Badminton Horse Trials

He hates it when I watch horses on the TV. I can't do it quietly you see. There are shouts, squeals, tears, oooooohs and ahhhhhhhs at the enormous fences they jump. And he's not that keen on my running commentary all the way through.

What a good job he was away last night so that I could go to bed at 8pm and watch hours and hours of Badminton Horse Trials on the iplayer. A thrilling and iconic competition which made me miss Fletch terribly. I hardly slept for dreaming about attacking the Vicarage Vee or the impressive lake complex. My body was full of adrenaline and excitement for believing that one day I would do it again.

My time with horses is not over. I have just had a little break.

This is only the beginning.

Hanging up my pelvis

An unexpected lump hit my throat after I waved goodbye to the last set of expectant parents yesterday. I had to take a sharp intake of breath in stages to prevent the tears from falling. I didn't expect to feel emotional after my last antenatal session as a teacher of birth and parenthood preparation classes, but I did.

It was a long and drawn out training to become an antenatal teacher, the course took me 4 years to complete as I tried to fit in essay writing around having a toddler and a baby. I discovered I had passion, real passion about women's birth experiences and wanted to be a small part of parents new journey, as they set out on the enormous path of having a baby.

It has been fun, it has been challenging, there have been many tears and there have been hundreds of adorable babies. I have met some weird and wonderful people along the way, all of whom have enriched my life enabling me to grow and learn.

Thank you to each and every one of you.

Leaving

Leaving makes you appreciate the place in all its rose-tinted glory. There is no rain in the memories, or mud, or Saturdays full of endless homework and tantrums. There is no tedious housework, managing builders and daily trips to the train station. There is only love, blossom and floral bunting - like an article in Country Living magazine. I brought my children up in the heart of the Sussex countryside, and now we are leaving.

As I drove into the car park of the village hall, I sat for a few moments and saw my younger self taking A to preschool, P on my collapsed hip as she sucked her dummy furiously. I smile briefly at times past, of both children learning to play, to have friends, to run in school races and to try standing on the stage for their first Christmas nativity.

I drive past Bodium, Bedgebury and Batemens. The three B's which saved my sanity. A mornings wander with my babies and a needed coffee afterwards - there was half a day gone, now to fill the other half before he gets home. Life with two preschoolers seems so very, very far away.

The garden has plants I planted when we first arrived in Sussex - faithfully flowering every year, watching the children grow too, hoping not to have their heads knocked off with an over zealous football.

Nine years has passed in happiness (mainly happiness) - the formative years of my children's lives, and as we get ready to leave, I see the significance of it all.

The twelve week countdown to Mallorca begins and among the packing, the organising and the planning I am starting to say goodbye - goodbye to the memories of Sussex, both little and huge.

Saying it slowly and with thanks.

Ten

Ten years ago I pored over her moses basket, checking her breathing and hardly believing she was ours. And here to stay.

I did the same ten years later, watching over her and stroking her poorly forehead as she finally found sleep after a violent episode of vomiting - on her 10th birthday - how completely unfair.

I wonder where the next ten years will take her?

Happy birthday big girl, double figures forever. I love you very much, get better soon and we will celebrate all over again at the weekend.

End of an era

It's days like yesterday I miss him most. Those sunny starts to the day, knowing that very soon I would be greeted by warm breath and a velvety nose. It has broken my heart that he is no longer in my life, and like any long relationship that ends, the grieving process takes a while.

Fletch has gone to someone braver and stronger than me. I am sure he will teach them to fly, to win ribbons and to sit tight. Although that was a lot of fun, what I really miss is the stroking, the grooming, the fussing, the touch and his gentle face. I really miss him an awful lot.

And just like when I used to break up with a boyfriend in my teenage years, when I would play records which reminded me of our good times - I have taken to looking at all the photographs of Fletch and I together. With tears rolling gently down my face, adding more puffiness and wrinkles to the already haggard visage, I remember our three years.

I know it will fade, all this hurt, the future is bright for me and my family.

But for now, the comforts of watching us over and over again is helping, hardly believing that it was me up there on that beautiful ginger horse.

This year

I'm not sure about this year. There were highs and lows, as in every year, but the end of this year has clouded the first part for me. My goodbye to Fletch has been the hardest part emotionally. Well, if it's only a horse that has let you down, I hear you say - then count yourself very lucky indeed.

Yes he was only a horse. He was also my challenge, my reason to work (once the bills have been paid of course), he was my inspiration and a need. I feel very lost without him, bereft and lacking in purpose - but I couldn't take the risk any more, being thrown off a little too often than was safe.

