Back from a busy weekend of hunting and horses in Wiltshire (no house-hunting this week, I'm taking a break). Straight into the office on Monday to pay for it all, with no time to unpack, and therefore drowning today in mounds of laundry - the inevitable aftermath of anything involving ponies, the great outdoors and husbands.
Everything aches. I thought I was fit and have been proved wrong by my hunt's so-called cross-country "fun" ride, more accurately described as a beasting over 10 miles of beautiful country with optional (optional? who are we kidding?) fences. I made life extra hard for myself by going as a pair with Stephen, aka Husband-on-Speed, a tough man to follow across country at the best of times. In the absence of such restraints as a field master one shouldn't overtake, or hounds one shouldn't run over, he was off at an alarming pace more or less from the start. We had set off with three girls from the stables but they soon expelled us from their group on account of my husband's horse being "too lively and upsetting the others". (Polite euphemism for: "Get away from us, you pair of freaks! We'd like a quiet, civilised time.").
Stephen was on his usual ride, Hindenburg, or the Burg to his friends, who are not many. This larger-than-life character is likely to poke his big black muzzle into this blog from time to time, and so deserves a proper introduction. A 17.2hh ex-Cavalry black, expelled from the Cavalry for causing more casualties than the Taliban, bold over fences but of a complex, Byronic personality: mad, bad and dangerous to know. (The latter description could well fit Stephen too, and it is no coincidence that they get on swimmingly.) I soon realised that, in such company, it was futile to try to set the pace across open fields, and decided to relax and enjoy the various full-tilt gallops on offer (ie, I simply could not hold Crabgate back when presented with an open stretch uphill and the Burg tearing off like a high-speed train crash).
Now, Crabgate: 16hh, 20-year-old bay gelding, ex-Kings Troop - fit as a fiddle and not a day over 7 in mind and body. He is not my usual ride (or my usual type for that matter) but we had been out hunting together the day before with some success. Salisbury Plain is his playground and he knows it like the...er, sole of his hoof, and I know him to be a sensible (if fast) sort, so off we went. He had the decency never to rush over fences, not once, so my arms had some respite whenever there were jumps. And boy did he fly over those fences, as neat as a button and as comfortable as an armchair. I think I've changed my mind about him not being "my type".
About two-thirds of the way through, however, I was flagging. We stopped to chat to one of the marshals, a Master whom we know from the hunt... and the pub. But mainly the pub. He made good his promise from the night before and produced a bottle of Hobgoblin and two glasses from the back of his car. I don't drink beer, except in emergencies, and this was an emergency. Suitably refreshed, we sauntered on, occasionally intersecting with the three ladies from earlier who would wave us off from a distance with cries of "please go away". You get used to this treatment when going out with the ASBO horse.
The last run of three fences along the racetrack is etched in my memory for life: blazing sunlight, just the right mix of balance and speed, the wind in my face and a sense of achievement at the sight of the finishing line. (Apart from the bit where I swore at Stephen and the Burg to keep the &@** behind us and out of the way - I shall photoshop that out as it was necessary but not very ladylike).
After the spell of unseasonally hot weather it is now well and truly autumn, duly marked by clipping (on which saga more next time) and the spiced squash, marrow and lentil soup that has been simmering in the kitchen while I write this and to which I must now attend.
For more pictures of the ride go to the Mudsports website.
