Like a Butterfly

I thought of my mother today, I can't say I have done that for a few weeks, she was all consuming for months, no years.

I had almost forgotten what it was like not to be worried about her and then she died.

I drew a line in the mental sand the night she died, I loved her but my life had been so filled with her I need a break.

I need to say that's enough, I too have a life and I must get on with it and I have.

I thought about her this afternoon when I took the compost bowl to

the compositor, passing the wild and out of control Michaelmas Daisies growing in the orchard.

They were covered in butterflies, oblivious to me they fluttered about their business, from one head to another and another and back again, there were almost too many for the flowers to accommodate, but there was no hassle, no argument, when one came along, another one moved and so it went on.

It reminded me of my mother, she used to give me when I was little butterfly kisses, brushing her long black lashes gently across my face, when I got older she said I had a butterfly mind, flitting from one thing to another and then back again. If I was worried she would tell me I had butterflies in my tummy, and she referred to herself as a social butterfly.

Maybe she was one of those butterflies this afternoon, returning to enjoy the late summer sun.

Yes a butterfly is how I shall remember her, beautiful, colourful and full of life.

“I dreamed I was a butterfly, flitting around in the sky; then I awoke. Now I wonder: Am I a man who dreamt of being a butterfly, or am I a butterfly dreaming that I am a man?” — Chuang Tzu quotes (China’s early interpreters of Taoism, 389-286 BC)

Blossom

A New Day

I awoke this morning to the frail voice of Harry Patch who until yesterday was the last surviving British soldier to have served in WW1, the last person alive who could tell you what it was like to be at a battle in which more than 70,000 British troops died,the third battle of Ypres (the battle of Passchendaele).

There remains just one British veteran Claude Choules, a seaman 108 years old and living in Australia.

My reasons for being drawn into thinking about this thin frail voice were various, but none more so than a reality check that was bought to me in March of this year, March 26th 2009 at 4.58pm the moment my mother shook off her mortal coils and left this world for good.

Harry Patch and my mother had little in common other than being "old".

Harry Patch had fought in a war before my mother was born, his voice was far more fail than hers, in fact one of the very last things she said in a bold and stroppy voice was "Oh shut up"!!

No, the thing they had in common is they are no longer here, and gone with them are the real accounts of life at the time they lived it, something I perhaps did not really get to understand until my mother was no longer there to ask.

Yes we can look it up in a book, we can ask someone who might know, we can watch a film to see them, hear their voices by the wonder of modern science, but what we can no longer do is ask them, get the live account from the person themselves.

It is said "That you never know what you have got until you have lost it" and this is so true.

How often do we get restless and irritable when an elderly person starts to say something and takes forever to do it. How often do we say to our children "Hurry up, get on with it, not now"

How much do we miss because we don't take the time or the trouble to listen, to look, to ask or understand.

My Mother

There was so much more to know,

I now know,

I know so little.

In my mothers home there were boxes and boxes of photographs many without names, of people I did not know, what story could they tell, and if they had told them would we have listened.

Our lives a full of high speed " important things to do" places to go and people to see, but do we really see them.

My mother was never very forthcoming with family history, I did from time to time try to prise more out of her, but it was never easy, but it was amazing how many things I knew about her that my sisters did not and how many things they knew I did not.

Harry Patch did not speak to anyone of his experiences in the trenches until he was 100 so horrific they were. When he did speak some listened but I am sure not enough.

Harry's voice this morning was enough to jog me into "blogging " again, its important that we look and listen, not just to the every day news, to the recent "pop song" or play on the radio, but listen to the little person who is pulling at your coat or jumper trying to tell you something that to them is "important" or listen to the elderly parent who just needs to speak, the more they say the more we will learn.

Heaven forbid we will ever have to hear the terrible story that Harry kept to himself for so long, I hope that lesson has be heard and learnt.

No its the smaller things that slip away with their human form, their soul, their memory and their voice. The things we take for granted when they are there.

Don't leave it until they are gone and if like me you didn't write down that amazing recipe that your mother used, you will find as I did yesterday that the only person who could give it to you again is no longer here.

