Hydeaway Farm
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Blogs for FebruaryMarch 9, 2010: Not Many Stupid Horses There This was the only comment Kevin had on the Lipizzaners when I told him that we were going to see them for my thirteenth birthday treat. It was so typical of Kevin that I very nearly burst out laughing. In a sense, though, he was right. The South African Lipizzaner Centrum is home to many magnificent specimens of this noble breed and there are not many stupid horses there. A little more than a year ago in November 2008 I was first introduced to the dancing sallions that radiate the glory and the sheer wonder of the horse, and at once, I was smitten. A new term entered my vocabulary: almost-unicorn. And certainly as we settled on our seats in the huge indoor arena, lit by spacious windows open to the sun and the two chandeliers floating at the ceiling, the magic was strong in the air. Anticipation tingled in the atmosphere as lilting music like a stream filled our ears with gentle wonder. The loudspeakers were switched on; someone coughed a little, somewhere else someone was getting their toddler to sit still. Then finally the loudspeaker found its voice and introduced the stallion who was to take the tribute; a retired twenty-five-year-old, Favory Merlin, who had led the Quadrille for us last time, a horse I am unlikely to forget. Silence fell as the doors opened silently. Sunlight poured into the arena, silhouetting for a moment the graceful curving outline of a riderless horse and his respectful escort. Then the doors shut and plain for all to see the noble beast made his silent way up the arena. He took his time. For twenty-two years Merlin had seen the inside of this arena every Sunday and more, and he accepted this strange performance as he always accepted them. Was it strange for the aged horse to come walking into the arena without the weight of a rider on his back and the pressure of a bit in his mouth? It was hard to tell. But he accepted it, and came slowly up to us, at a lilting, regal, gentle pace, setting his polished hooves one in front of the other; he wore a golden blanket on his back and a golden headcollar; his mane was like faerie mist that floated rather than hung down his neck and his white forelock brushed his muzzle and hid his dark eyes. His coat was satin and white as innocence. He radiated nobility; the powerful essence of endless equine glory seemed to roll off him in waves. Mom began to sniffle at this point, but even that sound was lost in the silence broken only by the soft hiss of Merlin's hooves on the sand. He came to a halt directly in front of us. I noticed that he arched his neck and tucked in his head as if he was being ridden and collected by expert hands, and he stood perfectly square, though the chain of his headcollar was loose and limp. Then the silence was broken as the loudspeaker spoke again, adding weight to the beauty with words so powerful they hurt to be heard. Where, in this wide world, Here, where grace is laced with muscle, There is nothing so powerful, Our past has been borne on his back, The Horse. Mom began to sob and Rain hissed at her to shush, and Merlin nodded his graceful head sagely, looking every part the tribute as he stood there; so gentle, yet laced with power, even though he had a sway back with age, and rippling with muscle in every movement. There was a moment of that weighty silence and then Merlin, regal, powerful, perfect, left the arena with tremendous dignity, taking almost all of his radiance with him. It was not long before the double doors opened again and six young colts came in, full of sinewy grace, like quicksilver and ivory as they broke up into two groups of three and began the dance. Only one colt, Arva I, was bay with a white star, the colour of bronze; unique, and very beautiful. Now truly the dance of the Lipizzaners began. They floated across the arena, carving their choreography with hoofprints in the sand; obedient to the hands and the heels of their riders, yet still young colts with fiesty natures as they threw happy little half-bucks and their eyes shone with youthful, mischievous innocence. The applause was stupendous when they all stopped in harmony and their riders saluted, the colts chewing at their bits and looking at us half-shy half-naughty from under their forelocks. The Pas de Deux came next, two silver colts sailing across the arena in perfect mirror images, as if there was only one colt dancing with his reflection. I sometimes wondered if there was a telepathy between them as they danced as one; or if, in that subtle language of horses, they were signalling to one another - or if they were simply listening to the music. Indeed they seemed very nearly part of the melody to which they danced, so graceful were they. True to the Lipizzaner, they did not canter - they floated, as if setting their hooves to the ground was a formality instead of a necessity. And now we were treated to a display of such spirit, such pure wonder so typical to the horse - true to the Tribute - that I doubt I will forget it very soon. Two colts of about three years old were led into the arena. Their eyes shone, but they did not tug at their lead reins. They were followed by a sleekly dressed array of riders who lined up ready for lunging. The colts were brought up the side wall and at a nod, both were released. The handlers turned to the running colts, and, here where grace is laced with muscle, the colts cantered up to their handlers, playfully tossing their heads, but here where strength is by gentleness confined they stopped directly in front of their handlers, blowing a little, and walked meekly out of the ring with their handlers. Now followed a display of strength, beauty, and power seldom seen in this world. It was time for the Airs Above the Ground. I was biting my nails. Mom had stopped sniffling. There should have been a fanfare as for a gathering of kings, but the only fanfare was the musical hiss of hoofbeats in the sand. Many stallions - six