We travelled a lot - discovered spring meadows in Greece, raved till sunrise in Ibiza, trekked with donkeys in Romania and visited good friends in Mallorca. Extremely lucky and proud to have shown our children foreign lands - apart from Ibiza of course, they can do that when they are 18, and I don't want to know. He and I worked hard and developed our careers, mine fulfilling me greatly - his not so.

My main memories of 2015 will be of fixing things. The house was repaired, damp penetrating every part, the cars were maintained, the cooker an ongoing 8-week nightmare, the boiler busting, the computers crashing and a royal blue carpet finally replaced. The house looks nice.

So what for 2016?

I really do not know. A new job for him could take us anywhere. A horse of my own? A writing career?

Certainly I hope to open up the world a little wider for the children. And drink more water.

Happy New Year all, may 2016 be a healthy and generous one.

Daffodils in December

Dear Fletch

Dear Fletch,

Yesterday was the last day I will ride you, being unceremoniously dumped for the sixth time this year was that one fall too many. I feel we have to end it now before one of us gets hurt, that one-of-us is probably me.

This is such a difficult letter to write as we have had so many wonderful times together over the last three years. You have taught me so much, how to ride, how to face my fears, how to be disciplined and how to never give up -  although now I do have to give you up and its breaking my heart.

I don't know why you do those massive leaps and bucks. I don't know what monsters you see in the bushes everyday, I don't know why a small cross pole still excites you to the point of being uncontrollable. I do know that when you behave, you are amazing, taking me higher than I ever dreamed I could.

Maybe you just don't want to be ridden any more. Maybe you want to be free of a rider on your back, I understand that. Maybe you want to graze the fields in your later years. Maybe you are bored of working. You are trying to tell me something and this time I am listening.

I love you very much Fletch, my eyes are swollen and puffy having to end it this way. Your beautiful chestnut body leaps out of walls as photographs show how good we were together. Rosettes prove our prowess.  I hope you make somebody as happy as you made me.

You will always have a place in my heart, you very special horse.

Sxx

Mama and daughter

I guess it was always a dream of mine before they were even conceived. To ride alongside my child.

I remember a time in Spain, in those years we lived in Seville before children, when desperate for some equine action I rode in the Donana National park. We were given wonderful Andalucian horses of free spirit and impeccable training to explore the wild nature of the landscape. We cantered with wide grins sharing the same language of love for horses. The owner of the stables took us out - his long, wavy gypsy hair flowing in sync with the horses mane. His 8 year old daughter accompanied us as well - and as we cantered along the dry and dusty tracks, the father and daughter would hold hands, singing a song about how much they loved each other.

I want that one day, I thought at the time.

And so I do.

The Summer of '96

It's been a slog the past few months. A real never-ending slog of work, routine, house repairs and sorting out our shit. The stuff accumulated over the 8 years we have lived here is inconceivable - piles of papers, junk and reminders of bygone days.

In amongst the dust and the filth, I found a little book. This little book was made for me by a friend called Jo, delightfully drawn depicting our days working with animals in Corfu - and partying hard by night. We met in the Summer of  '96, we were both 23,  Jo helped me out at the stables despite knowing nothing about horses at all.

I sat amongst the boxes of junk ready for the second hand shops and was transported. Where are you now Jo? We had such wild times that summer.

              

We would get up hungover, drink Greek coffee and eat stale bread before work

Next we would feed the zoo of animals at a tourist hotel and drive up the Corfiot mountains in a Fiat 500, with Patchy Poo, the Jack Russell, and a couple of packets of fags

Hoffy, the 45 year old horse, would wait at the gate politely while the others trashed their fencing and had a party on the yard

Despite never sitting on a horse in her life, Jo and I galloped and jumped around the Corfu terrain, taking care to avoid the slumbering tortoises and the grey and brown snakes

Lunch times by the pool - a 5 hour break in the heat of the day

Feeding the horses, mucking out and grooming, with cigarettes on an abandoned car as the sun went down

Partying hard at night - with 2 hours sleep - doing it all over again the next day

If anyone knows Jo Eve - with outrageously curly hair and a talent for drawing - please get in touch. I missed her a lot today.

National Poetry Day

This is the only poem I remember, which I could recite aged five. I can see clearly the page on the beautiful book it was from, it makes me feel cosy and safe to recall.

Come to supper Sarah
For it is getting late
There's bread and fruit and honey
Waiting on your plate.
"I'm just coming Mummy
see what made me stop
the sun has turned a lovely red
just like a lollipop!"

