I have just come home from the trip taking Cowboy to the airport for his flight home. The airport run is always difficult for me. I usually battle to stay chipper and cheerful whilst the tears rise in my throat.
This time was made worse by the fact that the norovirus struck me last night, and I had next to no sleep all night, had to run up and down to the bathroom several times to be sick, and today I am shivery and aching and the thought of food makes me feel faint.
My dad offered to drive us to the airport, and I slouched on the back seat of the car while Cowboy sat in the front, and I managed to hold it all together until we had to walk in to the terminal and find his check in desk. Mostly, that was because I was concentrating so hard on not feeling like I was about to die that I didn't have brain-space to consider crying.
We don't do long, drawn-out goodbyes. Once I'd got him safely checked in and his bag dropped off, all he had to left to do was get through security. A quick kiss, a hug, and he said "See you later." I forced a smile and said "Yep. See you soon." Then I babbled about letting me know when he lands, and have a safe journey, none of which were things I needed to say. They were just an attempt to prolong his being here.
It's been a lame ten days on paper: both of us were ill more than once, and to compound matters, our plan to have a romantic get-away and make up for er... "lost time" was scuppered by a very unglamorous affliction that struck me, and we were limited to cuddling. Only very little cuddling occurred, because either he or I were contagious, and neither of us can sleep well if we're cuddling. The weather was miserable, and Christmas wasn't as glittery and fabulous as we had imagined.
It made no difference to me. I loved him being here. I don't love that he has gone again. As I always do after leaving him at the airport, or him leaving me at the airport, I have a small cry. It's about the only way to deal with it.
Monday 30 December 2013
Friday 27 December 2013
Seasonal thoughts
Christmas Day has come and gone, and as with everything in life, it wasn't exactly all to plan. Cowboy was struck down with germs and spent all of Christmas Day in bed with a fever. My niece ricocheted around the house with luminous green snot pouring out of her nose and a very productive cough - which I appear to have now caught.
I love to come down here, to the very end of the country, and perhaps I will come back here after the New Year and spend some time alone. It is a good spot to work on a book, or a business project, or both.
It's also getting around to the time of year when we all start thinking about the ways we want to change our lives, and make those over-ambitious resolutions. In her Christmas speech, Her Majesty The Queen talked about reflection, and how important it is to take time to look at one's life and think about what there is to be thankful for, in the past, the present, and the future. She has a good point.
January sales and the festive season encourage us to consume, to eat all the food, buy all the good deals, want all the things, be at all the parties, have all the fun. Didn't get what you wanted for Christmas? Buy it for yourself in the sales.
I shy away from all that these days. All I wanted for Christmas, I got: my Cowboy right here where I can touch him; most of my family together for a few days; a cozy nook with a warm fire and a spot to put my feet up.
I hope all of you were similarly lucky :)
We ate food, we played Monopoly, we opened gifts, and eventually I went to bed in the guest room whilst Cowboy sweated out the last of his illness without me. We have bailed out to a family bolthole in Cornwall, where we are doing very little - I am coughing up my lungs and he is enjoying not needing to get dressed today.
I took a few minutes to watch the glorious sunset this afternoon, the sun slipping into the ocean and even seeing the elusive green flash.
I love to come down here, to the very end of the country, and perhaps I will come back here after the New Year and spend some time alone. It is a good spot to work on a book, or a business project, or both.
It's also getting around to the time of year when we all start thinking about the ways we want to change our lives, and make those over-ambitious resolutions. In her Christmas speech, Her Majesty The Queen talked about reflection, and how important it is to take time to look at one's life and think about what there is to be thankful for, in the past, the present, and the future. She has a good point.
January sales and the festive season encourage us to consume, to eat all the food, buy all the good deals, want all the things, be at all the parties, have all the fun. Didn't get what you wanted for Christmas? Buy it for yourself in the sales.
I shy away from all that these days. All I wanted for Christmas, I got: my Cowboy right here where I can touch him; most of my family together for a few days; a cozy nook with a warm fire and a spot to put my feet up.
I hope all of you were similarly lucky :)
Saturday 21 December 2013
And, breathe
He made it. Despite a late take-off from Seattle and my paranoia that he would miss his connecting flight, Cowboy is here. Whilst he was chirpy enough when I picked him up from the airport at around 10am this morning, he has crashed this afternoon and is sleeping off the journey while the cup of tea I made for him goes cold beside the bed.
Over the last few days, I've harboured some tension that I have now been able to release. The PVP was excessive. I worried that travel disruption would steal some of the time we have together over the holidays. I worried that his feelings might have changed. I worried that my feelings might have changed. I worried that Christmas would become an awkward festival of realising I'd made a huge mistake, a catalogue of huge mistakes.
And then he walked through the doors of International Arrivals at the airport, his guitar on his back, and he smiled at me and kissed me and hugged me tightly, and I forgot all about my absurd worries.
I love him.
Over the last few days, I've harboured some tension that I have now been able to release. The PVP was excessive. I worried that travel disruption would steal some of the time we have together over the holidays. I worried that his feelings might have changed. I worried that my feelings might have changed. I worried that Christmas would become an awkward festival of realising I'd made a huge mistake, a catalogue of huge mistakes.
And then he walked through the doors of International Arrivals at the airport, his guitar on his back, and he smiled at me and kissed me and hugged me tightly, and I forgot all about my absurd worries.
I love him.
Tuesday 17 December 2013
The Little Cowboy Bar
I learned recently about a fire that ripped through a small bar in a very small town in Montana. The bar was called The Little Cowboy, and it was in Fromberg, MT.
The Little Cowboy Bar is where the wranglers (Cowboy included) would take us tourists after a day's riding at the dude ranch where Cowboy and I met. At this bar, I learned what Mountain Dew tasted like. I learned what a 'Shake-a-Day' is, and even played a few rounds, despite the stern sign that the Shake-a-Day was for locals only.
I spent hours looking at the photographs of the rodeo stars of years gone by, and I pored over the impressive collection of belt buckles, pipes, boots, saddles, letters, photographs, preserved beetles and snake skins, clothing, hundreds and hundreds of items that the bar's former owner, now manager, Shirley Smith had collected over the years. Her museum had a tattered guestbook filled with names of people from all over the world. I signed it, promising I'd be back.
The Little Cowboy is where I learned a game that involved clenching a quarter between my buttocks, walking ten feet across the floor and trying to drop the quarter into a shot glass on the floor. It's where Cowboy looked at me, my first day on the ranch, while I contemplated my life and said, "You're interesting, you know that?"
The Little Cowboy is where I tried on his spurs and paraded around the deck to make them clink and chime like in the old westerns, it's where I stood in the irrigation channel in the sun to soak my boots which were too tight.
It's where I listened to Shirley tell us about the Little People of the Pryor Mountains, she showed us her documentary about them and her photographs with their strange discolouration which she thinks was to do with the spirits up in the mountains. She told us about putting cigarettes in the little gift bags which the local school children had wanted to leave for the Little People - tobacco is a customary tribute to the Little People. She told me that, yes, if you go back to where you leave your tributes three days later, they will be gone. She told me about people she knew who had seen the Little People. She gave me shivers down my spine with her stories.
The fire started by accident one afternoon last week, and quickly destroyed the building and most of what was in it. I feel a keen sense of loss. Shirley's collection was so precious - not much of it appeared valuable at first glance, it was odds and ends from ordinary lives of local people, but the more time I spent in the museum in the back room, the more I loved these ordinary treasures. I wish now that I had taken photographs of the place and what I saw inside. I didn't take any, not a single one.
Now, there is not much left of this little place. The front wall, which was covered in the brands of local ranchers, may have survived, but the inside is wrecked and most of the collection with it. This bar in a sleepy small town was once named as one of the best bars in America. I hope that it will recover to some extent, that a new collection might be started, and that it will be one of the best bars in America all over again.
My heart goes out to Shirley and the people of Fromberg.
Read the Billings Gazette report on the fire here.
I spent hours looking at the photographs of the rodeo stars of years gone by, and I pored over the impressive collection of belt buckles, pipes, boots, saddles, letters, photographs, preserved beetles and snake skins, clothing, hundreds and hundreds of items that the bar's former owner, now manager, Shirley Smith had collected over the years. Her museum had a tattered guestbook filled with names of people from all over the world. I signed it, promising I'd be back.
The Little Cowboy is where I learned a game that involved clenching a quarter between my buttocks, walking ten feet across the floor and trying to drop the quarter into a shot glass on the floor. It's where Cowboy looked at me, my first day on the ranch, while I contemplated my life and said, "You're interesting, you know that?"
The Little Cowboy is where I tried on his spurs and paraded around the deck to make them clink and chime like in the old westerns, it's where I stood in the irrigation channel in the sun to soak my boots which were too tight.
It's where I listened to Shirley tell us about the Little People of the Pryor Mountains, she showed us her documentary about them and her photographs with their strange discolouration which she thinks was to do with the spirits up in the mountains. She told us about putting cigarettes in the little gift bags which the local school children had wanted to leave for the Little People - tobacco is a customary tribute to the Little People. She told me that, yes, if you go back to where you leave your tributes three days later, they will be gone. She told me about people she knew who had seen the Little People. She gave me shivers down my spine with her stories.
 |
| Shirley in her museum. Image from Billings Gazette |
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| Image from Billings Gazette |
My heart goes out to Shirley and the people of Fromberg.
Read the Billings Gazette report on the fire here.
Sunday 15 December 2013
The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug
On Friday, I joined some of my friends to watch The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug at the IMAX cinema in London. I'd never been to the IMAX before, so I was rather excited about that part. Admittedly, I watched part 1 of The Hobbit trilogy on a plane, and wasn't all that grabbed by it, so I wasn't as excited as I could have been about the film itself. Back in the day, my friends and I would queue outside the cinema for hours before it opened so that we could watch the first screening of each Lord of the Rings film.
Hobbit 2 was enjoyable enough. It was a little disjointed, a lot of running hither and thither; running from this, running to that, running around looking for the other. I rather wanted everybody to stop running and sit down and have a cup of tea for longer than five minutes.
Still, I had one request of the film, which it more than delivered. I wanted more dragon than the first film. Smaug was big and gorgeous and had plenty of screen time.
I loved how he flowed across the gigantic screen, how his chest glowed like embers before he breathed fire across everything.
Mostly I loved the look in his eyes when confronted with the biggest gold item he'd ever seen. Adoration, delight, greed. I loved how he shook molten gold from his scales and it rained coins.
There was another unexpected love from this film. He came on screen, and having forgotten the book which I read some 18 years ago, I stared, open-mouthed. Who is that?! Seriously. Who was he? He was smoking hot.
Bard the Bowman. I don't really think he needs explaining. Just look at him.
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It was a good romp of a film, it had some touching and funny moments, it was enjoyable. It was a little bit too long... If it had had more Bard, it might have been more tolerable.
In fact, it should have been called Bard, and been all about Bard. I look forward to more of him in the next film.
Hobbit 2 was enjoyable enough. It was a little disjointed, a lot of running hither and thither; running from this, running to that, running around looking for the other. I rather wanted everybody to stop running and sit down and have a cup of tea for longer than five minutes.
Still, I had one request of the film, which it more than delivered. I wanted more dragon than the first film. Smaug was big and gorgeous and had plenty of screen time.
I loved how he flowed across the gigantic screen, how his chest glowed like embers before he breathed fire across everything.
Mostly I loved the look in his eyes when confronted with the biggest gold item he'd ever seen. Adoration, delight, greed. I loved how he shook molten gold from his scales and it rained coins.
There was another unexpected love from this film. He came on screen, and having forgotten the book which I read some 18 years ago, I stared, open-mouthed. Who is that?! Seriously. Who was he? He was smoking hot.
Bard the Bowman. I don't really think he needs explaining. Just look at him.
In fact, it should have been called Bard, and been all about Bard. I look forward to more of him in the next film.
Thursday 12 December 2013
My Excessive Collections: Lip balm
When the weather changes, which is every single wretched day in England, I get the same problem. My lips become chapped, cracked, flaky and sore. Over the years I've learned that the only way to deal with this issue is to be excessively, obsessively prepared.
Behold my arsenal of lip balm (you might say I'd gone a bit "barmy/balmy"...! Sorry...).
Twelve might be excessive by some standards. That's why this is called My Excessive Collections. These are all completely necessary.
These two live by my bed, for those last-thing-at-night or first-thing-in-the-morning moments. Occasionally for those middle-of-the-night moments, but those are rare. There are two because I usually lose one down the back of my bedside table, so I need a backup at all times. Of the two, mango is my favourite.
This one lives in my handbag. I bought it in Walmart in Bellingham, WA, when I had a chapped lips crisis at the checkout, and it was right there next to the Hershey's chocolate and beef jerky. It has a zingy feel which Cowboy isn't sure about.
This one lives in my coat pocket. It has the added bonus of SPF 15, which makes it perfect for those surprise sunny days. It also tastes nice and is a good shape for applying.
This one used to live on my desk, when I had one, and now lives on my chest of drawers. It's not my favourite, the consistency is a little grainy. It used to live in my car, but melted on a hot day and dribbled everywhere. I let it solidify again and it's pretty much a last resort, but does give a good moisture hit.
I bought this one when I had a cold, and I actually used it to sooth and lubricate the skin on my nose. I associate vaseline with greasing my neck and armpits to stop my wetsuit from chafing on surfing holidays, so it's not really something I wanted to put on my lips, but an emergency chappage situation arose one day and I ended up using it. It was very pleasant. It lives on my dressing table.
I bought this one shortly after I'd used the previous one in an emergency - another emergency situation arose whilst I was out shopping, and this was near the tills. This one also lives on my dressing table, and is often applied just before I go out. I don't wear lipstick except on very special occasions, and this hint of colour is as close as I get to putting makeup on my lips.
I don't use this one often (No. 7 at Boots), only when I have a serious chappage situation. On occasion, my lips have flaked so badly I've been left with raw strips, and sometimes bleeding. For excessive moisturising, this is my go-to balm. It tastes bad, but it works well.
This one (Neal's Yard Remedies) lives in my car, because nothing distracts from good driving like dry lips. Always close at hand for a good application before setting off on a long journey, and there for emergencies when the handbag or coat are on the back seat and the M25 is not going anywhere. It's also robust enough to withstand the extremes of temperature in my car which come from a broken heater.
These three musketeers are often forgotten in the drawer. Lypsyl used to be my favourite balm, now it doesn't taste as good as I remember and the consistency is a bit gluey. These will probably end up living in Cowboy's pick-up so that when I find myself in there without warning, I'll at least have something to use.
I used to have a few more in the collection, but I've lost some, and I gave one of my favourites away to a friend who was in dire need of some balm. She was very appreciative.
Always be prepared.
Behold my arsenal of lip balm (you might say I'd gone a bit "barmy/balmy"...! Sorry...).
Twelve might be excessive by some standards. That's why this is called My Excessive Collections. These are all completely necessary.
These two live by my bed, for those last-thing-at-night or first-thing-in-the-morning moments. Occasionally for those middle-of-the-night moments, but those are rare. There are two because I usually lose one down the back of my bedside table, so I need a backup at all times. Of the two, mango is my favourite.
