, you’ll be able to bring his head round as soon as you feel the danger signs.”

I looked at Kirsty, she looked at me and we both grinned. “What are we waiting for?” I said. “Let’s get learning!”

Bruce didn’t stop running away, but with Kirsty’s help I began to see things from a different perspective. His running wasn’t an act of disobedience and it wasn’t directed at me personally. He was running because that’s what flight animals do when they’re terrified, and he was terrified; just because I couldn’t see the danger didn’t make it any less frightening. (Years later I discovered that when he was hunting, James galloped him up and down the field, beating him at every turn as a punishment for not standing still. The turn was the trigger, especially in open countryside, and for him it was as real as the days it happened).

I stopped calling Bruce’s escapades bad behaviour and re-named them ‘expressing his opinion,’ and they became a lot less scary. I didn’t know if I could actually alter a situation by approaching it differently, or if I was sidestepping the obvious to avoid misery, but I felt I had a choice. I couldn’t change the situation but I could change the way I looked at it and labelled it, and that was something to being going on with.

Mindfulness helped me clear my head and make room for response, instead of disciplinary reactions towards Bruce. To help him relax I had know what I wanted to do, and I began visualising my request so he received clear instruction. When he got anxious and needed to move his feet it was more sensible to direct him somewhere than try to stop him, and working with my breath meant my hands didn’t grab his sensitive mouth. I also tried to take emotion out of the equation, but that’s still a work in progress. It wasn’t a one-size-fits-all panacea, but it helped, and our confidence grew. Kirsty lent me Mark Rashid’s book Life Lessons from a Ranch Horse, and as I read about Mark’s experiences with his horse Buck, thoughts I’d had back in the nineties with Teddy began to re-surface. At the time I’d wanted to make my horse feel better about his life but I didn’t know how. Monty Roberts burst on to the scene in a blaze of join-up glory, along with Parelli instructors in cowboy hats, and I’d watched clinics, read the books and bought the halter, but that new environment was alien. I lacked the courage to travel unfamiliar paths back then, but the seed was sown and now those thoughts were ripening. They might even bear fruit.

In one lesson I rode Bruce bareback; I slid onto his vast, naked back, and as we gradually overcame the trepidation and found our balance it became intensely intimate. Kirsty asked me to focus on my legs being his back legs, and two bodies – one trying to summon intent and stillness, and the other trying to respond and relax – moved as one, like a centaur. At the end of the session Bruce stood still and listened while Kirsty and I chatted, and I loved him even more.

Kirsty always began lessons by asking me what I’d like to do or aim for. Initially, it surprised me because she was the teacher, and I thought she should know what to teach me, but it gave me focus on what I wanted from myself and Bruce. On our next lesson I asked if we could jump.

“What would you like to jump?” She asked.

“I’ve put some branches by the hedge, and there’s some buckets for stands.”

“One jump or a course?”

“Just one will be enough.”

“Okay, you shorten your stirrups and ask for a nice forward trot on a circle, and I’ll set it up.” She quickly arranged a row of poles along one side of our working space, with a small brush jump in the centre. “Trot over the poles a few times from both directions, and remember, not any old trot but the trot you want!”

Bruce pricked his ears as we trotted over the poles, raising his back and lowering his neck. I tried to make my breath slow and steady because I was horribly nervous.

Once she was satisfied we were ready, Kirsty gave instructions. “Next time, come round to the brush after the row of poles, still trotting,” she said. “What’s your plan after you land?”

“Err, I don’t have one.”

“You’d better think of one before you try. We haven’t done this before and we don’t know what he’ll do.”

“I’ll be ready to turn him” I said smugly. “And then we’ll stop.”

Kirsty looked up and smiled. “Good plan.”

I never thought we’d do it but we did, and Bruce carried me like I was precious cargo. It was only a little jump but to me it was like jumping the moon. As we landed, Bruce shot into the air with ears flat back and I sat still and brought him onto a circle because that’s how confident I felt after jumping the moon. The second time was in canter, and he didn’t panic afterwards. Kirsty’s word rang in my ears, “know what you want, set it up and let it happen.” Jumping branches balanced on buckets, in the corner of a sloping field, on a horse who had been written-off meant everything I had wished for this horse came true.