A fitting end to the perfectly autumnal day.

Turning back to look at Brazil

It's a busy life, with hardly a moment to take stock - I would think most of us would agree. The paid work, the cooking, the scrubbing, the admin, the children, their activities, the holidays, the term time, the garden and pets. And horses. It's so difficult to fit it all in and hardly a moment to enjoy the fruits - because we all seem to be labouring very hard. A sentence I read in a book last night made me reflect and smile:

"Sometimes you have to turn around, if you keep just looking forward you miss the best views!"

You could argue we should live more in the present, in the now, but looking back gives me so much pleasure, a sense of reading someone else's stories, a different person to who I am now. It fascinates me.

My time in Brazil has come up in conversations about travel and the impending Olympics. I looked at my fading photo's in a drying album the other day, the biro's colour drained as it describes my whereabouts and wild times. An adventure a long time ago with my bezzie, with horses and cowboys, jacaranda trees and enormous toads. A view so incredible that if I had not taken time to turn around it may have faded into deep and distant memories. Always there, but more and more difficult to recall.

Geraldo would grin wide showing the numerous gaps where teeth once used to be. He would start to sing softly as his young horse jig-jogged down the red dust tracks and out of the corral for the day. We all were mounted and prepared for a long day in the saddle, the sun strong, as you would expect it to be in the summer months of Brazil - our heads starting to throb with the intensity almost straight away, the sweat dampens the horses coat and Geraldo makes a cigarette. He does this with such expertise. Although missing a few fingers from drunken mistakes he manages to nimbly roll a piece of ordinary paper and tobacco and stick it all together with sticky-spit - while riding and controlling his young steed. We all smoked as we rode, taking care to avoid the armadillo holes, the rattle snakes and the running emu's. The days work to check the cattle many, many miles away - to disinfect new umbilical cords, to treat wounds, to kill those unable to survive. Hours and hours were spent on the back of a horse that summer, riding to see some cows and riding back again as the sun dipped and toucans flew over head - as Geraldo gently sung his folk songs, the horses listening to the melody, and us all dreaming of our dinner.

*Geraldo on the far right

All the fun of the fair

The music pumped out of the various rides, enticing us on - scream if you want to go faster. The sun was low in the sky, saying goodbye to another beautiful spring day in Sussex. The gaudy lights and flashing bulbs encouraged the kids into a frenzy. Two pounds fifty for the bumper cars, three pounds for the twister, another two pounds for a walk through some badly painted rooms and down a slide. And another one pound fifty for the mirror maze - but the toothless man selling this experience was too delightful to refuse, maybe a gypsy, maybe not - caring about our health and safety and letting him on for free, so that the children didn't walk straight into the mirrors. I thought that was the point.

All this catapulted me back to my youth, we looked forward to Bridgwater fair all year in Somerset. In fact we saved up for weeks. The excitement of fair week was palpable at school.

"Goin' up fair tonight?" we'd ask each other, forming little gangs to roam the huge fairground.

We'd work out what we were wearing in friendship groups, hang out by the cool rides and eat candy floss provocatively. For the fair was not just rides for entertainment, it was a pulling ground, a flirtatious place, a time of year when you hoped to bump into the boy you fancied or catch a wink from the gypsies selling the the fairground dream.

I smiled as we left our tame Sussex village version of a fair - a group of girls in hot pants and denim jackets, eating chips and toffee apples sauntered past us. And two minutes later a group of lads appeared from the other direction, staring sidewards out of their floppy fringes, looking but not looking.

Media floozy

When I was a kid, a very long time ago, I enjoyed writing off to magazines. I would send pictures of my pony, write letters to problem pages - the equine variety, enter competitions and write short stories. I loved the thrill of buying the next magazine and seeing if I had made print. I even won £10 once for voicing my opinion on gymkhanas, I know -  and that was a lot of money all those years ago.

It seems I have had a run of equestrian magazine success again of late. My childish self has sent photos of Fletch with little stories of our success and failures to magazines asking for readers input. Come on, it was the only way I was ever going to be published in the Horse and Hound. 

                 

And Local Rider magazine - Local Rider being the whole of the South East, not just my village.

But the best most exciting piece of news so far, is that Freddie the Shetland, the little pony that the children ride, is going to be a super-star. I entered him into a competition to be the mascot of Forelock Books...and he WON! Freddie is to have his very own photo shoot, the girls won a full set of books and he is going to be in various magazines. 