The recipe below is one I did write down, my mother made it like no one else I know, I try and it is delicious and maybe one day I will be as good as she was.

The Very Bestest Cheese Straws in the World

My mother had been making these cheese straws for as long as I can remember,.

I made some for a buffet party once and realised that I just expected cheese straws to taste like this, however from the number of people who asked for the recipe and who have since made them and have been complimented they clearly don't all taste the same so here it is for those who

would like it.

2oz Plain Flour

2oz Butter

2oz Tasty grated cheese

1 Egg Yolk ( the whites can be saved and used for meringues)

2 teaspoonfuls of water.

Finely grated Parmesan cheese for rolling out on

Mix the butter and flour until crumbed, add the cheese and stir in.

Add the egg yolk and finally the water, mix gently into a ball.

Leave for about 20 mins to chill

Roll out on the Parmesan cheese and a small amount of flour.

Cut into strips.

Bake on a greased baking sheet in a medium/hot oven ( I can't tell you the heat as mine is Aga I use the bottom of the top to those of you who have one) ( will get back to you on the heat will ask Mother!!)

I am told that a hot oven between 180 and 200 hope that helps.

Leave to cool if you can!

This should make about 20 straws.

Increase the recipe for more and the raw pastry can be frozen in blocks for future use. this is a great recipe for using up the tatty pieces of cheese that lurk in the bottom of the cheese box.

Blossom

For My Mother and for Harry Patch and all those who's voice we will no longer hear.

Oman/ The Beauty Within.

The Middle East is somewhere until 10 years ago I knew little or nothing about, my father had spent time out there during the war and was less than polite about it and my husband was born in Libya.

I had watched the Gulf War on TV when I was in hospital in 1990 in fact it was the only thing on for the whole of the two weeks that I lay in bed with a DVT and my left leg in a full plaster.

So to me the Middle East was dust and bombs, tension and religion, tribes of men with little or no regard for women.

The thought that I would be sitting at a computer 18 years later trying desperately to find the words to describe the beauty of Oman and its people would be a million light years from my mind.
That however is what I will try to do.

I think to understand Oman and its people we have to know just a bit about their history, the land they live in and the speed at which their Sultan and the discovery of "Black Gold" has whizzed them into the 21st Century.


The very earliest reference to Oman is as early as 3000BC, when the Omani's who at that point were know Magan's traded in copper.The name Oman, is believed to have originate from the Arab tribes who migrated there from the Uman region of Yemen.
Many tribes settled in Oman making a living by fishing, herding and the breeding of stock It is possible for many of the present day Omani families to trace their ancestral routes to other parts of Arabia.

The Portuguese pillaged the villages and its people in the early 1500's to gain access to the very lucrative spice trade, they held fast for 150 years until 1650, when they were defeated bySultan bin Saif Al Ya’rubi.

Oman entered an era of prosperity at home and abroad, and many of the Sultanate’s historic buildings and forts date from this time. This all came to an end when civil war broke out between rival Omani tribes over the election of a new Imam. Persian forces seized the opportunity to invade and some coastal areas found themselves under foreign occupation once again.

This would be the last time that Oman would be invaded and by the 19th century it would be a sovereign power in its own right. As a country it would grow and prosper forging world wide links, and increasing its territories.This however came to an end in the early 20th century when Oman entered a period that would see it decline and once again become isolated from the outside world.

The 20th century saw rapid changes for the world but not for Oman, until 1970 the country was ruled by a very feudal system, it is the oldest independent State in the Arabian Gulf,and cut off from the modern world.
The search for oil began in the 1920s when a geological survey was conducted and that proved unsuccessful.The Second World War and other events interrupted exploration until 1962 when the first successful well was drilled, followed by others .
Oil production on commercial scale began in 1967.


Then in1970 when Sultan Qaboos came to power, Oman was almost as far removed from the modern, prosperous 21st century state we know today, as it is possible to get.