Emboldened by new-found confidence, I entered a local in-hand show. On the morning of the show I got to Sheila’s at the crack of dawn, bathed and polished Bruce until he shone, and plaited his tail to show-off his wonderful backside. He was an Adonis and I was a nervous wreck. Sheila drove us to the show in her battered old trailer, and regaled me with showing stories from her youth. She’d lent me her ‘lucky’ tweed jacket with assurances it had never let her down. It wasn’t the jacket that worried me.

The other entrants in the cob class were all gypsy cobs with flowing manes. Their naturally hairy legs feathered out at the hoof like seventies bell-bottoms, and Bruce was the only maxi-cob, with a traditional hogged mane and clean-shaven legs. His paces were faultless, but he obviously wasn’t the type of cob the judge favoured. As we came out of the ring proudly clutching our 5th place rosette, an elderly countryman stopped us. “Excuse me,” he said with a broad Irish accent, putting a hand out to my arm “I hope you know you were the real winner there.”

“I’m sorry,” I replied, slightly confused.

“Yours was the only horse who moved like a cob should move. The horses above him only shuffled. Judge didn’t know what she was doing. She should see more proper cobs. Don’t get many like yours these days, he’s made like they should be. Like they used to be.”

“Oh THANKYOU, how very lovely of you to say that!” I was truly overwhelmed.

“I wasn’t the only one stood here who thought it.”

“Thankyou, you’ve made our day. But the judge was fair, she said he had hock spavins. Mind you after nine years hunting he’s entitled to have arthritis in his joints.”

As the stranger studied the offending pair of hocks, Bruce stood as still and square as he had for the judge, flicking his ears backwards as the man spoke. “They don’t look too bad to me, and they’re far enough from his heart not to cause any trouble. As I said, judge knows nothing about cobs.” He ran his hand softly down Bruce’s neck and looked him in the eye. Bruce held his head by the man’s arm and smelt something familiar that he couldn’t place. Then he flapped his lips.

Bruce and I were on a high, after a fearful first year we were finding our way of working together. I couldn’t say I trusted him, and he certainly didn’t trust me, but we had compromised to find a way to keep moving forward and still breathe. My next goal was riding a walk-and-trot dressage test. But once again, cancer got in the way of plans.

Bruce was here, and he was truly the most handsome horse I’ve ever seen. I was going to make everything better, he would become a superstar, and as the storybooks say ‘we would all live happily ever after’.

My initial plan for Bruce (besides making amends for all the horrible things that had happened to him) was spending time walking in hand to help strengthen his injury. A few years before, I’d ruptured the cruciate ligament in my knee and had it reconstructed using hamstring from the back of my thigh. Post-op rehab had been extensive and it guided me towards what would benefit Bruce. Each day we took a walk along the roads fields and tracks around the farm, treading different terrains to encourage proprioception and balance. I quickly discovered he behaved perfectly on the road, but as soon as we turned onto open countryside he became agitated, flinging his head in the air to snatch at the reins, and turning sideways to barge me with his shoulder. I yanked his head down with a sharp “NO!” and carried a stick to try to push his shoulder back, but it didn’t help.

I also discovered Bruce hated being touched. Grooming was bearable but not enjoyable and he’d swing from side to side and snap the air until the ordeal ended. He jumped like he’d received an electric shock if you rested a hand on his body, and his muscles went rigid. Hoping to help him relax, I asked Sadie to give him a myofascial release treatment. She dryly remarked she was unsure where to start because he was so tight everywhere, and Bruce was adamant he was not going to release anything. The physio came to check his pelvis and said there were so many hotspots along his back it felt like he was on fire. I persevered trying to loosen him up with simple massage, but my hands literally bounced off his neck. He got so upset it was counter-productive, and I felt frustrated I couldn’t help him relax.

Bruce became stressed if you asked him do the smallest thing, and would go through a whole repertoire of movements hoping one of them was what you wanted. The more anxious he became the more I backed off, until I stopped asking him to do anything because it was easier not to wake his demons. The less structure I provided, the more he took matters into his own hands because his survival depended on somebody being in charge, and non-communication became a rapidly spiralling vortex of confusion. Sheila put one of her horses in his field for company, but he bullied and bit it and wouldn’t let it eat so he remained alone, and didn’t play with the horses over the fence. He was as shut down as he’d been when he was hunting. Physically he might be improving but mentally he was not.

