Train journey

Earlier in the week, I had to travel up to London for the day. Normally, I would have driven to Heathrow, parked, and taken the Underground into the city centre, but, on Elliot’s advice, I took the train instead: the Tarka Line from Eggesford (a few hundred yards walk from the house) to Exeter St David’s, and the Great Western from there to Paddington.

It’s been years since I travelled on the train, but I’m glad I did. In a car, I am rarely a passenger, and usually have to concentrate on driving on our cramped English roads; now, I could concentrate on the view.

Tall stands of yellow rape, escaped from cultivation, blaze defiantly from odd corners of pasture. Narrow boats glide lazily along almost forgotten canals, waiting patiently at the locks in a surreal, parallel, slow-motion world. Rivers meander, a temporary refuge for elegant swans and their cygnets, flanked by majestic willows casually draped over the water, their long fingers barely touching the surface. Cattle – black and white Holstein, golden-red Limousin – graze unconcerned in green fields spattered with thistles. Youthful, exuberant poplars tower over older, wiser oaks; frivolous birch flutter their leaves precociously in the breeze; horse chestnut grow heavy with their fruit, the “conkers” that will provide amusement for schoolboys in the autumn. Noiseless distant tractors ply through the fields or along country roads, past old brick farmhouses with tall chimneys; fresh cut hay lays drying in the sun, and fields are full of baled hay, in black polyurethane, or in rounds, or in squares. Church spires peep over the tops of trees, belittling their squat Norman peers – you can almost hear their peal, carried on the wind.

I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong.

Dairy farmers are going out of business, because it costs more to produce milk than we will pay them. Every now and then the train rattles through the cesspools of our towns and cities, with their graffiti and their supermarkets. Even the shiny new buildings are tomorrow’s urban decay. And the ebullient young man who has been talking to his “muvver” in “Redroof” (which may or may not be near Redruth, Cornwall) on his mobile phone in the “quiet” carriage of the train, announces loudly, on completion of his call: “Sorry to all the ‘quiet’ people. I paid for my ticket like everybody else, and if I want to talk on my mobile phone, I will.”

Lager brings out the best in everyone, doesn’t it?

“Every day it gets a little harder to believe in magic, and people” – Mindy Smith.

AQYHA

It’s 96ºF (38ºC) today, and so humid that your clothes stick to you everywhere (yes … everywhere). It’s overcast, and there’s the occasional rumble of thunder, but I think it’s all big girls’ blouses, because it’s been like that all day and we haven’t had a drop of rain.

The heat doesn’t bother me too much – if it did, I’d have to head over to the mall, and shuffle round shoulder-to-shoulder with the thousands of others that decided to do the same, and I couldn’t stand that. So instead I headed over to Fort Worth’s best-kept secret – a day of free entertainment at the Will Rogers Equestrian Center. First, I went to the flea market, in barn Number 1 (apparently reserved for the porcine community, though I’ve never seen anything but horses and cattle in the whole place). I really like this flea market, though I’m not sure why – it’s indoors, it’s big, but not too big, the people are friendly, and there’s always little nooks and crannies I haven’t noticed before.

Cowgirl

There’s almost always something going on in the Equestrian Center – this week it was the American Quarter Horse Youth Association (AQHYA) championships. I swear there are a thousand of these associations: the American Paint Horse Association, the National Reining Horse Association, the National Cutting Horse Association, the National Barrel Horse Association – need I go on? Of course, you can Google it for yourself. And every one has a youth chapter. Today I found out what a “snaffle bit” is. It seems I no longer have to explain how ignorant I am when I ask people these patently silly questions – I suppose, by now, I must exude a general aura of ignorance in this area. And talking of exuding: you know how people who smoke think they’re being very noble by going outside to smoke, but then come back inside completely oblivious to the fact that every item of their clothing (and probably every pore in their skin) exudes the smell of smoke? Well, I think that also happens to people (including me) who partake of watching indoor equestrian events – except that the aroma in this case is of a combination of cow and horse poop (or “divots” as those of us immersed in the cowboy lifestyle prefer to call them). Note also my careful, and quite deliberate, use of the word “cows”. We’re in Texas here, not Wisconsin, so the female of the species has only one role in life. So it’s hardly worth the bother of distinguishing between them: cows, calves, bulls – they’re all just “cows” to us cowboys (otherwise, I suppose, we might be “calfboys”, and that wouldn’t suit the image at all).

Although the event is completely free, you’d be wise to dress appropriately. As is the case in the rest of life, the ladies can wear anything and get away with it. You guys should at least spring for the boots, jeans and belt-buckle. You can wear your Justin boots, but everyone will know you bought them at WalMart. Better stick to Lucchese or Mercedes – after all, a good pair of boots will last a lifetime: it’s not worth skimping. And not just any jeans. If you turn up in your stone-washed, aesthetically-ripped designer jeans, you’ll be laughed out of the arena. And forget Levi’s. It’s Wranglers. Dark blue. The finishing touches would include spurs and a hat. I don’t bother with the spurs, mostly because I find them difficult to drive in. As for the hat, I’m tall enough as it is – with built up heels and a hat I’d be hunched over in the car, so I give that a miss, too. Otherwise, I fit in pretty well.

Roping

Today’s event was … well, I don’t know what it’s called, but a friendly cowboy explained that they had to run a pattern (a sort of convoluted figure-of-eight) in the arena, then bring the horse to a sudden, sliding stop; then spin the horse around three times (the judges are looking for a rear foot firmly planted, and a fast spin); then do the same on the other side of the arena (sounds a bit like country dancing, doesn’t it?); then a “cow” (alright, alright, it’s really a calf) is let into the arena, and – well, you’re probably not interested in the details, but they have to move it around according to some bizarre rules known only within AQHA circles.

These were all teenagers, and a lot of them – from just about every state. I’ve never owned a horse, but I think there’s a lot of responsibility goes along with the job. Watching these kids, that was very evident. I’m sure they let their hair down just like everyone else, but they were all well-dressed, polite and well-behaved – unlike the hooligans that were running around in the hotel last night (I soon put a stop to that!).

So I’m learning a lot about horses, which makes me a little sad that the only time I did take riding lessons (a birthday gift from Val), I never got past the “me-going-down-when-the-horse-was-coming-up” stage. But I know enough not to longe when I’m not supposed to.