It is that dreaded, bleached first week of the year. Mid-winter, foul weather, festivities over, nothing but bills to look forward to for a while. Contrary as ever, and having felt utterly depressed and bah-humbug for most of the holiday, right until today in fact, I am now buoyant with energy and fizz. (Oh, fizz, wish I could have some fizz... we're all supposed to be detoxing now, right?)
Yes, I have mildly resented the enforced jollity this year, and attended only a very select few social engagements during the festive season. The weather did not help: mild but damp and grey and not at all christmassy. Not that I really longed for last year's near-apocalyptic snowfall, but this was just too dull, and what to do with this winter's (faux) fur trend when you then suffocate in it?
I had a very last-minute invite to a black-tie dinner at Armoury House in the City. The main enticement (something that most well-adjusted people would consider vaguely offensive) was that I would be replacing a guest who couldn't make it. You see, this person happened to hold the title of Princess. Not anyone you would have read about in Hello, much more exciting and exclusive than that, a mysterious Russian Princess. So my place card would say "Princess"... you can see where this is going.
So it was, out of the jodhs and wellies and into a long, scarlet satin gown with a fishtail - ancient, a bit worn at the edges having survived a savage hunt ball, and from a predictable high street shop, but always a hit. And I was channelling 1907 emigree aristocracy in distress, after all. I managed a very impressive DIY up-do with a small, sparkly, vintage accessory that was reminiscent of a tiara without straying into fancy dress territory. Result! Princessy behaviour comes naturally, so the rest was a doddle. There was much dancing, and later we gatecrashed another party round the corner, where my non-prince husband was attending and my carriage, if I'd had one, would have turned into a pumpkin. The modern, post-feminst Cinderella keeps hold of her shoes and, on the stroke of midnight, acquires a husband and a clutch of drunken friends with whom to carry on partying. As ever, unplanned outings often turn out to be the most fun.
The Boxing Day meet, of course, is in a category of its own, and I would not have missed it for the world. In my third season now, this was my first mounted Boxing Day (last year was scuppered because of all the ice, hunting on foot is just not the same). I had to down several glasses of port (above my regulation medicinal two), so as not to think too much about the fact that this was my first outing on the Very Large Mare after The Tumbles. It did the trick, I was suitably relaxed and had a cracking day in which we did not part company. In spite of her being full of... shall we say, festive cheer. Well, one of us had to.
So everything is fine in my world again.
Thursday, 5 January 2012
Friday, 23 December 2011
The world has finally stopped spinning, with the aid of much bed rest, ibuprofen and brandy.
Reluctantly (because I am highly suspicious of doctors, having a particularly alarming example in the family) I dragged myself to the local surgery on my husband's insistence, because I was being "more incoherent and sleepy than usual". Where would we be without our loved ones, eh? I saw a young German lady GP-in-training who had not yet had her sense of compassion and interest in poorly people beaten out of her by years in the NHS. She was very nice, and looked genuinely shocked when I told her that, after tumble no.2, I then got on yet again and proceeded to hunt and jump for the next four hours, of which exploits I had only the blurriest of recollections. Apparently I should have gone home. Ooops.
I was diagnosed with mild concussion, a relief as it meant that a) the state of ditz will eventually pass, I am not going doolally just yet and b) I was allowed, in fact positively encouraged, to spend extra time in bed. Also, it is no mean consolation to find that my second tumble was quite probably the result of being concussed and still dizzy from my first, rather than 100% sheer incompetence. I shall be telling myself that when I'm next eyeing up a jump on the VLM.
Reluctantly (because I am highly suspicious of doctors, having a particularly alarming example in the family) I dragged myself to the local surgery on my husband's insistence, because I was being "more incoherent and sleepy than usual". Where would we be without our loved ones, eh? I saw a young German lady GP-in-training who had not yet had her sense of compassion and interest in poorly people beaten out of her by years in the NHS. She was very nice, and looked genuinely shocked when I told her that, after tumble no.2, I then got on yet again and proceeded to hunt and jump for the next four hours, of which exploits I had only the blurriest of recollections. Apparently I should have gone home. Ooops.