or eight, I'm not sure how many - came striding into the ring, bearing themselves like princes; all the colour of clouds on a beautiful day, white as innocence, white as the spirit of winter, yet all with dark unfathomable eyes, unknowably deep, yet strangely bright. They spread out, some with two handlers, some with only one; attentive to their every movement, full of grace even as they walked. And now one of the kings broke away from the others and began to piaffe, a trot so well collected that he did not move forward at all; instead, he remained in one place, raising his hooves and setting them down again in the prints that they left, controlled, yet full of energy as he leapt from hoof to hoof. There was a crescendo of applause. With a royal horse-smile the stallion settled into a walk again. Now, the levade. Erdem they called him, a short white stallion with black eyes and great beauty. The handler signalled to him. The world held its breath. Erdem tensed his smooth muscles and rose ever so slightly on his hindlegs, bending them so far back that his hocks nearly touched the ground; his tail spilled to the floor in a glossy cascade, and, still as if he were carved of living marble, he folded his forelegs to his chest and bowed his noble head as if he were praying. Seconds ticked by, and still Erdem did not move. He held himself there with an effortless grace that made him look as light as air but powerful as a storm wind; it was a sight of unimaginable beauty. Then, just as the world seemed to crackle with the electricity of magic, Erdem lowered himself to the ground and seemed to smile as a huge applause rose in his honour. The pesade was next, a favourite of mine. The huge stallion nearly pranced in anticipation. His handler gave one of their completely invisible aids, and the horse rose up, higher and higher on his hindlegs, until I thought he would tip over; and just there he folded his forelegs in that prayer-like position, arching his neck nearly to his chest - his handler had to stretch up to keep hold of his lead rein. And there he balanced, impossibly, a tower of muscle, his white mane sweeping down to his shoulder, the air filling with a barely controlled power. If a wild unicorn was to get it into his head to rear up, this was what he would look like. Ah! Why do men wish to see a unicorn and never look to the Lipizzaners? for the best thing about the Lipizzaners is that not only are they very nearly unicorns, they are horses through and through, and horses are just as great. And now - the greatest dance of all, my favourite of all. The courbette. Performed by Favory Modena, among the most beautiful horses I have ever met. This magnificent creature who cascaded into my heart and made himself a snug place in my imagination; months after I first saw him would he appear in a novel of mine, the king of all the unicorns, the first unicorn ever created. I wondered how much memory and fancy had glorified him, but when he came piaffing in, I knew that my memory stayed true. He lacked the horn of course, and he lacked the deep, tolling, rumbling speech he used in Ladiewolfe; instead he spoke with silence, as horses do. But Favory Modena was every inch what I expected. Better than that, Modena was more. Not only did he shine like a unicorn; he was a horse, through and through, nothing more, nothing less. Now, his handler spoke to him. He reared, with terrifying suddennes, a great surge of power. Then he sprang, impossibly high into the air, landing as lightly as a dream on his hind hooves, settling briefly to his four feet before rearing and springing again. Such power! Such beauty! Yet with such gentleness he moved, so careful not to knock his handler about, so careful not to set one of his great hooves on her polished boots; so easily, he could harm a human, a mere snap of his jaws or flex of his shoulder could break a bone, but never, never would he harm someone. This is why the horse is a grazer. He eats that which does not feel, but he has the courage of a hunter. There are little things so beautiful as Modena courbetting. I am blessed that my best friend Skye, doing absolutely anything at all, is one of these things. Dear horse! I think there might be a small explosion if Skye and Modena ever touch noses. I was just thinking this when the capriole happened. The Lipizzaner Centrum have two different caprioleurs and though both are stunning horses I must say Favory Presciana was my favourite. He came dancing into the ring, huge, white, his mane a blizzard on his neck. His handler controlled him and held him to an excited piaffe but Presciana was raring to go. Once or twice he gave a little mini-capriole, even that small bouncing movement filled with strength, grace, and beauty. His handler must have signalled to him; I saw nothing. With a massive, frightening bound of solid strength, Presciana rose on his hindlegs, propelled himself off the ground - did he hang there for a moment, as if suspended in time, like a jewel hanging in the air? - and lashed out with fierce power, both hindlegs flying out at the same time, his shoes flashing like the blades of swords. He landed with an airy grace, and did it again, an awesome beast, respect for whom filled the air. Sharply I was reminded that tame or no a horse is a horse. He is so many-sided; he is the gentlest of creatures, yet such power, such fierce courage! This is why horses could go to war; they are gentle, but lion-hearted. If need be they can cast away their gentleness and surge forward to defend the ones they love. A stallion will fight to the death for the safety of his herd. Likewise, a warhorse will fight till his legs give up for the life of the man on his back. He does not understand the folly of war; but he understands that he must defend the soldier he loves. Here is one beast who can control power and strength and rage. But for now, the sheer power of Presciana was only being used for the sheer joy of his strength and, perhaps, for whatever was in the hand of his handler that he took so