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PROSE by Geoffrey Sanderson and inspired by Quixall Crossett © 2001
Geoffrey M Sanderson |
THE BUZZ
How does one describe the indescribable? One can but try.
On Monday, I managed to find a piece of ground at the farm which seemed fairly consistent for about 600 yards. It was soft, but not holding, and finished in a quite steep rise of 100 yards.
For some days, at the end of the Big Flap, Quixall had been hinting that a bit more pace was on the agenda, but I had had to deny him because the ground was too wet. More rain was forecast, so we decided to have a go.
As soon as I changed my hands and turned him to face up the field, he knew what was coming. He didn't need asking twice. Every nerve and sinew in his body tensed with anticipation. Now, anybody who thinks he is a slow 15 year old should have been sitting behind me.
He is a very light horse, who just skips over the ground. Within seconds we were cruising, nicely balanced, oblivious to everything except each other. He just wanted to run and run, simply out of the joy of being alive and feeling well. "It doesn't get any better than this," I thought: - but it did.
It seemed almost immediately that we were approaching the rising ground. Quixall hates going downhill, but..... He saw the uphill slope, and three strides before it, his head lowered slightly and he leaned into his bit. He lengthened his stride and we accelerated effortlessly up the hill. It broke my heart to pull him up (It nearly broke my arms as well!!), as he was really enjoying himself, but the level ground at the top was very boggy, and the last thing I wanted to do was to injure him again in that.
"Exhilerated" is too tame a word to decribe the experience. It literally took my breath away. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry when we pulled up.
"What about that then, Old Lad?", I shouted. He turned to look at me as if to say: "What? Is that it?" He wasn't even breathing deeply, let alone sweating. I was doing both!!
If you combine the feelings of: Christmas when you still believed in Santa Claus; your eighteenth (or twenty first) birthday and your first proper kiss from someone of the opposite sex, you may be on the way to understanding how I felt on that cold, miserable Monday morning in November.
Geoff Sanderson. November 2000.
THE DAY THE EARTH DIDN'T MOVE!!
"Come on, Monny; once more up the gallop and that'll do for today. A good canter now - let's put some effort in. Go on then, Mon!"
As I turned Monaughty Man to face up the gallop, he knew what to expect. We rumbled forward into his low, loping style of moving. The ground was good, and we were going well. In front of my face, the back of his head was bobbing rhythmically, in time with his breathing. Joy was watching from the other side of the hedge, aboard Swiss Comfort.
Monny's breathing sounded fine, his legs felt sound. Everything seemed perfect, - a piece of cake. Then Monny spotted something on the ground ahead of us. It was just a small pile of straw left behind by the baler - but he couldn't work out what it was, and that bothered him. I anticipated that he was about to jink to the left to give it a wider berth. He did. Proudly, I was about to adjust my balance when he jinked again. Big style this time. Just to avoid a bit of forgotten straw. For me, however, this is the last straw! With the horse gone from underneath me, my options seemed very limited. That so-and-so Isaac Newton!! Everything now started to happen in very slow motion.
I dropped the reins onto the Monny's neck, to prevent them from looping over his head and tripping him up. As I did this, I looked down to check that both my feet were out of the irons - I didn't want to get dragged along upside down, underneath the horse. Some time passed. "Oooh look, there's the sky! Pale blue and not a cloud in sight. Not bad for October." I started to think that I must be dreaming it all, as I'd been falling for so long but hadn't hit the groun.......d.
That's when it happened. The sickening, bone-crunching thump as my accelerating frame hit the planet we call "home". The Earth doesn't give much, even if you hit it at speed. The breath was involuntarily expelled from my lungs. I bounced once, and rolled to a halt. I was glad I wasn't being followed by another twenty-odd racing horses. That would be a lot of flashing hooves to try to avoid.
Monny turned to look back at me as if to say, "Oh do come ON, Geoff! Stop messin' about. Vroom, vroom, vroom!"
Nothing broken, I stood up.
"Are you OK, Geoff?" Joy inquired from the next field.