I was diagnosed with mild concussion, a relief as it meant that a) the state of ditz will eventually pass, I am not going doolally just yet and b) I was allowed, in fact positively encouraged, to spend extra time in bed. Also, it is no mean consolation to find that my second tumble was quite probably the result of being concussed and still dizzy from my first, rather than 100% sheer incompetence. I shall be telling myself that when I'm next eyeing up a jump on the VLM.
Thursday, 8 December 2011
Too bruised to blog?
I certainly was when I got home last night. Severe bruising to the ego, in particular. My first outing with a different hunt on different country, a joint meet with the Kimblewick, did not exactly go as planned. We'd been going from strength to strength, the Very Large Mare and I, every outing this season a resounding joy and success, a lovely clear round at the last 3ft cross-country. One felt invincible. So we decided it was time to go visiting.
Yes, both the mare and I got there on time and looked sparklingly smart at the meet. Yes, she drew the usual compliments from passing strangers. But then things started to go awry. I spilled my port all over the saddle while dismounting to get rid of slippery mud on the soles of my boots. A bad omen? No, I thought, let's say it's for luck.
We moved off at a fast trot along a tarmac road, quite a novelty for me to be riding through a village on a hunting day. She bounced and cantered sideways, mostly, so I knew it was going to be a challenging day. As we turned into a field, I barely had time to admire the beautiful new scenery, and then there it was, the first jump of the day, a small log. Really I should have known better and allowed her time to settle and let off some steam before attempting a jump. Hindsight is a wonderfully useless thing. Instead I went for it, only to be jumped clean out of the saddle, landed on her neck and finished off with an indignant buck. She does not suffer fools gladly and made her point by galloping off, presumably in search of a better rider.
I was left burrowing in the mud for my stick and what remained of my dignity. It was not much. The staff sergeant who runs the yard (impossibly tall, a brilliant rider and always on top form, in sharp contrast to my disshevelled and humble predicament) dashed off and retrieved the mare for me. Not one to be deterred easily (this was my special day out after all) I scrambled on again, popped another small log, stayed on and felt the natural order of things had returned... The next fence was, well, large. And hedge-ish. We could have gone round (dear old hindsight again) but I thought I'd better go for it so as to recover my jumping nerve. She over-jumped what was already a considerable obstacle and I found myself searching for said nerve in the mud. There are no words to describe the sense of utter, utter incompetence, failure and shame. My usual question and beacon of guidance in a spot of bother, 'What Would Audrey Hepburn Do?' (WWAHD), did not shed any light. I literally wanted to dig a hole and bury myself in it, but reminded myself just in time to be careful what I wished for. This time I never found my stick.
And then I was offered that most humiliating of things, the one that (along with daft, avoidable falls) you'd like to think only happens to other people: a horse swap. It was the right thing to do, of course. This is how I came to spend my visiting day on Alfie the ex-pointer, instead of the Very Large Mare. What kept me going was that liberating feeling of knowing the worst has already happened, so what the hell. My hairnet was lost in combat and by this point I had a trail of unruly red hair and no means to control it. Someone said I looked like something out of Pirates of the Caribbean. I hope they meant Keira Knightley, but somehow I doubt it.
I sat out the first couple of fences while my head was still spinning, but after that we popped everything: rails, ditches, brush fences, the lot. Including some bristly enormities I would usually flinch at back home. The sun was shining, Alfie was flying smoothly along, and although scent was poor I felt privileged to be out in this lovely part of the world, on a handsome, mannerly thoroughbred. His only misdemeanour was getting upset when having to stand still, all hemmed in, in a lane. He plunged through the waiting field and past the master, who accepted my mumbled apologies and allowed me to take him off for a walk. I couldn't possibly sink any lower so I enjoyed the rest of the day enormously, knowing that nothing much would be expected of me now, anything above staying alive and in one piece with the horse being a bonus.
