Meditation on Horseback

A Clinic with Bernard Sachsé,

By Francesca Prescott

Eighteen months ago I took a lesson with Bernard Sachsé, an ex-equestrian stunt-man who suffered a terrible accident on a film set, lost the use of his legs, yet through sheer determination went on to become French dressage champion several years running, and competed in two Para-Olympic Games (he placed 4^th in Atlanta, where he also greatly contributed to the French team’s bronze medal). I wrote a detailed piece about his background and my amazing lesson with him on this blog, and have often thought about that lesson, wishing he would come back to this area of Switzerland (he lives in France, near Paris) and give another clinic. So when I heard he would be teaching at a yard close to Geneva on March 16^th and 17^th, I immediately signed up, also making arrangements for Qrac to stay overnight to avoid a long journey two days running.

I must admit that I wondered what I’d make of Bernard’s clinic this time around. I’d been so enthusiastic eighteen months ago that I worried I might be disappointed, and that his lessons might not live up to my fabulous memories.

Silly me.

I signed up for three lessons, one on Saturday evening, one on Sunday morning, and one on Sunday evening. Yes, Sunday was going to be pretty intense! Qrac and I travelled safely the eighty-odd kilometres separating us from the venue, although it took us over an hour more than it should have due to a bad accident on the motorway that backed up traffic for tens of kilometres. Qrac unloaded good as gold when we arrived, seeming totally unphased by his unfamiliar surroundings. He settled straight into his temporary stable, cool as the March weather we’re currently experiencing (will someone please tell the sun it’s about time it came out?). I trekked up and down to my trailer half a dozen times, lugging equipment (horses really are worse than babies when you take them anywhere, and that’s saying a lot!), watched part of the lesson Bernard was giving, and then went to get Qracy ready. I was a little nervous as there were a lot of people watching. But once Qrac was tacked up he looked pretty gorgeous, especially as I’d accidentally-on-purpose made us totally colour coordinated! If all else went crap-shaped, at least we’d look blingy-pretty!

I need to lean more forwards!!!

Luckily, we didn’t have to resort to just looking blingy-pretty. Initially a little fired up with nerves, especially when the horse in the lesson before us left the arena, Qrac soon settled down. Bernard and I were connected by walkie-talkies, and through his quiet, incredibly detailed guidance, I forgot about everything but the connection between me and my horse. I was proud when Bernard said he was impressed by the change in Qrac’s physique, by how much he’d filled out, and once we started working, that he was also impressed by our progress. That first lesson gave me the opportunity to show where we were up to in our training, what we could do, and what areas we found difficult. I was particularly pleased by our extended trot; Qrac is not blessed with that natural, extravagant extension, and until very recently simply could NOT extend in trot.  But thanks to another amazing trainer I’ve recently started working with, Qrac has discovered that he can actually do it, and seems to increasingly enjoy powering down the diagonal! Initially only capable of holding it for a few strides, he’s now able to do 60 metres without losing his balance, although it sometimes takes him a couple of strides to figure out what to do with his extremely long legs for the first few metres!

Anyway, on Saturday, even Bernard seemed pleased with our extensions. We also did some pretty good half-passes; Qrac seems to have a natural ability for those, although we do sometimes lose impulsion, especially in half-pass right, as he’s not quite as flexible to the right. Amazingly, we even worked on some “baby” passage! Woohoo! The canter work was good, with some brilliant, meticulous advice on how to help us improve the right lead. I’ve never been more aware of making a conscious effort to independently monitor my buttocks!

Happy me! Qrac looks happy too!

