Blogs for January

January 28, 2010: A Lot to Say. Write. You know what I mean.

Well, the dog wasn't white. It was brown already without us having to make it brown. It was half pug and half daschund and she was called Misha and she was very very cute. We all adored her. Hopey tried to play with her but Misha's head only reached Hope's knee so it didn't work too well. Whiskey the Jack Russel ran away from her. Becca the GSD gawped at her for a few minutes, unbelieving, and then she went to sleep. Lady and Flower, the collies, completely ignored her. Apollo tried his best to be friends but Misha growled at him and bit his nose.

It was nice having Tannie Hennah over. On Sunday afternoon, one of the cows - a second-calver named Swallow - calved in the veld just as we were trooping off to have Sunday lunch in the veld. So I hopped onto my marvellous mare and we went shooting off to go and get Swallow. Swallow had hidden her calf in the grass and she wandered off around the Kopje. I'd lost her but every time I decided to turn back and go looking for her on the other side of the Kopje, Skye pricked her ears and snorted. Eventually I just let her have her way. And abracadabra! We came out into the open and there was Swallow, licking a small newborn bullcalf. Thanks, Skyecat.

Dad had found the bullcalf (christened Sunday's Child) first, but Skye was still considered a hero and fed a first-class white breadroll. She liked all of it except the crust. I took off her bridle and put on the beautiful headcollar my grandparents gave Skye for Christmas and we wandered off to find a patch of grass for Skye to eat. She wouldn't eat any of the grass. Eventually I sat down on a rock in the midst of a lot of weeds and Skye started eating the tops off the weeds.

It was a rather queer Sunday lunch we had; two dogs, five people, a horse, a cow and her newborn calf all sitting (or standing, or lying down) around a bakkie with several dents in the door (but Hydeaway Jerseys stickers over the dents), each eating his/her own particular idea of lunch. Skye kept trying to get at my beans and tomatoes and I kept trying to tell her that beans and tomatoes aren't good for horses but she wouldn't listen, and she tried to eat Tannie Hennah's ham too. I gave her a piece of buttered bread and she spat it out onto the weeds, so Misha ate it. (She's a fast learner.)

We're all missing Misha now (never mind Tannie Hennah; that's what the Hydes are like), even Apollo I suspect.

Rain's having a ball at her ballet. I'm having a ball listening to the music. (And perhaps pointing my toes now and then.) The port de bras (for those whose French is as bad as mine: movements of the arms) is done to a piece of music written by Debussy - among my favourites! And I was aghast. Not one of the other ballet students had a clue about who Debussy is or what Clair de lune is.

How can you be thirteen years old and not know who Debussy is?

To quote C. S. Lewis's Prof. Kirke: What DO they teach in schools these days?

Huh, they should teach people to backup their favourite and most critical novels. Last night I was happily pottering along in the resolution of Ladiewolfe when bam, bam, bam. I tried to type "And" but instead of hitting Shift-A I hit Ctrl-A and selected the entire document. I was going so fast that I only noticed when I had reduced Ladiewolfe to two sad little letters. In a panic I tried to undo it all by going Ctrl-Z but instead I saved it by going Ctrl-S. Aaaaaarghhhhh! Dad help! I went wailing out, barefoot, at eight o' clock at night, in my nightgown, screaming like a demented banshee. Dad said he hadn't been doing backups either. I had a nervous breakdown. I swear I did. I shook like a pine tree in a howling storm and I wailed like a widow and I nearly passed out. Mom saw my delicate condition and stuffed two natural sedative tissue salts down my throat. It was a mild overdose, but it barely controlled my nervous breakdown. But at last, voila, Dad came up with a copy of Ladiewolfe that was perfectly intact and I lost only one chapter. Thank heaven. It was all a bit much for me so I collapsed in bed, only to be woken up at nine when Achilles came bounding into the garden and neighed loudly to announce it. Off I bumbled to shepherd the horses out in my famous Early-Morning Crisis Gear, i. e. nightgown plus jeans plus boots plus extremely ruffled expression. Skye's warm breath rather soothed me. She was beautiful in the bright silver light of the half moon; it was one of those silent nights you can only ever really get in the country, still and crisp, and pure as Heaven...