This I managed, and was cheered for staying till the bitter end. We all piled into Irish Joe's tiny kitchen for tea. Every hunt should have an amiable older Irishman with a red nose. We have one too. They have this knack to make you feel everything is fine. 'Are you the lady who fell off twice?', I was asked by all, not as a put-down but in a friendly spirit of camaraderie, born of the shared knowledge that it may well be your turn next time. And for some, it probably was the time before.
Today is a day of rest, pills and (medicinal) booze. I have got off lightly, with nothing more than aches and pains. My first tumble out hunting, the thing I dreaded most, is now out of the way. Will I let this spoil one of the things in life I enjoy most? Certainly not, but it may be some time before we feel buoyant and invincible again. The quest for elegance, grace and poise continues. Watch this (bedraggled) space!
Yes, both the mare and I got there on time and looked sparklingly smart at the meet. Yes, she drew the usual compliments from passing strangers. But then things started to go awry. I spilled my port all over the saddle while dismounting to get rid of slippery mud on the soles of my boots. A bad omen? No, I thought, let's say it's for luck.
We moved off at a fast trot along a tarmac road, quite a novelty for me to be riding through a village on a hunting day. She bounced and cantered sideways, mostly, so I knew it was going to be a challenging day. As we turned into a field, I barely had time to admire the beautiful new scenery, and then there it was, the first jump of the day, a small log. Really I should have known better and allowed her time to settle and let off some steam before attempting a jump. Hindsight is a wonderfully useless thing. Instead I went for it, only to be jumped clean out of the saddle, landed on her neck and finished off with an indignant buck. She does not suffer fools gladly and made her point by galloping off, presumably in search of a better rider.
I was left burrowing in the mud for my stick and what remained of my dignity. It was not much. The staff sergeant who runs the yard (impossibly tall, a brilliant rider and always on top form, in sharp contrast to my disshevelled and humble predicament) dashed off and retrieved the mare for me. Not one to be deterred easily (this was my special day out after all) I scrambled on again, popped another small log, stayed on and felt the natural order of things had returned... The next fence was, well, large. And hedge-ish. We could have gone round (dear old hindsight again) but I thought I'd better go for it so as to recover my jumping nerve. She over-jumped what was already a considerable obstacle and I found myself searching for said nerve in the mud. There are no words to describe the sense of utter, utter incompetence, failure and shame. My usual question and beacon of guidance in a spot of bother, 'What Would Audrey Hepburn Do?' (WWAHD), did not shed any light. I literally wanted to dig a hole and bury myself in it, but reminded myself just in time to be careful what I wished for. This time I never found my stick.
And then I was offered that most humiliating of things, the one that (along with daft, avoidable falls) you'd like to think only happens to other people: a horse swap. It was the right thing to do, of course. This is how I came to spend my visiting day on Alfie the ex-pointer, instead of the Very Large Mare. What kept me going was that liberating feeling of knowing the worst has already happened, so what the hell. My hairnet was lost in combat and by this point I had a trail of unruly red hair and no means to control it. Someone said I looked like something out of Pirates of the Caribbean. I hope they meant Keira Knightley, but somehow I doubt it.
I sat out the first couple of fences while my head was still spinning, but after that we popped everything: rails, ditches, brush fences, the lot. Including some bristly enormities I would usually flinch at back home. The sun was shining, Alfie was flying smoothly along, and although scent was poor I felt privileged to be out in this lovely part of the world, on a handsome, mannerly thoroughbred. His only misdemeanour was getting upset when having to stand still, all hemmed in, in a lane. He plunged through the waiting field and past the master, who accepted my mumbled apologies and allowed me to take him off for a walk. I couldn't possibly sink any lower so I enjoyed the rest of the day enormously, knowing that nothing much would be expected of me now, anything above staying alive and in one piece with the horse being a bonus.
This I managed, and was cheered for staying till the bitter end. We all piled into Irish Joe's tiny kitchen for tea. Every hunt should have an amiable older Irishman with a red nose. We have one too. They have this knack to make you feel everything is fine. 'Are you the lady who fell off twice?', I was asked by all, not as a put-down but in a friendly spirit of camaraderie, born of the shared knowledge that it may well be your turn next time. And for some, it probably was the time before.