After six fraught months of struggling to lead him along the tracks, I decided I’d be safer riding. Sitting on his back was fantastic and I felt a swell of pride in my horse as we set off on our first ride together. On the road he was a perfect pro, ignoring passing farm machinery and politely pulling on to the verge so cars could pass. He didn’t bat an eyelid when a gaggle of cyclists pedalled past in a gale of swooshing tyres. Riding a horse with a lovely swinging stride and an interest in his surroundings, and with the sun pushing through the mid-November clouds, I was the luckiest person alive. Me and my horse. We reached the gate that opened in to the field, and feeling how relaxed we both were I couldn’t see a problem going home across the grass. Bruce moved to open the gate with the faintest nudge of my leg, and stood stock-still while I looped the chain back over the post. I brushed my hand down his neck in appreciation and turned towards the headland, aiming to follow the hedge to the top of the field. Suddenly and without warning, he dropped his bottom to the ground- I thought for a moment a hole had opened up- and then launched himself in the air like he’d been shot from a sling. If you’ve ever seen pictures of a high-school dressage capriole (airs above the ground) that’s how I think it looked, but it felt more like jumping a wide chasm wasn’t there. It wasn’t unseating, in fact his broad back felt like an immovable perch, but it was terrifying and I had no idea what to expect or do next, so I just hung on. And prayed. When he eventually landed I thought I might regain control, but as soon as his feet hit the ground his head shot up in the air, nose pointing to the sky and ears flat back, and he fled like his life depended on it. I tried crossing my reins, sawing on his mouth and turning him, but he was galloping in blind panic and dead to feeling, so I sat and waited. And prayed some more. Time seemed to stop, I thought I heard myself shouting, but maybe it was the wind rushing through my ears, and I was more worried about the damage he’d do to his healing tendon than the damage he might do to both of us if he didn’t stop.

There was a wire boundary fence at the top of the field, which common sense told me he’d want to jump if he faced it. On the right of the fence was a thick high hedge, planted to break the wind on the exposed hilltop. I decided to try to turn him towards the hedge and run him into it, if I went at an angle we stood a better chance of less injury. Jamming my feet down into my stirrups, I moved both hands to the right of his neck, wrapped the reins around my fist and kicked like mad with my left leg while putting all my weight into my right. Like an oil tanker in an ocean of grass, he started to make the turn, not fast enough to jack-knife but with enough latitude to avoid the fence. The looming hedge whipped us with sharp-as-nails branches as it skimmed his shoulder at speed, and as the sudden scourge of pain brought him back to his senses, he dropped his head and slowed to a trot, and then to a standstill. I slid off, loosened his girth because he was blowing so hard I thought he’d explode, and collapsed in a heap. My body was completely numb and as the adrenaline dropped I began to shake like a leaf. Then my anger rose up inside and with renewed force I got to my feet and dragged Bruce back down the field to the road. I dragged him and swore and cursed, he pulled me, barged me and trod all over me. Blood from his scratches was smeared over his neck and my jacket, the branches had shredded my sleeve, and with each step the torn leg of my once-white breeches waved like a forlorn peace flag. As we walked home in the dusk we must’ve looked like a pair of leftovers from Halloween trick-or-treating. When we got back I tied Bruce in his stable, washed him down with warm water, inspected his cuts for thorns and applied Sudocreme to the worst. I was as gentle as possible but he flinched with every touch.  I rugged him, put down two buckets of warm water and a big pile of hay, and stood outside the stable hoping he might take a drink or eat a mouthful but he just stood and watched me, slowly flapping his lips. The honeymoon was over and reality didn’t match expectation. I’m sure I wasn’t the first, or the last, to experience that disappointment.

“I’m sorry Bruce,” I said quietly, filled with remorse and sadness. “I’m so sorry.”

Through the winter I persevered as best I knew how. I did everything I’d ever learnt to try controlling my horse, never realising his fear of harsh control was the root of the problem, and what I light-heartedly tried to dismiss as his ‘open-country panic attacks’ were exactly that. To him they weren’t light-hearted, and I didn’t dare drop my false bravado and admit I was shit scared. The day the end nearly came was the catalyst for change. We’d ridden happily along the stony track from the farm for about twenty minutes when we reached a fallen tree blocking the path. With no way round and no way over, the only action was to turn and go back. As we turned, Bruce sprang into action. I had a comforting thought that if I couldn’t slow him he’d stop at the farm entrance, but I hadn’t reckoned on the tractor driving down the path towards us.

