January 2011

January 31, 2011: Relaxation for a Fortnight. Well, maybe. Okay... maybe not. All right, not at all.

All four my big horses are now on leave for fourteen days, following their AHS inoculations. Miss A and Siobhan have just had their second shot; Skye and Achilles their first. The foals are too small to have their injections yet; they still have immunity from their mothers.

Achi's extremely embarrassing injury is much better, though while we were away this weekend - on one of our survival trips to a nearby guest farm - he apparently climbed over a gate and his Unmentionable is a little bit swollen again. I have absolutely no sympathy for him. "Look," I said, "once is a mistake. Twice is just sheer stupidity. What are you gonna say to Kevin, huh? Fool horse."

Skye is as shining as ever; a week or two ago we jumped 85cm (five car tyres with a pole on top) for the first time without knocking the pole down, repeating the feat a few days later. I was so glad the first time that I jumped off her and did a weird little war-dance around her, waving my riding hat and chanting, "We did it, we did it, we did it", or something along those lines. She has given Rain strength, and Rain cantered on Skye with me flapping along behind at the end of the reins and having a mild stroke. I had to run with them for the first four or five times before Skye and I finally persuaded Rain to do it by herself before I burst a blood vessel. Skye's only complaint right now is that the flies are eating her up. After trying out fly repellants I've resorted to wiping the horses with ordinary paraffin. It works, though the horses smell of paraffin and presumably breathe through their mouths when they groom each other with their teeth to avoid the smell. Skye and I rode out twice, leaving Thunder behind, because he was getting to be such a pain in the rear when we go riding. Thunder runs around neighing for a while but calms down quite fast and Skye is fine with it, the first time she neighed once or twice but the second time we went out in the company of Kevin, Arwen and Dancer and she didn't mind at all.

Missy is doing all right but I think that next time I get on her she'll simply explode, as she hasn't been able to have a good workout since she was first injected a month ago. She gets extremely hyper if she isn't ridden a lot; even four or five days makes her frisky and frolicsome, unfortunately for her rider. Once we were planning to have a short, slow gallop; it ended up being a long fast gallop. I've heard the speed referred to as a "bidgalop", translating to "prayer gallop". Upon asking for a definition I was told, "It's when the horse goes so fast that you just hang on and say your prayers." Well, I hung on, and stayed on, miraculously, and Miss A is now occasionally known as Whizzin Mizz.

Siobhan, the accident-prone, managed to cut her leg open, right down on the pastern near the heel of her hoof. In this summer mud, infection is almost a certainty. After spraying some penicillin into the wound and a course of wound oil, it seems to be closing up nicely, but my fingers are still crossed. Siobhan has turned unfortunate injuries into an art. Poor girl. Riding-wise, once again with the AHS we haven't been able to do too much, but she is still an insufferable lazybones.

Dancer is now being halter-trained. She's quite intelligent, but in the same way as Siobhan is intelligent - far too brainy, so she applies her spare brainpower to wrecking havoc. She crawls under the single-strand electric gate and gambols around outside, returning when she feels like it or she hears me whistling at mealtimes. She rockets up at full speed, her foal hair nearly gone and her new black coat shimmering, and zooms past Miss A, squealing and bucking her excitement. Miss A gives her a long, pop-eyed, terrified look. "What's that? Whose awful child is it? It's not mine." Now, Dancer is proving quite easy to halter-train; she had a huge tantrum once, staggering about on her back legs, but that was that and now she's walking quite nicely beside me.

Thunder's also due for training. He wears his halter very happily, but I haven't started work on him yet, I just let him run around for a few minutes with a halter on while I work with Dancer. I did discover that he's scared of having a rope or lead rein around his backside, which could be a problem if I find myself in need of a bum rope - I trained Dancer with a bum rope, just a lead rein slipped around her haunches and if she got very stuck I put some pressure on it and the moment she moved off it, the pressure was released. She got used to it very fast. But Thun is still a baby, he's got plenty of time.

Furthermore, I have little to say, except that Sparrowhawk's second draft is starting today while I scramble around looking for a title for it, Moonrise at Midnight suddenly exploded while we were away and I wrote the end of chapter eight, chapters nine and ten, and the beginning of chapter eleven (by hand, which is no mean feat), and my New Shiny, The Final Champion, is going steady.

Oh, and I updated the website a bit. The How to Take Care of Heifers page is now complete, and here are a bunch of the promised Foal Photos.

Siobhan under saddle. Whoo-hoo!

The newborn Dancer and triumphant Miss A

Day-old Dancer, pulling faces for the camera

Dancer's legs are a bit long for grazing

Week-old Thunder, Skye and I on our first ride together

January 6, 2011: Between the Flowers and Sky

A whinny split the air. You would have to be stone-hearted not to be moved at that brisk, melodious, bird-like sound and I'm far from stone-hearted when it comes to horses. My face split in a grin as I reached out and rubbed the guiding star on Skye's forehead. "Hello, beautiful," I said to her. My breath didn't steam, but I was almost surprised; it was a nippy morning for summer, made colder by the grass still damp from last night's rainfall. The girls and Thunder had spent yesterday afternoon in the stable, munching on hay, out of reach of the lightning; when the lightning stopped I had to shoo them out again and I almost had to get on my knees and beg them to come out into the drizzle.