January 22, 2010: Out on Achilles

Well because of the pouring rain I didn't ride Achilles at all this week. Read: I hate riding Achilles. He's a bit big for me to mount and he's very very very lazy and he can't canter properly. The big old gentleman will be rather a pleasure to ride when he eventually learns what the leg aids mean, but for the time being he's a bit of a pain in the bum, literally. But Kevin put me on him for this lesson and put himself on my poor dear Skye, who was very lazy all of a sudden and pouted a lot. She's a one-girl horse. Achilles went pretty well, really; he didn't buck, though in his canter he feels like he's bucking the whole time, and he shied once at a duiker, causing me to lose a stirrup and almost my temper, but I just jammed my foot back in and kicked him into a walk again. We swapped horses later on when we came to that streamy thing I call the River Rush. Achilles hates water, so I took Skye over (who forded it beautifully, as usual) and Kevin spent ten minutes trying to get Achilles to cross. He finally resorted into backing him into the water, but as soon as his hooves touched it, Achilles whirled around on his hindlegs and threw a little half-buck, causing Kevin to lose a stirrup (which Kevin never, ever does. The only time I ever saw him fall off was when he was riding Arwen and she spooked. He said it didn't count because he was wearing slip-slops at the time.)

"Are you okay?" I squeaked.

"Ja ja, yulles stupid stupid stupid horse," snarled Kevin. We had to take Achilles the long way round again, and afterwards he was perfectly happy wading around in the dam, but I got my riding boots full of water. Then we started to cross a field and ended up slipping and slithering around in the mud. It was such tough going that Kevin made us stop to catch our breath and plan our next move while I picked bits of mud off Skye and my saddle.

"Any ideas?" I asked.

"Uh... nope." Kevin looked around. We were surrounded by mud. "Just keep walking," Kevin suggested. This is his motto: Just keep walking.

After offsaddling the cobs we still had half an hour left so Kevin put me on Miss A, bareback, because he didn't feel like fetching my saddle. We spent a while trotting around him in circles, which gave me a headache. At least Miss A has this really lovely smooth Arabian trot, which is the only thing she does better than the cobs; Achilles has a long bouncy stride which makes me want to fall off half the time, and Skye has a very strong forward stride. I'm comfortable on it because I'm used to it, but Miss A's trot really is lovely. She was going really well today and it made me pretty hopeful for her future. Once we've got a proper arena I'll do a lot more schooling; at the moment we're taking it really easy especially with all the rain, just riding out and doing some herding work.

It's going well with Bona except that he suckled from his mother, so he hates the rubber teat we're feeding him with. Two of the littlest babies, Rufus and Baie Ver, are sick and Blodwynn has diarrhea and Edward (named after the vampire) has a cough. Mom's favourite cow, Bontrok, is ill, but she's slowly improving (fingers crossed). We had a bad attack of liver fluke but it's gone away now, hopefully.

My writing has been pottering along v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y because I spent a week designing the website and it's rather hectic with me trying to juggle horses, school and writing. However, it's still going; I don't have any major writer's block attacks except on my oldest project, Quest for the Sword, which is lacking a bit of vivre; I've spent too long working with the same set of characters in the same setting with the same (rather dreary) plot. It's the usual: king loses magical artifact, king choses company to go looking for magical artifact, company travels far and endures great hardship to find magical artifact, company finds magical artifact, huge battle over magical artifact ensues, huge battle is won and everyone lives happily ever after. I've reached the huge battle part of the climax, and though I really love my company, the Six have gone on holiday.

On the other hand my second-to-newest project, Ladiewolfe, is coming along like a house on fire. The four main characters are the best I've ever had. The plot is a little like Quest's plot, with a werewolf prince replacing the magical sword, but it runs deeper because it's a sort of drama-cum-adventure with a lot more character development going on than in any of my others. Tasca the Wolf Mage, Kendra the Hawk Mage, Roden the Stag Mage, and Donar the Steed Mage romp along through the Faeriewood, a world that came to me a long time ago with my novella (the characters based on animals I know), The Black Unicorn of Faeriewood Forest, only Ladiewolfe is set in the Deep Faeriewood, most enchanted of all places. The four Morphmages, all very different, all strangely the same, are guided by a white unicorn named Modena (after a Lipizzaner I know). I'm reaching the climax and it is going exceptionally well; Donar has finally come out of his tortiose shell and is getting over his phobias. Tasca fell down a cliff the other day but luckily Donar came to the rescue (this is the bit where he comes out of his tortoise shell). It was very tense while Donar's problems lasted and he nearly had a nervous breakdown at one point but now we can all heave a massive sigh of relief. Oh, except that the seven remaining monsters trapped him and Tasca against the cliff she fell down, but thankfully then Kendra and Roden came sailing to the rescue (Roden's a big show-off. He jumped off the cliff and landed perfectly well with his antlers in something horrible. Good for him.)