The people of Oman were poor and disadvantage, there was little or no infrastructure, school numbered very few only the wealthy had medical care. The wealthy Omani's left in their droves, to seek their fortunes abroad, Oman was bleeding from its heart the new Sultan with a vision that had until now not existed in Oman for several hundred years set about reversing this process encouraging his people to return home, throwing his power leadership and money into creating a strong nation. His people responded with enthusiasm and the Oman I was about to visit was born.

Blossom

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Memories/ Oman.... where the ancient world meets the 21st century

I have often heard it said "Life's adventures are 50 percent chance", I think it was that chance which took us to the wonderful world of Oman, where the ancient world meets the 21st century and together they walk side by side.


I have been to Dubai on several occasion and personally I cannot see the attraction, the last time I was there I felt that Sir Anthony Bamford had sent his rogue JCB's there (a bit like we sent our convicts to Australia) and they had all run wild and out of control building at high speed with no apparent thought for the history and culture that is so heavily felt in the Middle East.



I was quite excited when Emirates airways told my "lovely hubby" he must use up his air miles before his next birthday, but the excitement was short lived when I discovered that the miles would take us as far as Dubai or Oman.

Its odd how one clouded thing can give such a preconceived idea of another and that I am ashamed to say is the how I first thought of Muscat and Oman, tall buildings out of control JCB's and traffic jams... how wrong I was.

We very nearly ended up in Amman as the German girl who booked our tickets for us had difficulty understanding the lovely hubby and he in turned found her impossible to comprehend. Luckily the airport taxes for once in their life were our saving grace and the discussion as to why she thought they were one price and he thought they were another highlighted the mistake!

Unlike Dubai, the choice of hotels is limited, so after much research I narrowed it down to 3 that would or might suit our purpose.
More investigation and I disregarded the Chedi as I don't do minimalist and one report said a request in triplicate was required to get a plug for the bath as they are made of gold! how true it is I have no idea but its a good story.

The Al Bustan Palace, is very beautiful and highly regarded but as it has been under going a very high spec. facelife the advice was "no" not at the moment because it has been open and shut more often that a "truckers mouth when eating his triple burger and chips"

So it was down to one.. well three really as the Shangri laBarr Al Jissah boast three hotels on the same site, set beneath the mountains in its own bay catering for all needs it seemed like the perfect place.

My first choice was the Al Husan which is for adults only, and as the lovely hubby is not good with the noise that the under 8's make it seem like the right decision, until I read a review in the Telegraph raving about its wonderful attributes, and saying it was the hot spot for young wealthy Russian.
That did it for me, no way was I sharing a pool with Olga from Moscow in her size 00 1500$ bikini NO No No!! his nibs would have to put up with Miranda from Newcastle age 5 in her M and S knickers along with him in the pool.



As it turned out the children in the Al Waha were delightful, there were quite a few of them but rarely did we hear a grizzle or a tantrum and they gave a light relief to the "All Adult Point Scoring" that always seems to appear in any holiday hotel.






So it was by chance on a cold and miserable day in early November I found myself on a free business class flight to the Middle East, to a land that boast nearly 2000 km of coast line, with three sea's with magical names like the Gulf of Oman and the Arabian Sea, the interior is made up of nearly 82% desert, high mountain ranges and wadi's ( river beds).

I will in no way pretend this was a cultural tour, to broaden my mind and my knowledge... no it was more likely to broad my beam from too much food and the only reading I was going to do was a new novel I had bought. This was a holiday R and R to recharge batteries that were flatter than normal. I had resisted the hubby's mutterings of trips down wadi's and countless number of forts that can be found there. He most of all needed to do nothing and nothing was what he was going to do.

"You are going to be Mr Blobby the Beach Bed Boy!" and that's that I said
"If you don't slow down the children will not be waving a fond farewell to you when you set off to follow in your grandfathers footsteps across the barren wastes of a Antarctica in your retirement, they will be waving a final farewell through the crematorium velvet curtains whilst some tuneless music plays..

................. "so beach bed it is then"he replied!