But now, except for a few fluffy grey clouds like sooty cotton wool, the sky was clear and blue and laughing. I took a deep breath of the pure, country air. Skye seemed to echo me, flaring her silver nostrils. She stamped a big hoof and turned her head to neigh again; Thunder answered in a bell-like note and trotted up to us, his fluffy ears pricked, tiny hooves beating a welcome melody on the wet earth. He gave me a snuffle of greeting, turned and sought Skye's udder. In a moment his tail twitched and he began to suck loudly.

I eased the bridle over her head. When the bit touched her lips, she opened her mouth. Bending her gold silk ears under the headpiece, I slid the leather over her poll, rearranged her mane, buckled the throatlash and hooked up the curb chain. We were ready to roll, as soon as Thunder finished his snack. Skye rested a patient leg while I tried to wipe the mud off my riding boots against the grass.

Thunder gave a loud sigh and turned away to investigate the edibility of his mother's bridle. I batted his nose away, gave him a warning shake of my finger, and jumped valiantly at Skye's back. On the second attempt, I managed to get on. I picked up the reins and Skye chucked her head once or twice in expectation. "Let's go, girl," and we went.

Dancer neighed loudly as Thunder gambolled after his mum. She came running after us, black and athletic, her extremely long legs reaching out. Clear, intelligent eyes gave me a laughing look as she went to bite Thunder's mane. He shied out of her way and hurried after Skye.

"Dancey, go back to your mom," I ordered as sternly as I could. "You're a naughty little thing, do you know that? If you follow us again I'm not going to mess around."

Dancer gave me a bored look. Yeah, right. I know you and your empty threats.

"Let's canter," I said to Skye, giving her a nudge with my heels. She flowed forward, measured her stride, and extended it a fraction to clear the mud channel. She was breathing easily when I sat back and tightened the reins, drawing her to a halt. I gave Dancer a murderous look, dismounted, and opened the one-strand electric gate. Skye ambled through, Thunder shot after her, and I waved the wire in Dancer's face before she could follow.

"Naughty girl!" I snapped. "Don't rush out of gates! Bad horse! That's bad!"

Dancer squealed and ran up and down the gate as I closed it. She stared in consternation at the bright orange wire, reared and bucked.

"Skye's not your mommy," I said. "Don't expect any sympathy from me. You just want to escape and eat the calf feed, don't you? Go straight back to Miss A and Siobhanny!"

Dancer squealed again. I shooed her away, afraid she'd get shocked. "Scoot, little monster!"

Dancer was still trottig up and down when I got back on Skye and we set off at a waltzing canter. Mom was near the gate, clutching a mug of tea, grinning at us from underneath her hat. Apollo lay patiently at her feet, giving Thun an indifferent look as the foal stared at him. Mom gave Thunder a hug and opened the gate for us. I rode into the old camp where the horses no longer roam and stared at the long green stretch ahead of us. Skye read my thoughts, or just knows my habits. She tossed her head expectantly, shifting her weight. Thunder nibbled grass. "All right," I said. "Let's canter."

So we did. And I felt the freedom as Skye's great neck arched before me and her mighty legs bore us on, lifting, flexing, driving. When I glanced down her white front foot flashed out at me, and the world was beautiful when I looked between her pricked ears. The finest view is always between the ears of a horse. Preferably, golden ears. Thun galloped alongside us, his little nostrils flared and long legs working, so much like his mother with his gold coat, white star, and socks.

We drew rein squelching past the leaky trough and plodded over to the second electric gate. It would be the last time I had to jump off and on for the rest of the ride. I shooed Thunder through and let go of Skye's reins to close the gate with both hands. She waited, swishing her tail. Dancer neighed and ran up to us; she was a fence away from us. Thunder pricked his ears at his best friend. When Skye and I left at a walk, he seemed puzzled, hanging back with Dancer. I stifled a groan.

"Come on, little guy!" I yelled. "Let's go! Let's go!"

But he wouldn't come, and eventually Skye and I circled back up to him. I leaned down to rub his furry ears. "C'mon, Thun, you've got to come with us, you know." I turned Skye in a different direction and asked her to canter. This time, Thunder followed. We cantered until Dancer was just a furry blot trotting up and down, then slowed to navigate the rocks. I let Skye pick the path, holding the loose reins one-handed while I braced myself with the other hand on her back to look at Thunder. He was getting so big already, two months old, losing the foal hair around his face and chest to shed into a colour even nearer to Skye's. Soon I'll have to leave him behind on outrides as he becomes more attached to his other friends. It is sad, because I love riding with my two horses, and hearing his perky little squeaks when we gallop, but it's only a matter of time before hopefully I can sit on Thunder and ride him too. And anyway... there's something very precious about Skye and I exploring, just the two of us, best of friends.

We turned west towards Swaelkrans, trotting along the road to Dusty Stretch, which runs south. The Stretch was muddy and we didn't canter, but maintained the easy working trot. I'd long ago gotten used to trotting bareback and I sat down and pretended that I was stuck to Skye with Superglue. Thunder galloped laps around us, bucking, calm enough to neigh instead of squeak. At the end of Dusty Stretch we swung east along our southernmost border, keeping an eye out for porcupine holes. Belly-deep in green grass, Skye calmly found the way, her pace only slacking when she saw or thought she saw a hole. She's very careful of holes, which is why she hardly ever stumbles on a ride.