This one lives in my handbag. I bought it in Walmart in Bellingham, WA, when I had a chapped lips crisis at the checkout, and it was right there next to the Hershey's chocolate and beef jerky. It has a zingy feel which Cowboy isn't sure about.
This one lives in my coat pocket. It has the added bonus of SPF 15, which makes it perfect for those surprise sunny days. It also tastes nice and is a good shape for applying.
This one used to live on my desk, when I had one, and now lives on my chest of drawers. It's not my favourite, the consistency is a little grainy. It used to live in my car, but melted on a hot day and dribbled everywhere. I let it solidify again and it's pretty much a last resort, but does give a good moisture hit.
I bought this one when I had a cold, and I actually used it to sooth and lubricate the skin on my nose. I associate vaseline with greasing my neck and armpits to stop my wetsuit from chafing on surfing holidays, so it's not really something I wanted to put on my lips, but an emergency chappage situation arose one day and I ended up using it. It was very pleasant. It lives on my dressing table.
I bought this one shortly after I'd used the previous one in an emergency - another emergency situation arose whilst I was out shopping, and this was near the tills. This one also lives on my dressing table, and is often applied just before I go out. I don't wear lipstick except on very special occasions, and this hint of colour is as close as I get to putting makeup on my lips.
I don't use this one often (No. 7 at Boots), only when I have a serious chappage situation. On occasion, my lips have flaked so badly I've been left with raw strips, and sometimes bleeding. For excessive moisturising, this is my go-to balm. It tastes bad, but it works well.
This one (Neal's Yard Remedies) lives in my car, because nothing distracts from good driving like dry lips. Always close at hand for a good application before setting off on a long journey, and there for emergencies when the handbag or coat are on the back seat and the M25 is not going anywhere. It's also robust enough to withstand the extremes of temperature in my car which come from a broken heater.
These three musketeers are often forgotten in the drawer. Lypsyl used to be my favourite balm, now it doesn't taste as good as I remember and the consistency is a bit gluey. These will probably end up living in Cowboy's pick-up so that when I find myself in there without warning, I'll at least have something to use.
I used to have a few more in the collection, but I've lost some, and I gave one of my favourites away to a friend who was in dire need of some balm. She was very appreciative.
Always be prepared.
Sunday 8 December 2013
Worlds apart
It's getting close to the time when Cowboy will be arriving in the UK for Christmas, so naturally there's a bit of PVP starting to kick in. I am restless and irritable, and scrabbling about for ways to make the days go quicker. It's harder to do that without uni or a job to take up the bulk of my time.
If I had my head in a sensible place, I'd be working on the businesses (mine, and Cowboy's) behind the scenes: adjusting websites, planning updates, drafting letters etc. My head being in an insensible place, I tend to drink a lot of tea and faff about.
Yesterday I joined one of my oldest friends for her birthday celebrations. I drove from the Oxfordshire countryside back to Tooting (where I could park for free as I still have my resident's permit), hopped on a bus to Clapham and wandered down Northcote Road. It was cold, but not bitter. I didn't wear gloves or a hat and I was fine.
We went to the pottery painting cafe and had tea and cake while we dabbed paint on to the various pieces of crockery on offer. I had to resist the teapot with a capacity of an entire gallon. I went for a more demure one pint mug.
The mug features a rope around the bottom, three emblems of London (pictured), a black and white cow (inaccurate, because Cowboy doesn't work with dairy cows, he works with beef cows, which are usually black Angus), a yellow horse (Sunshine) and a blue dog (Blue Dog).
I've never been artistically accomplished, and I'm hoping Cowboy will like it for the sentimental value and its generous tea capacity.
After our pottery escapades, we had a lovely dinner at The Breakfast Club (pie and mash, a side of mac and cheese, banoffee pie), and some drinks in the bar next door. On the way back to Tooting, I went past lovely shops and restaurants, and I wondered why I had left London. I drove back to the Oxfordshire countryside.
Cowboy messaged me from Montana, where he is taking some time out to see his family before he comes over here. All it said was: It hit -40 this morning.
That's in Fahrenheit, but it happens to be exactly the same temperature in Celsius. Minus forty. Minus forty degrees. What alien ice planet is he on?? Hoth?
The only suitable response I could come up with was: No thanks. No minus forty for me. In his little hometown I expect the wind is whipping across the prairie, and there aren't hundreds of lovely shops and restaurants to take refuge in.
I realise I have never been to the US when it's been cold. It worries me more than a little. I will need to invest in a space suit. I mean, in a really good coat.
If I had my head in a sensible place, I'd be working on the businesses (mine, and Cowboy's) behind the scenes: adjusting websites, planning updates, drafting letters etc. My head being in an insensible place, I tend to drink a lot of tea and faff about.
Yesterday I joined one of my oldest friends for her birthday celebrations. I drove from the Oxfordshire countryside back to Tooting (where I could park for free as I still have my resident's permit), hopped on a bus to Clapham and wandered down Northcote Road. It was cold, but not bitter. I didn't wear gloves or a hat and I was fine.
We went to the pottery painting cafe and had tea and cake while we dabbed paint on to the various pieces of crockery on offer. I had to resist the teapot with a capacity of an entire gallon. I went for a more demure one pint mug.
The mug features a rope around the bottom, three emblems of London (pictured), a black and white cow (inaccurate, because Cowboy doesn't work with dairy cows, he works with beef cows, which are usually black Angus), a yellow horse (Sunshine) and a blue dog (Blue Dog).
I've never been artistically accomplished, and I'm hoping Cowboy will like it for the sentimental value and its generous tea capacity.
After our pottery escapades, we had a lovely dinner at The Breakfast Club (pie and mash, a side of mac and cheese, banoffee pie), and some drinks in the bar next door. On the way back to Tooting, I went past lovely shops and restaurants, and I wondered why I had left London. I drove back to the Oxfordshire countryside.
Cowboy messaged me from Montana, where he is taking some time out to see his family before he comes over here. All it said was: It hit -40 this morning.
That's in Fahrenheit, but it happens to be exactly the same temperature in Celsius. Minus forty. Minus forty degrees. What alien ice planet is he on?? Hoth?
The only suitable response I could come up with was: No thanks. No minus forty for me. In his little hometown I expect the wind is whipping across the prairie, and there aren't hundreds of lovely shops and restaurants to take refuge in.
I realise I have never been to the US when it's been cold. It worries me more than a little. I will need to invest in a space suit. I mean, in a really good coat.
Thursday 5 December 2013
Review: The Centre of Horseback Combat, Hemel Hempstead, UK. Part 2: Horseback Combat Day
Read part 1 of my adventures here
I returned to the Centre on the last day of November, a little stressed out by moving house, ready to spend the day learning about horseback archery and jousting. My only experience of these things was watching Lord of the Rings and A Knight's Tale, and thinking it all looked pretty cool. I was up for it, giddy with excitement. I joined three of my university riding club colleagues, most of us sporting our club hoodies. Nerds.
We began the day suitably with a cup of tea and a biscuit while we learned some basic etiquette when it comes to archery. Then we went out on foot to learn some technique and practise shooting. Karl talked us through each step of nocking our arrows and shooting. The targets were at this point only about ten feet away, and after a couple of tries, we started to hit them. Horse archery is quick, intended to be a hit and run technique, so once the arrow is in place on the bow, the draw and release is fast. The aiming process is vague, instinctive and surprisingly effective.
I plugged in my dancer brain again. I like methodical movement patterns, and this was no exception. Karl's voice was measured and rhythmical as he called out the instructions, and it did begin to feel like a glorious dance. I wasn't entirely sure how this was going to translate into the saddle, but I was very much enjoying the skill on the grass.
Until, that is, I twanged my bowstring against my forearm. That was quite painful. Karl had a helpful suggestion for how to avoid that.
We had races: who could release their three arrows the fastest, and then more competitively, who could release their three arrows the fastest and the most accurately. Being ferociously competitive (when I'm winning), I won most of these little races, beaten once on score by a slower but more accurate archer, and once when I had my bow upside down and took a little while to figure that out. I was discovering a rather deadly and predatory side to myself.
We went back inside for another biscuit, and I realised I was ravenously hungry, and maybe that had something to do with my killer instinct. Then it was time to go up to the grass archery track with our trusty steeds and try it from horseback.
I was paired up with Buddy, a gentle piebald cob with a forelock so long I wondered if he could see where he was going - but he didn't put a foot wrong all morning. All of the horses were completely nonplussed by the various bows and arrows being waved around by the four amateurs, and Buddy seemed to know exactly what he was doing.
We were led down the track at a walk first, to get a feel for it with as little pressure as possible. It was a curious feeling to being doing something other than focusing on the horse.
"You're riding from the waist down and shooting from the waist up," Karl said, reminding me to use my legs to keep Buddy going. I've never felt so useless at multitasking.
Each turn that we took on the track, we were left more and more to the care of our horses. It was slippery out there, and we were the last archery course of the season, so the advice was to go along the track in trot. However, it was pointed out that our hands would be busy with our bow and arrow, so the horse was likely to go as fast as the horse was going to go. We were warned that the horses might break into canter, because that was what they were trained to do for archery, and that we could either go with it, or we could concentrate on getting a nice trot going before we bothered to sort out our bow.
Buddy went into canter by himself, and he had a lovely cob's rocking horse gait that took us pretty steadily along the track. It crossed my mind as he quickened out of trot that this was probably something that would have worried me before I'd done the confidence course, but at this point I just thought: "He knows the drill. I'll just let him get on with it and I'll get on with archery."
I managed to drop one arrow, and shoot another one off into the grass. Buddy slowed almost to a stop of his own accord before we'd reached the end of the track, and sighed contentedly as we waited with the other horses for everybody to take their turn.
We had a few runs each, and each time I trusted Buddy to take me from one end of the track to the other. I tried to concentrate on my technique, but it was well and truly out of the window. I actually felt quite emotional up on the hill, surrounded by green fields, autumnal woodland and the quiet. On the track there was just me and Buddy, the sound of his big feet on the grass, my fumbling ineptitude with the bow, and the final satisfaction as I managed to hit one of the targets on my last pass.
I'll sound hokey and out of my mind, but it was an almost spiritual experience. The sense of partnership was overwhelming. The focus on the archery brought a stillness of the mind, a meditation in itself. I felt more sensitive to the horse beneath me than I ever felt in the riding school. Maybe that was the Cossack saddle giving me more biomechanical feedback, maybe it was because I was more mindful of everything I was doing. I trusted Buddy completely. I didn't doubt him for a moment. That was strange to me - I've spent months expecting every horse I rode to be planning to throw me. The fear and anxiety was gone, and what I had experienced out in the field was something wonderful. As I picture it now, while I write this, I feel almost tearful. The last time I felt this way was standing in Yellowstone Lake, finally letting a deep depression wash away.
Hokey out of body/mind experiences aside, we stopped for lunch, and I was sad that we were just doing a morning of archery. It was as if our dance class had ended just as I was figuring out the steps. I expect I will go back for more archery in the spring.
The afternoon was dedicated to jousting. What an absurd occupation for four girls who usually trotted serpentines, but we were handed a lance and I did my best to engage my puny biceps and not drop the thing. On foot, and spaced out from each other, we were taught how to safely lower the lance and bring it in to play without cracking our steeds in the skull. Then we learned how to lift it up again. Karl makes it look effortless. It probably is effortless for him, I am quite sure his arms are well-defined beneath his winter coat. My arms are mostly just for show, and I can occasionally muster five very poor pressups, but that's about my limit. The lance was unwieldy. I had no idea how I was going to manage.
We were taught about tournament games and traditions, the like of which I've only read about in Game of Thrones, and then we were matched with horses again. Buddy had been traded out, and I was partnered with Smokie instead. He was the smallest of the horses. Zana gently warned me, "He is the cheeky pony, but since you did the course last week we thought you'd get on just fine with him."
I had another bizarre moment of wondering why I wasn't worried, and this confusion continued as we rode around a little bit to get a feel for the horses. Smokie was obviously ready for action, and I wondered why I wasn't feeling short of breath, why my heart wasn't racing, why I wasn't thinking of how best to say I wanted to get off him immediately. I didn't want to. I paid no attention to anybody else, just spoke to him softly and he settled down reasonably quickly. He was so light and responsive. I felt spoiled. I felt like I should give him back because he was far too good for me.
We were challenged to ride in tight formation around the arena, four abreast. Smokie pinned his ears and nipped at his fellow horses as we went around the arena, just being cheeky as Zana had said, and doing exactly what I was asking him to do. I wondered why I wasn't bothered, why I was laughing at his behaviour, why I found it endearing. Must have been that hypnosis, I told myself, inwardly shrugging and getting on with the task at hand. We were each given a standard to carry, and challenged to keep formation with just one hand on the reins and something to carry as well. We were terrible. I had a new appreciation for the horsemen of ages gone by. The one-handed thing wasn't so alien to me, after my western experience, but to carry a great big pole and try not to bash my friends in the knee was something else altogether.
Then we were challenged to ride past a target on the ground and throw a spear into it (spear may not be the correct technical term, but I'm a disgusting peasant). Karl handed me the spear and said "Smokie's great at this. He can do it, no problem." I had to laugh. I had every faith in Smokie, but my terrible hand-eye coordination would be what let us down. Karl was right: Smokie took me right to the target every time. I was also right: I didn't hit the wretched target once. I really wanted more practice at that, but we had other things to do.
We learned how to charge down the tilts at each other, with our invisible lances. We learned how to turn at each end tightly, so as not to lose ground and to keep the horse's well-trained pattern intact. Smokie was a marvel. When I reached the end of the tilts and we stopped at the fence, I looked over my left shoulder like I'd been told. Without having to touch my reins or use my leg, Smokie wheeled beneath me like an equine ninja. I laughed the whole time, just delighted. He was such a joy to ride.
Then the ante was upped. A shield went on to my left arm, which banged nicely on my patella as I'm a little short, but the colours did match my hat silk, so I can't complain. A fake sword went into my right hand, as a substitute for a lance, and I learned that tilting with a shield was a great way to get some localised bruising. The dancer in me views this bruised knee as a badge of honour. It's a sign that I trained harder than the people without bruised knees. I earned that bruise. Tilting was a huge amount of fun. I caught myself issuing a very middle class warcry. Smokie continued to be a total rock star. I was falling in love.
We did not tilt at each other with the lance - safety prevails at the Centre and they don't allow anybody to do anything foolish, so our final challenge was to be done alone. Shield on arm, lance in hand, we aimed at small targets and a quintain. I watched the others go before me, and as I positioned Smokie ready for our run, I could tell he had his eye in. He was poised, as excited as I was. I grappled with my lance, and he fidgeted, evidently unimpressed by my inability, and ready to just make our run. He threw his head about as I tried to get coordinated.
I wondered why his fidgeting wasn't making me panic. I was quite happy to sit there, comfortable that he was keen to get on with his job and nothing bad was going to happen to me. We set off at his lovely canter, and I gaily missed every single target on our first pass down the arena, and missed the bigger target of the quintain. I managed to do all of that without once cracking my marvellous steed in the head with the lance, which was my only worry. When I was relieved of my equipment, I had to sigh happily. I felt like I'd just won the Olympics. As we walked around the arena to cool the horses off, I had another hokey spiritual moment, and a tidal wave of love for Smokie swept over me. He had given me a wonderful afternoon, done his very best for me, and I wished I'd been more skilful. To ride him was such a privilege.
