Up the Ben and Down the Boozer

Point to Point?

March, Devon

Today is bucolic British countryside, horses, dogs and money. Lots of money.  Add amateur racing over formidable hurdles, regulation tweeds and the presence of both the local hunt and local folk and you've got a Point to Point. For those in the know, Point to Point racing is  fast horses hurtling over stiff fences, first one home wins a prize and we who have bested the  bookies come home happy. Unless of course we lose it all on the next race.

Point to Points are for non -professional race riders and hunt members who may or may not be the sons or daughters of the wealthy owners who provide the racehorses.  Equine competitors must themselves be certified as having hunted with hounds at least seven times, a task better suited to those built for fast and slow, not just fast.  Each race  is at least three miles of 18 brush and log fences  at a height of about 4 foot 3 inches. Some have ditches on one side or the other. Most horses can jump a little (2 feet), some can jump a little more (3 feet) but the true racing athletes are those who can run and jump and still have enough oomph at the end of a taxing  two- round circuit to stay the course.

I introduced Tom to professional steeplechase racing a few years ago at Ludlow Races in Shropshire. A lovely course, a sunny day, enough wins and I'd created a monster.  My enthusiasm was likely the fuel to Tom's fire as many years ago I was an exercise girl and rode a season as an amateur jockey at point to points.  At my present age I think of that long ago self as having been remarkably stupid. I was not very high in the pecking order for rides and generally got what no one else wanted; the barely broken, the clumsy, and the truly maniacal. That I did not fall off (much) was luck, but that passion for speed, the beauty of an equine athlete soaring over a demanding fence and the thrill of a bet is a seduction shared by  many less foolish than I. 

There are well over a hundred Point to Points across the UK during the season, November to June, and while sometimes held at traditional race courses, they are usually a chance to enjoy a colorful event on beautiful land we might not otherwise be invited to. We are taking advantage of a farmer's generosity to spend the day on his lower 40 at the East Devon Hunt Club races at Bishop's Court near Ottery St. Mary on a bright spring day. We pay to park (cheaper by the carload) in a green meadow surrounded by other race-goers who have brought their dogs, wellies and  small children. The races are run just below us on a simple oval circuit that crosses two fields, runs up a hill and ends right under the judges' noses, where they make the close calls.  We stop at the race card trailer to pick up that talisman of information that allows us to be in the know. Some of the horses entered have been scratched and we watch the board by the trailer that sells the race cards to know who is wheat and who is chaff.

Members of the hunt are present in full regalia as course chaperones, their solid mounts mooching around like relaxed plodders until they s print forward to catch a loose horse or chase a dog off the course. Just above the course are the bookies and the beer tent. Local ladies provide bacon butties, sausage rolls, cakes and tea to those who are not (or not yet) on their first pint. Market stalls offer us wrapped cuts of local lamb, free range eggs by the half dozen, home-made marmalades, tweed hats and flat caps. I can see Tom eyeing the stall selling heavy waxed jackets at an excellent price.

 Bookies lined in a row, each has a tote board with their odds on the current race. Usually a two- member team, one writes, erases and re-writes as the odds constantly shift to reflect bets placed while the other deftly takes money and hands out betting slips to the patient queues of those with their eyes on the prize.  

I have a mystical need to watch each string of wannabes waltz around the saddling paddock prior to their race and make my picks based on what the horses are telling me. I always bet on anything named Archie. Tom tends to choose horses who ring an Irish bell, are owned by a syndicate of local farmers or are named after one of the Beatles. Here's the wonder of our method--although we bet small sums and sensibly withold the bet from the winnings, we are remarkably lucky.  When the number three horse I thought looked really good in the program throws me a "forget about it" look as he stamps around his warm up-- I forget about it. When a potential hero gives the crowd a saucy wink, my five quid go his way. 