"Whoa. Easy," I said, closing my hands on the reins. Skye slowed down, dropping her head to the bit. We turned north and walked, Skye once again picking her way through rocks. Thun's small feet lets him gallop in rocky places. He ran a few laps, then raced back to us, braked and fell into step alongside. The Kopjie loomed over us, Skye's hooves ringing on the stones. There was a snort; Thunder stared, and a small red buck with a white backside and small pointy horns shot out of the grass. The terrain was rocky, but he flew over it at breakneck speed, his huge ears pricked and matchstick legs slashing out. We watched him go. I've no idea what species this little buck is; he's smaller than a duiker, but scarlet in colour, with a white butt and belly. I call him the Red One and leave it at that. There's only one of him and he's been around here for years.

We reached Dustymoor and now it was very magic as Skye stepped out into a canter, champing the bit to gallop, and Thunder ran next to us, and underfoot the veld was covered in yellow flowers that dusted the horses' legs with pollen. It was like running on a field of gold, only I far prefer this fragrant gold to the cold, unliving stuff, and most of all I prefer the warm silk goldenness that I was sitting on. Caught between yellow flowers and blue sky on a golden steed, my world was a blaze of colour. Slowing to a trot and swinging east, we went on. I looked down at Thunder. He had a flower poking out of the corner of his mouth. I rubbed his little forehead, and he bumped my hand with his soft nose.

Reaching a junction in the path, Thunder squeaked and headed north at a terrific pace. Skye swung her hindquarters sideways, ears pinned back. She wanted her baby. "THUN!" I roared. "GET BACK HERE NOW!" He slowed down, turning his head, amazed that his mum wasn't following him. We had once had a lovely gallop up that stretch and gallops stick in Thunder's mind. "THUNDERBIRD!" I roared warningly. His full name means trouble, and he knows it. Lowering his long eyelashes, he trotted demurely back to us. "Silly darling," I said, leaning down to rub his neck. "Okay, we can canter here." He stuck with us all the way to Gallop Stretch, which is aptly named; I know I shouldn't, but I simply can't resist that long, straight, inviting uphill. It must be eight hundred metres or a kilometre long and it's heaven to gallop. This is probably Skye's favourite place on the farm apart from her paddock.

"Ach, I don't think you really want to gallop," I said nonchalantly, watching her ears as we turned onto the stretch. "It's not too great an idea, is it?"

Skye pranced. Her ears were pricked forward. Of course I want to gallop, human!

I dropped the act and took hold of the reins firmly, feeling her mouth. She held the reins equally firmly, but when I closed my hands, she dropped her nose. "Okay," I said, and loosened the reins, and tightened my legs around her sides. She didn't trot. She exploded. She erupted into a gallop and the wind snatched away all the turbulent feelings that my life occasionally brings - frustration, fear, confusion. It also snatched away breath. The earth was as big as the sky and riding on a blazing horse in the smiling sunshine, it all belonged to us, and we were free as the kite that circled the dizzying above. Skye's thundering hooves opened something in the world and joy poured into it. Thunder squeaked, Skye ran, I sat on her warmth with her starlight mane touching my hands and her sunbeam neck beginning to stretch in front. Her ears were pricked, the reins were loose. She needed no urging; I just sat and laughed, and Skye was laughing too in that special silent way that horses have of laughing. We were all having fun, together; Thunder bucked as he went, squeaking happily, Skye's nose reached out, and we were free. It was with reluctance that we pulled to a canter and then a walk at the top of the stretch. Only the 200m Home Stretch to go, and I like to walk that so that Skye is cooled down by the time we reach home. I stroked her neck and felt it flex against my hand. She snapped at the side of her bit, still raring to go despite the fact that she'd been ridden for an hour with a long gallop at the end of it. In the cool morning, she had only broken a slight sweat on her neck and back where I was sitting. Thunder's foal coat concealed his sweat, though he was damp on his hindlegs and chest. He's almost as fit as his mother now, and it took a bit of yelling and whistling to convince him to slow down and walk meekly beside us with his little head down.

We came home and there was Dad, leaving for work in his bakkie What You Want. I grinned hugely at him and shouted goodbye as he waved a big hand, rough from farm work, deft from typing. Rain was feeding her chickens and our geese (Shiela and Claire) and threw aside the food bowl when she saw us. She ran towards us, arms outstretched, screaming, "Catta! I wanna ride!" Catta is what she nicknames Skye, after Skyecat. She can act about six years old sometimes. She scrambled over the fence and hopped up and down by Skye's shoulder, looking expectant.

"Okay," I said, "but don't kick her bum when you get on."

Rain always kicks Skye's bum when she gets on, and poor long-suffering Skye fidgeted when I legged her up. Despite our walk home, my friend was still fiery, almost prancing as Rain took the reins and I took hold of Skye's noseband. She doesn't really need to be led, but it sets Rain's mind at rest. Rain giggled as Skye pranced. "She's jogging," she said, "like trotting and walking all at once. It's bouncy. It's marvellous."

