Tuesday, 31 July 2012

Morning walk, 31st July 2012

Sploshy and wet but that does mean lots of lovely raindrops. All sparkly. I think I am essentially shallow, as I do like shiny things.













 Dog was wringing wet, and I love the pattern on her neck and back fur when she is. This is amazingly difficult to photograph. Normally dog will stand when told, but she wanted to be an active part of the photography process.




Morning walk, 30th July 2012

The grass is always greener. 






A black and white experiment.



Friday, 27 July 2012

Fancy Dress

I was fossicking about in PONY magazine from 1966 earlier this week, trying to see if the Win-a-Pony competition that Dragon Books ran back then actually had a winner. Yes, it did. It was Barbara Slack, from RAF Topcliffe.

Whilst going through the magazines, I came across some more fancy dress, which regular readers will know I have a bit of a thing about. So here, from 1966, are a couple of fine examples.

I love the pony as tea table: I love the tree at his nose even more. The exhibit was the Mad Hatter's Tea Party, which I guess you can work out as long as you are not distracted, like me, by what was on the table and how it stayed there. No super glue in those days.


And here, because I love the look on Mary's face, is "Mary and Joseph", who came from Wellingborough, our nearest town. I'm not quite sure what Mary is holding there, but she does look as if this costume class is the absolute last place she wants to be. She's riding a jenny - a rare appearance.



Photographs courtesy of PONY Magazine



If you liked that, there's more fancy dress here:

A Bit More Fancy Dress

And Yet More Fancy Dress

The Majesty that is the Fancy Dress Class

Ponies of Britain Magazine



Morning walk, 27th July

No FPIs, no HABs, sky monsters, other dogs. Just one tripping incident. And everything being rather blowsy, and dripping wet from the dew. Thank goodness I still haven't got round to buying replacements for my split wellies. Nothing like a cold, wet foot to reassure you that all is right with the world.





Thursday, 26 July 2012

Morning walk, 26th July 2012

Misty morning. Scaffolding up on the church tower - an anonymous donor has paid for the clock face to be re-gilded. I am so used to it being a bit on the dull side that it had never occurred to me that re-gilding was an option. I'm looking forward to seeing what it will be like (though there might be a bit of a wait - though the scaffolding went up yesterday, signs of work being done today there are none).






Dog, ah, dog. You know you're not allowed inside, don't you? And you know why. I don't know if you, readers, know about the Neverseconds blog - the author grades her school meals, and hair quotient is one of the measures. I think one of the measures of my walks should be FPI - fox poo incidents. FPI=1.




Morning walk, 25th July 2012

A couple of days ago, I mentioned in the comments that dog is not imperturbable. She is perturbable (if that's a word). Lovely sunny mornings are all very well, but they do tend to bring out other things besides dog walkers; things like hot air balloonists. These are dog's absolutely least favourite things in the whole world. 



Here it is. Long distant, but they don't have to be close.


Sheep know the dog's there. Dog has not yet spotted the HAB.


Now she has. Lead on at this point - if not, she will bolt. I thought the HAB was probably far enough away not to bring on total hysteria, so we carried on the walk. Dog was brave, and managed to survive by sticking close to my legs.





Morning walk, 24th July 2012

Catching up. It's a learning business, this author stuff. I now find I am a picture researcher. People get paid for doing this sort of stuff, and I can entirely see why. Dog still needs to be walked though, as do I. We went to see if the piglets were out yet. No.








Tuesday, 24 July 2012

Morning walk, 23rd July 2012

Sun! Apologies for those of you in the north who have none. 


Here is a picture of my shadow. There is no picture of what happened next. One moment I was striding along after the dog, the next I was face down in the wet grass. The camera was sodden, I was a tad damp, and deeply, deeply grateful that my plummet had avoided the very fresh dog poo and the squashed fox poo  not that far from my face. Dog was utterly unconcerned by my disappearance. Obviously photographing the floor, she thought.



Now upright again and setting off after the distant blonde blob that is the dog.











Review: Hilary Bradt - Connemara Mollie


Hilary Bradt: Connemara Mollie
Bradt, July 2012, £9.99

Hilary Bradt's website


Thank you to the author for sending me this book

I used to regard travel literature with wariness. The first I read was Round Ireland in Low Gear by Eric Newby, and was given to me by my husband before we were married. At first I reared away with suspicion from the book, as in those days I only ever read 19th century classics, and Eric Newby certainly wasn’t that.  Fortunately for the breadth of my education, if not my mind, I have always been unable to resist the pull of the printed page, no matter what was on it, and I was hooked.