The day had shown me that I could have a vast amount of fun with a horse without having to go in circles in the riding school. Archery really worked itself into my soul, and it's something I hope to do again before too long. My short time with Smokie was a valuable lesson in what I was capable of, and I hope it was because I trusted him that he showed me so much of his impressive talent as a stunt horse. He taught me a great deal in that arena.
It is a true credit to Karl and Zana's work on my confidence that I experienced this second course the way that I did. Nerves never hit me once, it was a day of unbridled (pardon the pun) joy and pleasure. My two days with them was life-changing, and affected me in ways I never imagined. From reading the testimonials on their website, it's obvious that I am not alone in this feeling, and they deserve every word of praise that they get. I hope that I have not seen the last of these generous people and their amazing horses.
You can find details of all of the courses on offer at the Centre of Horseback Combat by visiting their website: www.horsebackcombat.co.uk. They offer gift vouchers, and also cater for parties (e.g. stags and hens) if you have some adventurous friends. You can see their own stunt team, the Stampede Stunt Company, performing around the country. Check their website for their show schedule: www.stampedestuntcompany.co.uk
I returned to the Centre on the last day of November, a little stressed out by moving house, ready to spend the day learning about horseback archery and jousting. My only experience of these things was watching Lord of the Rings and A Knight's Tale, and thinking it all looked pretty cool. I was up for it, giddy with excitement. I joined three of my university riding club colleagues, most of us sporting our club hoodies. Nerds.
We began the day suitably with a cup of tea and a biscuit while we learned some basic etiquette when it comes to archery. Then we went out on foot to learn some technique and practise shooting. Karl talked us through each step of nocking our arrows and shooting. The targets were at this point only about ten feet away, and after a couple of tries, we started to hit them. Horse archery is quick, intended to be a hit and run technique, so once the arrow is in place on the bow, the draw and release is fast. The aiming process is vague, instinctive and surprisingly effective.
I plugged in my dancer brain again. I like methodical movement patterns, and this was no exception. Karl's voice was measured and rhythmical as he called out the instructions, and it did begin to feel like a glorious dance. I wasn't entirely sure how this was going to translate into the saddle, but I was very much enjoying the skill on the grass.
Until, that is, I twanged my bowstring against my forearm. That was quite painful. Karl had a helpful suggestion for how to avoid that.
We had races: who could release their three arrows the fastest, and then more competitively, who could release their three arrows the fastest and the most accurately. Being ferociously competitive (when I'm winning), I won most of these little races, beaten once on score by a slower but more accurate archer, and once when I had my bow upside down and took a little while to figure that out. I was discovering a rather deadly and predatory side to myself.
We went back inside for another biscuit, and I realised I was ravenously hungry, and maybe that had something to do with my killer instinct. Then it was time to go up to the grass archery track with our trusty steeds and try it from horseback.
I was paired up with Buddy, a gentle piebald cob with a forelock so long I wondered if he could see where he was going - but he didn't put a foot wrong all morning. All of the horses were completely nonplussed by the various bows and arrows being waved around by the four amateurs, and Buddy seemed to know exactly what he was doing.
We were led down the track at a walk first, to get a feel for it with as little pressure as possible. It was a curious feeling to being doing something other than focusing on the horse.
"You're riding from the waist down and shooting from the waist up," Karl said, reminding me to use my legs to keep Buddy going. I've never felt so useless at multitasking.
Each turn that we took on the track, we were left more and more to the care of our horses. It was slippery out there, and we were the last archery course of the season, so the advice was to go along the track in trot. However, it was pointed out that our hands would be busy with our bow and arrow, so the horse was likely to go as fast as the horse was going to go. We were warned that the horses might break into canter, because that was what they were trained to do for archery, and that we could either go with it, or we could concentrate on getting a nice trot going before we bothered to sort out our bow.
Buddy went into canter by himself, and he had a lovely cob's rocking horse gait that took us pretty steadily along the track. It crossed my mind as he quickened out of trot that this was probably something that would have worried me before I'd done the confidence course, but at this point I just thought: "He knows the drill. I'll just let him get on with it and I'll get on with archery."
I managed to drop one arrow, and shoot another one off into the grass. Buddy slowed almost to a stop of his own accord before we'd reached the end of the track, and sighed contentedly as we waited with the other horses for everybody to take their turn.
We had a few runs each, and each time I trusted Buddy to take me from one end of the track to the other. I tried to concentrate on my technique, but it was well and truly out of the window. I actually felt quite emotional up on the hill, surrounded by green fields, autumnal woodland and the quiet. On the track there was just me and Buddy, the sound of his big feet on the grass, my fumbling ineptitude with the bow, and the final satisfaction as I managed to hit one of the targets on my last pass.
I'll sound hokey and out of my mind, but it was an almost spiritual experience. The sense of partnership was overwhelming. The focus on the archery brought a stillness of the mind, a meditation in itself. I felt more sensitive to the horse beneath me than I ever felt in the riding school. Maybe that was the Cossack saddle giving me more biomechanical feedback, maybe it was because I was more mindful of everything I was doing. I trusted Buddy completely. I didn't doubt him for a moment. That was strange to me - I've spent months expecting every horse I rode to be planning to throw me. The fear and anxiety was gone, and what I had experienced out in the field was something wonderful. As I picture it now, while I write this, I feel almost tearful. The last time I felt this way was standing in Yellowstone Lake, finally letting a deep depression wash away.
Hokey out of body/mind experiences aside, we stopped for lunch, and I was sad that we were just doing a morning of archery. It was as if our dance class had ended just as I was figuring out the steps. I expect I will go back for more archery in the spring.
The afternoon was dedicated to jousting. What an absurd occupation for four girls who usually trotted serpentines, but we were handed a lance and I did my best to engage my puny biceps and not drop the thing. On foot, and spaced out from each other, we were taught how to safely lower the lance and bring it in to play without cracking our steeds in the skull. Then we learned how to lift it up again. Karl makes it look effortless. It probably is effortless for him, I am quite sure his arms are well-defined beneath his winter coat. My arms are mostly just for show, and I can occasionally muster five very poor pressups, but that's about my limit. The lance was unwieldy. I had no idea how I was going to manage.
We were taught about tournament games and traditions, the like of which I've only read about in Game of Thrones, and then we were matched with horses again. Buddy had been traded out, and I was partnered with Smokie instead. He was the smallest of the horses. Zana gently warned me, "He is the cheeky pony, but since you did the course last week we thought you'd get on just fine with him."
I had another bizarre moment of wondering why I wasn't worried, and this confusion continued as we rode around a little bit to get a feel for the horses. Smokie was obviously ready for action, and I wondered why I wasn't feeling short of breath, why my heart wasn't racing, why I wasn't thinking of how best to say I wanted to get off him immediately. I didn't want to. I paid no attention to anybody else, just spoke to him softly and he settled down reasonably quickly. He was so light and responsive. I felt spoiled. I felt like I should give him back because he was far too good for me.
We were challenged to ride in tight formation around the arena, four abreast. Smokie pinned his ears and nipped at his fellow horses as we went around the arena, just being cheeky as Zana had said, and doing exactly what I was asking him to do. I wondered why I wasn't bothered, why I was laughing at his behaviour, why I found it endearing. Must have been that hypnosis, I told myself, inwardly shrugging and getting on with the task at hand. We were each given a standard to carry, and challenged to keep formation with just one hand on the reins and something to carry as well. We were terrible. I had a new appreciation for the horsemen of ages gone by. The one-handed thing wasn't so alien to me, after my western experience, but to carry a great big pole and try not to bash my friends in the knee was something else altogether.
 |
| Smokie and I (second from the right) muster the troops. Badly. |
Then we were challenged to ride past a target on the ground and throw a spear into it (spear may not be the correct technical term, but I'm a disgusting peasant). Karl handed me the spear and said "Smokie's great at this. He can do it, no problem." I had to laugh. I had every faith in Smokie, but my terrible hand-eye coordination would be what let us down. Karl was right: Smokie took me right to the target every time. I was also right: I didn't hit the wretched target once. I really wanted more practice at that, but we had other things to do.
We learned how to charge down the tilts at each other, with our invisible lances. We learned how to turn at each end tightly, so as not to lose ground and to keep the horse's well-trained pattern intact. Smokie was a marvel. When I reached the end of the tilts and we stopped at the fence, I looked over my left shoulder like I'd been told. Without having to touch my reins or use my leg, Smokie wheeled beneath me like an equine ninja. I laughed the whole time, just delighted. He was such a joy to ride.
Then the ante was upped. A shield went on to my left arm, which banged nicely on my patella as I'm a little short, but the colours did match my hat silk, so I can't complain. A fake sword went into my right hand, as a substitute for a lance, and I learned that tilting with a shield was a great way to get some localised bruising. The dancer in me views this bruised knee as a badge of honour. It's a sign that I trained harder than the people without bruised knees. I earned that bruise. Tilting was a huge amount of fun. I caught myself issuing a very middle class warcry. Smokie continued to be a total rock star. I was falling in love.
We did not tilt at each other with the lance - safety prevails at the Centre and they don't allow anybody to do anything foolish, so our final challenge was to be done alone. Shield on arm, lance in hand, we aimed at small targets and a quintain. I watched the others go before me, and as I positioned Smokie ready for our run, I could tell he had his eye in. He was poised, as excited as I was. I grappled with my lance, and he fidgeted, evidently unimpressed by my inability, and ready to just make our run. He threw his head about as I tried to get coordinated.
I wondered why his fidgeting wasn't making me panic. I was quite happy to sit there, comfortable that he was keen to get on with his job and nothing bad was going to happen to me. We set off at his lovely canter, and I gaily missed every single target on our first pass down the arena, and missed the bigger target of the quintain. I managed to do all of that without once cracking my marvellous steed in the head with the lance, which was my only worry. When I was relieved of my equipment, I had to sigh happily. I felt like I'd just won the Olympics. As we walked around the arena to cool the horses off, I had another hokey spiritual moment, and a tidal wave of love for Smokie swept over me. He had given me a wonderful afternoon, done his very best for me, and I wished I'd been more skilful. To ride him was such a privilege.
The day had shown me that I could have a vast amount of fun with a horse without having to go in circles in the riding school. Archery really worked itself into my soul, and it's something I hope to do again before too long. My short time with Smokie was a valuable lesson in what I was capable of, and I hope it was because I trusted him that he showed me so much of his impressive talent as a stunt horse. He taught me a great deal in that arena.
It is a true credit to Karl and Zana's work on my confidence that I experienced this second course the way that I did. Nerves never hit me once, it was a day of unbridled (pardon the pun) joy and pleasure. My two days with them was life-changing, and affected me in ways I never imagined. From reading the testimonials on their website, it's obvious that I am not alone in this feeling, and they deserve every word of praise that they get. I hope that I have not seen the last of these generous people and their amazing horses.
You can find details of all of the courses on offer at the Centre of Horseback Combat by visiting their website: www.horsebackcombat.co.uk. They offer gift vouchers, and also cater for parties (e.g. stags and hens) if you have some adventurous friends. You can see their own stunt team, the Stampede Stunt Company, performing around the country. Check their website for their show schedule: www.stampedestuntcompany.co.uk
Review: The Centre of Horseback Combat, Hemel Hempstead, UK Part 1: Rider Confidence
This isn't a straightforward review to write. What I experienced at the Centre for Horseback Combat was some way beyond words. I'll do my best to explain it. Over the last two weekends, I went to the Centre for two separate one-day courses: the Rider Confidence Course, and the Horse Combat Day.
The Centre is owned and run by Zana and Karl, two professional stunt riders who perform all over the world with their team. They don't teach you how to ride - if you want standard riding lessons, they state on their website, there are plenty of good riding schools who can offer you that. They offer courses in stunt riding, trick riding, confidence, mounted combat, horseback archery, and more.
I heard about them through my university riding club, who had organised the Horse Combat Day (see part 2). I had also seen their horse lorry on the motorway a few times, with Stunt Horses In Transit emblazoned on the tailgate. I investigated the Centre's website and noticed the page for the Rider Confidence Course. It was covered in glowing testimonials. The course covers a few potentially terrifying experiences: a rearing horse, a falling horse, losing your seat, and my personal demon: falling off completely. Using their trained and well-mannered stunt horses, participants are able to experience these scenarios in a safe and controlled manner, and learn how to cope should any of these things happen. There is also a session of hypnotherapy designed to put a stop to any irrational fears.
It took me over a month to summon the courage just to register for a place on the course, and I left it until two days before the course was happening. It was a moment of panic: panic that I would die on the course, and panic that if I didn't do the course, I would die from a rearing, falling, spooking, throwing-me-off horse. If I was going to be jousting and shooting a bow, I thought, I had better deal with all this fear first.
I woke up on that chilly Sunday morning feeling horrifically ill with nerves. My stomach was churning, I could barely eat, and the knot in my guts got tighter and tighter as I drove to the Centre. I was sure that this was the stupidest thing I'd ever done, including dating a cowboy, and including quitting my university degree to go and be with said cowboy.
We started with a session inside with Karl, who is a qualified hypnotherapist, and who specialises in equestrians. We needed to wipe the slate of fear clean. I'm not sure what I think of hypnotherapy, but at this point I was ready to try anything. I had nothing to lose by getting stuck in as completely as I could.
The Centre is beautiful. It's nestled amongst the trees, surrounded by quiet green fields, and absolutely no road noise. I am used to riding at a school where the A3 thunders past behind a twiggy hedge, a stone's throw from the arena. The Centre's arena is tucked away in the walled garden. You feel enveloped, safe and protected. It has a springy, soft surface, the fence is decorated with standards, and the sound of birdsong accompanies the instructors' voices. And, might I add, Karl and Zana are lovely to listen to. They speak with a calm, no-nonsense manner, without the brashness that I've often found at riding schools, and their confidence and enthusiasm is infectious. Their instruction is clear, concise and easy to absorb.
"It doesn't have to be pretty," Zana said, demonstrating how to scramble back into your saddle as she hung off one side of her horse. She makes it looks easy and exceptionally pretty, but then she is a professional and evidently has years of dance training (I spotted her ballet hands a mile off), and abdominals made of liquid titanium.
Our first experience was rebalancing. Just a few days before, I had lost my centre of balance by about two inches whilst attempting to get a deadened horse to canter whilst I had no stirrups. The panic had made me want to retch, and I had sent my right leg into spasm as I'd gripped hard with my thighs to squirm myself back into the centre. Zana showed us how far it was possible to slip before you are even close to thinking about falling. It was considerably more than two inches. I felt very silly.
Our first task was designed to teach us how to find our centre of balance (we rode in Cossack trick saddles, which have a gloriously large horn to hold on to for dear life, should you feel the need - and I never did feel that need...), and quickly and easily adjust our seat, even if we found ourselves sitting side-saddle. We learned how to switch from side to side. I recalled carefree days at Pony Club Camp, having Around The World races, when I used to throw my legs around my horse until I had turned through 360 degrees and back again without a second thought. This is was nowhere near as gung ho, and a whole lot safer, but I was still swallowing some worries.
