Weird weekend

It's been quiet on the blog of late, not because there has been a lack of material to write about, rather that I have been so busy having a lovely time that sussexmama has been neglected. All this gadding about is in celebration of being alive 40 years, but now I'm pooped and think I will take a little break and enjoy what my home and family has to offer.

Tollard Royal. Have you been there?

The weekend just passed was to be one of bonding with my sister, of giggles, riding, pub lunches and long walks. I guess we ticked all the boxes but the place left me feeling sour, never to return. It may be near to Stonehenge and Avebury but by jove, this is one village that fell off the ley lines - in fact, I think if I looked on a road map it may not even be there, such was the exclusiveness and tardis-like feel it gave me. It was a weekend break in perfection, mowed grass verges, manicured bluebell woods, estates so large and private and horses grazing their million-pound-arses off in the fields all around. The local pub was the unfriendliest establishment I have visited, with hunting, polo, and shooting pictures adorning the walls. The lager was £4.90 a pint - to keep the riff raff out no doubt.

Don't worry Tollard Royal, I won't be back to mess up your immaculate reputation, I will leave it to those who deserve it and hope they all stay in one place and don't pollute our lovely, varied, cultured society.

The reunion

Corfu was magical last week, the island as beautiful as I remembered it all those years ago. The sea a stunning azure, unreal to the eyes, the landscape still punctuated with dark pointed cypress trees and twisted olive groves. It was a heavenly holiday with family, a pre-season amble before the crowds arrive to crisp their bodies and pickle their livers. It was also a trip down memory lane, a blast from the past and a wander back in time to a place where I was very happy.

Before I left, I told you a little story of a horse whom I loved a great deal when working as a groom on the verdant isle of Corfu, back in 1996. After some research for a trekking centre for the kids to have a pony ride, there he was, Simba in all his maned glory staring right back at me out of the computer, he was still alive and well and in Corfu. Just simply writing this story had me all emotional, it seems to have had some of you choked up as well. I was to see a little gelding 18 years on, would he remember me? Would we recognise each other?

The yard was found after a wonderful drive at the base of Mount Pantokrator, through sleepy little villages with shutters firmly closed, a few stray kittens wobbling across the road in search of some food and some love, around hair-pin bends exhilarating and terrifying and past fields of fresh, wild spring flowers. Corfu in all its glory.

I was nervous when we got to the stables. A nice young woman showed the kids which was to be their pony and I nervously asked if Rebel (his name for 18 years) was here. "Yes, yes," she replied, "just around the corner!" pointing me in the direction of his stable. And there he was, all dipped back, grey around the muzzle and sleepy with the early morning sun. An old man who didn't want to be bothered. He barely raised his heavy lids to contemplate me, or sniff me in recognition. He was enjoying the peace of the day before the tourists arrived to trek him through the Corfiot countryside for the umpteenth time in his life. 

So I stroked his muscled neck, took his forelock out of his eyes and understood his wishes, glad to have found him again and to know that he has been looked after well.

Just a tiny part of me wished he had whinneyed at my return, blown sweet warm breath in my face and encouraged me to leap on to his back, bare back of course, to gallop around the countryside together once more.

A nice little story

Many years ago, when I was young, fresh and had no responsibilities of such, I found myself working as a groom in Corfu. A yard nestled away among the olive groves and cypress trees. There were many horses to look after, young ones, old ones, completely ancient ones, ones without an eye and ones who were worth thousands. It was a busy day feeding, cleaning tack, putting escaped horses back into their field, mucking out  and riding. And it was the riding that was completely unpredictable - some needed breaking, some needed bringing on and some needed retraining altogether.

Simba was my favourite, he had a long, curly flowing mane and deep, chocolate eyes. He had a compact little body and arrived as a stallion - which the vet soon sorted out, but Simba still thought he was a stallion. What he lacked in height Simba made up for in beauty, prowess and showy paces, making sure that everyone was looking at him. He came to be trained for the carriage so he could pull fat tourists around Corfu town, but he was terrified of traffic so that put an end to that career, much to Jackos and Stomatis's disappointment. So he became my fun horse for months, we discovered trails all over the island together, we jumped hedges in the way and galloped along the Ropa Valley floor, we stepped over snakes and were careful not to run over the tortoises who pottered about the place. We made friends with the locals calling "Yiassu!" as we passed their adorable and simple homes.

And then he got sold to an English woman who owned a trekking centre where I assumed he would be taking tourists (sometimes fat ones) on rides over the Corfiot terrain. He left my heart soon to be filled by Roger who was an altogether much more sane animal.

It is four and a half sleeps until I revisit Corfu. I don't think I have ever been so excited about a holiday and my excitement is infectious - A thinks of nothing else and our Gerald Durrell obsession is reaching fever pitch.

So I had a little mooch on the Internet to find us a place to ride when we are there, the girls now riding every now and then and enjoying the experience. As I browsed the trekking centres available, there he was, Simba staring out at me from the page. His chocolatey eyes as deep as before with grey hairs showing his age all around his muzzle. The website said he is now called Rebel, a spirited horse  - he must be 22 years old, or older. An email to the owner confirmed that Rebel is indeed the Simba I knew and discovered the island with.

17 years later I am going to see him again, my excitement is palpable. Four and a half sleeps.

Happy birthday blog!

It's my blogaversary today.

And to greet me out of the window was a bird on a wire. The swallows have returned, a few days ago actually, to mark a whole year of being.

It feels so complete her being there, having had her own year of adventures and survival. Mine may not have been quite so dramatic but a year nonetheless, of growth and change. The blog has provided me with a platform to celebrate, to commiserate, to ponder and to share.

Happy birthday blog and thank you for reading. 

That time of year again

It's exam time again for so many young people. I feel so dreadfully sorry for them and angry that they have to conform to these standardised tests that teach them nothing. I feel especially sad because it is A's turn this year although its not her first test. She is being tested in her Maths and Literacy, aged 7, and is 'training' for it now - the bubble of sadness I feel about this rises in my throat. We already have had plenty of meltdowns about Maths and I have tried introducing it into everyday life with a little success, but mostly we have tantrums and self-loathing when it comes to the sheet of homework she has to do every week.

"I am rubbish!"

"I can't do this and everyone else can!"

"You hate me cos I got one wrong!"

Eh? Where is all this coming from? Poor little mite has 30 boring questions again and again, week after week of sums. Drilling. Parrot fashion. Rote learning.

"For a fair selection everybody has to take the same exam! Please climb that tree!"

"Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing it is stupid" - Albert Einstein

But when she is really interested her eyes light up, all blue and wide-eyed, taking in the information hungrily. I read her books 'far above her age' and she listens intently, staring at the ceiling lying in bed while her sister snores after the first page. She asks questions about what the words mean, why people say what they say, she asks questions any adult would ask. And if I ask her about the book the next day I know she has understood it perfectly, because she is interested.

So as we approach the SAT's exams, we will be away in Corfu- learning through language, and culture, through food and nature, through travel and transport. She will write in her diary which is already packed with her glue and scissors ready to stick in any curious little tit-bits. A far richer part of her education.

Why I hate school but love education - Suli Breaks