Since Bernard no longer has the use of his legs, he’s had to fine-tune the rest of his body to cue his horses to work towards the higher levels of dressage, and become painstakingly aware of every little thing he does. What struck me particularly during the three lessons I took with him this time was his ability to get me to make minuscule adjustments with my body, as well as with my breath, that had major effects on how my horse moved beneath me. Bernard is also blessed with an incredible talent to convey instructions in ways that allowed me to grasp them on a deeper level. I find it fascinating that you can be told, basically, the same thing by various trainers, yet all of a sudden one particular image, or a particular choice of words, suddenly switches on the floodlights and unblocks things in your riding that you’ve been striving towards for ages. “Aha”, I thought, as Bernard told me to see myself from above, “I need to lengthen my left side as much as my right side, yet lean ever so slightly to the inside while keeping my outside buttock in the saddle. I need to picture my shoulder blades connected to my hips in order to keep them connected to my legs, which also helps my elbows stay closer to my sides, which anchors everything into place! And, wow, suddenly Qrac’s back has come up even further, and his stride is gaining in amplitude, and everything feels so flowing and effortless and beautiful! Please, can we just stay here, like this, forever?”

My lesson Sunday morning was just as great, as we worked increasingly in depth, taking Qrac’s already beautiful walk to a whole other level. His balance improved, his footfalls becoming heavier beneath him as he pressed harder into the ground in order to come up more underneath me. This may sound like watching paint dry to some people, but I find work like this fascinating. From the walk, we transitioned into a lovely soft, active trot, then floated back into a beautiful active walk without any collapsing on the forehand whatsoever.  Was this really Qrac and me? Somebody, pinch me!

Concentration! Look up!!!

Sunday afternoon saw us doing some of the best walk-pirouettes we’d ever done, simply because Bernard told me to slightly arch my back. That’s all it took! And suddenly, the walk-pirouette improved tremendously. We worked on rein back in the same way; arching my back and sticking my boobs out freed Qrac’s back and backwards he went, maybe not perfectly, but without me needing to pester him with the reins.  But my big eureka moment on Sunday evening came with the walk canter transitions, when from a walk-pirouette, Bernard suddenly told me to go straight into canter using the same aides. Our first attempt backfired on me, as Qrac immediately sailed into a lovely canter, but since I hadn’t expected him to do so, because I hadn’t had faith in us, I wasn’t ready and the transition fell apart in mid-air. Which just goes to show!! Anyway, I took my time to put us back together again, to restack all our muscles one on top of another, asked again, and woohoo, we performed a near-perfect walk-canter transition, followed by a lovely, rounded, uphill canter. We then did our first ever flying-changes down the diagonal! Don’t believe me? That last session is all on film, thanks to my lovely daughter, Olivia!

I love having that video of my lesson, as it’s enabled me to relive the experience over and over, to really integrate Bernard Sachsé’s advice. From studying it umpteen times, I’ve been able to go deeper into my understanding of what he was telling me, which will hopefully lead to me further fine-tuning my body language in order to communicate more effortlessly with Qrac.

I came away from Bernard Sachsé’s clinic with a deep sense of peace and gratitude. For me, this is how riding should be, like a moving meditation, a perfect symbiosis between me and my horse. This is what I love to do.

How about you?

Photos by Nevil de Tscharner

  

On random accidents and the importance of wearing a helmet

Last year, when I bought Qrac, my Lusitano, I wasn’t used to wearing a helmet. I’d never worn a helmet when riding Kwintus, my now-retired schoolmaster. Of course, not wearing one when riding Kwintus was stupid as he had a recurrent stumbling problem, and it was eventually because of his stumbling that we had to retire him.

 

I think we all agree that it’s dangerous to ride without a helmet, yet I’m sure most of us have done so at some point in our lives. I see many young riders at my stables riding bare-headed or in trendy looking baseball caps. Most of the professional riders I know still ride without helmets, but when questioned on the subject they tend to go all sheepish, then wrinkle their nose and say that they know they should, really. Then why don’t they? One professional replied that it would mean wearing a helmet eight to ten hours a day, and they give her a headache. I told her I understood where she was coming from, but that there are many very light, comfortable helmets on the market. I also asked her if she’d ever read about what had happened to Courtney King-Dye.She hadn't, so I told her the terrible story in a nutshell. Maybe she'll Google it, and show up with a helmet next week. But I doubt it, and that's okay.

Granted, there’s something nice, even something romantic, about riding helmet-less. There’s that sensation of freedom, of the wind in your hair. There’s also the added bonus of not having to wash your hair on a daily basis; I don’t know about you, but I sweat enormously through my head  so there’s no way I can take off my helmet, tip my head upside down and glamorously toss my tresses back into a swingy, silky do. No siree; when I remove my helmet, my hair is super-glued to my head, bald-eagle style. It’s ever so attractive.