Today is a day of rest, pills and (medicinal) booze. I have got off lightly, with nothing more than aches and pains. My first tumble out hunting, the thing I dreaded most, is now out of the way. Will I let this spoil one of the things in life I enjoy most? Certainly not, but it may be some time before we feel buoyant and invincible again. The quest for elegance, grace and poise continues. Watch this (bedraggled) space!
Monday, 21 November 2011
Winter: the season to hunt or hibernate, not to get hitched!
Winter weddings: why do people do it? Oh, the fantasy of being a snow-queen bride in a white fur cape, snowflakes twinkling everywhere, and consummating the marriage in the flattering light of a fire.
But the truth is, for all but the starry-eyed, hypothermia-defying bride and groom, winter weddings are an utter bore, not least because they involve missing a Saturday's hunting. You'd have to put on a really good show to beat that, and let's face it, most weddings just can't compete. (Yes, I know, they are the only other occasion where it is socially acceptable to start drinking at 11am, but still.)
Think of the effort of pulling together a day outfit that will be smart and remotely on-trend while at the same time fending off the elements. Unlike most winter pursuits, where the correct attire is season-appropriate, weddings are inherently at odds with the cold. You are faced with a horrid dilemma. Wrap up too warm and you risk entering frump territory, not to mention suffocating in an overheated, crowded room. Keep it light and you will freeze to death in a chilly, damp church for what will feel like the longest 45 minutes of your life. And then carry on freezing outside said church while the lovebirds pose for posterity.
Add to this a long drive in fog or snow, and being holed up indoors with heaps of other people's friends, relatives and howling children, plus the pitfalls of choosing a gift, and you can see why I am not overly enthusiastic about brother-in-law's forthcoming nuptials. It gets worse: they are getting married in Wales, for heaven's sake (cue horizontal rain and certain footwear death in waterlogged ground). And I am trying to do all of the above on a shoestring - whilst not letting standards drop, obvs.- as I am now one of the nation's embarrassingly large number of young and qualified unemployed. And the meet I shall be reluctantly missing is a really cool one, with a barbeque afterwards. Grr doesn't begin to cover it.
The human mating season should be, as is the case for most other species, seasonal, restricted preferably to spring and summer. Is it really necessary to plight one's troth in the bleak midwinter? I can recall one wedding weekend on the Isle of Wight where the bridal party stood in a blizzard having their pictures taken, like a scene from Scott of the Antarctic, and the possibility that the return ferry might be cancelled hung ominously over the proceedings, jolly though they were.
Thinking of tying the knot? Spare a thought for your guests, be they hunting folk or not, and steer clear of the winter months. You never know, the British weather being what it is you may still get to wear that fur cape and have a cosy fire lit in your bridal suite.
But the truth is, for all but the starry-eyed, hypothermia-defying bride and groom, winter weddings are an utter bore, not least because they involve missing a Saturday's hunting. You'd have to put on a really good show to beat that, and let's face it, most weddings just can't compete. (Yes, I know, they are the only other occasion where it is socially acceptable to start drinking at 11am, but still.)
Think of the effort of pulling together a day outfit that will be smart and remotely on-trend while at the same time fending off the elements. Unlike most winter pursuits, where the correct attire is season-appropriate, weddings are inherently at odds with the cold. You are faced with a horrid dilemma. Wrap up too warm and you risk entering frump territory, not to mention suffocating in an overheated, crowded room. Keep it light and you will freeze to death in a chilly, damp church for what will feel like the longest 45 minutes of your life. And then carry on freezing outside said church while the lovebirds pose for posterity.