We place our bets, often h edging them by betting 'both ways' which reduces risk as it covers a win or a second or third. Taking our binoculars and bacon butties, we wander down the field to stand on a rocky hummock just over the stone fence from the long line of jumps that make the back end of the course. From here we can see most of the course in a 360 view as well as the pre-race parade past us of Land Rovers filled with volunteers, the hunt members' haughty steeds and the omnipresent horse ambulance which also serves as the knacker's van. Horses injured and "put down" in the field are used as kennel ration for the hunt's hounds. Their jockeys are not.

The horn blows, and they are off. At this distance we can only sporadically hear the
announcer calling the race so we concentrate on the spectacle by picking out our horse both by jockey's silks and horse's color. There are races for all categories of proficiencies but this one is hunt members and is considered a "fun" race. None of the prize money is big in point to points as their origin comes from the concept of one hunt member betting another hunt member  gentleman to gentleman, that, "my horse is faster than your horse" and this race lets them duke it out. My money is on a neat looking gray gelding who had a pleasant 'can-do' attitude in the paddock and Tom's is a scarily big bright chestnut who looks like he could complete all 18 fences in one huge leap.

The sun shines, the grass is green, dogs and children chase each other around their families' picnic hampers and the galloping horses seem more a background for a nice day out than a tense win/lose high stakes race. As this race is for really amateur- amateur jockeys, some fall off.  Some get tired and stop and some horses get tired and stop. Tom's horse is in the lead until the home stretch and he is beside himself with excitement as he bet him as a long shot but the jockey gets tired and falls off.

My horse gamely stays in the mix and brings me home a tidy little sum in third place. 

We walk back up the meadow as overful Land Rovers spilling out raucous volunteers
 trundle back to spend their winnings at the beer hall. The horse ambulance follows and we bring up the rear along  with two young pram-pushing mums and their out of bounds older children who are climbing trees and hitting each other.

I collect my winnings and spend a portion on two jars of  rough cut orange marmalade and  two cups of milky tea but do not buy Tom a waxed jacket. Young women nattily dressed  in mini-skirted green tweeds and look-alike Kate hair-do's saunter around with yappy Jack Russell terriers straining at the end of matching leads. The farmer selling his lamb seems oblivious to the effect the warming sun might be having on his open-air display. 

 We stay for four more races, cash in our final winnings and leave before the day is officially ended as we have a sudden need to see the sea. I can't help stopping at the saddling paddock one last time as the next race's hopefuls file in. A lively bay mare catches my eye, and for one breathtaking moment-- I catch hers. I see her galloping down to the winner's finish  three lengths to spare at great odds and very nearly go back to wager my newly won fistful of pounds.

But I don't. Bon chance.

 Royalty at the Races. Reuters 14.03.12

 

 

My Big Hairy Souvenir

 

Most of us collect remembrances from our travels.  A sniff of sachet brings back summer, soft skies and heathery lavender fields.  A pearly conch is the week it rained on the Cape. The pile of Ordnance Survey maps are to gaze at on winter nights recalling walks taken and those awaiting possibility.

We stash ticket stubs and brochures and postcards we will never mail in little paper bags that rustle up entire trips long gone. I have a small mesh bag full of what even I can now see are slightly revolting bird feathers  that appeared one by one on every  path I took in an Irish autumn.  Baskets and bottles hold pebbles and sea shells from distant coasts.

Mostly what we cram into our overful bags is stuff for friends back home like beer mats and pencils,  book marks and tea in a hopeless effort to share a trip uniquely ours. 

The corners of the suitcase are for us. I have taken to collecting tops of egg cartons.

Here’s what I brought home as souvenirs from our recent two weeks in the UK:

 

• 1 black fleece jacket purchased due to cold (too big—gave to son)
• 1 Oyster Card with £3.35 left on it
• Charity shop must-haves: 1 flouncy black skirt, 2 blouses, 3 books
• 5 David Hockney Royal Academy Exhibit postcards and 1 poster (rolled and squashed).
• My own box of tea (Yorkshire Gold Rwandan)
• 3 boxes Boots dental sticks
• 1 bag Cadbury Milk Minis (3 eaten on plane)
• 2 Hello magazines (1 read on plane)
• 1  Small Horse (large pony)

 Like the space-challenged tourists we saw haggling for suitcases at I Love London, we had to buy a small zippered duffel in Edinburgh to accommodate our woeful ways. The pony of course didn't fit so he’ll have to take a later flight. 

