The Sweetest Photograph in the World.

Obviously, the title of this post refers to an entirely subjective judgement.

It is the sweetest photograph in my very own eyes.

Here I am, this morning, with the two nieces, the red mare and the little American Paint.





There are several things which I love about this picture. One is that the two nieces and I are hardly ever together in the same place. They are young and antic and move about a lot, embarking on their own lives. So it is extremely special when the three of us are reunited.

Second, I love that The Younger Niece and The American Paint both are doing almost identical ready for their close-up faces. (Autumn the Filly’s owner was taking the picture, so it might have been a pretty face for her. But it still makes me laugh and laugh.)

Third, I find it amusing that despite the fact I am supposed to be posing for a rare photograph with my beloveds, I am far too busy pulling Red’s ears to put on my own camera face.

Fourth, it was quite a tight space, between two stretches of grass that MUST NOT BE STEPPED ON. (The Brother-in-Law gets sad if there are hoofmarks all over his nice turf.) So The Older Niece, as you can see, is having to crane her neck even to be seen. Hello, I’m here at the back.

Fifth, that dozy old donkey you see there on the left, all muddy and woolly and shaggy, really is one of the poshest horses in Britain. My father brought me up not to pay any attention to human grandeur, but oh, when it comes to horses, he gave me a snobbism I cannot shake. I am not especially proud of the fact. But on dark nights, when my heart is afflicted with melancholy, I am afraid I trace Red’s pedigree back through Nijinksy and Northern Dancer to Hyperion and St Simon, in order to cheer myself up.

She has not only that obvious top line, but Derby winners a go-go in the bottom line. I love reading the storied names, as lyrical as poetry: Mahmoud, Sir Peter Teazle, Voltigeur, Smolensko, Dante, Gainsborough. She has the Byerley Turk, the rarest of the three foundation sires, twice. Nearly everyone has the Godolphin Arabian, as she does, but not everyone has the Turk.
None of this really means anything, but it means something to me. And what I really love is that there she is, day after day, dopey as a faithful hound, following me back to the field without a rope, swinging her dear, scruffy head, smiling her soft equine smile, quite unaware of the blue blood which courses through her veins. Of course, I could posh her up a bit. I could give her a haircut and brush a bit more of that mud off her. But I like her being a horse, mooching around in her paddock, getting as dirty as she likes, no matter how many glittering prizes her ancestors won.

And in other horse loveliness, the most tenacious, gutsy, bold and brave Bobs Worth returned to his best in Ireland today, and made my mother and me cry. He’s one of the most talented and most tough horses in racing and last time out he never went a yard. After a horse has been triumphant in a hard Gold Cup, there is always the danger he is never quite the same again. Some big race glories can take it out of a horse; they can look fine, work well at home, seem well in themselves, but that glittering, glimmering brilliance has been dulled, in a way that nobody quite understands.

After watching an uncharacteristically lacklustre run at Haydock, I feared for little Bobs Worth. He was so magnificent last season, and I was sad to see a champion brought low. But today, he kindled his fire again, and even though he had it all to find after the last, he picked himself up, put his head down in his trademark terrier fashion, and powered past his rivals.

Then he pricked his ears, stretched his neck, and looked up at the stands, as if to say: Ah, you were fretting over nothing. I got it covered, said Bobs Worth. I’m back. And the crowd, which knows greatness when it sees it, rose to him in delight.
 
Some more sweet pictures for you:







Back in the paddock, modelling her astoundingly smart new Amigo rug. I don’t really believe in giving animals Christmas presents, but the old rug was falling to pieces, literally held together with binder twine, and this one happened to arrive just yesterday, so it does feel almost like a present. And she looks so smart in it. Excellent service from the wonderful Ride-Away, who should surely employ the red mare as a model. She is, I often think, wasted in real life:



She did get an awful lot of love:



And, in other news – Stan the Man has a BLOODY ENORMOUS STICK:

Up and down

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

The very first thought I have when I wake is:

I have a horse.