"Yeah," I said. "Come on, Skyecat." We plodded back to the paddock, and Skye spotted her bright yellow grooming bag, stopping suddenly when she reached it. Rain, still giggling, slid off and hugged Skye's neck. "Thanks, Catta."

"Here," I said, picking up the bag. "You can brush Thunder."

While I burnished Skye's coat, smoothing down the scuffs where she'd scratched herself on her tree, Rain brushed or rather scrubbed Thunder. He's very itchy. Currycombs are his best friends. Rain leaned on the brush so much he would have fallen over if he hadn't been leaning on the brush too, eyes half closed in pure bliss. Rain tried to brush his mane and tail, a somewhat fruitless exercise since they don't really exist yet. When I'd done with Skye, I cleaned Thunder's hooves with a hoof pick and he stood very still while I cupped his tiny feet in my hand.

"Right," I said, putting away the brushes and extracting a large carrot. The largest, in fact; I'd made sure of that. "Who wants a carrot?"

I didn't have to lead Skye back to her paddock. She just walked after me. She gave a gusty whicker as I bit the end off the carrot, spat it out, gave the big piece of carrot to Skye and the little piece to Thunder. Then I hugged them both at once, rather lopsidedly because Thunder's neck is a lot lower than Skye's neck.

"Thank you, horses. That was brilliant," I said.

"I'm hungry," wailed Rain.

"I'm coming," I said. I stepped outside and closed the gate. Skye rested a leg as Thunder suckled. I watched until Thunder broke off and Skye put her noble head down to graze the lush green kikuyu. Thunder grazed too, almost doing splits to get his comparatively short neck down to his hooves. Side by side, mother and son tore up the grass. Few sights could have made my heart gladder.

And... it was just an ordinary ride. Not abnormal at all, compared to all the other rides. An hour-long outride with a cool gallop at the end. But with a horse like Skye, anything is possible and every ride is an event.

January 2, 2011: The First Day of School

I like school. Really, I do. Except for maths. Of course, except for maths. I make up for hating maths, though, by doodling little horses all over my math exercise book. Some of my finest art must be the hastily pencilled sketches squeezed in amongst the mind-numbing equations, depicting a stallion with a blaze down his face, going by name of Maxematics. I did comic strips at one stage and discovered how really awful I am at comic strips. For one, they were comic in the same way that bad clowns are comic, i. e. not at all.

But school was far from my mind when the day started out. After breakfast with Mom and Dad I discovered that I was on calf breakfast duty again and so couldn't go riding that morning. Skye and I would have to venture out in the afternoon. Thankfully, I'm having a bit of a holiday; with Achi's injury, and Miss A and Siobhan having had their AHS injections only four days ago, I've only got one horse to ride for the next two weeks, and riding Skye is not work at all.

I was sipping another cup of hot chocolate (I'm a chocolate addict) and looking over the outline for my prospective series, springing from Moonrise at Midnight, and wondering what was going to happen in Book Four and where the heck the faery prince tied in, when my cellphone spluttered into life and began to play Liszt. I fished it out, squashed back the corner of the horsy sticker on the back, and answered. It was Mom. "Firn, Ice Cream's calving..."

Ice Cream is one of our dear old stone-blind cows. She's small and pretty with an udder to die for, a pale reddish fawn colour with minimal white markings. Since our new bull King Arthur has a reputation for calves that seem reluctant to leave the safety of their mothers' wombs, we were on the lookout for calving problems. We needn't have worried - with relative ease Ice Cream popped out a huge, wet, wriggling brown calf. I watched as she strained away and eventually, with a mighty heave that made the poor calf go a bit pop-eyed, the wiggly body came rushing out and I unhesitatingly grabbed the falling calf, and got a gush of whatever it is that they float around in before they're born down the front of my shirt. I juggled the calf, almost dropped it, and sat down abruptly, depositing the poor thing on the grass. Ice Cream turned around, found her baby somehow and began to lick. I scrambled to my feet, drippin goo, and lifted a hindleg. A heifer, and the first calf of the year. Possibly a good omen? I wiped the mucus away from the little thing's nose and mouth and she gurgled horribly before taking a rasping breath, and she was alive.

The calf couldn't stand yet when we brought Ice Cream a bucket of Reviva, the magic potion that does newly-calved cows a world of good, and while she was slurping that up Mom and I got hold of the calf - me at the head, Mom at the tail - and scuttled off, calf bouncing along in our arms and soaking us with goo. We've found with blind cows that they worry a lot and look for their calves, so the quicker we take them away, the sooner they forget. Bounce, bounce, bounce, went the calf, kicking and squirming and butting me wetly under the chin. I was starting to feel rather damp in the pants region when we got her into her pen alongside Bright. Bright did a huge double take and gawped at this soggy newcomer. He gave her a butt or two, then retreated to the edge of the pen, bawling in consternation. The newborn flopped around a bit, shaking her huge ears. Bright goggled. We called for Rain to come and dry the new baby off with towels, then scurried off to feed the dogs, get Achilles in the bale camp and give the calves their breakfast.