Acquiring a hairy pony is not quite the same as collecting shells but like all good souvenirs its the serendipity that makes it a story. This pony with his strong sure legs, dapper feet and glossy coat is a Dales whose origins are so ancient they go back to the Galloways of Roman invaders who worked the Yorkshire mines. Endangered now, Dales make coveted riding and driving ponies with great stamina and sensible minds. Their long manes and tails curl elegantly towards feathery fetlocks.  

Plus this one has a moustache.

 

Tea shared, hands shaken, the pony has headed south to Devon for a few weeks course in How To Carry A Human. Once he has his diploma I will return for my own training in How To Ride This Horse. We will then set sail to Amsterdam where we will insert our hairy, short selves  into a crate between svelte Olympic equine jet-setters and cross his Atlantic for mine. 

Here's what my husband Tom brought home from our trip: 

A Tottenham Hot Spurs Wind-Up Alarm Clock.

 

 

Dartmoor by Fog

 

November, Dartmoor

The fog, sitting heavily on Haytor Down has, if anything, intensified.  Not only can't I see my hand in front of my face-- I can't see the tor in front of my horse.

A tor is a gigantic pile of compellingly mysterious rocks which are not uncommon throughout the British Isles but are most notably part of the terrain in Devon's Dartmoor, a bleakly gorgeous national park pocked with bogs, rocks and tors high above the far off sea.  

Zana suggested we box two ponies to Dartmoor to explore possible trails for her trekking program at West Steart Farm. A good trekking route is circular, not too strenuous and the route is clear. Although the weather was iffy in Stoodleigh, an hour's drive should find us above the fog according to the British weather channel Metcheck which tends to be conservative in its forecast. So we drove. 

Two motorways, several roundabouts and one hour later we seemed to have the fog glued to us as we rose higher and higher above the Exe River valley far away and far below. By the time we reached the Haytor car park the fog was so dense that the only users of this perpetually popular spot were ourselves, the two horses, one dog and the Molly Macs Ice Creams Van.  We thought for about one minute whether this was a good idea or a dumb idea, unboxed the ponies, saddled up, whistled along the sheepdog Alfie and headed out to find the trail to Hound Tor via Becka Brook.

I actually like fog. Well, maybe I don't like it when I'm driving but it's soft and friendly and okay when you're walking or riding a nice solid Dales pony. Even so, there are pony-eating bogs on Dartmoor,  many tales of those who never return and some more about huge dogs and monster cats who stalk the misty moors and I am as susceptible as the next person to imagining what I cannot see.

The Dartmoor Walking Association advises those exploring the moor to:

Treat the Moor as the unspoilt wilderness it is.
Wear proper clothing and footwear. 
Take waterproofs, a map and a compass.
Tell someone you can trust your route, 
and expected return time before you set out. 
Check the weather forecast. Close gates behind you.

The nice man in the Molly Macs Ice Creams Van waved at us as we rode off so I suppose he is our "last-seen" contact. We are both wearing our new wind and wave-proof  Devon Riding Holidays jackets and as our feet are clad in jodphur boots, our heads encased in approved safety helmets  and we both sport high visibility safety vests, we are properly clothed.  Zana has her requisite emergency medical kit around her waist and I have the emergency  chocolate bar tucked into a zipper bag along with my mobile, camera and bandana around mine. The ponies wear head collars under their bridles. Leadropes attached to our saddle dees are tidily secured in their pony club knots. 

 Zana is an enthusiast in the  art of Le Trec, a French- originated equine sport which involves reading maps (orienteering), having a fit horse at all gaits and negotiating obstacles which might be found in normal (and sticky) situations when riding cross country. This is the kind of thing you want the person who is leading you through dense fog on an open moor to be good at. She wears her OS map (Explorer OL28) in a waterproof see-through case around her neck along with a small plastic combo magnifying glass and compass and consults it closely before we trot along the road for a very short time before we cross and head up the moor on what we hope will be just a three hour tour.