Anyway, during my initial weeks with Qrac, there were days when I didn’t wear a helmet. However, I didn’t feel exceedingly comfortable helmet-less as he was pretty rushy-pully back then, so most days I put it on. In fact, most of the times when I didn’t wear my helmet was because after so many years with Kwintus, taking it out of my cupboard and putting it on hadn’t become a reflex yet, and I genuinely didn’t always realize that I wasn’t wearing it until I’d gone down the road to the arena, and then couldn’t be bothered to go all the way back up again (the arena was quite a ways from the stable block). But I soon got into the habit of wearing it, and last November, when I moved Qrac to my current stables, most of the other dressage ladies wore helmets, and the set-up was different (I clip my helmet to the wheelie-trolley I use for my tack and other equipment), so I have a visual reminder as well.  

There was one time in February, during the big freeze in the winter, when Qrac had a slightly fat hind leg and could only be walked. This meant that I would spend 45 minutes or so just sitting on him, plodding around the indoor arena. It was about minus a bazillion degrees, I was wrapped up like a Michelin Man and wanted to keep my ears warm, so instead of my helmet I wore a woolly cap. I figured it was no big deal; after all, I was only walking him. 

Hmmm...

The second time I didn’t wear my helmet was about two weeks ago, during the tail end of our mad heat wave. Of course, that was the day when Qrac suddenly went bananas whenever I asked for the right lead canter, throwing his head around, going against my outside leg, even pulling up sharply and spinning to the left. Trust me, I wished I’d worn my helmet, even though nothing bad happened. A visit from the osteopath seems to have fixed my horse’s problem (he had a blockage in his hips), although he’s still a little iffy at times, so I’ve asked my “magic man” (a healer) to come and see him this coming week.

Anyway, those were the only two times when I haven’t worn my helmet since last November. And I was wearing it this morning, when I rode Qrac in the outdoor arena, and although he wasn’t on his best  behaviour and played me up a little in the right lead canter (trying to lean into his inside shoulder and switch leads, pretty much like he did when I first bought him), I had a pretty decent ride. Once we’d finished the more collected work, I did a couple of laps in a nice, deep and round, forward trot, then transitioned to walk.

I can’t remember whether I dropped my reins immediately, as what happened next took me completely by surprise. We came round the corner in walk, tracking left, when suddenly Qrac fell over sideways. Maybe he put his foot in an irregularity in the ground and his legs slipped to the right and his body to the left, or maybe he just got his feet in a muddle. I don’t really know, although the first option strikes me as the most plausible. If he stepped in a hole, maybe he then lost his balance by stepping onto one of the railway sleepers that line the edge of the outdoor arena (I hate them. They’re the same colour as the floor, and neither high enough nor low enough). Since we were only in walk, I wasn't thrown clear, so I stayed on him as he fell down, landing with my left leg underneath him. It didn’t hurt at all; all I felt was his soft belly on top of my leg, but I saw his four legs fly upwards on the other side, and for a split second I thought he might roll right over. Which would have been bad. Really bad. But he didn’t. He rolled back to the left, got up, and so did I, and I my first thought was, “oh dear, he’s a stallion and he’s going to run away,” but again he didn’t, and instead stood perfectly still, looking at me as if to say “what the heck just happened?”. I hobbled towards him and took hold of the reins. My left foot felt a little sore, as did the spot between my shoulder blade and the base of my neck, which clearly got a little strained when my left shoulder hit the ground.

In a bit of a daze, I checked him over to make sure he hadn’t cut himself, walked him on a circle to check whether he was regular, and then got back on. I walked, trotted, and then put him into the right lead canter, and to my surprise found him far more relaxed, far more “with me” than before he fell. In fact, I haven’t had such a good right lead canter in ages.  Did he freak himself out by falling and decide to be more focused? I don’t know. I only rode him for a few more minutes, but those were by far the best minutes of my ride. Strange, don’t you think?