We landed in the early hours of the morning, to be greeted by smiling people the the biggest and brightest eyes I have ever seen in any race of humans, I was in a very short time to become aware that all the things I dislike so much about Dubai were no existent here, and although my intentions were to do very little and to read only novels, this ancient world would soon be under my skin and I would want to know more about their ancient traditions, Simbad the sailor,and the Sultan of Oman who rules over this fast changing land, who is loved by all who live here.

It would be true to say that at the end of 10days we would have done an awful lot of sitting by the pool, swimming and eating, our batteries would be recharged, but it would have taken a stronger willed person than me not to have peeked outside and had a look at the mysterious world of Oman.

On our last night whilst sitting listening to the hypnotic music being played by two local musicians, and looking into an inking moon filled sky, I wondered how I would be able to put my experience into words for my cyber friends to read.

It would be impossible tell you what I had learnt about this ancient world until I had told you how I came to be here, my feelings before I came, and on my return.

So for them moment I will leave you with this and return at a later date to tell you why our minds, by a chance adventure would be charged with a desire to return and see more and find out more about these lovely people who embrace their heritage and at the same time take on board the challenges of an ever changing world.

Blossom

Memories/ Beaches, friends, sand and time out in Norfolk

As the credit crunch tightens its grip I have noticed the trend towards things that remind us of "The Good Old Days" or what we perceive to be the good old days, a leaning towards 1950's fashions, wholesome food, and the good old family seaside holidays.

I was fortunate enough a couple of weeks ago to be invited by my lovely friend Mags to spend a week with her in Norfolk at a small fisherman cottage in Wells-next-to-the -Sea.

I know little of the area but here I was to experience the uplifting feeling that "nostalgia" can give you, a lightening of the heart and mind and emptying of nervous energy that grips me in my daily life and an understanding as to why when the going gets rough, people look back and find the simple things they enjoyed.

There are places in the world that seem to go at a much slower pace than the rest of the world, chugging along in some respects but keeping abreast of the 21st century world on the whole, however they do life at their own pace.

This part of the Norfolk coast has that unique ability of staying still, but having said that its not dull and in need of modernizing its just managed to hold onto the nice things of the past.

The roads are quieter, the people walk slower, they stop and talk, muse about this and that and appear to be unhurried and contented.

Its always easy to say these things when one is on holiday, when you are not in a hurry yourself you notice more but I really don't think this was the case.
I have been to lots of quiet places around the world but the tension of everyday life can still be felt rippling under the surface.

Not so at Well-next-to-the-Sea ( which incidentally is not next to the sea, its next the the estuary but who's counting!), the town was busy when we arrived on Saturday afternoon, there was a buzzing holiday atmosphere, fishermen selling fresh fish, people enjoying ice cream and fish and chips on the quayside.

The tide was out and yachts laid helpless on the sand waiting patiently for the return of the sea, so they could once again bob up and down in their graceful effortless way.

We walked along the sea defense to the beach, and that is exactly what it was beach no sea to be seen, just miles and miles of wet sand.

The dogs loved every moment running in and out of shallow lakes of salt water left behind, the rows of beach huts painted in pastel seaside colours reminded me of the Marks and Spencer advert for their summer collection.
Twiggy and her fellow models rushing between the brightly paint wooden structure singing " I'm going to marry a Lighthouse Keeper" back to the 21st century's search for nostalgia.

We had the most glorious week walking along the Peddars Way from Holkham to Cley-next-to-the-Sea ( which is even further from the sea than Wells) and back again. Taking a boat to Blakney Point to see the seals, even Flora the Explorer enjoyed her trip, keeping an eagle eye on the ocean for pirates and such like.!!

Wet and tired dogs each evening steamed in front of a roaring fire whilst we ate fish and chips and watched TV or read endlessly those books we had been meaning to read.

Our days were filled with sunshine and friendship, wildlife and water, good food and good company who could want and ask for more in these dull and difficult times certainly not me.

I can fully understand why there is a fashion for "nostalgia" when life gets tough because the things that cost very little are the things that help us cope and make us feel much better.

Blossom

Memories/ Gardening! A Sod of a Hobby

I am not sure if I was born with an obsession for gardening or I grew into it. I cannot remember a time when I was not taken by all the wonders a garden produces.