Bad thing is that Ladiewolfe is hard to illustrate since my humanoid things (werewolves, wizards, shapeshifters and the like) all look really really horrible, more like apes with flu than werewolves or whatever they're supposed to be. I tried to draw the heroine of My Best Friend is a Werewolf once and Ulrica came out really badly, so I resorted to drawing her wolfish. Animals are so much easier than humans. Sigh.

But my newest, which has no title, is a bit stuck. It's supposed to be novel-length but it's all full of holes without anything to fill them in with. It has no title, but I refer to it as "the story about that wizard and his dog and the unicorn, y'know, who came from the year 1066 and ended up in 2006 and there was all that trouble involving a crystal ball, a small boy with freckles, a white Arabian and the Battle of Hastings", which sums it up pretty well. I started it because I'd read one too many of those time-travel books where the ragged, dirty old wizard comes blundering into the future, makes a fool of himself and messes everything up, then miraculously vanishes into the past again. Enter Danila: very competent, very powerful, very skilled and definitely not foolish. Plus his sidekicks: the most beautiful of all wolfhounds, Faylinn, an ancient golden unicorn, Arwan, a freckled laddie from the future named Rory who really would look a bit better if he put on some sunscreen and rode something bigger than twelve hands, and an Arabian stallion that looks like a mixture between poetry and white marble, who can be ridden only bareback without a bridle. His name is Zenith. I fell in love with Zenith.

With Stories that Never Die, the short story collection, all is fine and well. I have a whole list of stories in it now - Tamlane (Scottish), The Chipped Cup (Vietnamese), The White Dove (part of the Greek Argo legends), Sleeping Beauty (German), Cheetah, the Swiftest Beast (South African), Snow White (German), and Beaumains (Arthurian). I'm halfway through Beaumains.

Star Song ground to a halt a few months ago and for months I didn't touch it. Then all of a sudden my voiceless hero, Felwulf, came galloping up on his white (well, bay) stallion to save the day. There was a lot of confusion and everyone ran around and dropped things for a long time but eventually everyone calmed down and slept for two days, much to my relief, because Felwulf and his bay stallion were getting rather tired, what with all the running around and saving the day.

Then there's a novel called Fallomere after the main character. It's doing well; it's coming along incredibly slowly but it's coming along steadily.

Plus, my great-aunt is coming to stay for the weekend. My great-aunt and her fluffy white dog. Fluffy white dogs can get into a lot of trouble on Hydeaway Farm, where they very quickly become un-fluffy and un-white and a lot more dog. We're all fond of my great-aunt but I think Apollo will try to eat the fluffy white dog. We'll see how it goes.

January 21, 2010: Rhinoceroses, Riding Fences, Clamping Frieslands and the Birth of Bonaventure

Flying dogs! It's been a bonkers few days, of which today was the most bonkers by far, and it's not even afternoon milking time yet.

