Today’s bitter wind and watery sunshine broke the tedium of a dismal start to February where everything stayed grey, and the rain fell with sullen monotony.

In past times, I’d have taken the opportunity to saddle up and blow away the cobwebs with a fast ride across the fields, splashing through puddles and jumping fallen branches. Feeling that rush of adrenaline at the sheer joy of being out on a horse, ignoring the cold wind that lights up your cheeks and freezes fingers to reins, and returning home so exhilarated that you are immune to anything life throws at you. But nowadays my options are more sedate and I try very hard not to feel a pang of loss for those rides. I remember my new mantra, that thrills are found in having the time to notice detail. Physical curtailment can bring with it unexpected mindfulness and new ways to process things. Writing has become my way of feeling I have given something all I’ve got.

I thought we’d go for a walk around the farm where Bruce lives, and seeing as this is a new blog, I thought you could come with me.

I gave Bruce a slow groom, putting hair conditioner in his tail to ease the tangles, and using the brush softly on his tickly bits. We stood quietly in the sunshine, grooming until his black coat shone, and I made time to scratch his withers while he wriggled his nose in pleasure. Then I offered him his halter and long lead, and waited for the ‘give’ as he lowered his nose. He also wears his leather bridle when he’s ‘working’ as it feels important that he still does a job.

I’ll let you into a secret. When I began riding Bruce, I had his bridle made-to-measure; it was three times more expensive than a shop-bought one. It’s nothing fancy because we’re not a flashy couple, just fine English leather that fits like a dream and is perfectly shaped around his ears so it doesn’t pinch. When Bruce was hunting with his previous owner, he was restrained with quite a harsh bit and contraptions to keep his head down and his mouth shut. A plain bridle with a French Link snaffle seemed significant to his new start, and I wanted him to have something really special.

The wind was sharp enough to cut you in half. I remember an old farmer who called it a lazy wind ‘because it went through you instead of round you.’ I put two padded coats on, a woollen bobble hat pulled down low over my forehead, and pulled a scarf up over my chin, and we set off, Bruce’s front legs moving in unison with mine. I breathed deeply as best I could through my muffler, and after a dozen strides, he dropped his head and blew out through his nose. My shoulders and his poll relaxed at the same time. We walked alongside the paddocks to the bottom farmyard, where the ancient haybarn roof rafters remind me of cathedral arches,

past the old dairy where the wonky walls are reinforced with brick buttresses, and the floor still has its original cobble stones.

Pausing at the farm entrance to check for traffic, Bruce halted on my out-breath, and stood quietly. I patted his neck, and we turned right, following the privet hedge bordering the farmhouse to the gate opposite.

The low wooden gate was tricky to open and stiff on its hinges. Bruce nibbled the hedge while I swore loudly and muttered about the ‘good old days’ when we’d have been tempted to jump it instead of opening it. Once I’d shoved it into a passable gap, he shimmied his way through, with me following behind. We ambled along the grassy track and over a bridge where the drainage ditches have become a flowing river, until we reached the beehives at the top, but active bees buzzing about surprised us both so we made a hasty retreat!

Turning back on our tracks, we crossed the road to search the hedge for for rosehips. Bruce found and ate two, and on the farm track towards home, we found daffodils flowering in the shelter of the near-derelict old garden gazebo. As I bent down to take the photo I felt hot breath on my hand, and quickly moved Bruce away from taking a mouthful!

It had been a lovely walk and I felt quite tired, so while I got his stable ready for the evening, I put Bruce in the jumping paddock to graze. However, he had other ideas and had a long roll and wriggle in the mud. I brushed him again, put his rug on, and he went out in his field to spend the rest of the day with his mates. When I got in the car to go home, I noticed how rosy my cheeks were and how exhilarated I felt. And it made me smile out loud.

(a blue sky dream)

The sky, in his dream,

was a porcelain shade of English blue.

The grass, although not verdant

was sweet, short

and instantly fresh against his jaded tongue.

The air,

which he barely had time to scent

so busy was he eating,

cooled nostrils blackened with fire

and a throat full of death dust.

The ground soft yet firm

didn’t hold his tread,

but released a foot to fall

where ‘ere it chose.

No crunch of bones

in the turf of ancient meadows.