Crossing the narrow B3387 may be the most dangerous part of our ride, as motorists, who are implored by the National Park authorities to "Take Moor Care" have great difficulty noticing the backside of a horse, which sadly causes Dartmoor pony fatalities far too often. Even now we see small groups of ponies grabbing mouthfuls of grass by the verge of the road, easy prey for mindless motorists.

The pleasant part of riding in the fog is just that. You get to ride in a fog. Your world shrinks to one of mist, muffled sound and nebulous shape. Objects appear in muted clarity only when they are directly near you. We ride by two tors knowing them only by the vague cloudy shape they present in the fog, although on a clear day we would be able to see their enormous rocky pile from miles away. The dim light helps me to focus on small details I might not normally notice: the peculiar shape of certain rocks, the variety of muds and slick grass. My pony Trooper is particularly focused on the grass which he samples every time Zana stops with her pony Donna to check the map. This happens often enough to keep both ponies happy. I start thinking about the emergency chocolate bar about 38 minutes into the ride.

 

.

Our route is designed to take us to the old quarry tramway circling the quarry pit past Smallacombe Rocks and down through the woods to Becka Brook. While we can make out Smallacombe Rocks when we are right on it,  we cannot see the wood enclosing the brook, nor can we find the tramway bridle path leading towards it. We are aiming for the path which leads us past the Medieval village of Hundatora (long abandoned due apparently to climate change and Black Death) to the inviting jumps course the South Devon Moorland Hunt have put up around Hound Tor. We won't, on a day like this of of course be jumping any of the fences, but we would like to sort of sidle up to a few.

Tom and I have walked this path a couple of times in other years on clear sunny days where the landmarks shout the direction to take. Being able to see Hound Tor off in the distance, or head for the woods shrouding Becka Brook, the walk is a pleasurable snap in clear weather when even Tom can't get us lost. We once had a lovely picnic in a glade near the brook and waded  its chilly waters.

Trooper is getting impatient with the frequent stops.  By our second circuit past Smallacombe Rocks we start to realize that we won't be finding our way today. We finally decide to bag the ride when we find ourselves peering through the murkiness to determine if we are retracing our steps by examining the hoof prints going in the opposite direction. Are those our ponies' prints or those of some other unseen horse and rider? The hoof prints outline have melded with the muddy moor. Unsure, we give the ponies their heads. Clever Dales ponies will nearly always find the most direct route back and ours determinedly aim us towards the distant horse box.

Once we are back in our zone and find ourselves easily on the map, Zana as she
always does, finds us a gallop. This one is straight up the long rise to Haytor itself with the two fastest ponies in the herd. The sound of hooves muffles in the fog and we have the odd sensation of galloping through clouds. It is not until we have nearly crashed into it that we find ourselves at the Tor, its giant boulders stretching ghostly above and before us.

Catching our breath and laughing at the pure fun of  being wild, we pick our way back down the long grassy slope to the car park. The Merry Mac Ice Creams van sits stolidly unseen in fog in the empty car park and after we put the ponies away with a grooming, tail and leg wraps and bulging hay nets, we wander over hoping he has warm drinks as well as cold ices.

Finishing our hot chocolates and cheese sandwiches in the cab with Alfie gulping down our crusts, we happily head back down the narrow lanes to the motorway towards Stoodleigh,  Zana expertly guiding the horse box through fog-mad traffic. I fish out the emergency chocolate bar. When we arrive at the farm, the sun is shining.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Three Cliffs Gower on Horse

   Wales, Gower Peninsula, July 2010    

 Three Cliffs is one of the outstandingly gorgeous beaches in the outstandingly gorgeous South Wales Gower Peninsula.  Cited as one of Europe's Ten Best,  it comes complete with a long flat beach, caves, rivers which flow into the sea and a very satisfying castle. Last time we visited we hiked in and out --on two feet.  This time I borrowed an additional four.