Yesterday was Wednesday and again, no riding happened. For one thing, we were in town all afternoon. For another, it rained so hard that if it'd rained any harder we'd have to call all the SPCAs in the world together to round up all the cats and dogs. We had 120mm of rain in thirty-six hours. As a result Mom sent me off on Skye at the cock-crow this morning; we were trotting happily off to see if the fences had been washed away by seven o' clock. Skye got a humungous spook at a dammin* duiker and I nearly came off, but managed to stick, albeit hanging at Skye's side with my leg over her back. I hung there and pondered my next move for a while. Skye seemed to be laughing. Eventually I opted to dismount and scrambled back on again, so we went on, quite happy, when suddenly Skye spooked the biggest spook she'd ever had and shied, whirling around and snorting loudly. Now Skye hardly ever shies so I was quite unprepared. I think I must have fallen off, because one moment we were trotting along and the next I was standing on the ground and holding Skye's reins and watching two enormous white rhinoceroses lumbering off. Thankfully they were on the other side of the fence but still I just about had a stroke, and Skye looked as if she was going to have a stroke too, but I managed to scramble back onto her broad, warm, bare back and canter on. Then the rhinoceroses tagged after us, so every two minutes they stopped and gawked at us, and then Skye would stop and gawk at them, and so on. We saw a bunch of gemsbok (oryx) or rather just their horns as they lolloped through the bush, and a blesbok with a snow-white coat, together with her snow-white calf - like something straight from the pages of a fairytale or the White Stag in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

The relationship between Skye and I is a strange one. Against all the counsel of a natural horseman, there seems to be no clear leader. We are equals; best friends, and the beauty of being equals is that she who is most fit to lead at the present moment is the leader. When Skye spooked at the rhinoceroses I was being leader, reassuring her, urging her on, showing her that they weren't an immediate danger. But soon it was Skye's turn to lead again. As we came down to the muddy, reed-choked ditch that extends the length of the farm and that I promptly dubbed The River Rush, I heard the ominous gargle of water rushing, and my suspicions were confirmed. What was usually just some wet mud was now a torrent, roaring into the dam on the other side of the fence, hissing angrily; something that a better rider would have no fear of, for it must've been only three metres across, but I was frightened. I was frightened that we wouldn't make it; that Skye, who was scared of water, would baulk, or buck. But I was proved wrong again. Sometimes, Skye must lead. She gave a light tug on the bit, immediately bowing her head into the working position. That was her signal. I have spent many hours on her back and that's part of her language: Trust me.

"Okay, okay," I breathed to calm myself down a little. I gave her just a little rein and touched my heels nervously to her sides. She didn't baulk or buck or even try to jump the water. She was sure. She lowered a gigantic hoof into the water and without a qualm forded that little stream that had frightened me so.

"Thanks, Skye," I said as we jogged along the fenceline. What can I say? We're equals. I lead when I must, she leads when she must. We respect one another; we don't push our boundaries.

We'd just plodded in through the gate (all the fences were intact) when Mom appeared in a terrible flurry, bawling "FIRN!" (Told you so.) It turned out that my three-lactation cow, Babe, was calving, and one of the feet were bent back instead of stretched out with the muzzle on the legs as it should be. We spent an anxious half-hour watching Babe and seeing if she could push it out herself; then Mom phoned the farm vet/hero, Dr. Louis. He counselled us to find the leg and pull it out.

There was no question as to who should do this operation: it was my cow, and I have small arms. I took a deep breath and slid my hand in beside the calf's tiny head. To begin with I started at the knee of the foot that was out and traced it back to the shoulder. I'll always be thankful that it was Babe who had a difficult calving; we stood out in the Blind Squad's big, grassy camp, no neck clamp, no-one holding the cow - Babe is the sweetest and purest example of the quiet nature of the Jersey breed. I anxiously watched the calf's face. Its tongue was hanging out but they all do that; we had a heart attack the first time we saw it. However the result of many difficult calvings is a dead calf; dead from being in the birth canal for too long. But just as my heart sank, the little animal twitched. I patted its cheek with my free hand and the long, spiky lashes flicked up to reveal the misty blue-brown eyes of a very young Jersey.

"You poor thing," I grunted as Babe's contraction squeezed my arm. Just like in the James Herriot books, I thought. Thank you, James Herriot, I added. Thanks to his detailed descriptions I managed to identify a shoulder, a neck, a knee... I found the shoulder of the foot that was back and spent a while seeking the leg. Eventually I found it. It was bent back at the knee and tucked against the chest, as it is when a calf lies down, and I squeezed my arm in further and further until I found the hoof. With a last scrabble I had the actual foot, and now began the painful struggle to bring that one little hoof forward so that the calf could be born. And then just as I wondered if I'd ever manage to bring that hoof out, there it was, lying perfectly beside its mate.

"I've got it," I breathed, "Mom, I've got the foot!"