Once we’d finished, I dosed us both with arnica and showered his legs for a long time, but chances are we’ll be a little sore tomorrow. I’m pretty sure I will be, despite a nice long soak in the hot tub when I got home.

Most importantly, what I learnt today is that, even though I didn’t hit my head when my horse and I went down, I’ll never sit on my horse again without wearing my helmet. Because this morning my horse went down for no particular reason, presumably like Courtney King-Dye’s horse. Qrac wasn’t misbehaving, he wasn’t being asked to do something complicated, he hadn’t spooked at something and lost his balance in a crazy spin. He just fell over, like we can fall over if we slip on a banana peel, or on a slippery pedestrian crossing, or simply trip over our own feet. Of course, some people will argue that if we wear a helmet, then we should also wear a back protector with an airbag, and that accidents happen, which is fair enough. Maybe one day I'll be wearing a back protector with an airbag; in fact I know one dressage rider who does. She fell off and broke her back, so I can see why she would. 

Has your horse ever fallen over for no apparent reason? I know we've discussed the issue on this blog before, but do you wear a helmet? Have you always worn one, or did something happen that convinced you to wear one? Do professionals around you wear helmets? Personally, I thought it was great to finally see some top dressage riders wearing helmets instead of hats at the London Olympics, and really hope that the FEI will soon make helmets mandatory for all competitors, if only to set the good, safe example, especially for young riders. Tell me what you think.

 

Monster Mash

Remember that old song, Monster Mash, by, err, Bobby Boris Pickett and the Cry (I had to look that up!)? Well, something tells me that this blog is going to be a bit of a monstrous mash up, somewhat reflecting my life over the past few weeks. Also, that silly song has been stuck in my head for weeks; hopefully I can rid myself of it this way!

The last time I posted my car had just broken down in a sudden loud kaboom on the motorway, scaring the bejesus out of me, and leaving me stranded on the side of the road in a heat-wave in insane traffic. Well, that car is now officially defunct (basically, the engine blew up and would have cost a fortune to fix), and after weeks of umming and ahing over what to choose as a replacement, I now have a beautiful new shiny black Volvo V60 with enough power to pull my trailer. I got it Tuesday evening, and I’m thrilled. It’s automatic, diesel, AWD, and has a great stereo! Oh, yes, and it talks to me, too! Like, if I want to go somewhere, or call someone, all I have to do is tell it where I want to go, or who I want to talk to, and bazzoom bazzam, my wish is my Volvo’s command. Amazing!

I’m really hoping these shiny new wheels will mark the end of a tumultuous few weeks, as I’d really like to be able to get rid of the crick in my neck, presumably brought on by an accumulation of stress and mishaps. My seventeen year-old son had ACL (knee ligament) surgery for the second time in a year (same knee, too – man, is he grumpy!), my daughter contracted a particularly virulent form of food poisoning that took three rounds of antibiotics to eradicate, leaving her nauseous and three kilos lighter. Meanwhile, the dogs picked up some nasty little insects called “aoûtats” and began tearing out the fur on their feet, and from one day to the next Qrac went schizo whenever I asked for the right lead canter. The osteopath came; apparently my horse had blocked his hips, possibly by getting stuck or bumping himself in his stable. He seems fine now, but there’s still a hint of discomfort in his right hind, so I’m getting the “magnétiseur” (healer) next week to check him out. Dear me, I think I need to plant a money tree…

And I’m clearly on a yippedy-skippedy roll as the bummer-fest continued today, serving me with another minor but nevertheless annoying setback.  I was supposed to trailer Qrac to the farrier, hauling him with my new car for the first time. Of course, when I went to hook up the van I realized that the plugs weren’t compatible, so had to cancel my appointment on an hour and a half’s notice. An hour later I solved the plug problem by buying an adaptor from a nearby trailer garage, so I could take Qrac for his Louboutins next week, but I’m so knackered that I’ve asked my farrier to send me his ex-trainee to save me the trip. He’s shod Qrac before, when snowy roads or gale force winds prevented me from driving up there, and he does a really nice job. Sometimes you just need to slow down, don’t you think?