"You can go first," Zana said, smiling at me. I put on my bravest face and climbed up into the saddle. Niagara, Zana's courteous grey Andalucian gelding, barely twitched an eyelid. I tried to engage my dancer brain, and not my panic brain, and think of it as choreography. I had to learn the moves, and I learn by doing. It was very much easier than I had imagined. Just a little tweak and shuffle, and I was completely balanced. After a bit of practice at a standstill, we set off at a walk, and then later at a trot. The movement of the horse was helpful, now that I wasn't bracing against it in blind terror. I caught myself smiling from the inside, like I used to when I bombed around the fields with Domino, my beloved pony of many years ago.
The next experience was sliding off-balance to one side of the horse, learning how to stabilise myself, and how to get my balance back. This had sent my whole life flashing in front of my eyes just four days earlier. First, there was practice at a standstill and learning where the limits are. I learned just how feeble my upper body is, and made a mental note to do more pushups, but my limits were evidently further than I thought. Again, we set off at a walk, and then a trot, to drum the movement into my brain. Zana jogged alongside, giving encouragement and correction.
"Man, she is so cool," I thought to myself, watching her demonstrate and teach, and wondering where she got her energy from. I needed a piece of that, and what's more, I felt like it was coming to me. An infectious positivity was seeping into me, as we moved on to the next challenge: a horse that rears.
Niagara chewed on his hackamore while he waited, and at Zana's request, lifted up gracefully onto his hindlegs, and dropped back down without a fuss. He looked around with his ears pricked expectantly. He is adorable.
"He's looking for a polo," Zana explained. "He's trained not to rear when he's not asked. If he does it when he's supposed to, he gets a treat; if he does it when he's not supposed to, he gets nothing." A good rule. Niagara was duly rewarded for his good show. Zana explained the aid to ask him to rear, and how we should respond as riders to school a horse that rears out of bad behaviour. To me it was fairly common sense, but perhaps I've been helped by watching Cowboy working with horses and his analogy of leaving doors open and closed for horses. The open door will be where you want them to go, so you take the pressure off that part of the horse. There were other riders in the group who had probably had worse experience than I had with rearing, and it was an education to me to see how other people responded.
I was up first again, and for a moment I thought Niagara wasn't going to oblige, but with a little help from Zana's commands on the ground, up he went. I couldn't help an excited little "Woohoo!" from slipping out. It was like flying. It felt easy and safe (and he wasn't going up that high anyway). We reared a few times, to get a good feel for it, and to practice the necessary movement. I discovered that I wanted more.
After a good lunch at the pub across the road, we came back to learn about a falling horse, and about falling off. A wooden horse and a crash mat were set up in the arena. We had an expert demonstration from one of the stunt team, and then the movement was broken down. Having broken my left arm and torn up my right arm from falling off horses in the last year, this was my biggest mental block. Falling meant pain and long rehabilitation. It meant the end was nigh. It meant I should go to bed and never ride horses or ever have fun again.
The blue crash mat beckoned. We learned about how to jettison ourselves from the saddle safely. Technique was driven into us with repetition. After tripping and nearly face-planting twice while I tried to get on, I looked down from the wooden horse at the blue mat and made a pathetic squeaky sound. What if I fell on my face?
"You're overthinking it," our helpful demonstration stuntman said. "Just go for it." Cowboy's voice rang in my ears: "It's all in your head, babe." I squeaked, shut my eyes and went for it. The mat was cold, but squishy, and it wasn't awful at all. I didn't have a broken arm.
"Good!" Karl said cheerfully. "Without the squeaky noise next time!"
We threw ourselves off the wooden horse again and again. Each time, we got a little quicker, a little smoother, and I felt my dancer brain kicking in. This was the choreography, the mat was the mark I had to hit. As Karl explained where my shoulder should be as I fell, I began to visualise the movement pattern, trying to get my muscle memory to take it all in.
We practised how we might land if we fell over the horse's shoulder by walking through the motions, so that we learned what it would look like and how to land safely. I rolled around in the arena sand, determined to make the most of it. It wasn't going to be the last arena sand I ever get in my hair, but it was going to be the best. I wanted more. More falling. Falling from higher. Falling from speed. I wanted to make it ordinary. I used to fall off all the time as a kid, bounce and roll, get back up, and get back on. It was the lack of falling in my life that made it terrifying. I forgot how, and when I was bucked off into the sagebrush last summer, I ended up in hospital (eventually, after much bullying from Cowboy). But now falling was an art. It was a choreographed dance. I knew the steps.
We finished our work in the arena by visualising what it would be like to have a horse slip and fall over, and talked through how to respond if our foot is caught in the stirrup, if we are stuck under the horse, or if our foot is free. Niagara snoozed in the sand while Zana showed us how we might end up, what we would need to think about, and then with a little command, Niagara got up neatly with her still on his back. She's so cool, she did it bareback.
"Man, she is so cool," I thought to myself. "When I grow up I want to be like her." Never mind that I should probably be grown up already, at 27 years old, and my abdominals will never be that taut.
One of the other horses was asked to lie down so that we could all crouch down beside him and picture the scene: we've fallen out on the trail, we're down on the ground with him. We imagined what we would think, how it would look. It wasn't a bad sight.
We finished the day with another session of hypnosis with Karl. My brain felt like it was overloading, but at the same time I was feeling flooded with visions of wonderful possibilities on horseback. I imagined riding the trails with Cowboy, imagined galloping across the hills, imagined ducking around cows, imagined falling, getting up and getting back on, imagined how glorious it would feel to be able to get on Sunshine and trust her instead of fear her. How wonderful it would be to let her be a horse without assuming her intention was to get rid of me. How good it would be to move with her, relax into her, balance with her, and let all of my nervous tension that winds her up just disappear.
I opened my eyes at the end of the session feeling optimistic. I had no idea if it had worked, but I wasn't dead, and I'd spent a lot of the day laughing and smiling. The test would come when I rode again, and when I came back to the Centre the following weekend for Horseback Combat.
I went for a regular lesson at our motorway-friendly yard the following Wednesday. There is a lane we have to ride down to take the horses back to their stables from the arena, and I usually approach the lane with a sense that something awful will happen and I will fall on my face and break my skull and die (it never happens). This time there was no such wave of fear. My horse wandered along, his ears up as he looked around - a move that usually worried me - and he sighed as he stretched out after our lesson. He was relaxed and happy, and so was I. I imagined what it would be like if a bird was to fly out of the hedge and spook him. My imagination suggested that I would stay on, laugh, smile, and carry on like nothing happened.
A curious thing happened. It wasn't just in the saddle that I noticed the difference. I noticed that as I was drifting off to sleep, my mind would bring up images of riding, of it being easy and light and carefree. It would bring up images of falls and spooky horses, and it wouldn't be a problem. It would bring up images of me coping with all of it, and enjoying it. I had several night of vivid dreams where I did this equine choreography over and over, practised dismounting, falling, rearing. I would wake up feeling energised and ready to face the world. I suddenly had more faith in my car, no longer worrying that it was about to fall apart on the motorway. I had confidence in my decision to move to the USA. Somewhere, I'd opened up a seam of Good Stuff in my brain, and I was mining out nuggets of Julie Andrews singing "I Have Confidence". I got to grips with other tasks in my life that I had been putting off, as I embarked on a mad week of moving house and minding a very small child for my brother. I was able to robustly deflect any negative suggestions from other people. I slept well.
More than anything, I long to get back out to Washington to get back on Sunshine and feel the difference in her. I want to show Cowboy that the rigid fear in my spine is gone. I want to feel her quick, quarter horse gaits without worrying about them. I want to spend time with her without being suspicious of her. It wasn't her fault that I got injured whilst riding her in the summer - she was trying hard to do what I asked and didn't mean to hurt me. It's time for us to get beyond that one experience and bond properly. She's only young, and we probably have many years of riding together, if life goes as I hope it does. I'm just glad that I took this course sooner rather than later.
I arrived at the Centre with a sense of dread, and left with a new outlook on my equestrian life. Perhaps it was just the reawakening of my childhood love of all things horses. Whatever it was, it has proliferated across my whole consciousness, and I feel like I've emerged from a long, dark hibernation.
The only down side I've encountered so far is Cowboy's surprise at the overnight transformation in me. He has yet to see what I've achieved, he's only heard me talk about it over the phone, and he's not sure what to make of it. "What happened to my timid English girlfriend?" he asked, bemused. "What did they do to you?"
I am sure he will like what he sees. He won't hear me say "I don't want to do that" so often. He might hear me say "Hey, let's try that!" I'm excited about it.
Anybody looking to rekindle their enjoyment of riding, or hoping to shrug off their fear demons, this is the course you need. Don't hesitate to book yourself a place.
Read more about my experience at the Centre of Horseback Combat in part 2 of my review: Horseback Combat Day!
You can find details of all of the courses on offer at the Centre of Horseback Combat by visiting their website: www.horsebackcombat.co.uk. They offer gift vouchers, and also cater for parties (e.g. stags and hens) if you have some adventurous friends. You can see their own stunt team, the Stampede Stunt Company, performing around the country. Check their website for their show schedule: www.stampedestuntcompany.co.uk
The Centre is owned and run by Zana and Karl, two professional stunt riders who perform all over the world with their team. They don't teach you how to ride - if you want standard riding lessons, they state on their website, there are plenty of good riding schools who can offer you that. They offer courses in stunt riding, trick riding, confidence, mounted combat, horseback archery, and more.
I heard about them through my university riding club, who had organised the Horse Combat Day (see part 2). I had also seen their horse lorry on the motorway a few times, with Stunt Horses In Transit emblazoned on the tailgate. I investigated the Centre's website and noticed the page for the Rider Confidence Course. It was covered in glowing testimonials. The course covers a few potentially terrifying experiences: a rearing horse, a falling horse, losing your seat, and my personal demon: falling off completely. Using their trained and well-mannered stunt horses, participants are able to experience these scenarios in a safe and controlled manner, and learn how to cope should any of these things happen. There is also a session of hypnotherapy designed to put a stop to any irrational fears.
It took me over a month to summon the courage just to register for a place on the course, and I left it until two days before the course was happening. It was a moment of panic: panic that I would die on the course, and panic that if I didn't do the course, I would die from a rearing, falling, spooking, throwing-me-off horse. If I was going to be jousting and shooting a bow, I thought, I had better deal with all this fear first.
I woke up on that chilly Sunday morning feeling horrifically ill with nerves. My stomach was churning, I could barely eat, and the knot in my guts got tighter and tighter as I drove to the Centre. I was sure that this was the stupidest thing I'd ever done, including dating a cowboy, and including quitting my university degree to go and be with said cowboy.
We started with a session inside with Karl, who is a qualified hypnotherapist, and who specialises in equestrians. We needed to wipe the slate of fear clean. I'm not sure what I think of hypnotherapy, but at this point I was ready to try anything. I had nothing to lose by getting stuck in as completely as I could.
The Centre is beautiful. It's nestled amongst the trees, surrounded by quiet green fields, and absolutely no road noise. I am used to riding at a school where the A3 thunders past behind a twiggy hedge, a stone's throw from the arena. The Centre's arena is tucked away in the walled garden. You feel enveloped, safe and protected. It has a springy, soft surface, the fence is decorated with standards, and the sound of birdsong accompanies the instructors' voices. And, might I add, Karl and Zana are lovely to listen to. They speak with a calm, no-nonsense manner, without the brashness that I've often found at riding schools, and their confidence and enthusiasm is infectious. Their instruction is clear, concise and easy to absorb.
"It doesn't have to be pretty," Zana said, demonstrating how to scramble back into your saddle as she hung off one side of her horse. She makes it looks easy and exceptionally pretty, but then she is a professional and evidently has years of dance training (I spotted her ballet hands a mile off), and abdominals made of liquid titanium.
Our first experience was rebalancing. Just a few days before, I had lost my centre of balance by about two inches whilst attempting to get a deadened horse to canter whilst I had no stirrups. The panic had made me want to retch, and I had sent my right leg into spasm as I'd gripped hard with my thighs to squirm myself back into the centre. Zana showed us how far it was possible to slip before you are even close to thinking about falling. It was considerably more than two inches. I felt very silly.
Our first task was designed to teach us how to find our centre of balance (we rode in Cossack trick saddles, which have a gloriously large horn to hold on to for dear life, should you feel the need - and I never did feel that need...), and quickly and easily adjust our seat, even if we found ourselves sitting side-saddle. We learned how to switch from side to side. I recalled carefree days at Pony Club Camp, having Around The World races, when I used to throw my legs around my horse until I had turned through 360 degrees and back again without a second thought. This is was nowhere near as gung ho, and a whole lot safer, but I was still swallowing some worries.
"You can go first," Zana said, smiling at me. I put on my bravest face and climbed up into the saddle. Niagara, Zana's courteous grey Andalucian gelding, barely twitched an eyelid. I tried to engage my dancer brain, and not my panic brain, and think of it as choreography. I had to learn the moves, and I learn by doing. It was very much easier than I had imagined. Just a little tweak and shuffle, and I was completely balanced. After a bit of practice at a standstill, we set off at a walk, and then later at a trot. The movement of the horse was helpful, now that I wasn't bracing against it in blind terror. I caught myself smiling from the inside, like I used to when I bombed around the fields with Domino, my beloved pony of many years ago.
The next experience was sliding off-balance to one side of the horse, learning how to stabilise myself, and how to get my balance back. This had sent my whole life flashing in front of my eyes just four days earlier. First, there was practice at a standstill and learning where the limits are. I learned just how feeble my upper body is, and made a mental note to do more pushups, but my limits were evidently further than I thought. Again, we set off at a walk, and then a trot, to drum the movement into my brain. Zana jogged alongside, giving encouragement and correction.
"Man, she is so cool," I thought to myself, watching her demonstrate and teach, and wondering where she got her energy from. I needed a piece of that, and what's more, I felt like it was coming to me. An infectious positivity was seeping into me, as we moved on to the next challenge: a horse that rears.
Niagara chewed on his hackamore while he waited, and at Zana's request, lifted up gracefully onto his hindlegs, and dropped back down without a fuss. He looked around with his ears pricked expectantly. He is adorable.
"He's looking for a polo," Zana explained. "He's trained not to rear when he's not asked. If he does it when he's supposed to, he gets a treat; if he does it when he's not supposed to, he gets nothing." A good rule. Niagara was duly rewarded for his good show. Zana explained the aid to ask him to rear, and how we should respond as riders to school a horse that rears out of bad behaviour. To me it was fairly common sense, but perhaps I've been helped by watching Cowboy working with horses and his analogy of leaving doors open and closed for horses. The open door will be where you want them to go, so you take the pressure off that part of the horse. There were other riders in the group who had probably had worse experience than I had with rearing, and it was an education to me to see how other people responded.
I was up first again, and for a moment I thought Niagara wasn't going to oblige, but with a little help from Zana's commands on the ground, up he went. I couldn't help an excited little "Woohoo!" from slipping out. It was like flying. It felt easy and safe (and he wasn't going up that high anyway). We reared a few times, to get a good feel for it, and to practice the necessary movement. I discovered that I wanted more.