Whilst feeding the calves and giving Liquorice a dose of antibiotic for her cough, we decided to name the calf In Die Begin, the first three words in the Afrikaans Bible (translating to "In the beginning") and call her Ginny for short. Margie was milked out for the first time this morning following her milk fever and got her last dose of cortisone; Imagine is still on a course of antibiotic for her poor appetite and mastitis, as well as a hormone to get her to clean herself out and get rid of some retained afterbirth. I went to visit my horses - I hadn't touched them yet, but had been watching them all morning in their paddock - and Skye greeted me with a neigh like fanfare, striding over to snuff my face.

"You might not want to do that," I told her as she lipped my hand hopefully. "I'm covered in calf goo, and I think I stink." She didn't mind; she never does. I hugged her and told her how beautiful she is. Something small and insistent began to eat my shirt. "Thunder," I reprimanded, pushing his tiny, velvet nose away. "You know you're not allowed to nibble on my clothes, you little monster." He blinked his long dark lashes at me and stamped a hoof the size of a teacup. "Do you know how cute you are?" I asked. No one can stay angry at a face like that for very long. I went through the daily training ritual with the foals; since they're so young it's not much at all. I ran a hand over their ears, down their faces, between their forelegs, raised their hooves and held them up, patted their stomachs, leaned over them and stroked their other side. I've no idea if it will help, but at least they don't try to kick my teeth out when I touch their hindlegs, which is what Siobhanny did at their age. Miss A poked her nose in my face, her tickly whiskers brushing my skin. "Hey, Missy," I said, stroking her silk neck. "I haven't forgotten about you, don't worry. Ten days to go, then I can ride you again. Would you like that?" Miss A pricked her huge ears at the sound of her name. Siobhan nosed impatiently at my hand and stamped a hoof, demanding. "You've been fed. It's not Christmas. I haven't got anything for you." I let her lick my empty hands. "See? But I've brought you a salt lick. You finished it last night, remember. Well, you've got a new one." Determined to let her know this, I ambled off in the general direction of the salt lick. "C'mon, babies, I've got you salt. Nice yummy salt. Come on, walk with me." Skye and Thun opted to stay behind and graze, but Miss A and her offspring tagged after me in a long line, smallest to biggest, with little Dancer at the head, bumping her silver muzzle into my back from time to time. Siobhan lost interest and wandered off to rub her backside on the tree, and Miss A went to the trough to drink, but Dancer got to work on the salt, licking away.

I scurried off. Unit multipliers awaited in my math book. I groaned, wondering how much I'd forgotten. I opened my workbook and Maxematics winked at me. "Hi boy," I said to the drawing. Yes, I talk to inanimate things, what's the use of being a writer if you don't talk to random objects? I armed myself with a Josh Groban CD and sat down to cope with math. The CD had played twice when I sat back with a happy sigh; math had been all right, and history was behind me, a massacre day with Sharpeville, My Lai and Boipatong. School was over, once I'd given Rain a lesson in spelling and a lengthy lecture on the use of the letter I, getting a bit longwinded until Rain began to look very bored indeed. I eventually came to the conclusion that horses are much easier to teach than people because they probably can't roll their eyes.

The horses had their lunch then, greeting me with demanding whinnies as I came bumbling up with their feeds. It had been raining and their lunch was twenty minutes late. Skye gave a deafening neigh; Siobhan pawed at the mud with a hoof, and Missy, looking damp and miserable, perked up considerably. The neighing dulled into an expectant silence while I found feed bowls and prepared the meal. Every ear and eye was fixed on me. I was getting a bit uncomfortable when I finally said, "Okay, food time," to a chorus of delighted neighs. They polished off their lunch in record time, licked out their bowls, had a quick drink and a lick at the salt and then began to wander off. Skye did her scratching ritual on the Skye Scratching Tree first while Thunder waited impatiently. At length she finished her scratch and stepped out after the other horses, and Thunder, delighted, broke into a leggy gallop after Dancer. She reared and bit his mane in play, and he shied away, bucking madly on legs that looked too long and skinny to support him. Siobhan reared up, tossing her dark mane across her shoulders, and charged off to gallop circles around the peacefully grazing mares and squabbling foals. I stared at her. Sometimes, I nickname her Mustang. The nickname was justified now as she tore around, black legs slashing, black mane burning dark fire on her neck. She closed the gallop as she always does, cocking her tail up over her back in a dark plume, kicking off in an extended trot with her toes flicking out at every stride, her nose in the air, her nostrils flared. She stopped, tail still up, looked around to see who was watching and gave a self-satisfied snort. She always does that, and has done since she was a little foal still suckling from Miss A.

I fed Achi and got some cold water on his Unmentionable and his sore neck while Rain scurried to and fro, picking him grass. I think he rather likes Rain; I bully him every now and then - it pays to have the respect of half a ton of muscle - but Rain only ever gives him hugs and treats. It is an education watching a small blonde girl baby-talking a huge black stallion. Achilles loves it.