I was born in a flat in the war battered City of Portsmouth, then grew up in a one of those seeming faceless drive through built up areas, on the outskirts. My father who had been banned by my mother from running a bookies office anymore bought the local newsagents and we lived above. None of these homes had gardens, but my grandmother with whom I spent a considerable amount of time had a wonderful garden, flowers, fruit trees, vegetable, greenhouse and a garden shed.

I was given at a very early age my own little patch, where I nurtured Radishes!! ( I loved them to grow hated them to eat, but there they were days after I have planted them!) Forget-me nots, nasturtiums, lettuce and anything else that was easy to tend.

Early summer took my Aunt and I to the nursery, they really were nurseries then, not garden centers full imported plants, but cluttered areas behind houses where dedicated nurserymen tended plants in all weathers bringing them birth to maturity and selling them to local enthusiast who would hopefully continue the process to give joy and beauty to all that viewed them.

Well that was the hope but as now I suspect that many of them wilted back into the ground from which they had come.Our nursery was run by Mr French and his boys, my Aunt would go along and choose boxes and boxes of bright red saliva's and bright blue lobellia for the front garden. I was not keen on these rather garish colours then and I still not keen now, how ever this was the fashion at the time and by mid summer they would all the be the same height and the same colour ensuring that everyone who went past would need sunglasses to look into the front garden.

My love was the back garden, the muddle of fruit trees, the runner beans and sweet peas, cherry trees that were covered with the fishing nets in the summer to stop the birds taking all the fruit, and my greatest love my grandfathers garden shed.

The smell of earth and seeds, drying daffodils and stored fruit. Old fashioned forks and trowels hanging from binder twine and a nail haphazardly banged into the wall.

This I think is where my love of the garden started.

I think I have chosen the three things in life that one can only remain a novice at

Riding
Gardening
Painting and Drawing.

No matter how much you know about anyone of these pursuits there is always someone else who know so much more.

FRED TO WHOM IS OWE SO MUCH

My gardening font of all knowledge was Fred and even he with all his years of experience hours of gardening RHS medals used to say" I'm just a beginner, you can never learnt it all"

He called everything by its Latin name, could lift from the gravel drive a tiny seedling turn it over and over in his had and then tell you its name, he would plant it in a small pot, put it in a cool spot and as far as I could see do nothing more but low and behold some weeks later a thriving plant would appear ready to be loving put into a prepared space in the garden.

We inherited Fred with a large piece of building land that we purchased back in 1979, along with the land came a huge house and garden and Fred who had tended the gardens there for some 20 years.

Land was built on, the large house turned into a Retirement Home and Fred moved about the place as buildings got pulled down or restored. He finally retired into a flat in the home and as retiring was not part of his life plan, I drove some 40 miles twice a week so he could come and help me become a better novice gardener.

With his help I transformed two gardens, one was a pretty cottage garden of our thatched 13th century home. Plants that I thought far to large to move were dug up and moved sometimes only a few feet down the bed and thrived, he taught me to put the right plant in the right place at the right time.

The other garden we started from scratch, high on a hill with terrible clay soil that was wet and heavy, was turned into a haven for wild life, colour appeared nearly every day of the year.

I feel it was a privilege to have had the knowledge of someone like Fred, so much knowledge went with him when he was released from his mortal coils in 1997. I miss him dearly and only once have I been brave enough to cut down the daffodils when they had finished flowering.

It was in the Spring the year after his death, a bright warm airless day dawned and I looked a the untidy heap of wilted leaves outside the back door and though it can do no harm to cut them back...........It did me a lot of harm! from nowhere as I cut the first green leaf came a blast of wind!! Frightened the life out of me, I swear to this day that Fred was warning me NOT to do that Madam ( he always called me)

When I think of Fred I think of the lovely Bernard Miles who used to talk on the radio on a Sunday night, one story was about a lady who had made an over grown garden look beautiful and the vicar said to her" Its amazing what we can do with a little bit of help from God"
"Yes she replied, you ought to see what it looked like when he had it to himself!"
My life went in a different direction and I left the garden Fred and I created and moved to another lifeless garden with a beautiful view. I have lived here now for 6 years and in that time I hope I have managed to create something that Fred and my Umpa( Grandfather) would have been proud of.