eagerly. Piaffing slowly, the stallions left us. But not for long. Soon Neapolitino Romida came thundering back into the ring, dancing as if the melody was flowing out of him, his dark eyes shining, throwing little not-quite-bucks off joie de vivre as he danced. His rider was part of them; they were one. I am sure that if you listened their hearts would have beat in harmony. He knew the work; she reminded him, she helped him to dance, he carried her with his power. I could not put a name to all of those graceful steps he danced through, and he danced them without flaw. When Romida left, we nearly brought the roof down applauding. It was nothing to the applause a few minutes later, though, when the true Dance of the White Stallions came. There were six. Or eight, I'm not quite certain. At any rate, they floated in together, not even a touch of sweat on their coats despite the fact that many of them had performed in the Airs. I looked at the leading horse and nearly gasped as the dark, unknowable, smiling eyes of Modena looked back. Was he smiling? It's hard to tell with horses. He had a regal, commanding air, yet ever listening, as if he was in tune with all the other horses. Indeed they all had this air. It was a gathering of kings. Oh, how they danced. They danced like dreams personified. They danced like melodies with muscles. Each horse was a symphony of grace and beauty. Theirs was a silent music. Combined with the exquisite music rippling from the speakers, their art struck deep, deep as a shaft of sunlight that can slice through shadow. I wish I knew all their names for if I did I would tell you. Modena was there; I think Romida was there too. Maybe the shortest of the stallions could have been Erdem. I am not sure if the vivacious one was Presciana. The Quadrille, the dance of kings, did not belong in this world that mankind has built. It was hard to believe that smog and skyscrapers existed in the same universe as the dancers of the Quadrille. They belonged to the old Earth, the faery-earth, that only a few can see. Eden must have had horses a little like these. They floated together with the rhythmic paces of Lipizzaners, perfectly straight when they had to be straight, gracefully curved when they had to be curved; dancing to an age-old music, dancing to the spirit of the horse. When they left, we shook the foundations with clapping. The magic moment died as the announcer concluded the performance. I got up, stiff suddenly, my hands red and sore with all the clapping, my heart singing. "Hurry up, Dad," I half shouted. "We're going to see the Lipizzaners!" I love watching the colts run, and the Airs, and the wonderful Quadrille; but my favourite part of going to the Lipizzaners is the part at the end where you get to thank them and feed them carrots. I dumped my money and got a truckload of carrots. They whickered expectantly, their eyes bright. "Thanks," I told a horse whose name I did not know as he took my carrot. Then I scrambled off until I found Modena; he was white and except for the two Arvas they were all white, but he was somehow different, and I only used his nameplate for confirmation. I think Modena ate enough carrots to feed a small village. I kept some for the other horses and stroked a neck like apple blossom that soothed my hands. Now, more than ever, I realised that though Modena danced like a unicorn he was delightfully, amazingly, wonderfully horsy. He had a whiskery muzzle and his breath smelt like carrots and grass, and he really liked carrots and having his poll scratched. Best of all he smelt like a horse, that sweet, enchanting, earthy smell, instantly marking him as a horse. And he was a King among horses; his neck pulsed with muscle, his coat was too white to describe. There were other stallions too, though. The older Arva, who had white marks around the eyes and had taken the tribute last time, was rather greedy and got two carrots as a result. I squealed in delight as a recognised a stallion whose name I did not then know; a favourite of mine, with the gentlest eyes, and a lovely nature; he asked so nicely to have his carrot, and he got three. The first time I met him he took a carrot from my hand and pressed his forehead to mine and gave me a little of his strength. I had not known his name, so I called him Silvermane because his mane was like polished mercury and he reminded me of someone I know (and nobody else knows) who goes by the same name. Now I learnt his real name. Conversano Undine, if my memory does not fail me. Then we fed the other Arva, the youngest one, who had a star and snuffled at us. We had a carrot for Erdem, the little levadeur, and one for Presciana, the boisterous caprioleur. Montenegra was hasty and got told off and then given another carrot anyways. "Firn," bawled Mom at one point, "I can't find my cry-horse!" I knew at once whom she meant and dragged her off to see Merlin, who stood in his stable, shining like a gem, with his long forelock hanging all the way down to his muzzle. Mom made us buy more carrots for him. He was very pleased with that. When we turned away we heard a rattling and when I looked back, Merlin had given me a completely new outlook on him. He had pulled the pin out of his stable door and as I watched he was sliding back the bolt with his lips. He nudged the door, but he was disappointed this time; there was a screw on his door that stopped him from getting out. I laughed and gave him another carrot. Evidently, he had not learnt nothing from more than twenty years' worth of mornings spent in his stable. Dear Merlin. He showed me how noble he was; how graceful - a year ago when he led the Quadrille for us - and, ultimately, how spirited and smart. Thank you, Merlin, for the thousands of performances you gave. Thank you for your beauty. Thank you for your son Antonija, soon to begin his training. Teach him well, old horse. Most of all, thank you Modena, for the inspiration you gave me, and the enjoyment of watching you. Thank you, Lipizzaners! See you soon! See you soon!