I think this happy thought as I eat my breakfast sausages and drink my breakfast coffee and check my breakfast Kauto Star news. (Racing Post website, Twitter, general Google search; it is belt and braces with me.)

I do work. I then go to a saddler in Cirencester and buy a bridle and a headcollar. Bridles, it turns out, are amazingly good value. A nice headcollar, on the other hand, is an arm and a bloody leg.

My agent calls. I tell her about the horse. She sounds momentarily frightened, worried that I shall now be so busy on horse and dog island that I shall never write a word again. 'It won't be the dog ate my homework?' she says, nervously.

'Don't be silly,' I say. 'I shall have to write twice as many books because horses are so damn expensive.'

Gusty sighs of relief issue down the telephone.

Also: I have a theory that the physical fitness will mean my brain is firing on forty-seven cylinders. This means production will soar.

Then I get a very nice rug and take home two chic saddles to try.

I'll just do some more work, I think. At which point the brick wall strikes again. Same as day before yesterday, like a combination of fog and stone. I am typing this whilst lying on my bed, attempting to chivvy my poor bashed brain into some kind of coherence.

I have tried iron tonic, caffeine, vitamin C, vitamin D, and green tea capsules. I am drinking plenty of water. I had a very healthy lunch. I don't know what this horrid physical feeling is. My mind could not be happier or more joyful, it's just the body is all fagged and fogged.

I wonder if perhaps I have sleep debt. I have been getting up at six-thirty every morning to try and get work done whilst being in the middle of family life. (I say again, to you parentals: HOW DO YOU DO IT?) I am not used to such early rising; at home, I amble downstairs at nine. Perhaps my circadian cycles are in turmoil.

If my mother were here she would look at me sternly and say: Too much excitement. Certainly the thrill of the glorious new equine has exercised my adrenal glands to their very limit.

Either that, or there is just some horrid low grade virus going round, and even the brilliant bottle of Floradix is no match for it. My glands are up like footballs.

I wonder: if I lie very, very still, and go to bed like an old lady at seven, will I feel normal again in the morning? Because I must feel fit enough to do my I've got a horse dance.

 

PS.

I did look up the breeding. I can hardly tell you who her ancestors were, they are so grand. She was an absolutely rotten racehorse though; thirteen out of thirteen at Thirsk last time out, after which they clearly gave up.

I do remember how breeding can be deceptive. There was the famous Seattle Dancer in the eighties, the most expensive yearling ever sold, bred like a dream. Thirteen million guineas later, and all the owners were left with was one paltry Grade One as a three-year-old. No Guineas, Derby, Leger, Arc De Triomphe; no classics at all. And his progeny did not win much either. So bloodlines are not everything.

On the other hand, I am slightly hysterical that my mare appears to be descended from Hyperion and Gainsborough, two of the most brilliant horses of their generation.

Gainsborough:

Hyperion:

This is Red's grandsire, Nijinsky. I almost didn't want to say his name, because it would just sound like bragging. It's sort of like saying oh, my grandfather was the Duke of Devonshire, or the King of France:

Can you see the family resemblance? Really not sure. That fella was a world-beater. My lovely girl is just a very dear, ordinary creature, who happens to have some champions in her distant past:

In some ways, she is a perfect example of the vagaries of the horse world. After all, Desert Orchid was by nothing, out of nothing. One horsey neighbour told his breeder to shoot the dam and start again, if he wanted to make a success of breeding. Luckily Jimmy Burridge ignored this sage advice, and the resulting grey foal went on to win a Gold Cup, two Whitbreads and four King Georges, and became one of the most beloved horses in an entire century, perhaps ever.

And, talking of breeding, this mutt would be disdained by the Kennel Club, not let anywhere near Crufts, and sniffed at by all serious dog breeders everywhere. Yet just look at the beauty:

Stopping now, because my head feels as if it's about to fall off.

But thank you thank you for all your kind wishes. It does seem to be very popular that the blog now has a horse. So that is double joy for me.