It's made my week - and the girls - as we sit on the sofa full of chest, sinus and ear infections.

Ladybird books

                          

Just look at these book covers - how do they make you feel?

I was transported back to very early childhood and learning to read, and to a time which I had thought I had forgotton. So nostalgic and so very calming, back to a time of endless summer and looking for crickets. To my five year old self whose memories of are very sketchy and have almost completely disappeared.

Ladybird by Design is a beautiful exhibition currently running at the De La Warr Pavillion in Bexhill-on-Sea.

The children loved it. A loved the book 'Shopping with Mother', P loved seeing the 'old-fashioned books', my friend and I loved naming the ones we had owned, the ones we remembered and the ones our sisters coveted. It was a completely delightful afternoon. I might just have to go back.

For one hundred years, Ladybird books have delighted children, their parents, grandparents and teachers alike, taking readers on a journey of discovery and enlightenment. Affordable and accessible, Ladybird books hold a significant and affectionate place in the collective psyche of the nation, conjuring up, through written word and illustration, life in Britain in more innocent times.

Looking back

It was a good one, two thousand and fourteen.

I achieved my equestrian goals of competing in a show jumping competition and a Novice dressage test - doing quite well in fact with lots of fluffy rosettes to show for it. I pushed myself further and into scarier realms than I thought possible. It would be easy to sit on my laurels from now on and enjoy the ride, pardon the terrible pun, but I think I will kick on, reach higher until one of us can do it no longer. Fletch being 21 years old and me pushing 42.

Fletch gave me some incredible highs over 2014, and some scary lows - I guess it is all about the yin and the yang and finding a natural balance with your horse. One thing I know for certain is that my parenting, my work, my home life and relationships all benefit from having this huge ginger beastie in my life. He puts the small stuff into perspective for me, settles my jumbled mind by blowing sweet hay-breath on to my face, he keeps me on my toes and never lets me take anything for granted, he's hard work but the rewards are worth more than gold, he keeps me calm and reflective, he soothes my adrenaline and is the cause of it - thank you Mr Fletcher for 2014, undoubtedly the most successful horsey year of my life.

We travelled far and wide giving ourselves a little more adventure than we thought we could manage. We challenged the children to a couple of weeks in India, a colourful experience in Kerala amongst the elephants and saris with stories of leeches and tactical pukes on the side of the roads, between the rickshaws and mopeds. We all loved India, really loved it. I will go back.

The children grew fast, as they do. A has elongated, has an oval face and still the wide blue eyes. Something has clicked for A in 2014, she dances how the others dance, she can tackle maths homework without a tsunami of a meltdown, she uses better vocabulary, she can do the rising trot, she remembers and loves her travels. Still she is kind. P grows too fast, provocative and scary when let loose in H & M. She delegates, ie gets her sister to do it, she does the least amount of work possible to be on the 'best table', she learnt to ride a bike and swim properly. She was the narrator in the school play doing a sterling job - I can see her on the stage in the future.

Perhaps most significantly we decided to stay in Sussex. Dreams of travelling and home-schooling were laid to rest, an organic small holding in Spain was disregarded and a city-life in Barcelona rejected. We decided to stay on the hamster wheel of life, work hard, have small adventures which fit into the school holidays and decorate the house. It felt good when we came to that conclusion in November. 

But now it's January - and I'm not sure that's the best decision I've ever made.

Laos

I need to listen to the rice grow but all I can hear is the never-ending lists in my head. Renew your driving license. Buy my father-in-law a gift. Make panforte. And chutney. Wrap the presents, probably better to buy them first. Order a turkey, poor bugger. A needs some sparkly shoes apparently. They haven't written to Father Christmas yet, not sure if they are doing their advent calender in order. My head hurts, my teeth hurt, my cheeks hurt, the sinus is screaming so I wouldn't be able to hear the rice grow even if I was there.

The phrase comes from how the people of three Asian countries define their characteristics, possibly how the French defined them in colonial times. It is said that the Vietnamese plant the rice, the Cambodians watch the rice grow and the Lao listen to the rice grow - such as is the pace of life in Laos. I liked it a lot, Laos, we arrived in Luang Prabang with little A fluttering in my tummy, all but 18 weeks developed. I feared not the exotic food and traditions on my unborn baby, but embraced the serene pace of life before the chaos (I had been told) ensued, once she was born. I sipped at the strange drinks, ate the fried seaweed strips topped with chilli and sesame, wandered around temples in the rain and watched geckos underneath whirring fans of times past. We slowed to a pace so hard to find amongst our own lives.