Modena The older bay, Conversano Arva
Everyone fussing over Merlin. Look at the date on his nameplate. February 26, 2010: A Day Filled with Horses It started with a riding lesson at half past seven. Kevin said he wanted Miss A and Achilles today so I dragged Arwen out of her camp and stuck her in the ring while I haltered Skye and brought her out. I can't brush Miss A and the stallion together so I figured I might as well give Skye her daily grooming seeing as Kevin had to look at her leg. He arrived and looked at her leg and said it was slightly infected. We gave her 20cc of penicillin and 12cc of an anti-inflammatory; I expected her to make a fuss (I know I would) but she just stood still and let him get on with it. Now my poor dear mare has to rest and have two more anti-inflammatory injections and not be ridden at all. 2010 doesn't seem to be an excellent year for riding with an extra AHS innoculation, a lame horse and maternity leave in September and October. Sigh. I pestered Kevin all through the lesson about that little infected cut until eventually he sighed and said, "Stop worrying so much, Firn. It's seriously not serious." On a happier note Miss A was really good. She wasn't as fresh as I expected her to be and she is getting much better with the aids, though she did her Levade performance once or twice before we left. We are now permitted to have a bit of trotting and cantering here and there but Achy hated the canter and went swerving all over the place until Kevin hit him with the reins and got him in line. Miss A's pace is also improving because she tends to break into a gallop from a trot, and I kept her to a good steady canter. Poor Skye neighed and neighed and wondered why in the world she wasn't doing any work (she hates being idle). When the lesson was done I shot off to next door, Max and Tarka's home. Illa - about thirteen, horse loving, quick to smile - had invited me to come riding there. First we had a look at the three little ponies (all of them under 11hh I guess), De la Rey, Arabella, and Yearling Without A Name. De la Rey is small and chirpy and Shetland-type stallion, bay with feathered hooves, a long mane and a forelock so thick that he can hardly see through it. Arabella is a small and gentle and Welsh-type mare, dark bay with a dish face, tiny feet and a mild and gentle temperament. The yearling is bigger than her mum Arabella and chestnut; kind of like a really tiny Anglo Arab, with a blaze and bouncy paces and a very nervous personality. She's quick to spook and hid behind Arabella most of the time. Arabella is hugely pregnant and looks about to pop. Illa and I went off to catch Max and Tarka, accompanied by Jack the jack russel. Huh. It was a good attempt but the moment nutty Mau Mau saw us, he shrieked and shot off, despite the fact that he is usually the easiest horse to catch. Max went lolloping after him and Tarka stood and stared at us for a long time trying to make up his mind before he tossed up his head and galloped after his friends, silver mane fire-like on his neck. We had to walk all the way home because there was no way we could catch the greys with them thundering around in that humungous paddock. Nonetheless it was fun to look at the ponies and see what a really pregnant mare looks like, even such a tiny one. Hardly had I left Illa's when we went rushing off to town for Kevin to collect so that I could go and be an apprentice farrier, teacher, and trainer. The lessons were at Cheryl Burgess's place, a big green farm in the hills with loose boxes and glossy horses in the lush fields. The school horses, Pumpkin, Firefly, and Tiger Lily were grazing happily in the arena when we arrived. Pumpkin was the oldest and most experienced so we shut Firefly and Tiger Lily in the little ring and saddled her up. She is a big thoroughbred type, with a sleek liver chestnut coat, socks, and a kind temperament. Our first lesson was with Gabriella (Gabby for short) - who is four and looks to be Kevin's favourite pupil. Pumpkin was really sweet with Gabby, who kept on squeaking "Can we do that bouncy-bouncy thing again?" and most of the time Kevin would oblige her and get Pumpkin to trot. Lesson Number Two was with John, an Englishman with a broad British accent that made Kevin keep on asking "Pardon?" or "What?" Pumpkin woke up a little and looked pleased to be trotting and cantering. Meanwhile I put Firefly away and started brushing beautiful Tiger Lily, my favourite of Cheryl's horses; a dainty thoroughbred with Appaloosa blood somewhere in her veins, a yellow-brown bay with fluffy mane, a white stripe, big deep eyes and a wonderful canter. She was much better than the last time I rode her when I took her out for a short while; last time she had stuck her nose in the air and needed a standing martingale, and this time I rode her with no martingale at all and she was simply miles better. Well done Kevin. We trotted in with me grinning all over my face because I love riding Tiger Lily. When I had brushed her and left her grazing in the ring Kevin was giving Cheryl's daughter Brenda a lesson on Pumpkin while John bellowed encouragement, not that any of us understood a word. Brenda sticks her heels in the air a lot, rather like I used to and still do every now and then. Kevin put me on Pumpkin then and I turned red when I realised that he was making me show Brenda how to ride with your heels down, which I concentrate very hard on doing. That was the easy bit. The hard bit was when Pumpkin was happily trotting around the arena with me sitting, and Kevin shouted, "Okay, put your heels up now," and I nearly fell off because the moment I put up my heels I lost my balance and grabbed Pumpkin's sides with my legs, causing me to bounce and lose even more balance. "Can I put my heels down now?" I yelped, clutching at Pumpkin's mane. "Point made," said Kevin. "Yeah, yulles can put your heels down now." Then he asked me to canter and I kicked Pumpkin and she decided to gallop. It took a few seconds to get her back under control, bring her to a trot for the turn, and the second time I managed to canter her properly. Meanwhile Kevin and Brenda were arguing nose to nose, or nose to chest, as it were. "I do ride with my heels all the way down!" argued Brenda. "Just like her!" She gestured at me, now bringing Pumpkin to a walk. "No yulles don't," said Kevin, calmly. "Here, bring Pumpkin. Get on, Brenda. See, yulles rides like this." "That bad?" "Yes." "But my legs are short and I - " Kevin waved the lunge whip at Pumpkin, effectively ending the conversation. Our fourth and last lesson was with a quiet little girl called April who was a beginner but learning fast. I had to finish the last five minutes of the lessons with Brenda and April and finally I sort of got the hang of it. Afterwards Kevin and Cheryl sorted out financials, which