Booking horseback treks in the UK is a popular holiday activity. I generally aim for "hacks" as these are faster rides (treks being beginner stuff) and life with my lively horse Archie has well prepared me for action.  This ride, at Parc Breos near Swansea off the A4118,  hard by the Gower Heritage Centre where you can take gurning lessons,  looked like a mixed bag when I got there. The day started wet due to torrential rain and lowland flooding and hoping the car didn't sink when I gunned it over  road lakes that weren't there yesterday. Arriving late, I was assigned the last pony in the paddock, Chico; a  lovely but contrary  round-barreled bay Welsh  who had the enviable ability to hide in plain sight and was a bit of a gurning champion  himself.

Our orders were clear.  Brush your ponies, bridle them and set them free.  Stand with your back at the fence and slide down to the gate, avoiding any equine hijinks on the playground. Next, we had  a 15 minute demo on how to ride a horse. This was a good thing for the three young German riders clad in admirably white sneakers and jeans who were new to the sport, and interesting for the rest of us, with me being the only "native" speaker, even though my accent is New England.  Lining up for saddles and sent out to re-find our mounts, I looked for Chico, but he had disappeared. Bea, a small Italian child who seemed to know everything anyone really needed to know, cheerfully acknowledged my confusion and pointed to the pony behind her, " 'Ere is the Chico!"  We saddled up. Do  not touch the fittings. Get on from ground. Wait for rain to stop. When rain does  not stop, get on anyway. Six Germans,  two Danes and me. One gets yelled at a lot for violating  ride protocol, but as she clearly does not understand English, she smiles and carries on. I occasionally hear German chatter which comes back to me with "The Chico" casually popping up and I discern that everyone else is counting themselves lucky for riding a horse who clip clops rather than clippity clips.

The rain  finally lets up,  and it is a memorable ride  through country  lanes and bracken-thick trails to  the summit of neolithic   Arthur's Stone. We "experienced" riders  have several satisfactory gallops as the ride sections off to allow beginners their walk and the wilder contingent their high speed coastal chase. We pass down to Three Cliffs  Beach. I am terrifically grateful to the  dancing- in- his -footsteps  Chico for carrying me both up and down.  We easily cross the two rivers while the tide is  reassuringly far, far out. Three Cliffs  allegedly has the second fastest/highest tide in the world  outside of Canada's Bay of Fundy. It's not unusual for helicopters to have to swoop in to rescue bathers, kayakers--or ponies.

We have a gallop up the dunes and tie the  horses to  puny pieces of gorse so they can graze and rest and we can head for the Three Cliffs cafe for sandwiches. The German twenty-somethings all picnic by the headland and kiss and  doze in the sun. I eat lunch in the cafe garden with the Danes (father and daughter) and two young German sisters, one of whom is deathly afraid of bees. There are bees.

It's interesting, the Danish father accompanying his 13 year old daughter. This is the fourth family I have encountered this summer where the parents have taken up horseback riding as a common denominator for joining their offspring on summer holidays. The week previous, I rode out near Brecon with Gary and Vivian from Hong Kong who were having their last summer with their Cambridge-bound daughter--on horseback.  If it's a trend it's a nice one, far nicer than say the ones my parents had where we went on holiday with their friends, most memorably during Republican or Democratic National Conventions which  saw the production of great adult angst and the consumption of a lot of adult gin.

Having finished my sandwich at the cafe, I wandered back to the clifftop to gaze   meaningfully over the  sun speckled sea, while to my left the German couples posed in FaceBook bound life- endangering positions over the rocks. That masthead arms -out thing the Titanic movie spearheaded is still very au courant. I admired the blueness of the sea, the steep limestone cliffs and the perfect reality of being here and not anywhere else, until Bea called to me, "You must come and find The Chico --we leave!"

I found The Chico--wound deeply in the gorse, his gratitude for my releasing him unapparent,  re-mounting by leading him into an odd circular depression in the dunes which may have been where the Tardis once landed. We  trotted through a golf course and down a huge cleft in planet earth, emerging up the other side to a few arced golf balls and a hugely threatening sky. I dug my rain jacket out, a dicey operation as The Chico was still dancing and insisted on doing a four square dosey-do without partners, but I got the sleeves on and the zip zipped and then woosh.