The calf twitched again. It was still alive, just very uncomfortable. And so, ten minutes' straining later, a live, wriggling, beautiful, good-sized bullcalf was born in my arms, and I cleared some slime out of his mouth, and he took a gasping breath, drawing for the first time the cool, moist air of Life into his tiny lungs. And as the tiny creature wriggled and flopped back onto the hay that Babe had calved upon, and his mother's sandpaper tongue licked his veins and nerves into life, I hugged his neck, regardless of the slime that stuck to my shirt; for this is the deepest and greatest sort of magic, the magic of birth. That a new life can spring like a bright flame from nothing, that something so tiny and yet so perfect can come complete and ready into this world, that must be the greatest of secrets; how that truly happens. Of course we all know how it scientifically happens (blush blush blush) but none of us know the deepest how of it all, how it truly happens. That is deep, subtle magic that no coarse man-soul can understand. Animals speak not to us not because they are dumb but because their language is too subtle, too deep for mankind to understand. The animal behaviourist understands not one tenth of what animals say.

And this is the greatest magic of all; the life-magic, that something so perfect can exist, something as marvellous as what we take for granted, and see all the time without comprehending the true depth of it all: Life. And the place where the life-magic is strongest is here, on a high windswept  pasture with slime clinging to your arms and a cold wind and a sharp rain on your skin, here under a grey sky with the struggling newborn toppling almost into your lap, born not a minute since. When God made Life, He made something that no scientist, not the cleverest of men can understand; and the reason we know that He is the greatest power is that He created something so perfect, so wonderful. He made Life.

After much speculation, I named the calf Bonaventure; French for Good Luck, and he is lucky, which is why I named him that. I think I rubbed him down about four times with a handful of hay twisted into a wisp. He struggled to stand up, and flopped down straight into my lap; Babe licked my forehead clean of slime, so I just hugged the wet little wiggling thing and my heart rejoiced.

Little Bona was hardly born when we put twenty of the biggest Frieslands through the crush. Neck clamping these is a mission, but though I say it myself I am something of an expert in this matter. I caught them all, though many of them plunged at the clamp and I was hard put to it to slam the clamp down on their necks in time; not too soon, to hit the head, but not to late, to let the calf escape. When one of them nearly fell down I let her go, though, and she went galloping off to the horizon; so we had to round her up first. Just Nuisance was unusually meek and mild, though she cropped up the moment Mom was called away; she also licked Rain with a tongue like sandpaper and spat out most of her deworming drench. An enormous creature named Jessica came hurtling through the crush and reared up to jump over the bars, so Rain hit her with a clipboard. The clipboard was Mom's, ancient, battered, and painted a gharish pink. Probably because of the ghastly colour Jessica gave us no more trouble.

And so, that is my To Do List for this morning:

a) Fall off a horse, twice.

b) Ride along all the fences on the farm.

c) Get followed by two rhinoceroses.

d) Pull a calf out of a cow.

e) Catch twenty Frieslands, all of them weighing over 230 kilograms, with a neck clamp, and deworm the said Frieslands, in the rain.

What a day!

*Dammin is a Hydeaway swearword. It originated when Rain read the real swearword, slammed a door on her thumb and mispronounced it. It seems pretty harmless so when a bad word arises, we hastily change it into dammin. It works quite well.

January 19, 2010: Arwen and Achilles Wreak Havoc

Today started off crazy when Dad came bumbling into my room and said, "Please come help me with Arwen. She's got a feed bowl stuck on her foot."

"Classical Arwen," I groaned. "I'm coming, let me just get her headcollar."

I heaved myself out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans under my nightgown. (Don't ask.) Miss A's headcollar is bright scarlet with pink letters proclaiming I LOVE MY HORSE. Miss A was pottering about and grazing, but every time she took a step with the left fore it went clunk. She had half a plastic 10l drum, which we use for feed bowls for the calves, stuck on her cannon bone; she appeared to have stepped right through it and was wearing it like a boot.

"You silly filly," I said as she came, thud thud thud clunk, up to me. Dad extracted it quite easily and nothing was damaged (except the feed bowl, which was a write-off). I patted her roany coat and left her to grazing. Silly Miss A.