was boring up until Kevin said - "Oh, we haven't done April yet." "APRIL?" squawked Cheryl. "But it's only February!" "Cheryl - " "We're not IN April yet!" "No," grinned Kevin, "it's the girl's name." Cheryl looked relieved. "I thought you were going mad." "Going mad?" I murmured. Then we had seven sets of hooves to trim on another farm. Four of the horses were grazing in a grassy paddock with apple trees, looking picturesque in the afternoon light. We spent a hair-raising few seconds chasing them into a small pen to catch them in, and one huge bay nearly ran over me, but I waved my arms and shouted and she ran off in the right direction again. The first horse was Chocolate, a chestnut American Saddler with boxy feet who kicked a lot when Kevin trimmed her rear hooves. Cherry, a bay Saddler with a stripe and a star, was better and Kevin showed me all the good things about her nice hooves. A beautiful bay gelding plunged around all over the pen while I clutched his head and tried to keep him under control despite his skittering around and neighing to the old bay, whose name was Lady and who was a hooligan. She had a dear tiny little foal who hid behind her and peeked out at me every now and then. When those four had been done we spent a while running around in a paddock like headless chickens and shouting at Blondie, a fiesty chestnut Saddler who ran and ran and wouldn't stop in sharp contrast to moody bay Delport and a kind but lazy thoroughbred gelding with a big head. We left Blondie in the pen and did the lazy gelding first. Nobody knew his name but he soon got one when Kevin picked up a hoof and said, "Holy moly he's got bad feet." They were overgrown and looked as if they had been badly shod at one stage, but Bad Feet stood very still even with all the poking and prodding. Kevin taught me how to trim one of his better front hooves, and I tried but it's much harder than it looks, especially with having to pinch the foot between your knees and rasp it and keep the trimming pliers straight. Delport was completely uneventful and just stood there looking extremely bored. Blondie was actually very good and stood dead still, except that Kevin didn't do her hind hooves because she kicked very badly and they were quite worn down anyway, what with all her galloping around like a mad thing. Kevin looked at a tiny bay filly's hooves but they were short, so he took me to go and look at some more horses belonging to the same person; a chestnut-ish cob, a black mare with a star, two chestnut younglings and three pintos, all very sweet but only the black mare came to be patted. When I got home I was ready to collapse. It had been a very long day. A good day too, but disappointing in that my poor Skye needs all those injections and can't be ridden. Oh well. There will be other days when my best friend and I can go exploring again... Meanwhile Miss A is going to have a lot of work to do! February 25, 2010: Happy Birthday to Me! Wow, I'm a teenager. The legendary temper tantrum zone. Haven't felt an inclination to scream at my mother, watch TV, catch anorexia or slam a door yet (probably because I haven't got a door in my room) and I've been thirteen for a whole twenty-seven hours and forty-two minutes. Well, birthday celebrations started on February 20, somewhere round there anyway, when we went to the tack shop Horse Masters for Mom and Dad's birthday present. Unfortunately it couldn't be a surprise because it was a riding hat and they couldn't exactly just borrow my head for a day. I have a mind block against spending. I went into the shop with two little mental lists: THINGS I CANNOT DO WITHOUT: Equiline Fly-Repel A new bodybrush for Skye THINGS I WOULD LIKE: A mane comb for Arwen A bigger headcollar for Achilles Training the Young Showjumper A new horse t-shirt to wear to the workshop So I left the shop with a bottle of Equiline Fly-Repel and a bodybrush for Skye, even though all the things in the second list were there and only the book was unreasonably priced. Sigh. Some people (i. e., me) are so infuriating. So Mom and Dad bought me a stunning riding hat entitled the Capriole Classic. This is a photo of me and my new hat sitting on Skye only Mom zoomed in too much so Skye isn't in the photo.
The Capriole Classic Then on my actual birthday, February 24, Dad took me to the MML workshop presented by successful author Rachelle Greeff. It was completely and utterly terrifying because I was the one and only child present and Rachelle said I was the only "pupil" she'd ever presented a worshop to, so it was TERRIFYING terrifying. However, Rachelle also said she was ecstatic because the workshop was exclusively for youth novels and here is the youth. A small, frightened, squeaky part of the youth, but still, the youth. So I was asked a billion questions about interests and fears and what I liked to read (and also the dreaded school question but thankfully not the hair question). Apart from being terrifying the workshop was very interesting, informative, pleasant and well-organised. I learnt heaps and wrote it all down so thankfully I won't forget. We talked a lot about titles, because a title is extremely important, and Rachelle quite liked the title of The Morning Star Mare. Speaking of which, it's going really well with Star Mare; it'll definitely make 25 000, having already reached 18 000 and beyond. Thank heaven, the hero (Conlan) is doing his job and merrily whirling the story around him and the other main character (Dannica). The actual morning star mare disappeared in Chapter 2 but luckily she's sitting in the backstage, eating whatever it is that equine stars eat, chatting to the blacksmith (just exited from Chapter 5 after shoeing Conlan's horse, Barak) and waiting to come sallying back in somewhere near the end. There aren't too many characters, so I don't have to run around after them too much and thankfully the four main ones are sticking together quite well. Writing a story is like being a director of a big play, where you are responsible for the costumes, makeup, scenery, and actors; the costumes are impossible, the makeup is a mystery, the scenery keeps jamming, the actors are stubborn and you are the only person without a script. Despite all these troubles the costumes, though impossible, are beautiful; the makeup is very effective, the scenery is stunning and the actors are the nicest, bravest, most genuine people you could wish to have in your company, even if they do disappear without a trace for a few minutes every now and then and everyone runs around screaming and worrying about them until someone discovers them having a kip in the backstage. I tend to fret about that strange and fussy and fragile beast, The Reader, too much, but thankfully Conlan is one of the nicest characters I've ever had and keeps defending me from it. Thank