Skye and I fetched the cows, dry cows and calves at half past two. The workers always perk up when they see Skye heading for them, golden legs reaching, me clutching her reins and Thunder cantering alongside; it means that they just amble after us whistling while Skye does the work. I'm just along for the ride, really, and Thunder has a ball. He was squeaking again as we took the contours at a swift canter. Skye jumped up the smaller ones; I grabbed her mane, because galloping up hills bareback is quite difficult to do without sliding off backwards unless you hang on to something. "Hey, up!" I bellowed at the cows. They gave me bored looks, grass still in their mouths. Skye flung out her legs and in several mighty strides she reached them, and we shepherded them down through the newly restored gate, heading up and down and keeping them going at a slow canter or extended trot. Skye had broken a sweat once they were in, and Thunder grabbed a quick drink before we shot off at a slow gallop to fetch the other cows. It is absolutely wonderful to travel across good terrain on a fit horse; we just canter the whole way, which is the natural equine gait for going long distances, and Skye doesn't tire. She was sweaty and a bit breathless when we got to the Unchartered Territory where the dry cows graze, and she caught her breath picking her deft way across the rocks after the cows. Thunder loves galloping and he ran laps around us, his hooves small enough to be sure on the rocks, occasionally stopping to nibble at weeds. It took us a while to find the dry cows and heifers, but eventually we came across them and found Benjamin the donkey in their midst, his huge ears pricked. He's turning fourteen this year and he looks marvellous, sleek and fat, but fit from walking out with the cows. Thunder had never met Benjamin before and the donkey squared up to him, ears up, looking dominant. Thunder did the first stallion-like thing I've ever seen him try; he made himself huge, drawing himself up to his (small) height, his mane sticking up, and pricked his very fluffy ears at Benjamin. Skye and I intervened and Benji knows better than to mess with Skye; he beat a hasty retreat, Skye and I scolded Thun, and afterwards he stuck close by his mom's side.

Skye had stopped sweating and she had her breath back by the time we had to fetch the calves, so we warmed up a little with some trotting and then settled into an easy canter, pushing to a gallop on the uphills with Thunder squeaking in excitement alongside. Skye brought the calves home herself while I fiddled with the reins and practiced pulling them right, not half punching myself in the stomach like I'm prone to do but bringing my hand past my side towards Skye's hip. She patiently bore my fiddling and brought the calves home at a steady trot, head bent to the bit, hooves slapping on the puddles.

Once the calves were home it was half past three and we went off to brush the horses. Skye went to sleep, standing in the paddock with her reins over her head and no one holding her, while I brushed the sweat out of her golden coat and burnished it to its high sparkle. I eased a hairbrush through her mane and tail, teasing the knots of galloping out of her silver hair, and cleaned her big hooves. "About time for a trim, huh?" I said to her. She blinked sleepily. I wiped her eyes with a sponge and applied some Vaseline; she gets prone to sore eyes sometimes, particularly on windy days. She went on with her snooze while I brushed Thunder, who loves the feel of the bodybrush. I brushed his mane and tail too, though there isn't much of it, and tried to flatten down his forelock, and cleaned his teensy feet, though I could barely get the hoof pick into the clefts on either side of his frog, they're so tiny. He nibbled my shirt companionably.

"All done," I said cheerfully, twitching at Skye's rein to wake her up. "Want a carrot?" I asked. Skye's ears went up. I set off back to her paddock with Thun and Skye following in an orderly row, opened the gate, and went inside. Skye stopped, turning her head to let me unbuckle her throatlash and unhook her curb chain. She nickered loudly as the bit came out and was rewarded with her carrot. Thunder stood nearby, lipping the air. I gave him the tip of the carrot. He munched it blissfully. I thanked them for a brilliant ride and scooted; Mom wanted to go to town and I was covered in mud, water, sweat, nameless goo and horsehair. We were a bit late but managed to get everything done, including - most importantly - the library.

Now it's bedtime and Mom and Dad are struggling with Tylo, who is calving and having trouble. I'm holding the fort, knowing that my horses are grazing safely in their paddocks with troughs of water, fragrant hay and lush grass. It's been a long day, and a long blog; but days tend to be long and lovely around here, in the glorious summer, with family and school and horses and farm and writing to juggle...

... I need to go. I have to work on my outline for the Moonrise at Midnight series, and write a chapter in From the Open Book for my Canadian penpal. I need to start thinking of pitches for Sparrowhawk, the first draft of which I finished on the 29th at just over 160 000 words (groan), I need to... Actually, right now, my brain is telling me that I need to sleep. Goodnight, all. Goodnight...

January 1, 2011: It's That Time of Year Again

There is an evil little goblin creeping around, eating seconds. A second here, a second there... if he shaves a second off every other minute, thirty seconds are gone in an hour and seven hundred and twenty are gone in a day. Seconds add up. The Second Eater has munched his way through what seems like a considerable chunk of the year and now whoooooa everyone, how the heck did it become 2011?

Okay, forget the goblin, I know, I know. Actually, 2010 dragged. It poked along like a reluctant horse with its nose stuck out and its ears back and its tail clamped to its butt. October was the slowest month of the entire year; the goblin burped up all his spare seconds on October. Then came November 1, 2010, and the moment for which I'd been waiting for all year - "Firn, wake up, Skye's foaled." And a perfect miniature version of Skye huddling beside his mother, huge dark eyes staring irresistibly out of a honey-coloured face.