Add to this a long drive in fog or snow, and being holed up indoors with heaps of other people's friends, relatives and howling children, plus the pitfalls of choosing a gift, and you can see why I am not overly enthusiastic about brother-in-law's forthcoming nuptials. It gets worse: they are getting married in Wales, for heaven's sake (cue horizontal rain and certain footwear death in waterlogged ground). And I am trying to do all of the above on a shoestring - whilst not letting standards drop, obvs.- as I am now one of the nation's embarrassingly large number of young and qualified unemployed. And the meet I shall be reluctantly missing is a really cool one, with a barbeque afterwards. Grr doesn't begin to cover it.
The human mating season should be, as is the case for most other species, seasonal, restricted preferably to spring and summer. Is it really necessary to plight one's troth in the bleak midwinter? I can recall one wedding weekend on the Isle of Wight where the bridal party stood in a blizzard having their pictures taken, like a scene from Scott of the Antarctic, and the possibility that the return ferry might be cancelled hung ominously over the proceedings, jolly though they were.
Thinking of tying the knot? Spare a thought for your guests, be they hunting folk or not, and steer clear of the winter months. You never know, the British weather being what it is you may still get to wear that fur cape and have a cosy fire lit in your bridal suite.
Friday, 18 November 2011
Feeding the multitudes
The hunting season proper has started, with a cracking opening meet. Were it not for that, I would very likely give in to the strong elemental urge to hibernate until Spring. Darkness falls far too early, there is finally a chill in the air, and the pull of sofa, blanket and bed is strong, especially as I am sniffling along sorrily with a bad cold. However: we are hosting on Saturday, so there has been much bustling and baking to do.
We have ordered no less than twenty bottles of port, on account of it being a joint meet and because we are still haunted by the memory of The Shortage. Two years ago, our first time as hosts, we seriously underestimated the drinking capacity of the small Wednesday crowd. When the port ran out (which happened all too soon) I panicked and started passing around glasses of raspberry juice, but seasoned drinkers are not easily fooled and the mood was turning ugly. Keen to avoid becoming unpopular or getting lynched in our very first season, Stephen performed a secular version of the miracle at Canaa: he disappeared in a cloud of dust and returned bearing reinforcements. Luckily the meet was conveniently close to a main road with a a shop.
Fast-forward two seasons and we are not taking any chances, especially as this time meet is a few miles off from the middle of chuffing nowhere. As well as the port, fifty pork pies, thirty-six sausage rolls and the same number of cheese and onion rolls arrived on my doorstep tomorrow last night - so as not to pollute my vegetarian fridge with dead piggy, the pies have spent the night in the car, ready for the journey. I have baked a banana loaf and a lemon drizzle. It has been a true test of character, having two perfectly nice cakes in my kitchen and resisting the temptation to do a "quality check".
Back to the opening meet, I was reunited with Geisha, the Very Large Mare from last season. A16hh2in Irish bright bay, aka The Pumpkin, she has spent the summer off games due to something obscure and unknown to veterinary science in her hind legs - which mysterious ailment has now vanished as weirdly as it first appeared. It came, I should add, a few days before what would have been our first one day event. Having looked forward and prepared for it for so long and at considerable expense, I was not to be defeated and insanely took the offer of a last-minute replacement, Alfie, 16hh3in thoroughbred bay gelding, having ridden him just the once. All things considered it could have gone a lot worse, when you think we'd hardly been introduced and his more recent sporting achievements were in the point-to-point track. Suffice to say we completed, not entirely without dignity and with only one minor injury (mine, a broken finger due to steering problems). We have since become firm friends and have been up to all sorts, including a few hunter trials, with one more to go this Sunday.
Which takes me back to the busy weekend ahead. Where on earth will I find the energy, riddled as I am with germs? The answer is: in the thrill and excitement of it all. Once out there the adrenaline will no doubt kick in, assisted by medicinal port, and if nothing else Geisha's early-morning enthusiasm is infectious and...um, invigorating. I must rise from my plague-bed and get going... onwards and upwards!