Yesterday was none too quiet, either. It was the first day of ballet so Rain went around beaming and I went around glowering. We spent three-quarters of an hour in the pink ballet studio, waving our legs and arms around. At least the music was a lot better than the bingely-bingely Grade music. I was in a worse mood than ever because we spent all afternoon messing around in town and it rained cats and dogs that morning so there was no chance to ride. Frustrating.

Luckily, today wasn't a repetition of yesterday. Before a pouring shower came down and freshly bogged up the veld, I managed to ride for about an hour and a half. I took Skye out for a long ride all over the show, with my little brother Apollo in tow. (He happens to have four feet and bark sometimes, but he's Mom's son so he has to be my brother). The veld is glorious now; we rode around on what I named Dustymoor long ago when it had been ploughed. Now that is just a memory and the earth has grown green and gold and silver with wildflowers; early cosmos, pink and white and purple, peeked at us from behind fields full of yellow daisies and silver-grey weeds whispered stately secrets on the breeze. We wandered to the dam and Apollo had a good swim; we checked on the white-faced ducks' nest and watched the king of all vlei birds, the heron, winging silently across the sky. We cantered home with Apollo lolloping after, watching black-shouldered kites circle up above; and listened to the voice of the bluegum trees. Skye was wonderful; she really is mastering the collected canter.

Later I took Arwen out by herself for the first time ever. If I can just get Miss A to hack out alone without being silly it will be a humungous milestone, and today it went quite well; she just spooked at the enormous horse-eating monster hiding down a hole that a teacup wouldn't have fit in, and the francolin, and the rock, and presumably a cloud because there was nothing else even remotely scary around. She really will make a good performer because she has already mastered the Levade even though she only ever does it when she is upset, which was about a hundred times on the ride. But later on she calmed down and (despite the docile, doe-eyed, plodding horse-eating monster cows that came wandering up at one point) we managed a good swinging canter without even bucking or rearing or swerving. All in all a good day.

As I write this I'm still sopping wet because Achilles got into Miss A's camp and from there he charged through an electric gate into the Friesland Group Three's camp. He spent a lot of time galloping to and fro along the two-strand electric fence, which looked very precarious with Achilles running around inside it. I was quite relieved because he threw a few bucks too: at least Achilles can gallop and buck after all. I caught him and led him back. He really is a gentleman because despite Piaffing restlessly all the way I managed to control four hundred kilograms of night-black muscle, sinew, power and testosterone. Miss A and Siobhan made the expedition into a mild calamity, but we eventually got them seperated; someone had left a series of gates open leading from Achilles and Skye's camp into Miss A and Siobhan's camp. Skye, all the while, was standing and grazing placidly not three metres from the wide-open gate that I wrestled Achilles out of. She perked up when she saw me and greeted me like a perfect lady. I kissed her on the muzzle. Sometimes, that horse is just amazing.

January 16, 2010: A Photo Shoot

First of all - exciting news! On the 31st of December I sent the last three chapters of my latest novel, My Best Friend is a Werewolf (54 000 words) to the Book Arts Bash, a novel competition for homeschooled children. The last three chapters of Ulrica are probably my best completed piece of writing, so I have high hopes; also, one of the judges is Holly Black, author of the long fantasy series, The Spiderwick Chronicles, which are in some ways very much the same as Ulrica.

Today I recieved an email from the organiser of the Bash, giving the usual editor/judge information, thanks for your entry/manuscript, we really appreciate it, now sit on your bum and wait until the fourteenth of February, when they announce the finalists.

Dad and Rain, between them, got our camera working again - it had been broken since October. So Mom handed me town clothes and announced a photo shoot.

Herding in the cows - pity about the numbers.

Hydeaway's cow pony

Smile for the camera, Skye!

Skye at two months pregnant. Can't really see it, can you?

It was such a magnificent, magical view of the clouds with a great rip in the centre that I couldn't resist... I seemed to be the only one who saw it.

Here is a nice photo of Just Nuisance...

... and here is why she's called Just Nuisance.

Me trying to figure out Achilles's new martingale. It took me five minutes just to get it over his neck the right way.

Bareback for the first time ever!

(Yeah, I know my toes stick out. They have this horrible habit of doing so.)

Bumbly old Apollo trying to get up on our 50+ year old tractor...