The tractor took up the width of the track and the trailer he towed behind was only marginally narrower. From his high place in the cab, the driver saw me in plenty of time, but maybe I looked like I was having a fun gallop because it felt like eternity before he stopped and tried to pull in, except there was nowhere to pull. Bruce’s gallop didn’t falter, I sat back in the saddle waiting for him to slide to a halt or hit the tractor head-on and neither option was appealing. His third option was to go to the side of the tractor, where the gap twixt wheels and hedge was about the width of a thin horse, but Bruce wasn’t thin, and my legs were either side of him. He took the third option. I briefly caught the look of sheer horror on the tractor driver’s face as Bruce dived for the gap, and I instinctively pulled my feet from the stirrups and grabbed the pommel for balance, tucking my knees up to my elbows, and stupidly  breathing-in as if that would make me thinner. I heard my stirrup and leather drop to the ground as the side of the tractor pulled it off the saddle. At the time it was strangely exhilarating. The horse beneath me was so focused on his task (albeit with no regard for me) that I felt no fear until afterwards. He stopped at the farm entrance like nothing had happened and Sheila watched us walk down the drive.

“Good ride?” she asked, looking quizzically at my white face and missing stirrup.

“Fast,” I replied. “Very fast.” And then I burst into tears.

We’d reached crisis point, my horse terrified me and I had no idea what to do. On her next bodywork visit for Bruce, I recounted the story to Sadie. She looked up as I spoke, and when she’d made what adjustments were possible to Bruce’s taut muscles, she said matter-of-factly “I can’t help you with any of but I know someone who might.”

I watched as Kirsty Hearne shut her car door, tuck her hair under a leather cowboy hat and walk towards the stable. For some reason it struck me that her walk looked completely certain, self-contained, as if she had everything she wanted. I’d explained our problems on the phone and she was willing to see if she could help. A woman of few words, she introduced herself, cast her eyes over me and Bruce, ran an open-palmed hand softly down his neck, and nodded towards the schooling paddock, where she’d suggested I have a few poles laid out. As I led Bruce around, she arranged the poles into an L-shape, and asked me to lead him through them. No problem. I walked one side of the poles, he walked through, and I breathed a sigh of relief that we’d done something right. Then she asked me to back him through the poles. I pulled at his mouth, pushed him hard in the chest and loudly commanded “BACK!” and he stood annoyingly still. I shouted the command louder and made the push pushier, but still no movement.

“Do you always have to push to move him backwards?” Asked Kirsty.

“Well, yes,” I replied “I’ve always done it that way.” How else was there to do it?

 “And do you always shout?”

“Only if he doesn’t obey.”

“And does he obey?”

“Ummm . . . no,” I said forlornly, looking at the ground. “Not usually, no.”

Kirsty walked over to where Bruce stood firm and asked if she could have his reins. I handed them over feeling an absolute failure. She shook the reins at him, lowered her head slightly and took a short step forward. He stayed immobile. She lowered her head further, and walked towards him more forcefully, and he took a few hurried steps backwards, put in a buck to show his displeasure, and then stepped neatly around the L to the end of the poles. Kirsty rubbed his forehead and told him he was a good boy. He dropped his nose and rested it by her elbow.

“I think we’ve solved that problem,” she said quietly. “Perhaps you could try asking instead of telling. Ask him to step backwards, we’ll practise it later.”

Next, she asked me to lead him forward again, this time walking inside the poles with him. We walked down the straight, and when we got to the turn he walked right through me. I jumped to one side, and hopped back again to finish.

“Did you think about slowing him to make the turn,” she said, and I wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement.

“Ummmmm, no.”

“And do you always have him walking ahead of you at the pace he wants?”

“I guess so,” I replied, never really having thought about Bruce’s position. I’d never really given much thought to leading a horse, I just expected it to do as I said. If it went too fast I’d pull it back and if too slow I’d pull it forward. When I wanted to stop I’d apply pressure until it stopped.