I still fail to remember the Latin names, plant the wrong thing in the wrong place, pull up young plants when I am weeding and swear profusely for doing it. I spend far to many hours in the garden leaving other thing undone, my hands are the sort that would do the before advert for hand cream, my back aches and my heart sinks when I returned from holiday and the weeds have run wild.

Its really is a "Sod of a Hobby" but I would not have it any other way, when I pick roses for the dining table or fresh vegetables for supper, or just walk round the garden in my pyjamas in the early hours or late in the evening I would not have it any other way the rewards out weight it all.

Its have given me patience, and some wonderful memories and friends.

Memories/ The Grey Horse.. A Fools Eye Full

Joseph and my daughter galloping through the sea

Horses are my passion as they are with many people, I could say I don't come from a horsey background but that would not be completely true. My grandfather and my father were both "Bookies" so I suppose they were horsey in a way.

However I love to sit on their backs, they just liked to back them or shall we say other people to back them.

I was told many years ago that a horse is never the "wrong colour"

"You neither ride the head or the colour" a wise old groom once told me.

That may well be true, and I have had many horses of many colours and many with very plain heads, but in my heart the horse that will always turn my head, make me loose all my common sense, fail to see the quite obvious faults, forgive it failings that would be quite unthinkable in any other colour is "They Grey Horse" not one horse but all grey horses.

It might have been the same wise groom who told me a grey horse is a "Fools Eyeful" and I have not doubt he was right.Why you might ask?Whats so special about the grey horse?.

That is something I can't really answer, maybe its the children's rocking horse reminder, the ultimate childhood prize, galloping across the hills, in a famous race, chasing Red Indians, or just trotting home in the quite of an Autumn evening and all from the same spot in the nursery.

My love affair with the "Grey Horse" started in 1961, when through the snowy television transmission I watched "Nicholas Silver" win the Grand National, only the second grey to win the race and the only grey to have won since the turn of the 20th century.

Since then many of these white beasts have caught my imagination and that of many others.

I have galloped with Tonto the Red Indian friend of The Lone Ranger, only its me on his magnificent white Mustang Silver.

How many of you who have no interest in racing or horses have sat transfixed the the television on Boxing Day when the wonderful and brave Desert Orchid romped home to win the King George Gold Cup a race he was to win no less than 4 times,Desert Orchid won 34 of his 70 races, amassing more than £600k in prize money. When he retired Dessie ( as he became known) raised thousands of pounds for charity, and his mere presence at charity events bought the public in their droves.Desert Orchid became a legend in his own lifetime. He died in 2006 at the grand old age of 27.

1946 is a life time ago and it is this far you will have to go back to find a grey who won the Epsom Derby when Airborne bought home this much sort after trophy. Silver Patriarch made a gallant effort in 1997 only to be beaten by Benny the Dip.

Milton the legendary grey show jumper who made the Tina Turner tune Simply the Best his own. He became one of the Great Horses in Historycapturing the hearts of all who saw him, and like his steeple chasing counterpart Desert Orchid he too enjoyed the star status in his retirement.

I remember the first time I saw the beautiful white stallions of the Spanish Riding School of Vienna performing their exacting and demanding routine to classical music, their "Airs Above the Ground" routine involve movements born from the battle field. They are a moving and memorable experience and even if you don't have a horse passion like mine if you get the chance to go and see them its worth every moment.


Grey horses have been favoured by kings and emperors.
Marengo an Arabian stallion, is thought to have been Napoleon's favourite horse which he chose to ride in most of his campaigns


Metropolitan Police horse Billy and Pc George Scorey saved King George V at the first Wembley Cup Final in 1923 when the crowd invaded the pitch. Scorey led Billy to clear the pitch, and from then on both were famous, their presence requested at many events.