Speaking of slowing down, it’s Friday afternoon, the sun is shining, the temperature is pleasant, and my garden is looking all lush and ripe and mature, and since the windmills of my middle-aged mind kept me awake for most of the night, I might steal a quick siesta on the terrace before going to collect my son from school. Later on I intend to make a thick, creamy, comforting pumpkin soup for dinner, to be enjoyed with a glass of wine, some nice bread and cheese, and followed by a quiet evening with my husband, a DVD and my latest crochet project (I’m making a blanket).

Gosh, that sounds kind of boring and sedate, doesn’t it? Well, since I can recall Monster Mash climbing the charts on Radio Luxemburg, I’m definitely no spring chicken. And there’s something calming and satisfying about knitting and crochet. And, heck, I don’t know why I’m trying to justify myself!


Besides, look what I just made!

And check out my WIP blanket!

How are you doing these days? Has life been testing your patience? Frazzling your nerves? Cricking your neck? Or are you enjoying smooth September sailing? I hope so.

Lots of love,

Francesca

Qrac meets Kwintus

Qrac is home! After five weeks at a the equestrian facility where he’d been living since I brought him back from the South of France, I took a deep breath, grabbed my courage with both hands (that’s a French saying, by the way. I just translated it directly and think it came out kind of cute. Does it exist in English?), and, last Saturday morning, hauled him over to “my stables” where I introduced him to Kwintus.

I’d initially chosen to stable him temporarily elsewhere because, as yet, my stables doesn’t yet have an indoor arena, and I thought it would be safer to get to know him in an enclosed area. Also, my trainer lives close by, making it easier for her to come more often than just once a week. It worked out really well, and despite the pickle I got myself into in the two weeks where Marie-Valentine was away coaching at FEI competitions(remember the tumbleweeding I described in my previous “Semi-Floppy” post?), our final week there was brilliant as I managed to have a lesson a day. By our final lesson last Friday tumbleweeding was almost a distant memory. So happy was I that I joked with my trainer about employing her full time! Imagine how cool that would be?! I really need to play the lottery…

Jokes apart, as brilliant as it was to for me to have more regular access to Marie-Valentine’s lessons, I was impatient to take Qrac “home”. For one, I missed seeing Kwintus on a regular basis, and with Qrac stabled at one end of lake Geneva, and Kwintus stabled at the other, it was hard to go to both places in one day. I mean, I could manage it, and did so a few times, but it meant spending hours in the car, leaving little time for anything else. But the main reason I couldn’t wait to take Qrac to live with Kwintus was because he never got any fresh air. His stable was dark and small and dusty and muggy, and I literally felt guilty putting him back inside after I’d ridden him, knowing full well he wouldn’t get any light or air or exercise until I returned twenty-four hours later. None of the horses stabled there were being let out to graze yet, and even if they had been, Qrac couldn’t have joined them because the fencing wasn’t adequate for a stallion. And since I was mostly riding in the indoor arena, the poor guy hardly went outside at all. I lay awake at night, worrying about him, which was probably silly as he was perfectly fine. But still…


Ideally, on a totally selfish basis, I’d have left him there another few weeks, and have continued to take umpteen lessons a week with Marie-Valentine, consolidating the progress we’ve made, stabilizing the contact and the reaching and the tempo. But I wanted him to be able to graze. I wanted him to have fresh air. I wanted him to more room to move around in his stable. And if it meant I’d only see my trainer once a week, then so be it. We’re not going to the Olympics any time soon, so what’s the rush?


Luckily, Stephanie (the owner of my stables) has recently had the small arena fenced in, and so if all hell breaks loose and Qrac goes loopy while I’m riding him (or even just lunging him), he can’t get out and gallop away on a testosterone fuelled rampage. Not that I think he’s going to do anything of the sort, but I’ve got a vivid imagination.

Qrac has settled into his new and improved lodging beautifully. He goes out every morning for about two or three hours, after which he gets a bit bored and bolshy, so he’s brought in again. He seems to be very taken with Kwintus who is now his next door neighbor, to the point where I’m beginning to wonder whether my stallion might swing both ways! Actually, it’s not just Kwintus he’s into; he gets pretty noisy and hot under the collar whenever there’s any equine activity in the courtyard. I’m guessing he’ll calm down in a week or two, as he reacted similarly when we first arrived at the previous place.