We have ordered no less than twenty bottles of port, on account of it being a joint meet and because we are still haunted by the memory of The Shortage. Two years ago, our first time as hosts, we seriously underestimated the drinking capacity of the small Wednesday crowd. When the port ran out (which happened all too soon) I panicked and started passing around glasses of raspberry juice, but seasoned drinkers are not easily fooled and the mood was turning ugly. Keen to avoid becoming unpopular or getting lynched in our very first season, Stephen performed a secular version of the miracle at Canaa: he disappeared in a cloud of dust and returned bearing reinforcements. Luckily the meet was conveniently close to a main road with a a shop.
Fast-forward two seasons and we are not taking any chances, especially as this time meet is a few miles off from the middle of chuffing nowhere. As well as the port, fifty pork pies, thirty-six sausage rolls and the same number of cheese and onion rolls arrived on my doorstep tomorrow last night - so as not to pollute my vegetarian fridge with dead piggy, the pies have spent the night in the car, ready for the journey. I have baked a banana loaf and a lemon drizzle. It has been a true test of character, having two perfectly nice cakes in my kitchen and resisting the temptation to do a "quality check".
Back to the opening meet, I was reunited with Geisha, the Very Large Mare from last season. A16hh2in Irish bright bay, aka The Pumpkin, she has spent the summer off games due to something obscure and unknown to veterinary science in her hind legs - which mysterious ailment has now vanished as weirdly as it first appeared. It came, I should add, a few days before what would have been our first one day event. Having looked forward and prepared for it for so long and at considerable expense, I was not to be defeated and insanely took the offer of a last-minute replacement, Alfie, 16hh3in thoroughbred bay gelding, having ridden him just the once. All things considered it could have gone a lot worse, when you think we'd hardly been introduced and his more recent sporting achievements were in the point-to-point track. Suffice to say we completed, not entirely without dignity and with only one minor injury (mine, a broken finger due to steering problems). We have since become firm friends and have been up to all sorts, including a few hunter trials, with one more to go this Sunday.
Which takes me back to the busy weekend ahead. Where on earth will I find the energy, riddled as I am with germs? The answer is: in the thrill and excitement of it all. Once out there the adrenaline will no doubt kick in, assisted by medicinal port, and if nothing else Geisha's early-morning enthusiasm is infectious and...um, invigorating. I must rise from my plague-bed and get going... onwards and upwards!
Thursday, 27 October 2011
Oh deer, oh dear!
The rutting season is upon us, and I don't just mean my brother in law's stag night last week. Of which, least said...
Hacking in Windsor Great Park, usually a gentle and sedate pursuit, is once again fraught with dangers as rival rutting stags are on the prowl. And the little blighters are lurking, everywhere. I'd swear they suss out your planned route and then go and position themselves in the most inconvenient of places. Turning back from the Deer Park (where, funnily enough, we had trotted and cantered happily, unmolested by deer) on to the sand track to head back home, our progress was halted as we came face to pointy muzzle with several honking, hooting antlered heads (sorry, I don't know the technical term for the terrifying noise a rutting stag makes). And their attendant harems of females, of course, who are too inquisitive and get far too close to one for comfort, the little minxes - arousing the suspicions of said stags, who then get upset.
It is not easy. They were parked all over across the track and spread out wide on either side of it, showing no intention to budge. I was keen to avoid a repeat of last autumn's emergency ditch-jumping escape (when the mare and I found ourselves dangerously close to the receiving end of stag rage and were forced to make a swift exit). The mare, you see, is not supposed to jump or gallop, by vet's orders, on account of her advanced years and frail legs, but she is always too keen to find an excuse to do precisely that. So on that occasion she was delighted with her own cleverness, and in fairness she did get us out of it, bless her. But several days of worry, Bute, rest and more worry ensued after the incident, so in spite of the lateness of the hour and the failing daylight, I decided to take the scenic route back home this time.
Tootling gently along a woodland path, pretending I'd intended to come back this way anyway, admiring the copper leaves and feeling quite smug for having circumvented the stags unharmed, I was shaken out of my contented state by another unmistakeable honk. As the path turned, there is was: another one of the little pests, peering menacingly from between the trees. Venison pie, anyone?