2011 began with a day like all the other days - an occasion, an event; a day in which the sun shone and the kites wheeled on an endless sky. How did we manage to invent boredom in a world like this? A day beginning like all the other days, with what should have been a fanfare. Instead, it was a cup of hot chocolate cupped in both hands, sitting in my hazardous dressing gown on my bed, having perfected the art of holding a book open without using my hands. I read continuously - whilst waiting for the internet to load, getting dressed, tidying my desk, even oiling saddles, though that one was a bit of a facer. I've gotten quite inventive with manners to hold open a brand new and very stubborn paperback. This morning my feet happened to be clean and handy, or possibly footy, so with a big toe on either side of Terry Pratchett's Making Money I engrossed myself in the world of Ankh-Morpork's finances and its chairman (Mr. Fusspot, who goes woof) and its chairman's owner (Moist von Lipwig, ex-conman and one of my favourite Discworld characters).

Outside, the sun rises and the birds wake up, but life only really begins when the milking machine bellows out and the thingy that goes tick tick starts to go tick tick. I've come to think of the tick tick thingy as the heartbeat of the farm, by which we go about our daily routine. Whatever happens, the milking must be done and the tick tick thingy is always there, tick ticking somewhere in the background. The calves wake up around this time and start to yell for breakfast. Today I was on calf breakfast duty, alongside Mom. Feeding baby calves is probably my favourite non-horse-related job on the farm, next to milking and herding. Those three all beat cleaning saddlery by a long way. Our Christmas baby, a strapping bullcalf called All Is Bright (Bright for short) whose mother Bettie decided to endow us with her handsome son on Christmas Day, was first to receive his breakfast; he flattened his bottle and was not impressed when it was finished, giving Mom a sharp kick on the knee to prove his point. The Shed was next, possibly the fullest place on the farm; a typical barn, which more professionals would frown at and which I am frankly in love with. It is stacked almost rafter high with white sacks of cow feed, salt licks piled in their cardboard packages, Mollie the barn cat yowling a greeting from one of the windows through which sunlight turns the orange walls to mellow gold, illuminating dust motes as it goes. There's always a bale of hay in the back with some of our lovely speckled Boschveld hens sitting in it, a handful more hens on fly patrol around the calves, yet more feathery bottoms above on the rafters. One wall is occupied by a row of calf pens, in which our smallest babies live. Small calves apparently have lungs made out of brass and they all had a good long bellow to let us know what they thought of our bottle-making speed. Even when four of them were blissfully sucking away the other four managed to raise a racket, accompanied by indignant squawks from the chickens and half-hearted growls from Mom's huge floppy dog and my little brother, Apollo, when a chicken sits on his tail. I was frantically shaking my two bottles in an attempt to get the medicinal powder off the bottom of the bottles and into the rapidly disappearing milk; IQ, the daughter of Imagine, and Helen, the daughter of Hester, were apparently racing one another. On my right, Mom's two calves, Bessie the daugher of Bokkie and Mislik, our very first successful A. I. calf, a son of Margie, were going at a slightly more sedate pace.

Everything went quite peaceful once the remaining four calves were plugged in - Benn, the son of my lovely old cow Blinkers, Speak For Yourself, the daughter of Say What You Mean, Mumslapp (don't ask) the daughter of Meisiekind, and Bruin Rokkie, the daughter of Bronwen. Next door, the sixteen inhabitants of the Old Parlour were setting up quite a racket. Equally full of chickens and cow feed, the Old Parlour was once our milking parlour, and perhaps the dusty, cobwebbed walls still remember a time when the tick tick thingy conducted our mornings and afternoons. Even if the tick tick thingy was still working, the calves would have drowned it out by now. The workers had gone through the feeding pretty fast - it's New Year's Day after all - and we had two of them helping us to feed the army. A row of huge black eyes looking intelligently out of little brown heads followed our every move as we got their feed and milk ready. There are so many now, when once we had two or three, grouped in little pairs in their pens. Danny Boy and Bedivere; Ouchy (long story) and Ruth; Mooney and Liquorice; Memory and Bulkie; Orabella and E. M.; Bucephalus and Breakthru; No Name (once again... don't ask) and Lekker Stout; Leodogran and Button. As we walked out of the Old Parlour to see if my dear Blinkers was still in her house, Mom spotted Margie, a cow about six or seven years of age, looking unhappy. We swooped down on her and she was grunting with every breath. She tried to get up and staggered violently. We wasted no time in getting 100cc of calcium and 10cc of cortisone into her and by afternoon she was fine.

Meanwhile, Angel and Ousus, in their pen, were bawling indignantly for their breakfast. Once they'd been given their bottles, we were done.

Well, the workers were done until milking time. 11:30 found us charging off to feed the cows their lunch. They have roughly 200 hectares in which to roam; by the time I had bridled Skye and vaulted, okay squirmed, onto her broad golden back, there was not a cow in sight.

"Where in the world are they?" I demanded, shading my eyes to look. Thunder was, as always, with us, his ears pricked. For some bizarre reason the hair in his ears has decided to grow out in great fluffs, so he looks a bit odd at the moment. Skye waited, patient and warm and willing, swishing her silver tail.

"Uh... there," said Rain, pointing. I stifled a groan. In the far distance, there were some rocks, if rocks usually wander about grazing. "Brilliant," I said.

Skye tossed her head, momentarily tightening the reins. I pictured her laughing expression. "Let's do it," I told her, and we did.