January 16, 2010: Riding Out on Mystique

I went swimming with Marie, my old riding teacher, who runs a pretty little riding school in the hills. I rode a funny tubby little thing named Mystique, part Welsh pony and part who-knows-what. When she is dry, she's a plain greyish pony; when she is wet, she's a funny bluish piebald. Kevin schooled her when he was a lot younger (if he tried to ride her now his feet would touch the ground) so I felt quite comfortable in her saddle despite the fact that I wasn't used to her. I used to ride a roany Nootigedacht gelding named Maskas, but someone else had begged for him, so I scrambled into Mistique's saddle.

It was a very enjoyable ride over the scenic hills and green fields, past a whispering stream amidst the tall, dancing reeds. I rode behind the girl on Maskas and yelled at him when he was naughty because Maskas likes to have his way sometimes unless you assert yourself and let him know, gently but firmly, who is the boss. She rode behind Adele, a woman and her sunglasses (they're quite inseperable), who rode a big fat shaggy bay Boerperd named Lady Rosa. She rode behind Marie, who was seated upon her horse's daughter, a white Boerperd named Polka, who she rode because her horse Dot had a three-week-old foal, the sweetest little fuzzy black creature like something out of a fairytale, who was named Salsa.

Behind me rode a girl on a little Welsh-ish bay pony named Lulu (whom I had last seen at a gymkhana, riding on Maskas, who crashed into Skye's rear end and made Skye leap up into the air, land, look sheepish and pretend nothing had ever happened. Maskas likes to have his way sometimes, especially when attractive chestnut mares are involved). And then came Ina, a wonderful rider, on a five-year-old roany grey Nooitgedacht named Minuet (Ina's pride and joy) and her boyfriend on a big-footed, big-eared white Nooitgedacht named Nita. He had a lovely Western saddle. I was green with envy. You can't jump in a Western because the horn will probably cause embarrassing complications (especially if you are female. I would rather not mention the Antoinette incident. It involved my friend Antoinette, her unruly gelding Waldemar who liked to gallop off all of a sudden when someone was mounting him, a Western saddle, a torn item of clothing and, worst of all, Kevin) and it's too heavy anyhow, but I'd like a Western or an Australian stock saddle for rounding up the cattle. Then I can learn to rope, and then nobody's gonna stop Skye and I. (Not that anyone stops us right now. Er. Not even that whopping great log we encountered the other day.)

So off we went to paddle around in the dam. Mystique was of the opinion that she was as tall as Nita and Polka while she was probably less than fourteen hands tall and they were over fifteen, and so she could wade wherever they did. I was helpless because if you tighten your reins too much in deep water, you can drown your horse. Mystique had a great time swimming and puffing and playing submarine with her nose until she got water in her ears, decided it was a bad idea, got up on her hindlegs and Courbetted to the shallow end like a champion Lipizzaner. Lulu had a trot through the water, spraying us all and raising an enormous wave like a steamer. We had a good canter back and everyone behaved, but Nita and Ina's boyfriend plodded after us at a relaxed trot, quite happy in their own little peaceful world, back on the prairie no doubt riding into town for some beef jerky.

There was a nearly-crisis when we got to the big, steep hillock things that all the horses and riders love to gallop up and down. I challenged Mystique and set her at a very low, perhaps 30cm log jump just before a hillock. She charged happily up to the jump, saw it, said, Oh No It's Gonna Eat Me!! and shied away. I lost my stirrups and clung at her side for a while. Ina bawled, "Hang on to the martingale!" but I don't ride with martingales and I don't hang on to no stupid martingale (excuse my grammar), so I held the mane and we made it quite undamaged. Mystique snorted, pleased with herself. It was so much fun that when we came to the next hillock we did it all again (except for the stirrup bit).

It was a mad day, because we were missing one worker, and all of a sudden four calves were missing. The whole Carrie and Cyfym escapade was repeated, and now I am exhausted. I rode and swam and blogged and now I'm going to go to sleep. Good night.

January 15, 2010: Achilles's Day Out

Kevin came for a riding lesson today. It was a hectic morning because I was mooching around in the house, researching stories for my fairytale collection Stories that Never Die, still half an hour to go before I had to saddle up, when in comes Mom in a terrible flurry.