Groans and screams,

and cries of writhing pain

were drowned by songs of birds,

and the lice itching his tender skin

became amiable scratches

against the orchard trees,

in this blue sky dream.

Awake, he bent his head.

The scorched earth mocked

his sleeping haven,

and the noise,

body parts and blood

told another story,

too terrible to translate.

He blew softly.

The scarcest outlet of breath was heard

amid cannon fire commotion,

but a hand  (one he knew)

came instantly to his side,

resting awhile open-palmed on his neck,

gentle as his mother once was

when she licked him clean and warm.

Together in a moment

a horse, his soldier,

steadying one another.

Carrying one another

into the final ride of death,

without glory or recognition

under that imaginary

blue English sky.

St Peter stands at heaven’s front door, but if you pop round the back you’ll find the best bit – its where the horses are.

I’m not one for finding comfort in Rainbow Bridges (horses are such patient beings in this world, please don’t make them wait on us in the next) or Stars in the Sky, because stars are awesome enough as they are, but I know in my heart of hearts that when horses die, they go to a special place where fields are wide and flies are few, and they can breathe and snort and simply be horses, and things no longer hurt.

Here, sad horses exchange skin and bone for sleek coats and strong limbs. Skinny mules from Egypt grow plump, and the best loved horses become more best and even more loved. As they walk through heaven’s wide gates where Anna Blake’s Grandfather Horse, and Mark Rashid’s ranch horse Buck graze the lush green grass, newcomers are welcomed with a quiet nicker and a gentle breath.

Through this gate tottered a curmudgeonly little donkey named Lilith; small in stature but grand in stance. Her eyes were cloudy and her hearing muffled; she could no longer see or hear the inhumanity meted out to donkeys everywhere. God’s grazing herd recognised a Very Special Being, and respectfully lined her route home.

Lilith glanced left and right. With a slight drop of the nose towards Grandfather horse, and a long-ear flick towards Buck, she wobbled unsteadily down the centre of the assembled horses. As cantankerous in death as she was in life, she threatened to kick or bite anyone who stepped out of line.

When she reached the bucket of tinned pears (her toothless favourite) she stopped and sniffed, gathered her frail body into a semblance of order, and thought about braying. Then she buried her nose in the nectar of Heaven and ate to her heart’s content.

INSPIRED by CRISSI McDONALD

What if we stopped berating our past mistakes?

What if we changed the narrative and called them progress?

All of us here have travelled long and far. Not just with our horses but with our selves.

Our faults are many, our successes few, and in order to improve we beat ourselves with that large stick of past failures, in a way we would never beat our horses.

But what if every mistake, every error of judgement was merely a rung on the ladder to learning. Surely that can’t be wrong?

Perhaps, with the benefit of hindsight (which is a land where everything shines unicorn clear) we simply had that ladder against the wrong wall?

Along our Damascene Roads, many of us got more involved in techniques than proved good for our horses – or ourselves- but just like adding our own pinch-of-this –and-that to season a textbook recipe, none of us can deny sprinkling a tad of past learning on today’s actions.

I was raised on tried and tested British Horse Society principles; followed by millions, but falling short of the ‘right’ meaning for me.

However much I disagree with a lot of the teaching, I still apply basic BHS learning to every horse I encounter, every day, and my standard of horse care is just as Major Browne taught me all those years ago at Pony Club. I check water buckets and feed bowls for snot or blood. I shut the gate behind me when turning out to pasture. I thank motorists for slowing down and passing with a wide berth. Could Parelli have taught me these basics? Could I have learnt them in a round pen? So BHS wasn’t all bad.

Regret for horses bewildered by our mistakes is understandable, but can we say it won’t happen again?

To have caused anguish to those we love the most, is as big a sin as we can commit but we didn’t do it maliciously; we were doing the best we could with what we knew at that time.

Each day we take our horse’s demeanour in the present tense, so let us do the same for ourselves!
Collect all our past horse history into a large heap, and celebrate just how large it is. Look how far we’ve come, look what we’ve experienced! Look at how much we can rationally discuss, and teach others, because we WERE THERE.

Treat it all as learning. When the larger picture is blurred, see the tiny increments we made on our way to celebrating we’re still here, relatively sound and able to breathe with horses.

Because what it all comes down to is that we’ve spent a lifetime learning to breathe.

Which was right under our noses all along.