The post that wasn't.

Well, well, well.

Yesterday I was going to write a really wonderful post about (drum rolls, please)

the county of Hampshire. 

Hampshire in 1829 (the good old days).
Austen and Keats were dead by then and it would be almost 60 years until Conan Doyle introduced the world to Sherlock Holmes. but you get the idea.
Also, the Isle of Wight (the bit at the bottom) is no longer in Hampshire.
Just saying.

My home county and new-old home, Jane Austen's home county, the county in which Arthur Conan Doyle wrote the first Sherlock Holmes story (A Study in Scarlet), where Keats wrote The Eve of St Agnes ("Ah, bitter chill it was!") and was inspired to write the ode To Autumn (you know, "seasons of mist" etc., etc...), and the place where the Burberry mac was first invented.

Impressive, huh? 

I hope you like the way that I put myself at the front of that list. 

Nothing quite like having ideas above one's station or anything.

Ahem.

Where was I?

Oh yes, "the post that never happened" (I've had quite a few of those).

Firstly, 

my application got rejected

for

yet

another

job.

It's becoming quite my thing NOT getting a job.

Er, then I pulled myself together and decided to count my blessings and go and ride my horse

(yes, you're well within your rights to withhold sympathy).

Imagine my horror when I discovered that her leg was covered from the stifle joint to the hoof in dried blood  and wet, oozing blood.

And quite a bit of gore.

Just in case you wanted to brush up your knowledge of equine anatomy.

Not for the fainthearted.

So by that time I felt I had licence to feel exceedingly sad.

Which I did.

I cheered up after a quick (actually, very long) visit from the vet

at after-hours call-out rates, naturally

and the sight of Poll tucking into her hay, trussed up in another neon pink bandage.

Please note that in the picture below she only has 1 bandage, whereas in the picture above she has 2.

That's how bloody and mucky her legs were (even after hosing) - we thought that there had to be 2 injuries because so much blood couldn't have come from just one cut.

(Cue major embarrassment when the vet investigated further and told us that we'd mistaken dislodged blood clots for open wounds. My bad).

A starving horse, very grumpy to've had her supper delayed by the inconvenient visit from the vet.

When I checked on her first thing this morning the bandage was wrinkled 'round her pastern (sort of like the ankle but not) like Nora Batty's stockings, which rather spoiled the effect, but her leg was a lot better and had stopped bleeding.

Phew.

Nora Batty (RIP), complete with wrinkled stockings.
P had a similar look on her face this morning when she discovered she was not allowed out in the field for today.

So basically, this post is an extremely long-winded way of saying...

I haven't really got anything to say. 

Until tomorrow.

Or maybe Friday.

We'll see.

Life's a beach

Yesterday I borrowed Mr C's ex-racehorse (Polly was - surprise, surprise - out of action)

and headed to the beach for a gallop.

It was spectacular. 

Despite the sun and blue skies, it was a chilly, autumnal morning and the beach was almost deserted. 

Perfect for a quick to blast to blow away the cobwebs, then.

Sadly I don't have any pictures or a video of the actual gallop because, well, it's a good idea to keep both hands on the reins when you're going at full speed (a life lesson if ever there was one).

Rest assured, the Chariots of Fire theme tune was running in my head with every single hoofbeat. 

Looking towards the golf course and the preparations for the Dunhill Cup.

Heaven is...

Clever Carly, who gave the 'let's go to the beach' rally cry.

As always when I take a horse to the beach, I come away thinking 'why don't I do this more often?'

It's a very good question.

Back to School.

A slightly misleading title, because Scottish schools go back in August and I haven't been to school since the early years of this millennium, but you get the idea.

The town has filled up with new and returning university students and the shelves of the local Tesco Metro will be permanently empty until May next year.

Summer's over.

In some ways, this is ok - I've spoken before about my love of Downton Abbey, a new series of which starts soon, and I am equally obsessed with re-runs of Agatha Christie classics, any sort of period drama (this one looks intriguing), and the prospect of digging my hot water bottle and cashmere socks out of their temporary summer retirement. 

Good old Brora cashmere.

Actually, despite the balmy(ish) days, it's so cold at night here that the hot water bottle has been back in use for at least a week, but that is totally by the bye...

The official end to the summer here is always signalled by two events:

First: Pony Club Cup Day

Second: Our yard hosts an invitational show for local children 

Cup Day was held yesterday and, unlike most previous years, it was beautifully sunny and didn't rain one drop. 

Little L and the other girls returned from this year's event with armfuls of cups and rosettes.

Whoever said that taking part is what counts has not met the younger (and, come to think about it, the older) contingent on the yard.

Competitive doesn't even begin to cover it.

For the first time since its inauguration, I won't be at this year's yard show because I'm off to another wedding. 

Bummer.

The weekend also brought us the most delightful house guest and unfortunately I was forced to spend a lot of time in the garden with him yesterday. 

Luckily I had my camera with me:

Love, thy form is an Hungarian Vizsla puppy.

Back to those applications...

All things Downton

One of the consolations for the end of summer (I know, I'm being a little premature here) is the slow stream of teasers and adverts for TV's autumn schedule. 
The most exciting of these? 
Downton Abbey, Series 3.

Be still, my beating heart.
Source and review of Series 3, Episode 1.

I am excited. 
Actually, excitement doesn't even begin to cover it. 
I don't feel I'm being too personal when I tell you that my palms start to sweat and my heart beats faster simply from hearing the theme-tune. 
It's what's known as an addiction and a distinct and desperate need to get a life.

Forgive me for saying, but I was a tiny bit disappointed by Series 2 - Matthew can't walk, Matthew can walk, 'what shall we do about Lavinia', etc. - but it still had its magical moments:
Exhibit A: The Christmas Special.

I would be lying if I said I didn't just re-watch that trailer a couple of times for 'research' purposes.

So, Series 3 should prove to be an exciting romp through the Roaring Twenties and let's hope that marriage, babies, and the wonderful Dame Maggie Smith and her new sparring partner, Shirley MacLaine, feature prominently. 


What better way to spend a Sunday evening, curled up on the sofa?

My interest in the programme has been been given a slightly different slant by a recent email from a friend who said (and I quote): 
'just watching Season 1 of Downton Abbey and Mary TOTALLY reminds me of you!!!'
Erm, hello? MARY? The emotionally distant, uptight, slightly cruel one? 
Surely not? 
Perhaps the comparison was based purely on superficial points: my accent (the no longer my friend is from the U.S.), or the fact that Lady Mary likes horses, or that her love interest is a lawyer, like DPB? 
Sadly not. 
It turns out that when I shared this snippet with others of my nearest and dearest, they agreed there was something about Mary's character that was similar to mine.
Way to get some awesome feedback on your personality.
Not.
Thanks guys.