After a good lunch at the pub across the road, we came back to learn about a falling horse, and about falling off. A wooden horse and a crash mat were set up in the arena. We had an expert demonstration from one of the stunt team, and then the movement was broken down. Having broken my left arm and torn up my right arm from falling off horses in the last year, this was my biggest mental block. Falling meant pain and long rehabilitation. It meant the end was nigh. It meant I should go to bed and never ride horses or ever have fun again.
The blue crash mat beckoned. We learned about how to jettison ourselves from the saddle safely. Technique was driven into us with repetition. After tripping and nearly face-planting twice while I tried to get on, I looked down from the wooden horse at the blue mat and made a pathetic squeaky sound. What if I fell on my face?
"You're overthinking it," our helpful demonstration stuntman said. "Just go for it." Cowboy's voice rang in my ears: "It's all in your head, babe." I squeaked, shut my eyes and went for it. The mat was cold, but squishy, and it wasn't awful at all. I didn't have a broken arm.
"Good!" Karl said cheerfully. "Without the squeaky noise next time!"
We threw ourselves off the wooden horse again and again. Each time, we got a little quicker, a little smoother, and I felt my dancer brain kicking in. This was the choreography, the mat was the mark I had to hit. As Karl explained where my shoulder should be as I fell, I began to visualise the movement pattern, trying to get my muscle memory to take it all in.
We practised how we might land if we fell over the horse's shoulder by walking through the motions, so that we learned what it would look like and how to land safely. I rolled around in the arena sand, determined to make the most of it. It wasn't going to be the last arena sand I ever get in my hair, but it was going to be the best. I wanted more. More falling. Falling from higher. Falling from speed. I wanted to make it ordinary. I used to fall off all the time as a kid, bounce and roll, get back up, and get back on. It was the lack of falling in my life that made it terrifying. I forgot how, and when I was bucked off into the sagebrush last summer, I ended up in hospital (eventually, after much bullying from Cowboy). But now falling was an art. It was a choreographed dance. I knew the steps.
We finished our work in the arena by visualising what it would be like to have a horse slip and fall over, and talked through how to respond if our foot is caught in the stirrup, if we are stuck under the horse, or if our foot is free. Niagara snoozed in the sand while Zana showed us how we might end up, what we would need to think about, and then with a little command, Niagara got up neatly with her still on his back. She's so cool, she did it bareback.
"Man, she is so cool," I thought to myself. "When I grow up I want to be like her." Never mind that I should probably be grown up already, at 27 years old, and my abdominals will never be that taut.
One of the other horses was asked to lie down so that we could all crouch down beside him and picture the scene: we've fallen out on the trail, we're down on the ground with him. We imagined what we would think, how it would look. It wasn't a bad sight.
We finished the day with another session of hypnosis with Karl. My brain felt like it was overloading, but at the same time I was feeling flooded with visions of wonderful possibilities on horseback. I imagined riding the trails with Cowboy, imagined galloping across the hills, imagined ducking around cows, imagined falling, getting up and getting back on, imagined how glorious it would feel to be able to get on Sunshine and trust her instead of fear her. How wonderful it would be to let her be a horse without assuming her intention was to get rid of me. How good it would be to move with her, relax into her, balance with her, and let all of my nervous tension that winds her up just disappear.
I opened my eyes at the end of the session feeling optimistic. I had no idea if it had worked, but I wasn't dead, and I'd spent a lot of the day laughing and smiling. The test would come when I rode again, and when I came back to the Centre the following weekend for Horseback Combat.
I went for a regular lesson at our motorway-friendly yard the following Wednesday. There is a lane we have to ride down to take the horses back to their stables from the arena, and I usually approach the lane with a sense that something awful will happen and I will fall on my face and break my skull and die (it never happens). This time there was no such wave of fear. My horse wandered along, his ears up as he looked around - a move that usually worried me - and he sighed as he stretched out after our lesson. He was relaxed and happy, and so was I. I imagined what it would be like if a bird was to fly out of the hedge and spook him. My imagination suggested that I would stay on, laugh, smile, and carry on like nothing happened.
A curious thing happened. It wasn't just in the saddle that I noticed the difference. I noticed that as I was drifting off to sleep, my mind would bring up images of riding, of it being easy and light and carefree. It would bring up images of falls and spooky horses, and it wouldn't be a problem. It would bring up images of me coping with all of it, and enjoying it. I had several night of vivid dreams where I did this equine choreography over and over, practised dismounting, falling, rearing. I would wake up feeling energised and ready to face the world. I suddenly had more faith in my car, no longer worrying that it was about to fall apart on the motorway. I had confidence in my decision to move to the USA. Somewhere, I'd opened up a seam of Good Stuff in my brain, and I was mining out nuggets of Julie Andrews singing "I Have Confidence". I got to grips with other tasks in my life that I had been putting off, as I embarked on a mad week of moving house and minding a very small child for my brother. I was able to robustly deflect any negative suggestions from other people. I slept well.
More than anything, I long to get back out to Washington to get back on Sunshine and feel the difference in her. I want to show Cowboy that the rigid fear in my spine is gone. I want to feel her quick, quarter horse gaits without worrying about them. I want to spend time with her without being suspicious of her. It wasn't her fault that I got injured whilst riding her in the summer - she was trying hard to do what I asked and didn't mean to hurt me. It's time for us to get beyond that one experience and bond properly. She's only young, and we probably have many years of riding together, if life goes as I hope it does. I'm just glad that I took this course sooner rather than later.
I arrived at the Centre with a sense of dread, and left with a new outlook on my equestrian life. Perhaps it was just the reawakening of my childhood love of all things horses. Whatever it was, it has proliferated across my whole consciousness, and I feel like I've emerged from a long, dark hibernation.
The only down side I've encountered so far is Cowboy's surprise at the overnight transformation in me. He has yet to see what I've achieved, he's only heard me talk about it over the phone, and he's not sure what to make of it. "What happened to my timid English girlfriend?" he asked, bemused. "What did they do to you?"
I am sure he will like what he sees. He won't hear me say "I don't want to do that" so often. He might hear me say "Hey, let's try that!" I'm excited about it.
Anybody looking to rekindle their enjoyment of riding, or hoping to shrug off their fear demons, this is the course you need. Don't hesitate to book yourself a place.
Read more about my experience at the Centre of Horseback Combat in part 2 of my review: Horseback Combat Day!
You can find details of all of the courses on offer at the Centre of Horseback Combat by visiting their website: www.horsebackcombat.co.uk. They offer gift vouchers, and also cater for parties (e.g. stags and hens) if you have some adventurous friends. You can see their own stunt team, the Stampede Stunt Company, performing around the country. Check their website for their show schedule: www.stampedestuntcompany.co.uk
Friday 29 November 2013
She's alive! (And Thanksgiving)
CJ Cregg the spider, from my previous post, is alive and well and has survived the cold snap we had recently. I saw her slender leg peeking out from behind my wing mirror today, and she had spun a beautiful new web.
I then drove at 50mph down the A3 to go and see my brother and destroyed it. I feel rather bad about that.
It's Thanksgiving over in America (I'd say 'today', but it's past midnight here in the UK, and it's still yesterday in America, so... never mind), and I'm not entirely clear what Thanksgiving is about beyond the fact that it's about giving thanks.
Thanks for my glorious, technicolour, surround sound life. Thanks for my Cowboy. Thanks for my friends and family. Thanks for my good health. Thanks for the amazing teachers out in the world. More on teachers later.
Thanks for cramming everything I have to do this month into three days. I appreciate that.
I then drove at 50mph down the A3 to go and see my brother and destroyed it. I feel rather bad about that.
It's Thanksgiving over in America (I'd say 'today', but it's past midnight here in the UK, and it's still yesterday in America, so... never mind), and I'm not entirely clear what Thanksgiving is about beyond the fact that it's about giving thanks.
Thanks for my glorious, technicolour, surround sound life. Thanks for my Cowboy. Thanks for my friends and family. Thanks for my good health. Thanks for the amazing teachers out in the world. More on teachers later.
Thanks for cramming everything I have to do this month into three days. I appreciate that.
Thursday 21 November 2013
"Shove it up your ass, Toby."
I had this whole clever idea for a post I wanted to do. Bear with me on this one.
In the driver's side wing mirror of my car, there is a spider who has made a web between the door and the mirror for the last couple of months. Sometimes she will be in the web when I set off for a journey, until the vibrations send her scurrying back to her den behind the mirror itself, and sometimes she's securely stowed before I go anywhere.
She is a false widow spider, I discovered, when I caught her reflection in the mirror. They've had a lot of bad press this year, with a great deal of scaremongering and wars waged on them. False widow spiders have been around since I was a kid - I remember picking them up and letting them run around my hands before I developed a healthy, pathological phobia of spiders. I've never been bitten by one, to my knowledge - and I have been bitten by spiders before - and have never needed medical attention for a spider bite. Spiders keep bugs out of my house and don't tend to purposely ruin my life, so I do not advocate spider hate in any way.
To that end, I was planning to do a post on the false widow who lives in my wing mirror. For convenience, I gave her a name so that I could talk to her as I drove around town. I wanted a name that conjured up somebody strong, and superbly skilled, because the webs this spider weaves are truly beautiful. I needed a name that commanded a sense of intelligence and logic, because this spider has a more extensive knowledge of forces, cantilevers, tension and vibration than any structural engineer on the planet. I needed a name that suggested femininity without girlishness. She's a spider, after all (only the ladies spin webs that they live in for a prolonged amount of time, in any spider species), and she's probably not one to worry about what she's wearing.
I wanted so badly to get a picture of her so that I could show her to you, and spark off the post I really wanted to write - the post that said "Hey, don't be mean about spiders, they do a really good job and it's not always easy, some of those bugs are four times the size of the spider" and a post that also said "FYI, this is my most favourite person right now." But this spider, in her wisdom, has hidden from me for a few days. She emerged whilst I was in the countryside at the weekend and spun a brand new web ready for me to tear it to shreds at 70mph on the motorway, and I saw her briefly as she came out to look at the damage and retreat resignedly a moment later. I've not seen her since, and it's been rather cold. She may have died.
So no picture. Here's a picture of a false widow that I found on Google. It'll have to do. Don't hate on the false widows.
I named her CJ, after CJ Cregg from The West Wing. A woman who handles the press with deft poise, who comes back stronger after any hurdle she faces, who has climbed high in a workplace where men (often egotistical and brutish) strut about and throw their weight around while she quietly sets a trap or forms a plan. CJ fights for other women, takes a bite out of the men around her who often seem to underestimate her. The plight of people who are not as privileged as she is moves her to tears, more than once.
Allison Janney, however, is not fictional, and I think she's a superb human being, beautiful and talented. I have quite the girl crush.
In the driver's side wing mirror of my car, there is a spider who has made a web between the door and the mirror for the last couple of months. Sometimes she will be in the web when I set off for a journey, until the vibrations send her scurrying back to her den behind the mirror itself, and sometimes she's securely stowed before I go anywhere.
She is a false widow spider, I discovered, when I caught her reflection in the mirror. They've had a lot of bad press this year, with a great deal of scaremongering and wars waged on them. False widow spiders have been around since I was a kid - I remember picking them up and letting them run around my hands before I developed a healthy, pathological phobia of spiders. I've never been bitten by one, to my knowledge - and I have been bitten by spiders before - and have never needed medical attention for a spider bite. Spiders keep bugs out of my house and don't tend to purposely ruin my life, so I do not advocate spider hate in any way.
To that end, I was planning to do a post on the false widow who lives in my wing mirror. For convenience, I gave her a name so that I could talk to her as I drove around town. I wanted a name that conjured up somebody strong, and superbly skilled, because the webs this spider weaves are truly beautiful. I needed a name that commanded a sense of intelligence and logic, because this spider has a more extensive knowledge of forces, cantilevers, tension and vibration than any structural engineer on the planet. I needed a name that suggested femininity without girlishness. She's a spider, after all (only the ladies spin webs that they live in for a prolonged amount of time, in any spider species), and she's probably not one to worry about what she's wearing.
I wanted so badly to get a picture of her so that I could show her to you, and spark off the post I really wanted to write - the post that said "Hey, don't be mean about spiders, they do a really good job and it's not always easy, some of those bugs are four times the size of the spider" and a post that also said "FYI, this is my most favourite person right now." But this spider, in her wisdom, has hidden from me for a few days. She emerged whilst I was in the countryside at the weekend and spun a brand new web ready for me to tear it to shreds at 70mph on the motorway, and I saw her briefly as she came out to look at the damage and retreat resignedly a moment later. I've not seen her since, and it's been rather cold. She may have died.
So no picture. Here's a picture of a false widow that I found on Google. It'll have to do. Don't hate on the false widows.
I named her CJ, after CJ Cregg from The West Wing. A woman who handles the press with deft poise, who comes back stronger after any hurdle she faces, who has climbed high in a workplace where men (often egotistical and brutish) strut about and throw their weight around while she quietly sets a trap or forms a plan. CJ fights for other women, takes a bite out of the men around her who often seem to underestimate her. The plight of people who are not as privileged as she is moves her to tears, more than once.
You know if I was living in Qumar I wouldn't be allowed to say ‘shove it up your ass Toby.’ But since I'm not, shove it up your ass Toby.
- CJI love how she cares about people she's never met, and how she uses every bit of her freedom to make a difference, even if it's just in a small way. She is sensitive and sharp, gentle and fierce. She is astounding. Very sadly, she is fictional.
The West Wing 3.09 The Women of Qumar
Allison Janney, however, is not fictional, and I think she's a superb human being, beautiful and talented. I have quite the girl crush.
Monday 18 November 2013
I just want to say...
... it's the Cowboy's birthday today. He hates birthdays and he has been in a grump all day.
I love him.
I love him.
Thursday 14 November 2013
Downtime
Our broadband at the house was cut off for a while, due to some disorganisation and miscommunication, and as such I was limited to my 3G allowance on my phone (which rapidly ran out), and to trying to remember what I did before we had the internet.
It provided some downtime, and gave a kickstart to a few projects. I started packing up my possessions ready to move out of London. I've filled ten archive boxes with junk, and don't appear to have made any headway whatsoever.
I started writing again: I made a small dent in both the trashy romance I started a while ago, and a dent in the rewrite of my trashy fantasy novel which took me ten years to put down a complete draft.
I even picked up a book and read for a while. I often feel guilty about reading, as if I should only do it when I have nothing better to do, and certainly not in the daytime, and really the only acceptable place to read is in bed, and only then if there's nothing else that needs doing.
Reading has become an expensive luxury, not a commodity. I remember when I was younger, I would pull out the futon in my room into its chaise longue shape, sit under my reading light and plough through an entire Robert Jordan novel in a day or two (Aside: I never did finish the Wheel of Time series, I think I gave up caring).
These days, I can barely get through ten pages. I'm not sure why. It might be a lack of a suitable space in which to read, or that I always feel there is something more important that I should be doing. Of course, I am no longer a teenager who doesn't have to feed herself or pay rent, so there are a few more important distractions about than there used to be, but it would be good to re-establish a reading habit. The last book that I chewed through at a voracious pace was Lonesome Dove, which was more addictive than my Xbox at the time. I'm yet to find a book that sucks me in so well.