Grey horses are typically descended from Arabian ancestors, and scientists have now identified the genetic mutation that turns the a horse grey and ultimately white, this could mean that they could all trace their parentage back to just a single stallion or mare more than 2000 years ago.
The grey horse is so popular on the racecourse that the summer meeting at Newmarket the home of racing holds a handicap race restricted to "grey horses only" which makes it a difficult choice for the housewife! as its widely believed that the housewife only puts her money on the grey!

So back to me, Yes I have had lots of ponies and horses of all colours and our most successful ones have been in fact chestnut, but its not really about the success is about the emotion that is stirred when I see the grey large or small.

Our first grey was Smokey ancient and lame he came to live in the garden, in the shed actually, a shed that had started its life as a beach hut, then became an Estate Agents Office and finally a home for Smokey. He had birthday parties and started my children's riding careers.

My son and a friend on Smokey

My daughter and Smokey

In October 1980 a friend rang me early one morning
" Do you have an empty field, we are desperate?" she cried

Willow in the early Spring after her arrival

Willow at her first show in 1981

I did and by tea time it was full of Welsh Section "A" mares and foals 15 of each. They had been diverted by an" angel" a friend of a friend had found out that they were on their way to the knackers yard, the last ponies on a Welsh stud, the owner of the stud had died suddenly and the family wanted rid of all the animals, she heard about it too late to save the yearlings and two year olds but she managed to divert the mares and foals en route to their demise.

So there they all were as wild as hawks, unhandled, dirty and unweaned. Several hours were spent, phone calls made and by the end of the week I was left with two mares for £75.00, one 4 year old bright bay and one grey with a big head! ( Ken the groom would have laughed at me now).

The bay was beautiful and stood about 11.2hh, the grey was far from an oil painting but moved like a dream.

The bay took us months to break bucking off all and sundry but a winter out in the field after we all thought it was hopeless reaped its rewards and she went onto be a reliable and constant First Ridden Pony at top class shows.
Now the grey with the big head......7 years old never had a head collar on, had run all her life on the stud with the stallions and produced 4 foals.

My daughter and Willow 1982

We called her Willow, everything hung down, her mane, her beard, and her tits!
She became the love of our lives teaching both my children all they know, easy to break and handle, easy to love and properly produced she looked "smart" in the local show ring.
She jumped anything she was asked to making sure her little jockey was still on board when she landed.

Jumping for Fun with my son

I loaned her to umpteen people and she ended up in a small children's riding school.

Ahhhhhhhhhh I hear you say what a place to go a riding school... this is no ordinary riding school.
Its run by two delightful sisters, they keep only ponies is a quite village under the Downs, parents put their children's names down for a place almost before conception, and Willow continued to teach the children of Sussex to ride.

Out there in the city and the big wide world, there are literally dozens of young men and women who owe their ability to ride to Willow.
My husband went and released her of her mortal coils early this year at the grand old age of 35 in a field under the South Downs some 28 years later than intended.

Joseph my 15hh grey came into my life in 1992, a Thoroughbred/ Connemara cross who failed the vet badly and cost a constant fortune to keep fit and on the road, terrible in traffic, and hated to jump ditches but the funniest and kindest horse on God's earth, my daughter and I shared him, she evented him, her ability to get him over a ditch never failed to amaze me, and I hacked around the countryside away from the roads. He was my friend and confidant, who sadly did not make Willows old bone, his rather crocked body gave up in 2000 at the age of 22.

Muddy George

We also had two other grey's George and Mallachy who lived in harmony with the bays and chestnut's, dark browns and coloureds.

The greys were a nightmare to keep clean, they went to shows wrapped from head to foot in rugs and bandages in a vain effort to keep them clean, that was a success in dry weather but in the mud someone followed them around with a bucket of water and a sponge, no wonder I am on the very verge of complete lunacy having spent a lot of my time with grey show ponies and a teenage daughter!!
Champion Joseph

I don't have horses anymore and I am not sure that I ever will ...........but then if through the mist comes a grey horse maybe this fool's eyes will be filled again.

My thoughts whilst writing this blog have been of Smokey, Willow, Joseph, George and Mallachy, who to me were simply the best.

Blossom

A kiss for George