As far as working him goes, I began by lunging him in the small, fenced arena for two days. I had every intention of riding him on the third day, only to arrive at the stables to find he’d cast a shoe clowning around in the field and had to call a local farrier to the rescue. I finally rode him for the first time on Tuesday, with mediocre results. Distracted by Kwintus and Coconut in the adjacent field, I had a hard time keeping him focused, and so we did our fair share of tumbleweeding which was a little disheartening , but I told myself to be reasonable and to give it time. And sure enough, the next day he was much better, responding to my “semi-floppyness” and to my half halts, and enabling me to actually ride his hind leg. I was so pleased by how he went that I my self-confidence shot up, and I actually took him for a cool-down ride around the countryside all by myself! And today, after our workout, I repeated this feat of bravery, even pushing my limits by asking him for a trot! How about that? Are you impressed, or what?!

So, all in all, things are going well. There have been some slightly hairy moments, and I’m becoming more and more aware that owning a stallion is far more complicated than owning a gelding. Qrac is a very laid back stallion, but when he starts snorting and prancing and displaying his very impressive equipment I must admit I tend to get a little nervous. Consequently, I’m already considering having him gelded, as I think it will make life easier, both for him and for me. And even if he is an approved stallion, I didn’t buy him with the intention to breed, so why keep his extra bits if his extra bits might cause even the slightest concern?

What do you think? Do you have any experience or advice?

Southbound!

It happened at the end of January. I was sitting at my computer, once again trawling the “Horses for Sale” section of Horse and Hound online for potentially interesting Warmbloods, when, suddenly, up popped a dappled grey Andalusian stabled somewhere in England. He was about the right age, about the right price, and sounded as though he was schooled to a pretty good level of dressage. I’ve always been attracted to Iberian horses, but had only ever ridden lackadaisical riding school horses on trail rides while holidaying in Ibiza. I knew they tend to be comfortable, good natured, and possess a natural ability to collect.

Other than that, I knew nada, apart from the fact that Swiss dressage judges tend not to like them, mostly because they are often a little limited in the trot department. But I wasn’t too bothered about the Swiss dressage judges. If I go to one or two shows per year it’s more than enough for me.

Also, I’d seen loads of videos of Warmbloods, and it was becoming more and more obvious that anything I really really liked was way out of my budget.

Might I be better off going south and looking at Spanish horses?

So I fired off an email, enquiring about the Andalusian advertised in “Horse and Hound”. Soon afterwards, my trainer, Marie-Valentine, called to discuss the trials and tribulations of our ongoing search for my perfect horse. “What about an Andalusian?” I said, unsure of how she’d react.

I could almost hear her brain processing the idea down the phone line. Then she said, “You know, that might be a good idea! You’ve always liked them, and although you don’t like to compete, you enjoy doing the fun stuff (she meant flying changes, piaffe, passage, etc), and they’re really good at that. Yes, I can picture you on an Andalusian! And, hey, how fun would it be to go south to Spain instead of north to Gemany?!”

At that point, our conversation soon became rather squealy and schoolgirlish, both of us geting thoroughly carried away, picturing ourselves down in sunny Malaga, spending our mornings trying fabulous horses, before pottering down to the spend the afternoons at the beach.

There was, however, one small problem. How the heck were we going to find those fabulous Spanish horses? Apart from an American friend living in Aachen who specializes in Spanish horses, my trainer didn’t know who to contact. And when I received a video of the “Horse and Hound” Andalusian I’d found on the internet, it didn’t have the level of movement I was looking for.

Determined to find something suitable, I Googled Spanish horses until I turned, well, google-eyed. I watched dozens of online videos. Nothing. Well, nothing for me. I contacted a dealer in Madrid, who sent me private videos. Too young. Too Baroc. Too little trot. No extension. Too little walk. Or drop-dead-knockout, but way too expensive! Marie-Valentine’s contact in Germany had contacted a contact in Malaga, but that contact had yet to contact us.