"FIRN!" she bawled, which she always bawls when she is in a terribly flurry. Whenever she wakes up from an afternoon power nap, she always yells "FIRN!" before she's even properly awake. "I can't find Carrie and Cyfym!"

"Aren't they in the garden?" I enquired.

"No, I can't find them!" wailed Mom. "Take Skye and go looking for them where the calves graze. I think they got in with the big calves..."

I swallowed a guilty lump in my throat and took Skye's bridle down from its hook on my wall. Carrie and Cyfym (short for Can't You Find Your Mum?) are our two very special 'garden calves', which means they mow our lawn and leave cowpats all over it. Neither of them are a day older than six months and yesterday Skye and I had brought the big calves back from their grazing camp in the veld.

Deal with the matter at hand, I told myself. Skye was as always willing; a true friend, ready whenever she is needed, be it for emergency or escapade. She knows my moods so well. She was perfect and willing as we half-cantered, half-galloped up to the camp where they grazed, which I had named The Unchartered Territory.

I had to cuss at the gate for a while before it opened, and by then Mom had phoned me to say Aletta (the calfminder who was SUPPOSED to have fed Carrie and Cyfym last night) had found them, all Skye and I had to do was bring them home. A wild morning followed in which I tried to groom and saddle two horses in two minutes. Skye was easy because I spend such a lot of time grooming her coat that it was a matter of seconds to whisk a bodybrush over her silken skin. Rushed as I was, I had the time, as I always do, to appreciate the fineness of her coat. Golden as the halo of an angel, it shimmered like glass in the morning sunlight, and with each swipe of the bodybrush it left a gleaming trail in its wake.

"My little unicorn," I whispered to her as I tugged a comb through her mane. "Let's go."

Mom, who had calmed down to a mild panic, went trooping off to wait with Skye while I went to catch Arwen (better known as Miss A). I was in a rush because Mom had a lot to do besides standing around and holding horses; and though it's a joy to be holding a horse like Skyecat I appreciated her hurriedness. Because Miss A is dealt with more by workers than her mistress, she's become almost impossible to catch without cornering her. But eventually I got the bridle on and swung aboard her petite back and sent her at her funny rubber-ball-bounce canter up to the ring. Mom was of course perfectly relaxed, but I had saddled Miss A rather hastily and the stirrups were set for six-foot Kevin, so they were flying all over the place while I galloped up without using my stirrups and with split reins because I had to untangle her bridle from Achilles's in rather a hurry.

When Kevin finally arrived I nearly blew my top because the moment he came ambling up, exchanged pleasantries and said, "Did yulles bring Achilles's bridle?"

"Yeah..."

"Good. 'Cos today I'm gonna swop horses."

I snorted. After all that trouble! Oh well. We set off, me on Skye, Kevin on Achilles, kicking and kicking and kicking to make the big old lump keep walking at something approaching a reasonable pace, because Achilles is as eager and forward-going as a thirty-year-old donkey.

Kick, kick, kick.

"Okay, trot on," said Kevin.

I goggled. "Well, good luck," I snorted incredulously and nudged Skye's sides with my heels. She bounded off at her quick, flowing trot.

Kick, kick, kick.

"Move it, stupid horse," growled Kevin. Achilles jogged along after us at a quiet sort of half-trot. Kevin whacked him and snapped, "YULLES STUPID HORSE!", which made him extend his trot and keep pace with Skye.

In between complaining about Rain's badly cared for, squeaking, creaking saddle, Achilles's bouncy paces, Achilles's laziness, Achilles's stopping, Achilles's fear of water, the weather, and so on, Kevin managed to tell me that I could take Achilles out by myself if I liked, though he'd be lazier than with Skyecat. I was rather pleased. I like little Miss A but she really isn't my type of horse; I prefer the big cobby types, like Skye. (Gosh, I prefer anything if it is in any way like Skye; my legs seem to have moulded themselves to her wonderful broad back.) And Achilles is a magnificent horse; a horse a girl can feel proud riding. (Like Skye). Of course Skye is the most comfortable horse I've ever ridden; well-mannered, just fiery enough, just quiet enough, soft on the hands, soft at the heels, perfect.