Kirsty showed me how to decide where I wanted Bruce to be, and how to keep him an arm’s distance from my body so we didn’t bump eachother. It was the first time anyone had explained how to give a horse clear directions, rather than correct it when it did wrong, and it made perfect sense. I didn’t know why I didn’t know about it. Then she showed me how to breathe commands instead of shouting them, and we practised going forward on an out breath, and halting by slowing my feet so we stopped in unison without any pressure on the rope. Miraculously, we moved left and right by turning my shoulders. As we went back and forth through pole alley, walking over the poles, and stopping and starting without pulling or tugging on the reins, I felt an incredible sense of elation at the way Bruce responded. If he noticed my feet slow down and my shoulders turn, what else did he notice in my movements? This was all new to me, I’d been taught that being the boss was the key to mastering horses, not breathing.

“I think we’ll call it a day there,” said Kirsty after forty minutes. “You both look like you’ve done enough.” As she ran her hand down Bruce’s neck he dropped his head and snorted. “He’s a good horse. You just need to find him his quiet place,” she said.

At the time, I had no idea what she meant, or where that search would take us, but I knew it was our only chance to make things work. So I had to find out.

‘There’s many a slip between cup and lip’ is one of the truest sayings. Once James agreed to a new home for Bruce instead of euthanasia, he offered the horse to everyone, and a friend of Rosanna’s accepted the offer. Bill Blackwood was livid and I was heartbroken, not so much at not having him myself, but at where he was going. Rosanna’s friend had ridden as a child. She had a weekend cottage with a large field and a bucolic vision of Bruce grazing happily for the rest of his days. In order to give Bruce’s tendon the best chance of healing, James generously paid for debridement surgery to remove injured and scarred tissue, followed by post-op care with Bill. That this fine horse was sentenced to life as a solitary field ornament left me numb, my belief in Divine Intervention crumbled. I needn’t have worried.

Bruce loved all the unaccustomed grass. He loved being able to walk through flimsy fences to the organic veg plot and fruit bushes and he particularly loved the apple orchard, until the bucolic dream became spasmodic colic and a neighbour called the vet. Rosanna’s friend’s husband was livid at her stupidity (and the £200 vet bill) and Bruce arrived back at Bill’s six weeks later, a lot fatter than when he left. James wanted rid of him quickly and Bill phoned me.

“Horse is back. If you still want him, act fast.”

Mark and I acted fast. I phoned the livery yard I’d previously arranged for Bruce but they’d filled the vacancy. I phoned the stables where I’d kept Teddy but they were full, as were five other local DIY yards. There was room for him at a farm within walking distance of home, but the stable was for a small pony and he wouldn’t have got through the doorway with his hips intact! I found two lovely places but they only accepted horses at full livery; apart from wanting to care for my horse, I couldn’t afford the cost. Anxiety set in followed by frustration. There are lots of private homes near us that keep horses, so I delivered a printed a letter to them all asking if they had room for one more, but nobody replied. I put cards in shop windows and a strange man contacted me, saying he had a chicken shed at the end of his garden, and he wouldn’t want payment if I stayed as well. It was doubtful Bruce would fit in a chicken shed.

On Friday afternoon I answered my phone to a woman who spoke with a cut glass accent. “Hello, I’m standing outside the Post Office reading your card regarding stabling. I’ve just moved from London to Dorset and my new house has two brand new stables and two acres. Might that suit your requirements?”

“It definitely might.” I replied, writing down her address. With indecent haste Mark and I went to view, and it was perfect. Completely and utterly perfect, and she was happy for me to sub-let the other stable so Bruce had company. Then she told us the monthly rent, and I thought she was joking but she wasn’t. Feeling this dream slipping away, I tactfully said prices in Dorset were a lot lower than London, and she must’ve seen my disappointment because she dropped five pounds a month, but her expectations were completely unrealistic. She thanked me for my time and we left. The stables remained empty for two years, then she sold the house and they were converted into a granny annexe.

On Saturday, one of the livery yard owners phoned. “Hi, Lou here, have you found a stable yet?” I recounted a short history of my failures and Lou commiserated.

“I might be able to help. I’ve just spoken to my old friend Sheel, she’s thinking about renting her spare stable. D’ya want her number?” 

“Yes PLEASE!”

“Text her then. She wants someone responsible who knows what they’re doing, I said you fitted the bill. Her stables are a bit out the back of beyond, a bit basic, but go see for yourself.”