you Conlan. OK, anyone who still retains the foggiest idea that I am sane, you must be one of the most insane persons in the world. So here I sit in joy, awaiting the last two birthday celebrations; Rain's cake (yum) and the LIPIZZANERS!!!! (Sorry. Four exclamation marks again and full caps). There is a new and beautiful notebook, wonderfully made with a prancing silvern unicorn and a fey princess on the front, from Rain lying on my bed; Hope the greyhound is walking around in my room with a brand new collar from Dad on her neck. In fact the silver unicorn on the front of the notebook have given me another of my famous Ideas, together with a photograph I came across on the Lipizzaners' website. In '08 we went to see the Lipizzaners for the first time. I fell in love with Favory Modena, a fourteen-year-old creature so perfect as to be almost like Skye, almost a unicorn. Yesterday I was idly looking at foal photos on www.lipizzaners.co.za and found a picture of a beautiful colt the colour of quicksilver - Modena's son, Favory Erdem I after the first Lipizzaner to come to SA. Favory Modena inspired a unicorn character, Modena, to appear in my novella The Black Unicorn (the title is about to change, I don't know what to) and Ladiewolfe. He was described as the king of unicorns, the first unicorn that God made and set down in Eden, the beast that Adam named first. Then I came across the photo of Erdem and got to wondering: what is it like to be the son of the unicorn king? Here comes another novel.
On a sadder note Skye has cut herself on the left hind pastern. It's not a big cut or a deep one but when I discovered it I felt awful because it had a bit of pus-like stuff in it. She isn't lame nor does she show any pain when the hoof is handled; it's not causing her any discomfort as far as I can see, but I'm terrified of infection and this morning I wasn't quite sure if it was swollen or not, so I covered it in an antibiotic aerosol and am watching her like a hawk. She seems amused with the entire extravaganza; I'm putting so much spray on that she hardly notices when I start blasting that tiny little wound with Purple Muti, as it is known in our house. Tomorrow Kevin is coming for a lesson so I'm going to drag him off to inspect my poor fussed-over horse. He is probably going to say what he always says when I make him look at minor little things, which is, "What cut? Oh, that tiny little thing?" A long pause while he looks at me and tries not to laugh. "Stop worrying so much." Last of all I would like to share with you Mom's birthday present; a simple fridge magnet, but with a beautiful painting and a powerful meaning. It reads an Arabian proverb so true that it speaks to your soul. Horse, you are truly a creature without equal, for you fly without wings and conquer without sword. February 19, 2010: Walking... That is what we spent the riding lesson doing. Walking. No trotting or cantering or galloping or jumping allowed, because of the innoculation. So we just walked. Kevin sat and complained about prancing on Achilles. I sat and complained about walking on Skye. At one point everyone brightened up because we could amuse ourselves with watching our nutty blesbuck, Livingstone, running around and snorting. He/she is called Livingstone because it is as yet unknown whether he/she will turn out to be Mary Livingstone or David Livingstone, so for now he/she stays Livingstone. When I told Kevin that, he said, "Well, why didn't yulles just call him Columbus?" Then Livingstone (no initial) wandered off into the grass and we went back to walking. Oh well, just one more week of boredom and then we can have a little cantering in between our walking for a fortnight. Then two more weeks of plodding, and finally freedom. I'm counting the days. Still five more to go until my birthday, another eight until riding can commence, and soon after - we're going to see the Lipizzaners!!!! (Okay, please ignore the grammatical error of four exclamation marks in a row, but that is how I feel about going to see the Lipizzaners). And when we have injected the horses and they're unrideable there is a possible horse camp, seven days spent gambolling around the hills on the backs of someone else's horse. I'm still undecided as to whether I'll go or not. I know I will miss the Hydeaway lot like crazy, especially my special friends, Miss A, Siobhan, and Skye. (Note the absence of parents. Actually, I will miss them a lot too, but at least they can communicate over cellphones. Horses speak with more than sound; their language is too subtle for mankind to fully understand). This week I think I will start riding a little again. You are actually allowed to ride them just after they've had their jabs; so long as you stick to walking with perhaps a tiny bit of trotting in between, but I am so paranoid I don't like riding much during the first fortnight. However I am dying of Minimal Riding Disease and doubt I will survive for another week. The result is that I have gone dragonish. I hole up in my room and blow fire at anyone who dares to come in, curled jealously over my hoard of words. There is extremely exciting news from my writing! A week or so ago, I applied for a Maskew Miller Longman Publishers writer's workshop in a few days' time. I had to send in a curriculum vitae and a motivation letter and I didn't much fancy my chances for getting in, because there can only be 25 people in a workshop and they obviously pick them from the CVs. Well, even though I did have to put in my age and that the workshop is not actually aimed at children, I got in! I'm so excited! And terrified because it's a Wednesday so everyone is going to be looking down their noses at me and asking the top worst question* in the world: "What school are you in?" Ag well I really hope that I learn a lot from it, which I'm pretty sure I will; perhaps if I get in the workshop Star Mare will have a better chance. I gotta run now because they want a recent story of mine for the workshop so I'm pretty paranoid and am writing a whole new one. Presently it is entitled Believe Me and it seems to be about a unicorn. This is subject to change. Stories do not often do as they're told; if you try to boss them around they a) ignore you or b) desert you, slam the door in your face, sulk for three months and hit you over the head with a serious attack of writer's block. Sigh. *There are two worst questions in the world. The worst is "What school are you in?" Coming in a close second is, "How long is your hair when it's loose?" Invariably, everyone I meet ask me both in rapid succession. February 18, 2010: Photos
Skye, three months pregnant on the left, compared to two months on the right. (I'm trying to keep a photographic record of her pregnancy; though I know that in the first two thirds of equine pregnancy you don't see it.)