The thing about lightening storms when you are on horseback is that you are usually  "out" somewhere in say, "the countryside" and you tend to be trapped between the metal stirrups which anchor you to the saddle, and the metal shoes which anchor your horse to the ground. This is generally a Good Thing, but when you  see a series of forked lightening hit the beach fifty yards from where you are drenchedly descending to ford the rivers necessary to return to the cliff from whence escape is possible, it is actually a Bad Thing. The Chico and Bea on her little Welsh pony Baby ("Baaby, now you be good pony, we go here now") and I were last in line. Chico descended the cliff to the beach in the same way that I climb ski  slopes--sideways. Each time thunder roared, he shifted to a quick 360. Bea looked nonchalant and the rest of the ride had already found the beach and were trotting towards the two rivers. River One--forded.  The distance between River Two was a tide filled beach, two lightening strikes and Thor hurling down thunder claps that sends ponies like The Chico, mad.

Bea, Baaby, The Chico and I brought up the rear and watched as the rest of the ride (outdistancing us both by height and by speed) crossed the enormously rushing intensity of what had been a gentle broad stream two hours earlier. The bigger horses gained their footing on the far side as Baby and Chico were coaxed in. Daredevil Bea stayed right at my side as I nervously watched to ensure that Baby's head  stayed above the rushing tide, and felt Chico's feet leave terra firma and swim against the current. Bea mouthed something at me, but through the deluge, the crash of thunder and the crack of lightening, I couldn't hear her. She looked pretty cheerful though.

Chico found land just before Baby's tiny hooves did, and we raced up to meet the Ride, trotting along fields and roads until we finally reached the home stretch. Lightening, thunder and drenching rain hounded us the whole way back.

Later, when we released the ponies in the paddock, The Chico balefully melted into the crowd and we stood in the rain watching them head for shelter.   I asked Bea what she had said as we crossed the river. She thought a moment and answered, "My boots, these boots with which I ride, they are full of water." She demonstrated by pulling one off and emptying a gallon from each foot. I found I could do the same and we laughed. Ha ha.

There was an old hand hanging around the corral and I said, "Wow that was some ride--we were on the beach in forked lightening." Welshmen don't chew baccy, but this one might as well have. He paused, looked me in the eye and said, "Oh that's happened."

"Happened, like on a Ride?"

"Twice," he said.

"So... what happens when the Ride gets struck by lightening?"

"Oh, everyone falls off."

"They fall off? Then what?"

"They get back on and ride back." 

"They ride back? Are they okay?"

" Oh yes. Of course their heads feel funny for a few hours."

I thanked the immensely capable and terrifically cool Ride leaders  one of whom was telling the other that this had been the most dramatic outing she'd been on. When I asked them what they would do  had the Ride  actually been struck by lightening, one drew her finger meaningfully across her neck. Goners.  Soggily wandering to my car, I was over- helpfully assisted in backing and turning by the German young men who were celebrating their survival with a  suspiciously pungent cigarette, and headed home.  Choosing the longer, twistier but high ground single tracks  to avoid flooding, it was a slow drive. Once back at our friend's small village bungalow, wet boots, jacket and hat abandoned in the yard, I had a very  welcome, deep hot bath.  By the time I emerged, the sun shone. 

                                                        Wales. What's not to love?

 

Riding New Zealand--On Four Feet

 

  Marahua,  Abel Tasman National Park, South Island, New Zealand

January, 2007

Ride the horses from Lord of the Rings said the flyer on the wall at the Abel Tasman tourist information center in tiny South Island Marahau, New Zealand. It showed pictures of thickly muscled steeds romantically galloping on a moonlit beach. Two hour rides cost $85 NZ dollars (about $63 US dollars-pretty much the going rate). I wrote down the number and tucked it into my backpack, then sauntered down the summery quiet road for a late day January swim in an azure sea.