Argh! I was frustrated. I wanted to go and look at horses!

And then, one afternoon, Marie-Valentine rang me. She’d spoken to another dressage trainer and asked whether he had reliable contacts for good Spanish horses. He’d told her he’d put out some feelers, that he knew a few people, and would get back to her. Within twenty-four hours he rang to tell her there was a really nice Lusitano waiting for us to go take a look at him near Avignon, in the south of France. He was seven years old, a stallion, with a good level of training. There were no videos, no photos available. But he knew from reliable sources that this horse was a good one.

So a week later, not utterly convinced it was worth making the trip, yet impatient to start horse shopping, we hopped into my car and embarked on a four-hour drive south. Marie-Valentine had never taken a client to see a horse without viewing it on video. Also, she’s never ridden an Iberian horse in her life. Yet here there we were, on our way to a blind date with a Lusitano stallion!

“What if he’s awful?” I blurted, my stomach churning with nerves as we our destination grew closer.

Marie-Valentine shrugged. “If he’s awful, we’ll say thank you very much and we’ll leave. I’ll make a few phone calls, and we’ll go find some other horses to look at. A friend of mine mentioned a place not too far away. I mean, what else can we do?”

We reached the outskirts of Avignon, left the highway and followed my GPS’ instructions along country roads through pretty Provencal villages. We turned left at an old monastery and soon found ourselves deep in the countryside.

“Why do we live where we live?” exclaimed Marie-Valentine as we drooled over the silver grey olive trees, the green oaks, and blossoming fruit trees. Here, 400 or so kilometers south of a still frost-bitten Geneva, spring was already in the air. We rolled down the windows and took giant breaths of the pungent, herb-scented, Provencal air. How I wish I could import it!

Once we reached the stables, we were greeted by a smiling, blue-eyed man escorted by a couple of hyperactive Jack Russell terriers.

“Are you ready?” said Marie-Valentine, winking at me.

“I hope he’s pretty,” I replied, trembling, nervous as heck as I flopped out of the car.

“Bonjour mesdames, vous avez fait bon voyage?” asked the man in his lovely sing-song Provencal accent (okay, so I love everything about the Mediterranean!).

We replied that, yes, we’d have a nice trip, enthusing over how great it was to be in this beautiful part of the world. My knees shook as we followed him down a little dirt track and around the corner to the stables where a row of aloof Lusitano stallions gave us the once over.

Right at the back, in the last loose box, a young woman was plaiting a big, beautiful, dark bay horse.

As we drew closer, Marie-Valentine nudged me in the ribs. “Il est magnifique,” she whispered, wide-eyed.

We observed the horse as they saddled him up and bandaged his legs. He stood quietly, placidly. He had soft, warm, translucent eyes edged by endless lashes. He had a thick, black, wavy tail. Judging from his double row of plaits, he obviously had a very thick mane, too! He was beautifully proportioned, chunky yet not too chunky, with a short back, a nice bottom, a strong neck, and lovely clean legs.

Could we have got lucky the first time out, I wondered, grabbing my helmet and struggling into my riding boots? Chill, Cesca, I told myself. Sure, he was beautiful, but what was his movement like?

My trainer and I held our breath as the young woman led this stunning dark bay stallion out into the yard and up the hill towards a large, circular arena. He stood quietly as she mounted and moved off into a lovely walk. So far so good. She pushed him into trot. Not bad! He filled his tracks nicely, which from what I’d seen on the internet, is hard to find in Iberian horses. A few minutes later, she asked him to canter and he obliged, showing a lovely smooth, uphill movement. The lateral work was good, the flying changes a little insecure, but the basic work was well established, with no sign of unwillingness or bad behavior. And gosh, the guy was seriously flashy!

To be perfectly honest, I was pretty intimidated. I’ve only ridden Kwintus in the past few years, haven’t really ridden at all since last summer, and to suddenly climb onto a much bigger, far greener, seven-year-old Lusitano stallion was a little scary. But I bunged on my helmet, took a deep breath and mounted.

