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Authors: Jill Hucklesby
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attention in carefully tended rows. Ahead, a path leading towards mighty oaks and majestic beech trees, the gatekeepers to the wild woods.
Beneath me, my amazing Samphire, galloping with a fleetness of foot through this ancient forest. He follows the path instinctively, his hooves pounding softly into moss and leaf mulch. I feel electric with hisenergy – glowing. From a distance, we are probably a luminous moving beacon; a UFO.
We pass a pair of ponies grazing. We startle a muddy pig, rooting among the ferns.
‘Hello, Mr Pig!’ I call to him.
He grunts crossly and scuffles away over toadstools with colourful heads like upturned tea saucers.
Samphire and I leave the open ground, with its amber foliage, and enter the woods, which are streaked with bright shafts of sun. There’s mist between the trees. Water droplets plop from the branch of a dead beech tree, standing silver-grey and ghostly, shocked by the lightning bolt that sapped its life in a second.
Deeper and deeper, we move into the Forest. Samphire’s hooves are thudding into mud; his pace slows to a careful canter. He needs no encouragement to continue. He senses there is a destination.
I sometimes dream about the place we’re coming to, the secret space Dad and I discovered two years ago, just before he died. It was the result of one ofhis famous ‘short cuts’, which took us miles out of our circular ride. It’s sacred to me now. And bringing Samphire here is an initiation, perhaps for us both. I feel driven to do it. I don’t know what to expect – the spirit of Dad to be waiting? A glimpse of the fairies with owl-faces who live in the wood? (Nice one, Dad!)
The light ahead is almost dazzling. We’re nearly there. The trees give way to a clearing about the size of a large paddock, with banks sloping down to a lake as still as a looking-glass. Samphire slows to a stop and steam from his coat starts to mingle with the mist around us. When I look at the water, there’s a reflection of us staring back.
It feels like I’m looking at the present and into the future, to all the fantastic days ahead with this beautiful horse. I see no trace of sadness in our watery images, no ripples of the past.
‘They’re behind us now, boy, those bad times,’ I say, as I dismount and loop the reins over Samphire’s head. I can see a level spot where he can drink. We walkby the lake’s edge, accompanied by a frog, hopping from leaf to leaf amongst the foliage. A fallen tree trunk lies by the water. Samphire arches his neck over it and sniffs the unknown substance on the other side. His nostrils blow several times before he drinks. I sit astride the tree, remembering.
A shiver passes up my spine. There’s a rustle to our right, a startled face, then the gleam of a brown coat in sunlight, darting away in swift leaps.
‘It’s just a deer, Sam,’ I tell him. ‘Nothing to be afraid of.’
He lets me rest my head against his neck. I’m already excited at the prospect of the ride home and I feel he is, too. I love every minute I spend with him. Riding him, rubbing him down, putting his coat on and feeding him have become the highlights of my day.
I smile when I think of Ed’s enthusiasm for tractors, planes and all things mechanical. We’re so different in that way.
Light is shafting into the clearing, turning the lakeliquid silver. Dad said this was a magical place and he’s right. It takes my breath away.
‘I’m so glad we came, Samphire,’ I say to him. ‘Now you’re with me, it doesn’t hurt to remember. I know you don’t understand, but thank you.’ I give him a big kiss on his nose before he has time to avoid me.
And I make a heart out of small stones on the ground, in case the fairies are watching.
Chapter Sixteen
‘You PROMISED!’ Ed is pulling my arm, trying to get me out of bed.
‘It’s six thirty in the morning,’ I moan, my eyes coming to focus on my alarm clock.
‘You said, stables then picnic,’ he whispers sternly in
Beneath me, my amazing Samphire, galloping with a fleetness of foot through this ancient forest. He follows the path instinctively, his hooves pounding softly into moss and leaf mulch. I feel electric with hisenergy – glowing. From a distance, we are probably a luminous moving beacon; a UFO.
We pass a pair of ponies grazing. We startle a muddy pig, rooting among the ferns.
‘Hello, Mr Pig!’ I call to him.
He grunts crossly and scuffles away over toadstools with colourful heads like upturned tea saucers.
Samphire and I leave the open ground, with its amber foliage, and enter the woods, which are streaked with bright shafts of sun. There’s mist between the trees. Water droplets plop from the branch of a dead beech tree, standing silver-grey and ghostly, shocked by the lightning bolt that sapped its life in a second.
Deeper and deeper, we move into the Forest. Samphire’s hooves are thudding into mud; his pace slows to a careful canter. He needs no encouragement to continue. He senses there is a destination.
I sometimes dream about the place we’re coming to, the secret space Dad and I discovered two years ago, just before he died. It was the result of one ofhis famous ‘short cuts’, which took us miles out of our circular ride. It’s sacred to me now. And bringing Samphire here is an initiation, perhaps for us both. I feel driven to do it. I don’t know what to expect – the spirit of Dad to be waiting? A glimpse of the fairies with owl-faces who live in the wood? (Nice one, Dad!)
The light ahead is almost dazzling. We’re nearly there. The trees give way to a clearing about the size of a large paddock, with banks sloping down to a lake as still as a looking-glass. Samphire slows to a stop and steam from his coat starts to mingle with the mist around us. When I look at the water, there’s a reflection of us staring back.
It feels like I’m looking at the present and into the future, to all the fantastic days ahead with this beautiful horse. I see no trace of sadness in our watery images, no ripples of the past.
‘They’re behind us now, boy, those bad times,’ I say, as I dismount and loop the reins over Samphire’s head. I can see a level spot where he can drink. We walkby the lake’s edge, accompanied by a frog, hopping from leaf to leaf amongst the foliage. A fallen tree trunk lies by the water. Samphire arches his neck over it and sniffs the unknown substance on the other side. His nostrils blow several times before he drinks. I sit astride the tree, remembering.
A shiver passes up my spine. There’s a rustle to our right, a startled face, then the gleam of a brown coat in sunlight, darting away in swift leaps.
‘It’s just a deer, Sam,’ I tell him. ‘Nothing to be afraid of.’
He lets me rest my head against his neck. I’m already excited at the prospect of the ride home and I feel he is, too. I love every minute I spend with him. Riding him, rubbing him down, putting his coat on and feeding him have become the highlights of my day.
I smile when I think of Ed’s enthusiasm for tractors, planes and all things mechanical. We’re so different in that way.
Light is shafting into the clearing, turning the lakeliquid silver. Dad said this was a magical place and he’s right. It takes my breath away.
‘I’m so glad we came, Samphire,’ I say to him. ‘Now you’re with me, it doesn’t hurt to remember. I know you don’t understand, but thank you.’ I give him a big kiss on his nose before he has time to avoid me.
And I make a heart out of small stones on the ground, in case the fairies are watching.
Chapter Sixteen
‘You PROMISED!’ Ed is pulling my arm, trying to get me out of bed.
‘It’s six thirty in the morning,’ I moan, my eyes coming to focus on my alarm clock.
‘You said, stables then picnic,’ he whispers sternly in
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