I have also watched a lot of The West Wing, as I have the DVD box set (stolen from my parents), and as a result I have a slight girl crush on CJ Cregg, who is probably the most inspiring, wonderful, powerful female character I've seen on TV since Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and the only situation in which Buffy would beat CJ would be in a vampire slaying competition (and even then I'm not sure).
I have upgraded myself to an iPhone 5s - it's white and shiny and has a fancy red leather cover because I don't trust myself not to drop it or try to hold it in my teeth and other foolish things to do with expensive equipment, and I've already put Siri to good use texting people while I'm driving. Siri is not good at understanding me yet, but he's trying. Mostly, I am enjoying the lack of delay between touching the screen and things happening. Good night, sweet iPhone 4, you have served me well, but your day is done.
It provided some downtime, and gave a kickstart to a few projects. I started packing up my possessions ready to move out of London. I've filled ten archive boxes with junk, and don't appear to have made any headway whatsoever.
I started writing again: I made a small dent in both the trashy romance I started a while ago, and a dent in the rewrite of my trashy fantasy novel which took me ten years to put down a complete draft.
I even picked up a book and read for a while. I often feel guilty about reading, as if I should only do it when I have nothing better to do, and certainly not in the daytime, and really the only acceptable place to read is in bed, and only then if there's nothing else that needs doing.
Reading has become an expensive luxury, not a commodity. I remember when I was younger, I would pull out the futon in my room into its chaise longue shape, sit under my reading light and plough through an entire Robert Jordan novel in a day or two (Aside: I never did finish the Wheel of Time series, I think I gave up caring).
These days, I can barely get through ten pages. I'm not sure why. It might be a lack of a suitable space in which to read, or that I always feel there is something more important that I should be doing. Of course, I am no longer a teenager who doesn't have to feed herself or pay rent, so there are a few more important distractions about than there used to be, but it would be good to re-establish a reading habit. The last book that I chewed through at a voracious pace was Lonesome Dove, which was more addictive than my Xbox at the time. I'm yet to find a book that sucks me in so well.
I have also watched a lot of The West Wing, as I have the DVD box set (stolen from my parents), and as a result I have a slight girl crush on CJ Cregg, who is probably the most inspiring, wonderful, powerful female character I've seen on TV since Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and the only situation in which Buffy would beat CJ would be in a vampire slaying competition (and even then I'm not sure).
I have upgraded myself to an iPhone 5s - it's white and shiny and has a fancy red leather cover because I don't trust myself not to drop it or try to hold it in my teeth and other foolish things to do with expensive equipment, and I've already put Siri to good use texting people while I'm driving. Siri is not good at understanding me yet, but he's trying. Mostly, I am enjoying the lack of delay between touching the screen and things happening. Good night, sweet iPhone 4, you have served me well, but your day is done.
Wednesday 6 November 2013
Upgrades
I'm taking the plunge. I'm leaving my current university and abandoning my physio degree to pursue life with Cowboy. I'm moving out of London. I'm clearing out my possessions.
Let's gloss over the part where I clear out my freezer and promptly buy 30 packs of fish from the door-to-door fish guy. Way to downsize, Bee.
Part of my strategy for this next phase of life is to consider how to best equip myself for the future. I recently purchased a laser printer - an extravagance by usual standards, and I'd never considered how much of an improvement it might be over my juddering inkjet. My inkjet guzzles ink cartridges, and clunks laboriously through the pages. Its saving graces are that it is red, and it has a flatbed scanner built in.
Then my black box of a colour laser printer arrived, and quietly glides through a 20 page print job in next to no time. All it asks is that I reinsert the paper so it can print both sides.
"Do I really need this?" I asked myself when it arrived, still packaged and returnable. I thought about it for a moment. I was still a student, and had pages of notes to print out most days. There were long articles to read and annotate. Then I thought about my business, and how much paperwork gets generated by the day to day admin of keeping the company going.
Then I thought ahead to when Cowboy's business is up and running, and we'll have liability release forms to print, records for the horses, invoices, advertising materials, letters... If I have a second business alongside that, there's more paperwork than you can shake a stick at. I've conveniently skipped over the paperwork involved for our visa application that faces us in the future, because I don't want to think about how stressful that's going to be.
I look at Black Box with a vague sense of respect. If it can keep going and keep up with what we'll be throwing at it in the future, it will be worth every penny.
I now look at my battered iPhone 4, which has tolerated all of the abuse I've put it through over the last three years and only protests by occasionally not letting me press the home screen button. Is it time to upgrade myself? My dad is starting to eye up my iPhone as his next phone (he is still using my cast-off Nokia from 2004). Perhaps it's time to invest in the next phase, for both of us.
When I move over to the US, it's probably time to splash out on a really good kettle. A few really good saucepans. Things that will last. The days of buying the Argos Value range are probably numbered.
It's about time.
Let's gloss over the part where I clear out my freezer and promptly buy 30 packs of fish from the door-to-door fish guy. Way to downsize, Bee.
Part of my strategy for this next phase of life is to consider how to best equip myself for the future. I recently purchased a laser printer - an extravagance by usual standards, and I'd never considered how much of an improvement it might be over my juddering inkjet. My inkjet guzzles ink cartridges, and clunks laboriously through the pages. Its saving graces are that it is red, and it has a flatbed scanner built in.
Then my black box of a colour laser printer arrived, and quietly glides through a 20 page print job in next to no time. All it asks is that I reinsert the paper so it can print both sides.
"Do I really need this?" I asked myself when it arrived, still packaged and returnable. I thought about it for a moment. I was still a student, and had pages of notes to print out most days. There were long articles to read and annotate. Then I thought about my business, and how much paperwork gets generated by the day to day admin of keeping the company going.
Then I thought ahead to when Cowboy's business is up and running, and we'll have liability release forms to print, records for the horses, invoices, advertising materials, letters... If I have a second business alongside that, there's more paperwork than you can shake a stick at. I've conveniently skipped over the paperwork involved for our visa application that faces us in the future, because I don't want to think about how stressful that's going to be.
I look at Black Box with a vague sense of respect. If it can keep going and keep up with what we'll be throwing at it in the future, it will be worth every penny.
I now look at my battered iPhone 4, which has tolerated all of the abuse I've put it through over the last three years and only protests by occasionally not letting me press the home screen button. Is it time to upgrade myself? My dad is starting to eye up my iPhone as his next phone (he is still using my cast-off Nokia from 2004). Perhaps it's time to invest in the next phase, for both of us.
When I move over to the US, it's probably time to splash out on a really good kettle. A few really good saucepans. Things that will last. The days of buying the Argos Value range are probably numbered.
It's about time.
Friday 1 November 2013
Show Review: Boy Blue Entertainment: "The Five and the Prophecy of Prana"
On Wednesday, I went to see this show at the Barbican in London. In a nutshell, it was a hip hop dance performance fused with Shaolin kung fu, set to a soundtrack of urban beats fused with taiko drums, with a backdrop drawn by a Japanese manga artist, from the team that brought us a large portion of the epic London 2012 Olympics Opening Ceremony. In a smaller nutshell, it was totally amazing.
In reality, it was so much more. Boy Blue have already got one Olivier Award under their belts from their Pied Piper show, which I caught on its second outing back in 2009. Pied Piper was a reworking of the Pied Piper of Hamlin tale, bringing it in to a low-lit and industrial urban setting. In the original fairy tale, the piper's taking of the city's children is unnervingly sinister, as the mountain seals shut behind them. In Boy Blue's show, there was a thrilling sense that each of the talented youths taken away by the piper was destined to become an adult dancer just as formidable and breathtaking as the piper himself. And they did.
I digress. That happens a lot.
Boy Blue's company of dancers is exactly that, though: breathtaking and formidable. Choreographer and Artistic Director, Kenrick "H2O" Sandy, is a taskmaster and his dancers were all fit beyond the demands of the show, effortlessly flexible and full of power.
The five of the title were each assigned their own animal style of martial arts - which translated into their own hip hop dance style. Krumping, tutting, locking, house and breaking were all transformed into fighting styles. What was so wonderful was that the seams between dance and combat were invisible. Hip hop dancers will often "battle" at social events or competitions, so it's not an unusual thing to see two dancers duking it out to see who has the best moves. With the framework of the storyline, the battles had an emotional purpose too. Suddenly those amazing moves meant even more. A competition dance battle can be visually stunning, but sometimes lacking in soul.
This show was all about soul. The projected backdrops were lovingly detailed, rich and cleverly moved around the stage to make a simple but effective set. The music, composed by Mikey J Asante, was the perfect balance of sweeping, cinematic orchestrals, heavy urban beats that shake the heart, and eastern instruments to remind you that this isn't your average hip hop dance show. This is not the latest chart hits cut together. This is not the most recent dance craze to take over Youtube. This was the real deal.
The dancers trained with Shaolin monks, and changed their eating and training habits to be more in line with the monks'. Even their dance posture shows the difference that it made. There was no hip hop laziness that is so often seen, no slouching to be mistaken for "swagger". Every move was precise, placed, as accurately as any classical dance company could muster. Maybe more so. Tommy Franzen, as the five's sensei, Wang Tang, was outstanding for his understated poise and power. My friend even asked at the end of the show if Franzen is a real Shaolin monk.
I think the strength of hip hop dancers is in their versatility. Give a hip hop dancer some contemporary or classical training, and they can quickly absorb the new style and blend it with their own. It is far harder for a ballet dancer to learn to move through the spine and rib cage, to learn how to make power look so soft - trust me on this one, I had to go through the painful transition. It took me months to even make a dent in my balletic tendencies.
Unfortunately for me, by the time I was in a position to go to some of Sandy's classes, I was so injured and weakened that I could never really get to grips with what he was teaching, so as a student I mostly listened to his theory of dance. I remember him fervently telling us to move from within, from the centre, that this is where movement comes from. He tried to press upon us the notion that even a movement of the hand and arm is generated from the core. I remember a tai chi teacher telling me exactly the same thing, several years before that.
The show was uplifting and inspiring. It made me want to leap up out of dance retirement and get back to dance class (although I am now more injured and weakened than ever). It made me want to focus my breath and my mind rather than tearing through London life like we all do: hidden behind the Metro on the tube, frustrated with slow walkers, and pretending we're having the best time ever. Moments of stillness on stage were reminders to the audience to take a deep breath.
The show was not without its humour, either. Some reviewers criticised the "bad dubbing", as the voice over does not match up with the mouths of the dancers on stage. Having witnessed Sandy's wry sense of humour in class, I'm sure it was intentionally mismatched. It's also a nod to kung fu and anime films where there is the same problem. It's intentional that the towering sensei of Duwane Taylor, who is an incredibly powerful dancer, has a slightly squeaky, ridiculous voice in the voice over. The final scene, complete with its animated caption flashed up on the screens, is intended to make us roll our eyes and sigh. Of course, it's just a show...
I'm not one for dance on film, I prefer to see the body's miracles of movement in real time and unedited. However, I can see that Five would be a wonderful production on the big screen, or even as a DVD mini series. I sincerely hope that Boy Blue Ent. get the necessary support to make a sequel. At the very least I hope this show tours in the near future. I can see this production inspiring a new generation of dancers.
Five stars.
________________________________________________________________
For more information about Boy Blue, including listings of their classes, workshops and upcoming shows, click here for their website. If you want a banging soundtrack for your running playlist, your kung fu training, or for dancing around your bedroom pretending you're a Shaolin master, click here to download it.
In reality, it was so much more. Boy Blue have already got one Olivier Award under their belts from their Pied Piper show, which I caught on its second outing back in 2009. Pied Piper was a reworking of the Pied Piper of Hamlin tale, bringing it in to a low-lit and industrial urban setting. In the original fairy tale, the piper's taking of the city's children is unnervingly sinister, as the mountain seals shut behind them. In Boy Blue's show, there was a thrilling sense that each of the talented youths taken away by the piper was destined to become an adult dancer just as formidable and breathtaking as the piper himself. And they did.
I digress. That happens a lot.
Boy Blue's company of dancers is exactly that, though: breathtaking and formidable. Choreographer and Artistic Director, Kenrick "H2O" Sandy, is a taskmaster and his dancers were all fit beyond the demands of the show, effortlessly flexible and full of power.
The five of the title were each assigned their own animal style of martial arts - which translated into their own hip hop dance style. Krumping, tutting, locking, house and breaking were all transformed into fighting styles. What was so wonderful was that the seams between dance and combat were invisible. Hip hop dancers will often "battle" at social events or competitions, so it's not an unusual thing to see two dancers duking it out to see who has the best moves. With the framework of the storyline, the battles had an emotional purpose too. Suddenly those amazing moves meant even more. A competition dance battle can be visually stunning, but sometimes lacking in soul.
This show was all about soul. The projected backdrops were lovingly detailed, rich and cleverly moved around the stage to make a simple but effective set. The music, composed by Mikey J Asante, was the perfect balance of sweeping, cinematic orchestrals, heavy urban beats that shake the heart, and eastern instruments to remind you that this isn't your average hip hop dance show. This is not the latest chart hits cut together. This is not the most recent dance craze to take over Youtube. This was the real deal.
The dancers trained with Shaolin monks, and changed their eating and training habits to be more in line with the monks'. Even their dance posture shows the difference that it made. There was no hip hop laziness that is so often seen, no slouching to be mistaken for "swagger". Every move was precise, placed, as accurately as any classical dance company could muster. Maybe more so. Tommy Franzen, as the five's sensei, Wang Tang, was outstanding for his understated poise and power. My friend even asked at the end of the show if Franzen is a real Shaolin monk.
I think the strength of hip hop dancers is in their versatility. Give a hip hop dancer some contemporary or classical training, and they can quickly absorb the new style and blend it with their own. It is far harder for a ballet dancer to learn to move through the spine and rib cage, to learn how to make power look so soft - trust me on this one, I had to go through the painful transition. It took me months to even make a dent in my balletic tendencies.
Unfortunately for me, by the time I was in a position to go to some of Sandy's classes, I was so injured and weakened that I could never really get to grips with what he was teaching, so as a student I mostly listened to his theory of dance. I remember him fervently telling us to move from within, from the centre, that this is where movement comes from. He tried to press upon us the notion that even a movement of the hand and arm is generated from the core. I remember a tai chi teacher telling me exactly the same thing, several years before that.
The show was uplifting and inspiring. It made me want to leap up out of dance retirement and get back to dance class (although I am now more injured and weakened than ever). It made me want to focus my breath and my mind rather than tearing through London life like we all do: hidden behind the Metro on the tube, frustrated with slow walkers, and pretending we're having the best time ever. Moments of stillness on stage were reminders to the audience to take a deep breath.
The show was not without its humour, either. Some reviewers criticised the "bad dubbing", as the voice over does not match up with the mouths of the dancers on stage. Having witnessed Sandy's wry sense of humour in class, I'm sure it was intentionally mismatched. It's also a nod to kung fu and anime films where there is the same problem. It's intentional that the towering sensei of Duwane Taylor, who is an incredibly powerful dancer, has a slightly squeaky, ridiculous voice in the voice over. The final scene, complete with its animated caption flashed up on the screens, is intended to make us roll our eyes and sigh. Of course, it's just a show...