It wasn't until we were back at our chalet perched high above the coastal beaches that I dug out the stable phone number. My call got an answering machine so I left a message and enjoyed a nice chardonnay on the chalet's deck in the warm early evening as cicadas began to simmer down a little, letting through the bucolic sounds of people cutting and baling hay in the fields far below.

 I called again a day later and talked to Matt who told me he wasn't sure if they were doing any rides out as the sun was shining and they were making hay. I peered over the deck railing and just made out a small figure in a red jumpsuit sitting on top of a baler with a cell phone in his hand. Half the meadow was cut and baled.  The crew were using a small wagon hauled by a ridiculous mini (when they might have been using a Lord of the Rings giant war horse) and seemed to be alternating the actual loading of bales with swigs of beer and moments of general hilarity. They would not be available to offer rides until it rained. The forecast looked bright.

We ate our dinners at one of the two cafes down the hill and when we went for our fish and veg at     the hippy Park Cafe eaten under a large open window with a view of the sea, I saw another flyer announcing camping and horseback riding so I wrote that phone number down too. When Icalled I got Old MacDonald's Farm and Holiday Camp and the person I spoke with, possibly Old Mac himself, made me a booking for the following evening as Brian, the hostler, liked to go out when the weather was cooler. I quite agreed. It seemed sadly unlikely that Old MacDonald's Farm would offer any equine Lord of the Rings.

The next day spent largely and perfectly hiking and swimming and in water craft, I drove down the hill from our chalet, took a left past the café and a sharp right to the camping farm where they told me to go back out, drive a bit farther and turn left into a field with horses. So I did   all that and bumped across the meadow towards the horses Brian and Luke were tethering to a rope barrier. Luke said a brief hello, unhooked one of the horses, athletically swung up and cantered off bareback, a daredevil in shorts, his dreads flying heroically behind him, leaving me, Brian, the two remaining tethered horses at one end of the field and several others who roamed free casually cropping luscious green New Zealand grass.

Brian and I sized each other up in a laconic sort of six gun- free western style. He wore old jeans and an ancient button down shirt and I had on all weather combo riding/hiking boots and an unfortunate pair of what had become pink half chaps. I borrowed a "helmet" from his trailer and helped brush the mare Brian was generously allowing me to ride. Neva a savvy bay, was station (ranch) bred with curiously large round hooves and had that look that you sometimes see in wise mares which is sort of a warning: measure up or you're off. Brian gently combed and saddled her and kindly asked her to accept the bit he had warmed in his hands. She graciously allowed me to ascent to the saddle, adjust my stirrups and take up the reins. I politely thanked her but not as much as Brian did. Brian adored Neva, and with good reason.

It was just the two of us, Brian and me, and we walked the horses towards the beach via the arts colony where Neva took a dump and Brian got off to ceremoniously clean it up. We walked through the parking lot near the beach where two young men sitting on a car bumper well into an evening's inebriation commented derisorily on our namby pamby girly sport and then by the Park Café until finally we were on the huge flat beach. Brian had not stopped talking but Neva seemed to have taken a shine to me so I was happy. I could not tell Brian why America had voted for George Bush (twice) nor could I reassure him that the economic and environmental future of the world wasn't hanging by a thread due to the outrageousness of American corporate greed but once we were really ON the beach he took a tiny talk- break and we both just enjoyed the gorgeous evening and the fine horses and the incoming tide.

Brian enjoyed talking, but like Neva, he seemed to take a shine to me as well and told me his own story which was not atypical for these parts; a wander down the coast, a trailer, stay for 8 or 10 years maybe get restless and leave sometime soon but maybe not. He lived for his sheep and his horses. Brian said the summers were fine in Marahau but the winters were kind of slow. I sort of half listened until I startled at the word "murderer" and then relaxed just a little when Brian clarified that it was sheep (his own) that he murdered and ate and when we got back he would give me a couple of chops which I assumed were those of the lost lambs and not violence directed towards me personally. A gentle but driven soul, Brian relished the shock value of the word "murderer" so much that a small spray of spittle accompanied his pleasure in speaking it aloud.