“Thanks Lou, really appreciated.” I texted Sheel immediately and the answer pinged back within five minutes, with a time to visit and directions.

Old Barrow Farm was a ten-minute drive from home, along pitted gravel tracks between massive arable fields at the back of Badbury Rings, an ancient Iron Age hill fort. Prehistoric tumuli scattered the fields, rising from the flat cultivated soil in unkempt mounds of scrub and trees, a permanent reminder of those who laid buried under this vast expanse of sky. Mark and I had cycled across these tracks, and both agreed the boundless space had an indescribably eerie atmosphere.

I parked at the farm and opened the truck door. Sheel walked out to meet me and with split-second recognition, we both laughed with joy. “Elaine, it’s YOU!” she gasped, hugging my waist.

“Sheila, it’s YOU!!” I shouted in disbelief, returning the hug.

Sheila was a no-nonsense old school horsewoman. Handsome features, with steel grey hair swept into a precisely pinned bun (I’d never seen her hair styled any other way) and a complexion that defied fifty years spent outdoors. We shared a birthday and she was exactly ten years older than me. We’d been friends since the 1970s when she bought my pony Jimmy for her riding school. We had kept in touch until 2000 when she closed the riding school and moved; I don’t know whether she lost my address or me hers. We both started talking at once, then both became tongue-tied, and still shaking our heads in disbelief she showed me around. Used for storing machinery, the near-derelict farm had a row of four stables housed in an old building, with a wide walkway at the front and a bay at the far end for feed and hay storage. Outside were three turn-out paddocks with a high beech hedge at the bottom forming a solid windbreak, a small well-drained area I could use to ride, and a neatly squared-off muckheap. Sheila owned a broodmare and two younger horses, and lived in a caravan behind the barn. The farm was more ramshackle and a lot more remote than I’d envisaged, but I knew we’d be safe and comfortable with Sheila, and a quiet atmosphere was what Bruce needed.  The arrangement was DIY Livery but Sheila was happy to do Bruce for me at any time, and gave me a handwritten price-list of services; a business footing makes things simpler even between old friends. We shook hands and hugged again. We had found our home.

On Wednesday, Midsummers Eve 2009 Bruce came to me. The big old cattletruck grated to a halt, Bill Blackwood jumped out of the cab, opened the rear ramp and Bruce clattered stiffly down the metal slope. The black horse stood, looked at his new surroundings and let out a long sigh. Bill echoed the sigh, turned his shoulders, and without any pressure on the leadrope Bruce followed him into the stable, which Mark had cleaned and given a fresh coat of white paint. Bill stood the horse to face him and unbuckled the headcolllar. I was waiting outside the door and could’ve sworn I heard Bill whisper “Safe now. Don’t be frightened,” but they were such unlikely words for him I must’ve misheard. Bill handed me the headcollar, walked back to the lorry and pulled out a patched turnout rug and a bridle in one hand, and Bruce’s Irish Horse Passport in the other, together with a bundle of vet reports tied with baler twine.

“Useful?” he said.

“Very,” I replied with a grin, picking up the bottle of wine I had for him, and an envelope with a thankyou card and money for diesel. We walked towards eachother bearing our gifts like one of those weird East-West spy swaps where neither party wants to act first, and we laughed awkwardly until he put the rug on the ground, I handed him the bottle in his free hand, he gave me the bridle and I gave him the card. I wanted to hug him but I don’t think he’s a huggy person, so we tried to shake hands which meant juggling the gifts about again until we touched fingertips.

“Thankyou Bill, for everything” I said, feeling a bit overwhelmed.

“Nice horse,” he said gruffly. “He’ll be fine for you.” He looked at me and nodded, and his eyes were twinklier than I’d noticed before. He got back into the lorry, crashed through the gears and drove off.

“Dear Bill,” said the card, which had a cartoon of a sleeping horse dreaming of carrots, and the caption ‘I like doing nothing.’ “It was really kind of you to deliver Bruce, here’s money for diesel. I really appreciate everything you’ve done for him, and all your help persuading James, which I know caused you a lot of work. Thankyou so much. I’ve loved riding your horses and I’ve learnt a lot. If I can ever return the favour please ask. Kindest wishes, Elaine.” I had toyed with the idea of a x but decided not.