But this Christmas I will take time to listen to the children giggle, listen to Fletch grinding and crunching through his hay, I will listen to their carols - and not let my mind wander - and to the glug of the red wine from the decanter. I will hear the cats delicately paw my duvet, I will appreciate the silence of dawn and I will listen to peoples needs. This Christmas I will listen to the rice grow, Sussex style.

Brighton rocks

You forget what's out there if you spend too much time at home, on the school run, or at work and trotting around the country lanes. It's all very well and lovely, my Sussex life, the gentleness, the everyday-ness and the calm of the countryside - sometimes I don't even know I need some culture to inspire me and jiggle the creativeness back into action.

Brighton with its laines, shop after shop selling interesting, quirky, hippy, vintage and intricate stuff. Café's with enticing cakes and vegetarian dishes sold by young people, with hopes and rings through their noses. I remember being like them, all alternative and free. Carving out a life for yourself, starting with selling gluten-free puddings and vegan casseroles, smoking roll-ups out the back in your lunch break - for this is only temporary before you make a difference in the world. I remember feeling like that.

This time in Brighton, he and I celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary, all married with children, good jobs and not very alternative at all. But Brighton fires the inner-student in me, makes me want to join a mindful meditation group, have a go at creative writing, get a tattoo and think about my wardrobe a little harder. We made plans for the future, guessed the ingredients of our quiche and salad lunch, we went roller-blading along the sea front to Hove - a little wobblier and less certain than last time. We stayed in an arty hotel with a view of the sea, drank beers as the sun went down - when the way forward seemed much more clear and exciting.

10 years

The Wedding

Year 1 - Up the duff

Year 2 - Baby 1

Year 3 - New House

Year 4 - Baby 2

Year 5 - Walking and talking

Year 6 - Mini me

Year 7 - Trying stuff out

Year 8 - Beginning to travel

Year 9 - Planning the future

Year 10 - Indiaaaaaaah

I reckon we can make the next ten even more fun - happy 10th Wedding Anniversary Babs!

Nine eleven

I'm going to be late, there's a security alert, the text said. Of course my mind started playing out horrible scenarios as it would do on any day, but especially today. I wanted him home, with us, with the cats and a comforting seafood pasta - not stuck on the 7.10 from Charing Cross.

We all remember where we were on 9/11.  A moment when nothing felt safe or ordinary any more. I remember wanting my Dad to come home from the United Arab Emirates. I wanted him to get out of London and be in my organic garage in Cirencester, yes we have been together a long time. I wanted my nearest and loved ones around me.

Just like I do today, but he's stuck in London.

My bezzie

My best friend is getting married, to a sailor no less. All the nice girls love a sailor and you, my bezzie, are certainly a nice girl, a freaking great woman in fact.

We met over 21 years ago, in freshers week at Leeds Uni. You mentioned you had just been in Brazil and I had recently returned from Africa - thinking ourselves worldly-wise we clicked over foreign lands and cows intestines. We smoked fags outside our long science practicals, ate chips in the refectory and chose Mars bars for breakfast. We were inseparable, me the Hippy Chick and you the Samba Queen. We danced the night away in 'Up yer Ronson', snogged dodgy fellow students and waited for dawn, eating cold pizza. We did get a degree, a pretty good one too, leaving behind the revolting shared house with its peeling kitchen surface, mouldy peach bathroom and carbon monoxide emitting gas fires.

I joined you in Brazil one summer. We rode with the cowboys all day, raced down the mall - me on Bakhana and you on Bonito. We rode one handed, smoking Lucky Strikes in the other - avoiding the armadillo holes and the rattlesnakes. And we giggled about your rat in your bedroom, the toads on the walls and the unidentifiable, crusty insect that stayed on the shower curtain for the whole 3 months.

I came to see you in Holland. A crazy glass-smashing fraternity experience. I think I puked that weekend.

I visited you in Switzerland, three countries in one day and trotti biking down the mountains. You came to see me on the organic farm where we made risotto on top of the wood burner polishing off a fair few bottles of red. You are the reason I live in Sussex, Gardeners Cottage always a welcoming place after the smog of Brixton.

And most recently I joined you for the best riding of my life - in Kenya, amongst the giraffes and the elephants. Gin and tonics at sunset after the fast canter across the savannah, huddling under a maasai blanket with my bezzie - it doesn't get much better than that.

I can't imagine a nicer person for you than your sailor - you deserve him so very much. I feel privileged to be following you down the aisle this summer and celebrating the next part of your journey.

BFF!