was her tenth birthday on the nineteenth and
we’d given her the hat, the boots and the jodhpurs for her presents. I will never forget the utter delight on her face when she put them on for the first time. How proud she looked, and how
proud we were of our fine little girl.
David and I both went with her for her first lesson. It was a cold, crisp Saturday, the sun slow to rise. The stables were part of a farm, accessible up a long, sloping track, a good mile away
from the road. David bumped the car over stones and pot holes, the engine grinding in second gear, and all around us we could see field upon field shrouded in a low, floating mist. In the weak
morning sunlight it was surreally, almost spookily, beautiful.
The farm was on quite high ground; we could see it as we approached, and the stables, too, across the courtyard. Beyond, they’d a huge field set up with jumps and flagpoles, as if for a
gymkhana.
‘Will I be doing that?’ Ella asked eagerly from the back of the car. ‘Will I be jumping?’
‘Perhaps not straight away, sweetie,’ I said, and beside me David laughed.
‘Better learn to sit on a horse first, don’t you think?’ he said.
We’d brought the camera, and a flask of tea. I remember jiggling from one foot to the other with my hands clasped around my plastic cup of stewed tea, trying to keep warm, while David took
photo after photo. I remember Ella’s face alternately petrified and euphoric as she first led her small horse from the stables, and was then helped up on to it, gripping the reins with all
her might, her breath fogging out in front of her face in short, fierce puffs. There were about eight girls there that morning, of various ages. The woman running the lesson was a caricature of
everything I’d ever imagined a riding mistress to be; tall, thin, with a large, prominent jaw, huge brown eyes and a deep whinny of a voice that I swear you could hear right across those
fields. I tried not to laugh. I looked at David, hiding behind his camera, and I knew that he was trying not to laugh too.
We watched as Ella was led away by one of the older girls to a nearby field – not, thankfully, the one set up with jumps. She tried to look back as she went, to smile at us, and nearly
slid off her horse.
‘Ella!’ I yelled, before I could stop myself.
‘Eyes on the road,’ called David. ‘Eyes on the road.’
Ella clutched at that horse, her little bottom sticking up behind her.
‘Jesus,’ I said as I watched her go. ‘How many broken bones do you think this will end with?’
‘None,’ David said. ‘She’ll be fine.’
Ella could only have been on that horse for fifteen minutes at the most. The rest of the time she was in the stables, learning the etiquette, the things to do, and not to do. Don’t enter
the stables if the horse has his tail to you, don’t run, hold your arm out straight when you lead him; that sort of thing. David and I stayed there the whole hour, though we saw little of
Ella. It didn’t matter; we were glad of the excuse just to be there. We wandered over to the far side of the courtyard, with that view stretched out around us. What a place to spend a
Saturday morning. This was what it was all about, moving here. David’s long commute, the hours we spent apart, it was worth it just for this.
It is a strange thing, when you finally achieve something that you have always wanted; when you are in the place you have always wanted to be. You are balanced on a peak. You
daren’t look down lest you fall. Is this it, you ask yourself, again and again. Are we really here?
Those Saturday nights during our first winter here, when our children were safe inside the house, and we, David and I, were curled up in front of the fire, were some of the
happiest of my life. Sometimes I would go to the kitchen to fetch us some wine or make us some tea, and open the back door for a moment and put my head out into the cold night air, just to feel the
contrast,
we’d given her the hat, the boots and the jodhpurs for her presents. I will never forget the utter delight on her face when she put them on for the first time. How proud she looked, and how
proud we were of our fine little girl.
David and I both went with her for her first lesson. It was a cold, crisp Saturday, the sun slow to rise. The stables were part of a farm, accessible up a long, sloping track, a good mile away
from the road. David bumped the car over stones and pot holes, the engine grinding in second gear, and all around us we could see field upon field shrouded in a low, floating mist. In the weak
morning sunlight it was surreally, almost spookily, beautiful.
The farm was on quite high ground; we could see it as we approached, and the stables, too, across the courtyard. Beyond, they’d a huge field set up with jumps and flagpoles, as if for a
gymkhana.
‘Will I be doing that?’ Ella asked eagerly from the back of the car. ‘Will I be jumping?’
‘Perhaps not straight away, sweetie,’ I said, and beside me David laughed.
‘Better learn to sit on a horse first, don’t you think?’ he said.
We’d brought the camera, and a flask of tea. I remember jiggling from one foot to the other with my hands clasped around my plastic cup of stewed tea, trying to keep warm, while David took
photo after photo. I remember Ella’s face alternately petrified and euphoric as she first led her small horse from the stables, and was then helped up on to it, gripping the reins with all
her might, her breath fogging out in front of her face in short, fierce puffs. There were about eight girls there that morning, of various ages. The woman running the lesson was a caricature of
everything I’d ever imagined a riding mistress to be; tall, thin, with a large, prominent jaw, huge brown eyes and a deep whinny of a voice that I swear you could hear right across those
fields. I tried not to laugh. I looked at David, hiding behind his camera, and I knew that he was trying not to laugh too.
We watched as Ella was led away by one of the older girls to a nearby field – not, thankfully, the one set up with jumps. She tried to look back as she went, to smile at us, and nearly
slid off her horse.
‘Ella!’ I yelled, before I could stop myself.
‘Eyes on the road,’ called David. ‘Eyes on the road.’
Ella clutched at that horse, her little bottom sticking up behind her.
‘Jesus,’ I said as I watched her go. ‘How many broken bones do you think this will end with?’
‘None,’ David said. ‘She’ll be fine.’
Ella could only have been on that horse for fifteen minutes at the most. The rest of the time she was in the stables, learning the etiquette, the things to do, and not to do. Don’t enter
the stables if the horse has his tail to you, don’t run, hold your arm out straight when you lead him; that sort of thing. David and I stayed there the whole hour, though we saw little of
Ella. It didn’t matter; we were glad of the excuse just to be there. We wandered over to the far side of the courtyard, with that view stretched out around us. What a place to spend a
Saturday morning. This was what it was all about, moving here. David’s long commute, the hours we spent apart, it was worth it just for this.
It is a strange thing, when you finally achieve something that you have always wanted; when you are in the place you have always wanted to be. You are balanced on a peak. You
daren’t look down lest you fall. Is this it, you ask yourself, again and again. Are we really here?
Those Saturday nights during our first winter here, when our children were safe inside the house, and we, David and I, were curled up in front of the fire, were some of the
happiest of my life. Sometimes I would go to the kitchen to fetch us some wine or make us some tea, and open the back door for a moment and put my head out into the cold night air, just to feel the
contrast,
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