The mission was complete. Bruce was here in the stable fate had found for him, and my overwhelming feeling was relief (reality and panic would follow in due course). He was lame on his left hind leg, both hocks were stiff with arthritic changes (spavins and thoroughpins) and his dodgy hip affected how he bore his weight. Euthanasia was still possible if the tendon didn’t heal and he was in pain, but his ‘rescue’ wasn’t a re-run of Black Beauty and he wasn’t emaciated or cowering in a corner. It wasn’t until I got a real sense of his distress that I even considered the word rescue, and then hastily un-considered it because labelling him a rescue-case is as bad as calling me a cancer sufferer.

It was eight o’clock when I settled Bruce with lots of hay and Sheila’s broodmare stabled alongside for company. Through the freshly cleaned stable window he could see her two young horses grazing in their field. I left him for the night and drove home, lost in thought and the beautiful skyscape. Mark handed me a glass of wine as I walked through the back door.

“How did it go?” he asked excitedly.

“It went good. He looks bigger than I remember. I can’t believe I’ve got him after everything. Bill found me a rug and a bridle, and here’s his vet reports.” I put the bundle of papers on the kitchen table and sank down on a chair, drained of energy. “Sheila said she’d check him before she went to bed.”

“You look exhausted,” said Mark. “Go have a bath. Egg and chips for tea, I’ll make a start.”

I love my husband. I love egg and chips.

As I soaked in the bath I fretted about Bruce. Would he settle, would he come sound, had I taken on too much, was he worried in his new surroundings? The answer to everything was yes. I was so concerned about getting him but I had no idea if I was capable of riding him. He’d tanked off across open ground the only time Bill let me exercise him, and we’d spent ages going round in circles until he slowed down. How had I conveniently forgotten that episode? Mark came in with wine to top-up my glass and a magazine to read. I was going to tell him what had happened, but changed my mind.

“Here, read this,” he said, handing me a Spirit & Destiny magazine and pouring the wine. “Sara gave me some magazines for you when I saw her this-morning. It’s a bit airy-fairy but it’ll take your mind off things. Food in twenty minutes.”

As I said, I love my husband. I opened the magazine and skimmed the pages until an article about angels caught my interest. Different angels do different jobs, and they like being asked for help. Archangel Michael is the biblical Angel of Protection and the writer gave a simple invocation to harness Michael’s great protective power. I read the words, thought of Bruce, read the words again, decided I had nothing to lose and spoke the invocation. Just to be safe I said it twice.

The next morning Bruce had his head over the stable door watching Sheila groom the mare, the sound of his flapping lips keeping time with the brush, and echoing around the high roof beams. His churned stable showed he’d spent the night pacing to-and-fro. Sheila and I exchanged hellos, and I remembered she’s not a morning person so I didn’t chat. I looked at my horse and a wave of excitement ran through my body. My horse! Sheila looked up and caught my eye and we grinned at eachother in companionable silence. As I slipped Bruce’s headcollar over his nose he grabbed the buckle and chewed it nervously, then held it in his teeth. I wrestled it out followed by the leadrope which was also in his mouth, and led him outside. He walked politely, stood to open the field gate, turned and faced me and as I undid his headcollar he stood up on his hind legs, spun round and galloped off bucking and squealing. Taken completely unawares I ducked away from his front foot waving in my face, stumbled backwards and fell over. Not a good start. I brushed myself off, retrieved the headcollar from where it had fallen and went back to the stable. I hoped Sheila hadn’t seen my first attempt at knowing what I’m doing, but luckily she’d gone into her caravan for breakfast.

The stable building was quiet, just the sound of birdsong and the hum of a distant tractor filtered through the open doorway. I looked out Bruce’s window, watching him graze in his own paddock while the neighbouring horses stood at the fence waiting to speak. I began mucking, thinking through the week’s rollercoaster events that had led me and a horse that I thought was lost, to find an old friend. When everything was clean and swept I re-laid the shavings bed, and lifted the water bucket from the corner of the stable. On the floor behind the bucket were two white feathers. I bent down to look more closely, raised the edge of the rubber mat to check underneath, and ran my hands along the wall in case they’d fallen from the brickwork. Then I wrapped them carefully in a tissue and put them in my pocket. So Archangel Michael had heard after all. Maybe things were going to be okay.