By this time we were dancing in the sea and had several sweet gallops up wedge shaped sand banks and through the waves and it wasn't until Brian mentioned that he wasn't sure where we were that I came down from my riding- a horse- on- the beach- holiday- high. What did he mean? I could see the Park Café, the trees sheltering the parking lot, the coastal path and the little mountain with our tiny dot chalet a few hundred yards across the flat beach.

Brian looked increasingly anxious as he scoped the beach and told me that he rarely came out this far and was not really, really familiar with this part of the sands especially as they constantly shifted. Somehow in between his rambling dream of someday taking trail ride groups up the old mountain pack roads he said existed beneath the dense foliage of the coastal volcanic mountains (which he could only do he graciously said, if all the riders were as accomplished as I) and his continuing and vocal annoyance at the avoidable but potential disasters awaiting the outside world, I gleaned an undercurrent of what lost could mean on a darkening beach with an incoming tide.

Although it may have seemed sensible to just aim, say, for the Park Café and gallop on in, Neva said otherwise. Her eager gait slowed to a crawl as she very, very carefully placed each pudding bowl hoof on spongy ground, never leaving her weight on any hoof for more than a teeny tiny moment. Brian was somewhere off to my right, concentrating on the same intricate ballet. It did occur to me that I might get off and walk as the mystery of what Neva was doing slowly unraveled and became the one word Brian had not spoken-quicksand.

Having had many an encounter with the demon bog during "walks" in the UK, quicksand is still the stuff of myth for New England me. A quicksand is just that-a water saturated sand that does not create enough tension to support weight. It is exacerbated by any nearby running or subterranean water -for example, gulp, an incoming tide. Vibration makes it unstable. The vibration of a hoof or a foot can destabilize the viscous sand and create the sucking effect that essentially closes around the unfortunate limb like wet concrete. Remember that tubular woven straw trick toy where you tell your friend to stick both fingers in and pull back, trapping their forefingers until they relax and let go and then they wonder why they stay friends with you? Quicksand has the same reaction. Once you pull back (one would say a natural reaction) the tension of the sand causes it to lock and tighten. Struggling makes it worse-and hurries the descent into whatever depth the sand remains unstable. Although not usually very deep, people die in quicksand because they panic or succumb to exposure-or drown.

Neva of course didn't need any of this advice and Brian had, amazingly, gone mute after cautioning me NOT to get off. We did a four legged tiptoe over quivering sand as the tide began its evening rush towards shore. The sun had gone down behind us leaving heavenly red clouds over the mountains, all of which we were able to examine in great detail as we minced along. Brian was, I must say, very cool. His faith in Neva and his own horse was paramount and infectious and he knew to leave them quietly alone to do their work. Neva's great hooves continued their dressage over the dicey sands which took enormous physical effort as she had to remain completely balanced step after step after step. I tried to sit as relaxed and light in the saddle as I could, taking my cue from Brian who sat back dreamily with reins dangling from one hand.

I could feel Neva make contact with her first bit of solid sand one hoof at a time. Her pace instantly altered and she strode out purposefully headed for shore, leaving Brian to navigate the last soft patch until he could trot up to us. There was no altering Neva's plan as she worked out a route to a distant path that eventually led us over a leaping ditch, through a river and on to dry land.

We circled back through the car park, ignoring the now truly drunken louts who I mentally imagined up to their necks in quicksand trying uselessly to raise their cans of lager to their mouths, down the road over the bridge past the café, back through the art colony and into the long field. Brian's spirits had perked up enough to allow him to argue the future of global nuclear threat which took us right through the unsaddling and brushing down and offers of well deserved Polo mints to the champion horses and at last it was time for me to say goodbye to the magnificent Neva.

Brian asked me if I would like to go out again before we left Abel Tasman and I thought yes I would but as it turned out I accepted a counter offer the next day to kayak to Bark Bay and hike back and  then we were gone; headed north to Picton and the Marlborough Sound.