I'm not one for dance on film, I prefer to see the body's miracles of movement in real time and unedited. However, I can see that Five would be a wonderful production on the big screen, or even as a DVD mini series. I sincerely hope that Boy Blue Ent. get the necessary support to make a sequel. At the very least I hope this show tours in the near future. I can see this production inspiring a new generation of dancers.
Five stars.
________________________________________________________________
For more information about Boy Blue, including listings of their classes, workshops and upcoming shows, click here for their website. If you want a banging soundtrack for your running playlist, your kung fu training, or for dancing around your bedroom pretending you're a Shaolin master, click here to download it.
Tuesday 29 October 2013
Last minute home made gift wrapping card making cake baking efforts
I'm a bit of a last-minute person. I like to feel the pressure and the threat of the deadline, it gives me the adrenaline rush that I need to accomplish... anything. If I need to be productive and efficient, I need to be threatened by several deadlines to get it done.
At the weekend, I had nothing to do for the whole of Saturday. I could have done all of the things I needed to do with plenty of time to spare. Instead, I sat in my pyjamas and watched Heartland on Netflix while I knitted (and unravelled and knitted again). Heartland is a guilty pleasure of mine, but I'll happily stand up and say "Hi, I'm Bee and I am addicted to trashy Canadian TV shows about horses and life in the country for a not-so-teenage-any-longer girl. I am a Heartland-aholic."
Anyway. Sunday morning rolled around and I had an extra hour of sleep with the clocks going back, which has done me the power of good, because I don't sleep well at the moment and I was getting a bit behind. Then I had to jump out of bed and achieve things. I needed to be out of the door and on my way to my niece's first birthday party by 11.30am. I woke up at 8.30am. Lounged until about 9am. Ran to the shower to claim it before anybody else could (my days of sharing a house are numbered), and after a swift blowdry of my hair and some clothes thrown on, I sped to the kitchen.
I had to make a cake. It was for my brother, who can't really eat grains, or sugar, so cake made with normal flour is right out. This makes me sad, because he and I share a voracious love of cake. I had searched Wholefoods in Kensington for the wherewithal to make him a friendly chocolate cake, and finally had coconut flour and coconut oil and enough eggs to produce something for him.
As soon as I had got that in the oven, I made myself some apple and sultana porridge (that's oatmeal, Americans) and set about browsing Pinterest for some wrapping paper.
Being a bad aunty, I had not managed to get my niece a birthday card, nor wrapping paper for her presents. I was frankly a bit surprised I had managed to get her a present, but I'd had a burst of activity on Friday and picked up two lovely books - good thing I didn't get the xylophone I saw first, because my mother gave her a xylophone and it would have been awkward. I needed paper to wrap the books in, and I needed it fast. I usually wrap gifts in pages from old magazines, but decided my one year old niece might not appreciate pages from either the Physiotherapy journal Frontline, nor Western Horseman.
I soon found some suitably cheerful and colourful patterns, and put my shiny new laser printer to work producing several pages of a triangles pattern. A Google search gave me a customised "Keep Calm..." image for the front of her card. The only actual card I had in my supplies was a packet of file dividers in lovely colours, so I chopped the holes and the tabs off a couple of those, and stuck it all together. Not bad.
Couldn't find any sellotape, so resorted to the roll of glue dots that I had used for a scrapbook project for Cowboy over the summer, and glued my home made wrapping paper around the books. Lacking an envelope for the card, I found a roll of cooks' string in the kitchen and looped that around the present, and could wedge the card underneath that.
It sounds awful, I know, to have scraped together this thing for my brother's first born child, but I am a student with long distance flights to pay for, and wrapping gifts and buying cards is an expensive pastime these days.
Here's the end result:
I thought it was a fairly respectable effort, given my distinct shortage of resources, and it blended in well with the other presents at the party.
I managed to get the cake out of the oven and cover it in melted chocolate, slap some make up on, brush my hair and get out of the door bang on the dot of 11.30am, which is fairly miraculous. It was a lovely party.
Other things I've done recently include: eating too much cake, cooking a big batch of risotto, and staying in bed because it's cold outside.
At the weekend, I had nothing to do for the whole of Saturday. I could have done all of the things I needed to do with plenty of time to spare. Instead, I sat in my pyjamas and watched Heartland on Netflix while I knitted (and unravelled and knitted again). Heartland is a guilty pleasure of mine, but I'll happily stand up and say "Hi, I'm Bee and I am addicted to trashy Canadian TV shows about horses and life in the country for a not-so-teenage-any-longer girl. I am a Heartland-aholic."
Anyway. Sunday morning rolled around and I had an extra hour of sleep with the clocks going back, which has done me the power of good, because I don't sleep well at the moment and I was getting a bit behind. Then I had to jump out of bed and achieve things. I needed to be out of the door and on my way to my niece's first birthday party by 11.30am. I woke up at 8.30am. Lounged until about 9am. Ran to the shower to claim it before anybody else could (my days of sharing a house are numbered), and after a swift blowdry of my hair and some clothes thrown on, I sped to the kitchen.
I had to make a cake. It was for my brother, who can't really eat grains, or sugar, so cake made with normal flour is right out. This makes me sad, because he and I share a voracious love of cake. I had searched Wholefoods in Kensington for the wherewithal to make him a friendly chocolate cake, and finally had coconut flour and coconut oil and enough eggs to produce something for him.
As soon as I had got that in the oven, I made myself some apple and sultana porridge (that's oatmeal, Americans) and set about browsing Pinterest for some wrapping paper.
Being a bad aunty, I had not managed to get my niece a birthday card, nor wrapping paper for her presents. I was frankly a bit surprised I had managed to get her a present, but I'd had a burst of activity on Friday and picked up two lovely books - good thing I didn't get the xylophone I saw first, because my mother gave her a xylophone and it would have been awkward. I needed paper to wrap the books in, and I needed it fast. I usually wrap gifts in pages from old magazines, but decided my one year old niece might not appreciate pages from either the Physiotherapy journal Frontline, nor Western Horseman.
I soon found some suitably cheerful and colourful patterns, and put my shiny new laser printer to work producing several pages of a triangles pattern. A Google search gave me a customised "Keep Calm..." image for the front of her card. The only actual card I had in my supplies was a packet of file dividers in lovely colours, so I chopped the holes and the tabs off a couple of those, and stuck it all together. Not bad.
Couldn't find any sellotape, so resorted to the roll of glue dots that I had used for a scrapbook project for Cowboy over the summer, and glued my home made wrapping paper around the books. Lacking an envelope for the card, I found a roll of cooks' string in the kitchen and looped that around the present, and could wedge the card underneath that.
It sounds awful, I know, to have scraped together this thing for my brother's first born child, but I am a student with long distance flights to pay for, and wrapping gifts and buying cards is an expensive pastime these days.
Here's the end result:
I thought it was a fairly respectable effort, given my distinct shortage of resources, and it blended in well with the other presents at the party.
I managed to get the cake out of the oven and cover it in melted chocolate, slap some make up on, brush my hair and get out of the door bang on the dot of 11.30am, which is fairly miraculous. It was a lovely party.
Other things I've done recently include: eating too much cake, cooking a big batch of risotto, and staying in bed because it's cold outside.
Thursday 24 October 2013
"The Road Not Taken"
| TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood, | |
| And sorry I could not travel both | |
| And be one traveler, long I stood | |
| And looked down one as far as I could | |
| To where it bent in the undergrowth; |
Robert Frost had it about right. For over a week, now, I have been looking down each road as far as I could, considering which would be the best to take. Like this traveller in his poem, I can't take both. I also probably can't come back and walk the other one later on.
Today, I took the necessary steps down the road I have decided on. I have emailed my course tutor to explain that I am withdrawing, and emailed my landlord to tell him I am moving out. So many other people are excited for me, and congratulatory.
I am bricking it, for want of a better expression. I am looking at my comfortable, lovely little home here in Tooting, and wondering why on earth I am about to leave it. I looked at my fellow students and the interesting timetables that we have, and wondered why I would ever want to give it up.
Perhaps that is the difference here, from previous "life-changing" decisions that I've made: before, I had something that I wanted to leave behind that was pushing me forwards. This time, I don't want to leave anything, I just want to reach one thing sooner, and that means I have to leave something.
I just hope that this road will be interesting and rewarding. It will not be without its challenges, I'm certain. I hope my sense of trepidation is a healthy caution that will stop any foolish impetuosity from clouding my judgement.
Because, of course, there is nothing foolish or impetuous about rushing off to America to fall in love with a cowboy, chase cows around, and decide to eat nothing but beef for the foreseeable future...
Today, I took the necessary steps down the road I have decided on. I have emailed my course tutor to explain that I am withdrawing, and emailed my landlord to tell him I am moving out. So many other people are excited for me, and congratulatory.
I am bricking it, for want of a better expression. I am looking at my comfortable, lovely little home here in Tooting, and wondering why on earth I am about to leave it. I looked at my fellow students and the interesting timetables that we have, and wondered why I would ever want to give it up.
Perhaps that is the difference here, from previous "life-changing" decisions that I've made: before, I had something that I wanted to leave behind that was pushing me forwards. This time, I don't want to leave anything, I just want to reach one thing sooner, and that means I have to leave something.
I just hope that this road will be interesting and rewarding. It will not be without its challenges, I'm certain. I hope my sense of trepidation is a healthy caution that will stop any foolish impetuosity from clouding my judgement.
Because, of course, there is nothing foolish or impetuous about rushing off to America to fall in love with a cowboy, chase cows around, and decide to eat nothing but beef for the foreseeable future...
Friday 18 October 2013
Spinach soup, rawhide, and a comedy of errors
The last few days have seen a series of errors on my part. Some were innocuous enough: turning up to the wrong class at university because I thought I was in Group 2 (like all of last year) and I'm actually in Group 1. Others were marginally more serious: discovering that the reason my company hasn't been receiving mail as promptly as it should is because somebody put the wrong address on the website. And that somebody was me.
Anyway, no lasting harm done. I spent a rainy afternoon in the kitchen, where I promptly made this error:
I was peeling a potato, happily thinking about good it was that we only have a cheap peeler and there's no danger of peeling through half a fingernail like I've seen other people do. I immediately peeled through half of my fingernail.
Once I had jumped around the kitchen, sworn a few times, stuck the nail back down and trussed it up in first aid supplies, I got back to cooking, and made this lovely spinach, nutmeg and potato soup. Souper (sorry) simple, delicious and terribly good for you. There are no photos of the process because I was concentrating on not peeling any more fingernails.
Chunk up one onion, two peeled potatoes (do not peel your fingernail off whilst peeling potatoes), and fry in some oil over medium heat. Add around half a litre of vegetable stock (I like Kallo, it's less salty than others), and let it simmer for about ten minutes to soften the potatoes. Then cram in as much spinach as you can muster. I had a big bag of true spinach - the sort with huge leaves and long stalks, not the baby kind you get in supermarkets - which needed eating, and I just threw all of it in there. It was probably a good 400g, maybe more.
Put the lid on the saucepan for a little bit to get the steam into the spinach to help it wilt. When it's soft enough, stir it into the water with the potato and onion and give it another few minutes. Remove from the heat and blend it up. Season well with lots of black pepper and fresh ground nutmeg, and it will likely need a good amount of salt too. Give it a few tastes and adjust as you like it. The potato bulk makes this soup quite thick, which is how I like soup, but you could make it go further and thin it out with more stock if you wanted to.
I'm trying to cut back on my plastic waste (First World Guilt), so instead of my usual method of freezer bags, I portioned it out into three Kilner jars and stuck these in the freezer. Make sure your soup has cooled completely before you freeze it in glass containers, to prevent cracks. Mine appear to be intact. Phew!
In the meantime, Cowboy has a new project on his grubby hands. This, my friends, is a cow hide:
He's been commissioned to make some custom tack for a few riders in his area, out of braided rawhide, so the first step is to obtain a cow hide from the butcher, and stretch it out somewhere far from where you live to keep the stink away. He's borrowing a friend's barn for the process. I have no idea what you do next.
In other news, the banana oat cookies freeze wonderfully in freezer bags, and defrost nicely inside the plastic bag (guilt). They still taste soft and delicious once thawed. Hurrah!
Anyway, no lasting harm done. I spent a rainy afternoon in the kitchen, where I promptly made this error:
I was peeling a potato, happily thinking about good it was that we only have a cheap peeler and there's no danger of peeling through half a fingernail like I've seen other people do. I immediately peeled through half of my fingernail.
Once I had jumped around the kitchen, sworn a few times, stuck the nail back down and trussed it up in first aid supplies, I got back to cooking, and made this lovely spinach, nutmeg and potato soup. Souper (sorry) simple, delicious and terribly good for you. There are no photos of the process because I was concentrating on not peeling any more fingernails.
Chunk up one onion, two peeled potatoes (do not peel your fingernail off whilst peeling potatoes), and fry in some oil over medium heat. Add around half a litre of vegetable stock (I like Kallo, it's less salty than others), and let it simmer for about ten minutes to soften the potatoes. Then cram in as much spinach as you can muster. I had a big bag of true spinach - the sort with huge leaves and long stalks, not the baby kind you get in supermarkets - which needed eating, and I just threw all of it in there. It was probably a good 400g, maybe more.
Put the lid on the saucepan for a little bit to get the steam into the spinach to help it wilt. When it's soft enough, stir it into the water with the potato and onion and give it another few minutes. Remove from the heat and blend it up. Season well with lots of black pepper and fresh ground nutmeg, and it will likely need a good amount of salt too. Give it a few tastes and adjust as you like it. The potato bulk makes this soup quite thick, which is how I like soup, but you could make it go further and thin it out with more stock if you wanted to.
I'm trying to cut back on my plastic waste (First World Guilt), so instead of my usual method of freezer bags, I portioned it out into three Kilner jars and stuck these in the freezer. Make sure your soup has cooled completely before you freeze it in glass containers, to prevent cracks. Mine appear to be intact. Phew!
In the meantime, Cowboy has a new project on his grubby hands. This, my friends, is a cow hide:
He's been commissioned to make some custom tack for a few riders in his area, out of braided rawhide, so the first step is to obtain a cow hide from the butcher, and stretch it out somewhere far from where you live to keep the stink away. He's borrowing a friend's barn for the process. I have no idea what you do next.
In other news, the banana oat cookies freeze wonderfully in freezer bags, and defrost nicely inside the plastic bag (guilt). They still taste soft and delicious once thawed. Hurrah!
Sunday 13 October 2013
"Is she stupid?!"
Maybe she is. Let's see...
Something in the mechanism of writing this blog prompted me to be honest with myself about my depression, and prompted me to be honest about needing to seek help, which I did. The counsellor at university, whom I've now seen twice, was very good, and his acknowledgement of how I'm feeling about life has prompted me to think a little harder about things.
When I applied to university to study physiotherapy, life was very bleak. I had a dead-end office job that I largely hated, lived in a shabby house in a busy corner of London, and despite my best efforts, I couldn't find a decent man anywhere and was beginning to feel that I was destined for tragic spinsterhood.