There was enough clearance between us this time, and no other deer around, so I instructed the mare not to make eye contact and we walked straight past it, heads held up high - we are not scared, they will not take our way of life! We even made it back to the yard with just enough daylight to untack and groom before it got properly dark. And with four working legs, this time.
Hacking in Windsor Great Park, usually a gentle and sedate pursuit, is once again fraught with dangers as rival rutting stags are on the prowl. And the little blighters are lurking, everywhere. I'd swear they suss out your planned route and then go and position themselves in the most inconvenient of places. Turning back from the Deer Park (where, funnily enough, we had trotted and cantered happily, unmolested by deer) on to the sand track to head back home, our progress was halted as we came face to pointy muzzle with several honking, hooting antlered heads (sorry, I don't know the technical term for the terrifying noise a rutting stag makes). And their attendant harems of females, of course, who are too inquisitive and get far too close to one for comfort, the little minxes - arousing the suspicions of said stags, who then get upset.
It is not easy. They were parked all over across the track and spread out wide on either side of it, showing no intention to budge. I was keen to avoid a repeat of last autumn's emergency ditch-jumping escape (when the mare and I found ourselves dangerously close to the receiving end of stag rage and were forced to make a swift exit). The mare, you see, is not supposed to jump or gallop, by vet's orders, on account of her advanced years and frail legs, but she is always too keen to find an excuse to do precisely that. So on that occasion she was delighted with her own cleverness, and in fairness she did get us out of it, bless her. But several days of worry, Bute, rest and more worry ensued after the incident, so in spite of the lateness of the hour and the failing daylight, I decided to take the scenic route back home this time.
Tootling gently along a woodland path, pretending I'd intended to come back this way anyway, admiring the copper leaves and feeling quite smug for having circumvented the stags unharmed, I was shaken out of my contented state by another unmistakeable honk. As the path turned, there is was: another one of the little pests, peering menacingly from between the trees. Venison pie, anyone?
There was enough clearance between us this time, and no other deer around, so I instructed the mare not to make eye contact and we walked straight past it, heads held up high - we are not scared, they will not take our way of life! We even made it back to the yard with just enough daylight to untack and groom before it got properly dark. And with four working legs, this time.
Friday, 14 October 2011
Horse hair and gin cocktails
Well, I just love the contrasts of my life. One minute I am all hot and bothered at the yard, wielding clippers and covered in horse hair, and the next I am in Sketch sipping tea-based gin cocktails from delicate china cups, courtesy of The Rare Tea Company. From baggy trousers and wellies to nipped-in waist, heels and red lipstick in under two hours. Not bad.
The occasion was the launch of a new collaboration between millinery goddess extraordinaire Katherine Elizabeth and singer Shingai Shoniwa from the Noisettes, a delicious, modern-day Josephine Baker. Headgear was obviously de rigeur (not that I need an excuse), and I wore a hat I'd designed and made myself at one of Katherine Elizabeth's vintage-style millinery & tea parties, part of a friend's hen festivities back in the summer. Said newly married friend came along too, her first unescorted outing as a married lady, which, as I poured champagne down her and kept persuading to stay later and later, made me feel like a thoroughly bad influence. In a good way.
Hats and tea (ok, and cocktails), now that is heaven in a nutshell. My forties-inspired little red felt number, trimmed with black feathers, lace and net and sitting at a jaunty angle over a pin-up-girl curled fringe, turned out to be just perfect for the occasion and drew lots of admiring comments, especially when I explained it was my own creation. I teamed it with a red silk dress with cute black Scottie-dog-and-ball print and pleated collar, seamed stockings, black Louboutins and a (fake, obvs.) fur shrug, toughened up a bit with elbow-length black leather gloves. Annoyingly, I am still sans my smart phone while it is being bureaucratically repaired, and I'm stuck with a clumsy old (dis)courtesy phone that can't take a decent picture - so no photos. Unless someone has taken some and cares to share.