"Yes, fine." My voice sounded more like Marlon Brando's in "The Godfather, Part One" than my own.
"If you're winded, try holding your breath for a few seconds," Joy called, helpfully.
"Hold my breath? Yes, preferably for about a fortnight," I thought.
Monny had stopped about 300 yards away, and was grazing away peacefully. As I approached him, he gave me a sideways glance as if to say, "Blxxdy Amateurs!!"
Hold my breath, yes, because I knew what I'd have to face when I got back to the yard. Not a lecture. Not a rollicking. No, those I could have taken. It was the Boss's caustic Yorkshire wit that I dreaded.
Joy went back up to the yard, while I retrieved Monaughty. My mind was working overtime to find an explanation which Ted might accept. We did a gentle canter to finish off Monny's morning's work, and to delay returning to the yard.
By the time we got back, Joy had already told Ted what had happened, and he was approaching us with even more of a twinkle in his eyes than usual.
"Is th' 'oss all right after you let him gallop loose?" he asked, eyeing the Monny all over.
"Yeah, he's fine. None the worse," I replied.
There was a seemingly endless pause, then he glanced up at me. Almost as an afterthought, he asked,
"You all right?"
"Oh yes. I've taught myself to fall so that I don't hurt myself too much," I said. A cracking response, I thought, shutting the door on 99% of all the possible put-downs I could think of.
"T' would suit me better if you could teach yerself t' stop on," he muttered as he turned away. The gentle rise and fall of his shoulders betrayed his chuckling at having got the better of me, again! "Get the tack off him, then come in and have a cup of tea."
Gee thanks, Boss. You're all heart!
The following day, I was rostered to ride Monaughty again. The Boss was nowhere to be seen. I tacked the horse up quickly and was just riding out of the yard when Ted's head appeared over one of the stable doors.
"I'll wait till th' 'oss has been back for twenty minutes before I come looking for you. Just in case you're fit enough to walk back up after he's got rid of you again."
Once again, I was speechless,........... but I did not fall off!!
Geoff Sanderson. October 1999.
THE LUGGAGE
It was the end of August 2000. Quixall had had to be brought back into the stables, as he was fretting whilst turned out with all the other horses, recovering from his "leg". He was missing human company, and obviously didn't trust us to train the other horses without his supervision. His leg injury was mending nicely, so I was giving him a bit of gentle exercise, walking him around the fields at High Crossett Farm.
On this
particular day, I decided we would walk up to the top moor gate. We breasted a rise, and
there, perhaps 500 yards in front of us, it looked as if someone had pitched a brightly
coloured tent, right across the path. We carried on walking, and when we had covered
another 150 yards or so, I realised that it wasn't a tent at all. It was a huge rucksac.
"Funny place to leave a big thing like that," I said to Quixall.
Another 150 yards further on, and I noticed something odd about the rucksac. It had little legs, clad in red socks and walking boots and it was walking towards us!!
I then realised that it was a very small man, carrying a very large pack. He stopped as we approached. He was sweating profusely, and seemed glad to be able to stop for a while.
He looked at his map, then at me, then back at his map. Suspiciously, he eyed Quixall. This was probably the largest item of wildlife he had seen all day.
"Eh up!! You all right?" I asked. He was still watching Quixall.
"Is that High Crossett?" he asked.
"No. It's Quixall Crossett." I replied. He looked back at his map.
" 'S not on me map," he said, confused, and still worried Quixall was about to kill him.
"Well, he moves about a lot," I added kindly. Quixall sniggered.
"Come far today?" I asked, assuming he was on some marathon outback trek in view of the size of his rucksac.
"Not really. Me car's at Hawnby. I've done about 15 miles. Not too far back now. Is it that way?"
"Yes. Enjoy the rest of your walk." With that he resumed walking and sweating.
The encounter left both of us bewildered. He wondered why Quixall Crossett wasn't on his map, and I wondered what the hell he had in that backpack!!!
Geoff Sanderson. January 2001.