The closest of friends. Skye and I
A precious moment. Achilles and I
Little Miss A with Siobhan grazing
Siobhan with Miss A grazing
The ponies together; Miss A on the left and Siobhan on the right February 17, 2010: My Filly Who Rears Okay, first of all, I beg your pardon for neglecting my poor little blog. Actually it was the technology that backfired, but still, apologies. A quick summary of the past seventeen days is all I have time for because it's 8:15p.m. and Mom will skin me alive if I'm not in bed by half past. With writing, there is good news and bad news and sort of in-between news. The good news is that Nag van die Weerwolf won the Holderstebolder competition. I only found out much later but still, it did win regardless of whether the writer was aware of it. I'm quite bemused; I keep winning the Afrikaans ones and I do hopelessly in the English ones, and yet I like writing in English more. Weird. Well, at least in Book Arts Bash I didn't do too badly with Ulrica; it was not one of five finalists in my grade but it did fetch a Special Mention, which had me rather chuffed because a sixth-grade and published historical novel also managed a Special Mention so there is still hope. My ego hit bottom a few days earlier, though - time for the bad news. Tafelberg Publishers spat out The Reign. The first time I did business with them, with my very hopeless first novel Pinto, they sent me a lovely letter and a very thorough, very good critique, but this time they were nasty. All they said was that Because Of The Recession they found they were very choosy and Cannot Offer Publication At This Stage. What made me angry was that the manuscript was evidently not read, and it took them from July 2009 to February 2010, during which we were in contact with the editors, to tell us that they didn't want my book. So it's time for the middle news, which is that Ladiewolfe is finished. Aargh! I feel like screaming. 70 000 words in four months seems quite overboard but oh well, Ladiewolfe was different. Now I'm pining for my four heroes, who still follow me around faithfully, completely invisible to anyone else, but have no sequel to offer. I know this sounds crazy but the heroes and me are pretty good friends what with all the adventures we had together (good heavens, that does sound crazy). Work is not finished with it yet, I still have a load of editing to do and all the illustrating, which is why I've started art classes again. Plus I have two deadlines to write for. I had better pull a Ladiewolfe again because I need 25 000 words to be written before 30 April 2010, and though I've done about 9 000 already, it's still rather hectic. The novella I'm writing is called The Morning Star Mare and it is written for Maskew Miller Longman's Youth Novel Awards. I doubt Star Mare will get anywhere because the MML is open to experienced and published writers, but we'll have a go. The other deadline is for another novella competition, also for 25 000 words to 45 000 words, hosted by LAPA publishers. It's Afrikaans, though, and I haven't started work on a novella yet; luckily the deadline is in late September (a day before Skye's due date in fact). I do have one short story that developed into a novella that, once finished, might just make it but I'm as yet unsure if Die Bont Polisieperd (The Piebald Police-Horse) will make it. Now for horses. We did take the plunge and give the four of them their AHS injections, so now two weeks of utter boredom commence. Well, it's not that bad because I'm grooming the lot of them every single day until they shimmer like glass, which doesn't take very long because they shimmer like glass anyway. They're flourishing with all the attention, especially Miss A, who didn't have so much attention and is a real people person. Skye is destined for a bath because she has not been bathed in six years and though it's not advisable to bath a horse who lives out, one little wash isn't going to hurt her, especially now in summer when it's nice and warm. It's going to be interesting because Skye really hates water. I also helped out at a wedding where some horses were involved; I do horses, it's the natural order of things. The horses in question were a huge, steady, dependable, seventeen-hand fleabitten Percheron gelding named Max, and a little, zippy, boisterous, fourteen-hand dappled Nooitgedacht/Boerperd gelding named Tarka. They were rather mismatched, but well-mannered. I adore Max because I adore drafts and he is a true draft; immense, slow-moving, and steady, more like a small glacier than a horse.
This is me holding Max, the glacier-like one, and Rain holding Tarka, the dappled one. We did our best with bodybrushes but they're rather dirty; they both had a roll.