Nevertheless, it’s been a fair while since I read the story of a journey on horseback, but I would read this one again in an instant. I fell asleep reading it, rather late at night, but woke up again (fortunately) a couple of hours later, and finished it. Connemara Mollie is certainly a tale of Ireland and its beauties, but it’s more the story of the many, many Irish people whom Hilary Bradt met on her ride, and who were almost unfailingly hospitable, and of her Connemara pony, Mollie.

Hilary’s ride had its genesis in pony books. As a child she had what seemed to me as I read it almost mythic good fortune: she was a member of Harrods’ Children's Library, and every week a Harrods van would draw up at their gate, and whatever Hilary wanted to read would emerge. That was generally a pony book (though she remembers with ire the day when the library got it wrong and sent her Little Women, a classic that to this day she has not read). One day, she was sent Primrose Cumming’s Four Rode Home: not a pony girl tale of gymkhanas, but four children who ride from the New Forest home to Kent, and it sowed a seed. She did not then have her own pony, and was somewhat scuppered by the fact she was desperately allergic to horses; a disadvantage which, you will have gathered, she outgrew.  Hilary Bradt grew up to become a travel writer and publisher, but still with that yen to do a long ride on horseback. With a broken marriage behind her, she decided to do the ride. The ride was very nearly not Ireland; in fact it only was because of her terrible handwriting. The friend she wrote to for advice on the trip misread Iceland for Ireland.  And so, in 1984, she set forth.


She acquired her saddle before she ever acquired her pony: a friend knew of someone who had an unwanted saddle in their garden shed: it turned out to be a new Army saddle, built for endurance. With the saddle, and all her camping paraphernalia, she set off to Ireland to find a pony to use with it all. That journey in itself was a feat of grim endurance: there were no taxis, and she had to lug her possessions in relays on and off ferries before she ever got as far as Willie Leahy, from whom she bought Mollie, “the old-fashioned type of Connemara, “ grey, good in traffic, responsive, and happy to stand still while tied. 

Her plan was to ride south from Clifden, “with no final destination in mind”. She accustomed herself to Mollie, and to long rides, by going on one of the treks Mollie's former owner, Willie, led along the Connemara Trail. It was agony. Her bottom was so sore she considered a transplant. But she adapted.
She rode north of Lough Corribe, down to Kinvarra, and through the Burren and on to Anascaul. The Ireland that emerges from the story is wet, beautiful, and endlessly hospitable. She soon learned that the phrase “a lovely soft morning” meant it was raining. There were a great many lovely soft mornings. There were a great many lovely people; who fed her, and let her camp, and who let Mollie graze: in orchards, fields, and memorably, in a bare hostel garden with a flapping clothesline for company. You are left in no doubt about the beauty of Ireland, a beauty which Bradt preferred to experience alone:

“I wondered what it would have been like travelling with a companion.  It had been a tough day, full of anxiety, the sort of day that would have been merely an adventure with someone to share it. But although a trouble shared is a trouble halved, it’s not the same with beauty. I’m not sure that my spirits would have soared to the same heights if I had discussed those sea views with a friend.”

But of course she was not alone; there was Mollie. Mollie who initially would not be caught; whom Hilary spent hours trying to catch on her first morning; who had no idea what titbits were and would not be caught by them; who had firm ideas on what proper food was (recognisable horse nuts, and grass) and what proper water was (it came in a stream, not a bucket). But Mollie and Hilary grew together. Mollie learned to appreciate apples, eating her first in a moment of absent mindedness, and snorting with surprise and pleasure once she tasted it. She would jump the stone walls that Hilary dismantled on her journey; and there were lots of those. In one memorable ride, they journeyed four miles in as many hours. There were few gates, and each wall had to have the top layers removed, Mollie led or jumped through, and then the stones carefully replaced. There were bogs, and in the last, traumatic ride over the mountains from Anascaul along the Valley of the Cows, many bogs, which Mollie sank in, up to her belly, her chin resting on the soggy ground, and from which, time after time, she hauled herself.

The writer has an unfailing honesty and self deprecating humour that make you glad that although she made the journey on her own, she is still willing to share it with you.  She tells you what she sees, and describes the people she meets with a clear view, but always with generosity. Most of all, this is the story of a brave Connemara pony, and her rider, the relationship between the two of them described with an obvious, but understated, love.  This is a true story; the ending desperately sad. It continues in another volume, Dingle Peggy, out in 2013. I will be queuing up to get a copy.


Friday, 20 July 2012