Trotting blissfully through the green, green veld, smelling the heady, grassy midday and the pollen that sprayed up when Skye's big sure hooves trampled wildflowers, watching little Thunder plunge through the grass and throw up his long legs as if he could fly over it, I felt free. Thun squeaked with excitement. When he gets very excited he runs out of breath and can't neigh; he gives a series of short squeaks instead. Skye shook her head, flapping her ears and mussing up her mane, laughing at her son. I smoothed her mane back down. We'd reached the cows; they lifted their heads and gave us innocent dark-eyed looks. Doing a quick head count, or rather back count, I said, "Oh dear. Where are the others?"

There were about twenty cows. We were about fifty cattle short. There was Samurai, Rain's 800kg ox, and two of my red cows, Benita and Bestie, and dumpy Mrs. X, and our top cow, Cappuccino. Terramycin the infamous, Anemay the Aborting, Hilda of the Strange Ears, Say What You Mean (better known as Sadie) and a handful of others. I pulled my knees up and knelt on Skye's back, bracing my hands on her neck, and still could see no more cows. Thunder sniffed at Anemay; unimpressed, she shook her ears at him.

"Let's shoo this lot along and see what happens," I decided. Easier said than done. Skye was willing, once I'd plonked back astride her, but Jersey cows can be really full of it if they want to be and what better time than New Year's Day to be a pain in the neck? They meandered about aimlessly, now and then breaking ranks and charging off to drink water despite the fact that they'd been grazing around the dam all day long, stopping to graze, wandering off in the wrong direction. Skye and I couldn't canter about and pull them together since the terrain was muddy. Big Dam lay like a great blue eye in the green, sparkling at us as if at a private joke. I yelled and whistled. "Ha! Ha! Get up! Get up! Move your bums!" Since that didn't work, sweet talk was the next step. "Good cowies," I crooned. "Run along, ladies. Uppity up. Let's go, let's go." If horses can roll their eyes, Skye did. I'd tried that sweet talk on her and it doesn't work. I tried the approach that worked with Skye. "Hup! Hup! Hup! Let's gallop! Let's gallop! There are carrots at home, you know!" The one word Skye likes more than "carrot" or "supper" is "gallop". She pranced, arching her neck to the bit, her starlight mane blown by her wind. She was firm and strong to my legs and soft to my hands, lifting up her legs, flashing her white star at the cows.

Once we got them going, we discovered the other fifty cows had been hiding behind a hill and were now ambling happily in the right direction. Having shoved our annoying twenty past Little Dam we were onto Silvermoor and could get a good move on. Skye was warmed up and excited; she loves herding. She plunged into Little Dam to chase a cow out of it, kicking up a wall of water, throwing her head clear of the spray. Thun followed, squeaking, making little rushes at the cows. He's getting the hang of it.

Onto Silvermoor I loosened the reins a little, made persuasive kissy sounds and dug my heels into Skye's sides. She leapt into a good steady canter, her neck still bent like a bow, her soft mane caressing my hands. The cows perked up; in two half-moons we had them in a tight herd, plodding purposely on. Thunder galloped, bucking, his long legs reaching like a greyhound's, his black foal mane sticking up straight on his thick neck. And this was living! Cantering through a field of yellow flowers, leaving a trail of pollen and butterflies! Holding between hand and heel more power and spirit and fire and grace and beauty than I had ever experienced in my life! Skye's mighty muscles lifting, pushing, her neck arched like a stallion's, her hooves flying. I laughed aloud as we joined up with the other herd and I let her gallop as we surrounded the others, condensing them all into one great moving mass of seventy Jersey cattle. Yes! This was life! Thunder ran so close I felt his breath; I played the reins a bit to bring her back to a canter and the spirit crackling down the reins was the thrill that wakes me and opens my eyes. This is life!

We got the cows fed and Skye, Thun and I galloped off home. There we discovered the one great hitch in New Year's Day when Thunder decided to jump through the big electric gate, breaking most of the wires. The little guy was unhurt, though a bit flabbergasted; the gate was a bit ruined. To make up for it, I helped Dad to patch it up and made malva pudding for supper. I cannot cook. I am a disaster in the kitchen. Even a soft-boiled egg is quite beyond me; most of the time it boils over. However, I attempt to make malva pud every now and then and the victims have lived to tell the tale, so, by my standards, it's a success. It's not the most challenging pudding. Like most Afrikaans cooking, it's very simple and very scrumptious; it's mainly sugar.

That left only a few jobs to do. One of them was spending twenty minutes underneath a tree, hosing off Achilles's injury. The poor guy tried to jump a fence and injured his Unmentionable, and then the painkillers I gave him once again made his neck sore, so that gets cold water on it too. He's used to it by now and goes to sleep sometimes, and I'm pampering him; with his neck he can't quite graze so I hand pick him some grass and stuff it in a haynet alongside the best eragrostis we've got. He's getting better.

So ended the day; at eight o' clock, with my last goodnight visit to the horses, and Skye's white star glowing like a beacon in the dark, her soft breath on my face saying goodnight. I hugged her neck, its muscled curve fitting perfectly into the circle of my arms. "May this year be filled with rides like this and hugs like this," I told her.

She gave me a sparkling look out of the darkest, deepest, brightest eyes I've ever seen. Then she yawned, contorting her entire face, and started to graze industriously. Her chomping teeth and the rip of grass are the most peaceful sounds in the world.

"I love you too, Skyecat..."