When the offer from the university came through, and it was unconditional, it felt like the start of a new life ahead. I'd get a decent qualification in something that would be a good, solid career, and still live in London so that I might yet bump into that nice, wealthy banker who would eventually marry me and install me in a house in suburbia where I could raise organic children and go to yoga.
Then I discovered Cowboy. I had been determined not to discover anybody, but they say it happens when you stop looking, and after a whirlwind summer with him, suddenly I was in love with a man who was neither wealthy nor a banker, and his ambitions couldn't be further from a house in suburbia, organic children and yoga.
It was early days in our relationship, so I threw myself into my new degree with enthusiasm and enjoyed my first term immensely. I lived in a lovely little house in Tooting (they do exist), and I waited out the long months until Cowboy would visit for Christmas with a rosy optimism. It wasn't clear where this relationship was going, or if it would last that long, so I kept my sights on finishing my degree.
After he left from his long visit over the Christmas holidays, depression hit me hard, and I told myself it was just because I missed him. Looking back, it was the first sign that my goalposts were moving. After my trip over there in the springtime, I felt less and less interested in my degree, and more and more interested in how I was going to end up where I wanted to be: with him, raising partially organic, free-range children and probably working so hard I'd never have time for yoga.
And now? I spent long, glorious weeks with him this summer, and it was obvious where this relationship is going: marriage. Let's gloss over the part where I don't have a ring on my finger and he hasn't learnt that he can't propose with a bottle cap that says "Marry Me?" on the inside. His intentions are noble.
Now I sit in my lovely little house in Tooting wondering how best to forge our life together. Now I sit in lectures and tutorials imagining how long it will take for me to finish this degree here in London, move to America and get established before we're in any position to start a family. Then I think about how I could make that time shorter.
I could stop studying physiotherapy. I could enrol at a manual therapy school in Seattle and study there for 11 months, and come out with a diploma that enables me to be licensed to practise in America without any further hassle (glossing over the whole Green Card thing). I'd be educated in the requirements for running my own practice, I'd be informed about how to be accepted by insurance companies. I'd be two hours away from Cowboy instead of 24 hours.
This is of course dependent on being accepted to the school, on being granted a student visa, on finding somewhere acceptable and affordable to live. It's a little terrifying to imagine just flying over there and landing myself in a whole new city, a whole new country, but I have friends over there already, and the prospect excites me.
It's all theoretical just now. Cowboy is doing his best to be supportive and understanding, although I can tell he is freaking out. He confided in a friend of his that I was thinking of leaving my course.
"Is she stupid?!" was the response. Time will tell...
Something in the mechanism of writing this blog prompted me to be honest with myself about my depression, and prompted me to be honest about needing to seek help, which I did. The counsellor at university, whom I've now seen twice, was very good, and his acknowledgement of how I'm feeling about life has prompted me to think a little harder about things.
When I applied to university to study physiotherapy, life was very bleak. I had a dead-end office job that I largely hated, lived in a shabby house in a busy corner of London, and despite my best efforts, I couldn't find a decent man anywhere and was beginning to feel that I was destined for tragic spinsterhood.
When the offer from the university came through, and it was unconditional, it felt like the start of a new life ahead. I'd get a decent qualification in something that would be a good, solid career, and still live in London so that I might yet bump into that nice, wealthy banker who would eventually marry me and install me in a house in suburbia where I could raise organic children and go to yoga.
Then I discovered Cowboy. I had been determined not to discover anybody, but they say it happens when you stop looking, and after a whirlwind summer with him, suddenly I was in love with a man who was neither wealthy nor a banker, and his ambitions couldn't be further from a house in suburbia, organic children and yoga.
It was early days in our relationship, so I threw myself into my new degree with enthusiasm and enjoyed my first term immensely. I lived in a lovely little house in Tooting (they do exist), and I waited out the long months until Cowboy would visit for Christmas with a rosy optimism. It wasn't clear where this relationship was going, or if it would last that long, so I kept my sights on finishing my degree.
After he left from his long visit over the Christmas holidays, depression hit me hard, and I told myself it was just because I missed him. Looking back, it was the first sign that my goalposts were moving. After my trip over there in the springtime, I felt less and less interested in my degree, and more and more interested in how I was going to end up where I wanted to be: with him, raising partially organic, free-range children and probably working so hard I'd never have time for yoga.
And now? I spent long, glorious weeks with him this summer, and it was obvious where this relationship is going: marriage. Let's gloss over the part where I don't have a ring on my finger and he hasn't learnt that he can't propose with a bottle cap that says "Marry Me?" on the inside. His intentions are noble.
Now I sit in my lovely little house in Tooting wondering how best to forge our life together. Now I sit in lectures and tutorials imagining how long it will take for me to finish this degree here in London, move to America and get established before we're in any position to start a family. Then I think about how I could make that time shorter.
I could stop studying physiotherapy. I could enrol at a manual therapy school in Seattle and study there for 11 months, and come out with a diploma that enables me to be licensed to practise in America without any further hassle (glossing over the whole Green Card thing). I'd be educated in the requirements for running my own practice, I'd be informed about how to be accepted by insurance companies. I'd be two hours away from Cowboy instead of 24 hours.
This is of course dependent on being accepted to the school, on being granted a student visa, on finding somewhere acceptable and affordable to live. It's a little terrifying to imagine just flying over there and landing myself in a whole new city, a whole new country, but I have friends over there already, and the prospect excites me.
It's all theoretical just now. Cowboy is doing his best to be supportive and understanding, although I can tell he is freaking out. He confided in a friend of his that I was thinking of leaving my course.
"Is she stupid?!" was the response. Time will tell...
Thursday 10 October 2013
Perspective: Spiders vs South Dakota
Like many people I'm sure, I am often lacking in a sense of perspective. I have a tendency towards drama and exaggeration.
"There was this spider in my house and it was literally about twenty feet across and had laser eyes and napalm breath!"
Well, look at the sucker. I wasn't that far off...
Sorry for the gigantic spider image. That should maybe have come with a warning...
I woke up today convinced that the next two years were going to be difficult and terrible and miserable, and that I would genuinely be better off staying in bed all day.
Then I got hungry, so I ate two banana maple oatmeal cookies and had a cup of tea, and life didn't seem so bad. I did some research into various things that have been troubling me, and read some magazines, and dealt with a couple of business issues. I took a step in arranging to catch up on the classes I've missed over the last few days (due to certainty that bed would be a better place to be - thanks, Black Dog).
Then I read about South Dakota and the snow storms. To those of us living in cushy little England where it barely dips below freezing and there's a Tesco's on every corner, understanding just how devastating and destructive the weather has just been is a little difficult.
Dating a cowboy means I can see how the loss of a vast proportion of your livestock would be damaging both financially and emotionally. Many ranchers put their cattle before themselves time and time again, sacrificing lazy lie-ins to go and feed and check up on their animals. Whole families revolve around the cycles of cattle: brandings and sortings and shipping.
I've started to see my future with Cowboy as having a large element of cow in it - he'd like to run a small herd of cows one day, alongside our horse business. That means I will probably have to help with the round-up, the branding, the sorting, the shipping. It means I will have to get up early to help feed (if only to help feed the hungry humans who go and do the real hard work). It means we might have to put our bedroom on the ground floor of the house so that when there's a sick cow or a difficult calving, Cowboy can go out every two hours without disturbing the kids or having to negotiate the stairs in his exhaustion.
Reading about those who have lost their cattle, and some who have lost their lives, was rather more emotional than I expected. It certainly put my problems a little more in perspective, made me rethink what was really important, and gave me a kick up the backside that I sorely needed.
"There was this spider in my house and it was literally about twenty feet across and had laser eyes and napalm breath!"
Well, look at the sucker. I wasn't that far off...
Sorry for the gigantic spider image. That should maybe have come with a warning...
I woke up today convinced that the next two years were going to be difficult and terrible and miserable, and that I would genuinely be better off staying in bed all day.
Then I got hungry, so I ate two banana maple oatmeal cookies and had a cup of tea, and life didn't seem so bad. I did some research into various things that have been troubling me, and read some magazines, and dealt with a couple of business issues. I took a step in arranging to catch up on the classes I've missed over the last few days (due to certainty that bed would be a better place to be - thanks, Black Dog).
Then I read about South Dakota and the snow storms. To those of us living in cushy little England where it barely dips below freezing and there's a Tesco's on every corner, understanding just how devastating and destructive the weather has just been is a little difficult.
Dating a cowboy means I can see how the loss of a vast proportion of your livestock would be damaging both financially and emotionally. Many ranchers put their cattle before themselves time and time again, sacrificing lazy lie-ins to go and feed and check up on their animals. Whole families revolve around the cycles of cattle: brandings and sortings and shipping.
I've started to see my future with Cowboy as having a large element of cow in it - he'd like to run a small herd of cows one day, alongside our horse business. That means I will probably have to help with the round-up, the branding, the sorting, the shipping. It means I will have to get up early to help feed (if only to help feed the hungry humans who go and do the real hard work). It means we might have to put our bedroom on the ground floor of the house so that when there's a sick cow or a difficult calving, Cowboy can go out every two hours without disturbing the kids or having to negotiate the stairs in his exhaustion.
Reading about those who have lost their cattle, and some who have lost their lives, was rather more emotional than I expected. It certainly put my problems a little more in perspective, made me rethink what was really important, and gave me a kick up the backside that I sorely needed.
Tuesday 8 October 2013
Heart-warming broccoli and cheese soup
First up, here's a heart-warming, romantic exchange that Cowboy and I had early on in my trip out there this summer. I had asked him what he wanted from Walmart, and he said he needed shower gel.
Soup! I had some broccoli pining in my fridge and some onions arrived in my vegbox today, plus soup is always a comforting thing to have in the freezer. I also really wanted something comforting in my stomach today. It's been one of those days.
Being conscious of the fact that I can't afford to buy new jeans and I need to stay the size of my current jeans, I like to steer away from recipes involving cream. This soup ends up a creamy consistency, and packs a lovely flavour, but is a touch less sinful than the cream varieties.
First up, slice up an onion and set it frying over some low heat in a little oil. I had half a courgette (that's zucchini to my America readers) hanging about in the fridge too, so I threw that in.
I love making soup in my one Le Creuset saucepan. It's indestructible and orange.
Chunk up the broccoli, stalk, leaves and all. It's all good nutritious stuff.
Throw it in with the onions and give it a good stir.
Then dice up some potato - I used a small baking potato, because I'm not educated about the differences between varieties of potato, and didn't care - and throw it in too.
I also suck at chopping, so I tend to use big chunks of stuff.
I only had the remains of a chicken stock cube, so that's what I used! Throw it in the pan, and cover with a little over half a litre of boiling water. Essentially, enough water to just cover the veg and make sure those potatoes cook through.
Add freshly ground black pepper, and some freshly grated nutmeg. There's nothing more marvellous than nutmeg.
Look at those fabulous stripes. I don't know about you, but I sort of see Totoro in them...
What was I saying? Seasoning! Don't worry too much about amounts just yet. The tasting and refining comes later.
Look at that lovely goodness... Mmmm... Let it simmer on a medium-low heat.
Cheese! Get your cheddar out. Grate a good handful or two.
(Side-note: there's a traditional soup recipe which is broccoli and stilton. Blue cheese isn't really my bag, plus it's expensive... Feel free to use stilton instead of cheddar if you love that blue cheese thing)
I like to use strong cheddar - at least a 4 or 5, because that way you get more taste from less cheese, and that's cheaper (in my head). This cheese came from Aldi. Don't dismiss Aldi when you're shopping - they have some wonderful products that I fill my stores with, and they are wonderfully cheap.
Once the potatoes are soft, blend your soup up. I use one of those stick blenders because I like how little washing up it generates. I don't like how much it splatters me, but you can't have everything.
It will be this gorgeous light green colour. Put it back on the low heat. Throw in your cheese!
Stir it around so it all melts in and becomes smooth and glorious. Taste, and add more seasoning if you need it. Mine needed more pepper, and, due to my low stock concentration, a little salt.
Serve it up. I ate mine without bread because I didn't have any to hand and was too hungry to defrost any. I didn't even need any - this soup is filling and delicious all by itself. I actually went back for seconds...
Enjoy!
B: What kind do you like? Irish Spring?See? Who says romance is dead? In the end I bought him the same shower gel he's always used (because it's cheap and I like the smell of it these days).
C: That's worked so far. If you want to get me something else, go ahead.
B: Do you want me to get something else?
C: If you want me to use it, sure.
B: It's nice that you're making an effort when I'm around...
C: That's what I'm saying - if you want me to use something else, you buy it and I'll use it. I'll let you make my effort for me.
Soup! I had some broccoli pining in my fridge and some onions arrived in my vegbox today, plus soup is always a comforting thing to have in the freezer. I also really wanted something comforting in my stomach today. It's been one of those days.
Being conscious of the fact that I can't afford to buy new jeans and I need to stay the size of my current jeans, I like to steer away from recipes involving cream. This soup ends up a creamy consistency, and packs a lovely flavour, but is a touch less sinful than the cream varieties.
First up, slice up an onion and set it frying over some low heat in a little oil. I had half a courgette (that's zucchini to my America readers) hanging about in the fridge too, so I threw that in.
I love making soup in my one Le Creuset saucepan. It's indestructible and orange.
Chunk up the broccoli, stalk, leaves and all. It's all good nutritious stuff.
Throw it in with the onions and give it a good stir.
Then dice up some potato - I used a small baking potato, because I'm not educated about the differences between varieties of potato, and didn't care - and throw it in too.
I also suck at chopping, so I tend to use big chunks of stuff.
I only had the remains of a chicken stock cube, so that's what I used! Throw it in the pan, and cover with a little over half a litre of boiling water. Essentially, enough water to just cover the veg and make sure those potatoes cook through.
Add freshly ground black pepper, and some freshly grated nutmeg. There's nothing more marvellous than nutmeg.
Look at those fabulous stripes. I don't know about you, but I sort of see Totoro in them...
What was I saying? Seasoning! Don't worry too much about amounts just yet. The tasting and refining comes later.
Look at that lovely goodness... Mmmm... Let it simmer on a medium-low heat.
Cheese! Get your cheddar out. Grate a good handful or two.
(Side-note: there's a traditional soup recipe which is broccoli and stilton. Blue cheese isn't really my bag, plus it's expensive... Feel free to use stilton instead of cheddar if you love that blue cheese thing)
I like to use strong cheddar - at least a 4 or 5, because that way you get more taste from less cheese, and that's cheaper (in my head). This cheese came from Aldi. Don't dismiss Aldi when you're shopping - they have some wonderful products that I fill my stores with, and they are wonderfully cheap.
Once the potatoes are soft, blend your soup up. I use one of those stick blenders because I like how little washing up it generates. I don't like how much it splatters me, but you can't have everything.
It will be this gorgeous light green colour. Put it back on the low heat. Throw in your cheese!
Stir it around so it all melts in and becomes smooth and glorious. Taste, and add more seasoning if you need it. Mine needed more pepper, and, due to my low stock concentration, a little salt.
Serve it up. I ate mine without bread because I didn't have any to hand and was too hungry to defrost any. I didn't even need any - this soup is filling and delicious all by itself. I actually went back for seconds...
Enjoy!
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