After months of self-imposed seclusion, a kind of social fasting, this was feasting on a spectacular scale and almost too much excitement to bear. We were serenaded by forties-style girl band the Tootsie Rollers, with whom we bonded afterwards over the joys of all things vintage and the morally uplifting qualities of red lipstick, and red more generally. They were in gorgeous, figure-hugging scarlet dresses with cut-out necklines and show-stopping, forties-screen-siren hairstyles.
Another very stylish lady in red was Henrietta Lovell, founder of the Rare Tea Co., who told me all sorts of interesting facts about tea. (Did you know that there is a small tea plantation in Cornwall, anyone?) It is always inspiring to meet someone so passionate and knowledgeable about what they do, and a sustainable business too - so hats off (well, not literally, under the circs.) I will try her wares very soon and may just have to switch my loyalties from my usual tea-merchant, Jing.
In case you were wondering, none of this is product placement. None of the gorgeous people, places and things I name-check in my blog are giving me any freebies in return (although it would be rude to refuse if they did :). When I find something especially beautiful that I get excited about, I love to share it and write about it, and that's that.
Off to see the Degas and the Ballet exhibition at the Royal Academy, followed by a riding competition at Trent Park this evening. Just when girls all over town are changing into their frocks for the evening, I shall be doing the opposite and slipping into buff jodhs, riding boots, shirt and stock and a black jacket. A life of contrasts indeed...
The occasion was the launch of a new collaboration between millinery goddess extraordinaire Katherine Elizabeth and singer Shingai Shoniwa from the Noisettes, a delicious, modern-day Josephine Baker. Headgear was obviously de rigeur (not that I need an excuse), and I wore a hat I'd designed and made myself at one of Katherine Elizabeth's vintage-style millinery & tea parties, part of a friend's hen festivities back in the summer. Said newly married friend came along too, her first unescorted outing as a married lady, which, as I poured champagne down her and kept persuading to stay later and later, made me feel like a thoroughly bad influence. In a good way.
Hats and tea (ok, and cocktails), now that is heaven in a nutshell. My forties-inspired little red felt number, trimmed with black feathers, lace and net and sitting at a jaunty angle over a pin-up-girl curled fringe, turned out to be just perfect for the occasion and drew lots of admiring comments, especially when I explained it was my own creation. I teamed it with a red silk dress with cute black Scottie-dog-and-ball print and pleated collar, seamed stockings, black Louboutins and a (fake, obvs.) fur shrug, toughened up a bit with elbow-length black leather gloves. Annoyingly, I am still sans my smart phone while it is being bureaucratically repaired, and I'm stuck with a clumsy old (dis)courtesy phone that can't take a decent picture - so no photos. Unless someone has taken some and cares to share.
After months of self-imposed seclusion, a kind of social fasting, this was feasting on a spectacular scale and almost too much excitement to bear. We were serenaded by forties-style girl band the Tootsie Rollers, with whom we bonded afterwards over the joys of all things vintage and the morally uplifting qualities of red lipstick, and red more generally. They were in gorgeous, figure-hugging scarlet dresses with cut-out necklines and show-stopping, forties-screen-siren hairstyles.
Another very stylish lady in red was Henrietta Lovell, founder of the Rare Tea Co., who told me all sorts of interesting facts about tea. (Did you know that there is a small tea plantation in Cornwall, anyone?) It is always inspiring to meet someone so passionate and knowledgeable about what they do, and a sustainable business too - so hats off (well, not literally, under the circs.) I will try her wares very soon and may just have to switch my loyalties from my usual tea-merchant, Jing.
In case you were wondering, none of this is product placement. None of the gorgeous people, places and things I name-check in my blog are giving me any freebies in return (although it would be rude to refuse if they did :). When I find something especially beautiful that I get excited about, I love to share it and write about it, and that's that.
Off to see the Degas and the Ballet exhibition at the Royal Academy, followed by a riding competition at Trent Park this evening. Just when girls all over town are changing into their frocks for the evening, I shall be doing the opposite and slipping into buff jodhs, riding boots, shirt and stock and a black jacket. A life of contrasts indeed...
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