Here comes the bride! Exciting! Can you believe the size of this horse? I've also been working with Siobhanny a lot because she has horrible manners and at present she's getting dangerous. She's not vicious, but she has never learnt that humans won't stand rough handling, so she likes to nibble things, she likes to kick when she doesn't get her way and when she is excited she always rears. She has hit me once with a forefoot, resulting in a humungous bruise. I am really displeased, but I'm working hard with her using a lunge whip and rein, which Kevin advised me to do; they enable me to control the filly and bring her down from a rear without having a few forefeet waving around my ears. Since we have only foaly photos of Siobhan, I had a photo session with all the horses. Photos coming soon! But now I am ready to collapse because we're on an AI course and I spent half the morning with one arm up a cow's back end looking for a cervix and getting squished every single time she gets annoyed and tightens her pelvis. So that is that for tonight. Wake me next week. February 1, 2010: Hooray for Miss A Yes, I really do mean it. Despite the fact that last time I rode Miss A (on Thursday) I kept growling you stupid stupid horse under my breath (I've been spending too much time listening to Kevin), today I just about want to jump up and down and cheer. I took her out again today, the third time she's ever been out alone, and she was miles better. The first time I took her out, we went on a steady little route sticking close to home and going through a big paddock where the horses used to live, so she knows it well. I nursed and babied her all through it and she did pretty well. The second time I stopped nursing her and took her out the way we normally go, i. e. the way she hates to go. Miss A has this habit of, when she doesn't want to do something, she rears. Kevin told me to smack her near the poll when she does that so I did, very lightly because I hate doing stuff like that. Miss A foiled that one by putting down her head and kicking up her heels. So I tried a new strategy: don't let her do the Levade performance at all. That didn't work well either but now she has developed a new move; she rears up and then spins around. The first time she did it she nearly unseated me but by now I'm used to it. So today I took her out again, the route she hates, and she was amazing. She did the Levade thing once or twice and I had to really fight her a few times to get her to go in the right direction, but my perseverance and several mild curses paid off and we made it home with me grinning all over my face and Miss A looking happier with someone in her saddle than I ever saw her. I took her through the little forest of bluegums that I call the Shuddering Woods, which is usually where she has her nightmares because every single rustle in the bush is an enormous horse-eating monster that is going to tear us all to pieces, but today she was excellent. Even when a spotted eagle owl glided soundlessly out of the forest in front of us she didn't have a qualm. I stopped her to watch the owl, though. He swept, silent as his wingshadow, up to the branch of a dead tree, folded his speckled pinions and turned to regard me with big, deep, solemn eyes. "Good day," I said aloud. (I talk to animals. Even wild ones.) "It's turned out fine again, sir." The eagle owl seemed to be weighing me up. The thinking behind those eyes did not run along the lines of food/threat/thing. Wheels were turning in there somewhere. It was the look of a bird or a beast when you bother to stop and see that hardly anything* is brainless. "Just passing through, sir. Just passing through." I raised my riding hat as far as it would go and nudged Miss A into her smooth Araby trot. I did ride Skye though, because I ride Skye every single day without failing. We went up the hill to explore a place entitled Over The Hill and see if the grazing was suitable for the calves. That was the excuse, anyway. The real reason was that you can get a most breathtaking view from the top of Over The Hill, all the way west to the Suikerbosrand River and beyond, and south almost to Grootvlei, and east across the kopjes clad in a blue gossamer veil. But I didn't look for long because those dammin little critters, mosquitos, were chewing Skye and I up. We galloped home, driven almost to distraction. I had remembered to smear mosquito repellant on Skye's neck and belly where she couldn't reach with her tail but I'd forgotten to smear any on me. I am still itching. Everywhere. It's painful. Thank heaven we're not in a malaria area or I'd have had it about a billion times already. I rode Achilles yesterday too. I took him out alone for the first time and he was simply amazing. He did a little bit of Levading but it wasn't bad at all, really. And when we got home I noticed that his left eye was all swollen. He could have been said to have a black eye was it not for the fact that it was black already. Poor boy. I nearly panicked, but when I went to feed him half an hour later it was back to normal. Big sigh of relief. On the calf showing side of things it's poking along slowly because the Randfontein show is sometime this month and I haven't started training Bubby and Bronwen yet. Also in February is a gymkhana at Tannie Marie's riding school and since Skye is now only three months pregnant Kevin said we could take her. He offered to lend us his horsebox. I asked, "What price?" and he said, "First place," so we'd better try really really hard or Kevin will slit my throat. On the other hand, perhaps Skye won't be going to the gymkhana after all. Sadly, Antoinette, the owner of FaerieWood Friesians (where we got Achilles) has lost one of her fillies to African Horse Sickness. We did innoculate our horses, but with the same innoculant as Antoinette did. So Dr. Louis (the vet) recommends innoculating the horses again. This means a month of no riding at all and a further two weeks of riding very gently, because if the horse's heart rate goes up too much the innoculant can be absorbed too fast and attack the heart as far as I understand it. Viz., no gymkhana. Of course if the horses are in danger from AHS there's no question about it: they get the jab. It's just a pain in the bum because this is our last chance to compete this year 'cause Skye's pregnant, and I love gymkhanas because they really are a test of my skill as a rider and a trainer and they're just so much FUN. (I believe that rosettes are occasionally involved but they really don't matter at all. Despite the fact that we acquired a few at our last gymkhana. Sigh. They keep falling off the wall. They're a pain.) Well, there will be other gymkhanas. *Except for some sheep, some ostriches, some humans, some wildebeest and all guinea fowls. If an ostrich has a brain the size of a pea, a guinea fowl must have a brain the size of the average bacteria. |
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Hydeaway Jerseys: Names Not Numbers |