Wow! What a totally different feeling! He was far less stable than Kwint, and I had a hard time keeping him straight, or even moving in a straight line (the circular arena didn't help). He moved sideways at the slightest shift of my weight in the saddle and at the tiniest backward movement of my legs (and boy, did my legs want to slide backwards! I couldn’t seem to keep them long at all! Why?!). His trot felt impressively forward and easy to sit, and his canter was a dream. All in all, I had a really good sensation.

When I rode him the next day, he felt even better. I was no longer quite as intimidated, and any residual nerves soon evaporated as this lovely horse did his best to understand what I was asking. You should have seen the smile on my face when I dismounted!

Will he be coming back to live next to Kwintus? I hope so. The vet check is scheduled for March 8th, so I’m counting the days, my fingers crossed he’ll flex fine, that nothing dodgy will show up on the x-rays. Meanwhile, I’m drooling over his photographs, and soothing my sore muscles in plenty of hot water.

BOOK REVIEW : "The Horse Dancer", by Jojo Moyes (Hodder)

I’m reading a wonderful book. It’s called “The Horse Dancer”, by an English author called Jojo Moyes. This is the first book I’ve read by this author, and I’d never even heard of her until I randomly stumbled across this particular book while browsing the Internet for literary gifts just before Christmas. The story appealed, so I clicked and bought it.

I’m so glad I did. It’s been ages since I read a book with a horse theme, and this one has hooked me so intensely that I find myself checking my watch at 9 pm, wondering whether it would be kind of sad for me to go to bed at such an early hour. I mean, I am knitting a lot lately, so I don’t want to push the sad factor too far. Thing is, these “sad” activities make me happy! Sign of the times, eh?!

There have been evenings when I’ve resisted the call of “The Horse Dancer”, instead plonking myself in front of the television to watch daft stuff such as “American Idol”, or upsetting stuff such as the news, only to regret it later when, suddenly, it’s gone one o’clock in the morning and I’m still reading away under the duvet, utterly immersed in this book and having to force myself to turn off the light.

Set mostly in London, “The Horse Dancer” is the heart-wrenching story of fourteen-year-old Sarah, whose world falls apart when the grandfather who raised her and whom she loves so much has a stroke and winds up in hospital. As a young man, Sarah’s grandfather, Henri Lachapelle, had been a member of Le Cadre Noir de Saumur, the famous French military dressage academy. Sarah has inherited his passion for horses and lives for the time she spends riding Boo, the beautiful, talented selle français (French Warmblood) her grandfather bought her. Money is short and Boo is stabled in a rundown backstreet yard in a dodgy area of London without any riding facilities, so Sarah and her grandfather train in a quiet corner of a nearby park. Sarah’s dream is to follow in her grandfather’s footsteps and ride for the Cadre Noir.

But when her grandfather becomes ill, Sarah finds herself living alone, fending for herself, scrambling to find ways to pay for horse’s keep, juggling between finding time for school and training her horse. Destiny sets her in the path of Natasha Macauley, a young lawyer who deals with problem children, and whose life is also in turmoil. Natasha’s professional judgment is being called into question, her boyfriend is repeatedly letting her down, and circumstances soon force her to share her house with her soon to be ex-husband, the gorgeous, charismatic Mac. When Natasha decides to take Sarah under her wing, she has no idea how complicated her life is about to become. NO idea!

“The Horse Dancer” is a captivating read, a real romantic page turner with interesting, original characters and an exciting story line. In some ways it reminds me of one of my favorite horse films, “International Velvet” (in fact Tatum O’Neal’s character in the film was also called Sarah!), and I keep thinking what a wonderful movie this book would make. So if you’re looking for a deeply satisfying story to snuggle up with under the duvet, I highly recommend it.

I’ll have finished it soon, and will be sad when I have, so can anyone recommend another really good book?

Life is a Rollercoaster

I quite like Ronan Keating. He’s the lead singer of that recently reformed Irish boy band, “Boyzone”, as well as a solo artist. I’ve seen him live twice; once about a decade ago in Zurich, performing with Boyzone (a somewhat disappointing concert; Ronan was clearly in a foul mood that night), and then again about four years ago when he gave a private solo concert at a chi-chi event my husband and I were invited to (smiles, twinkly eyes, and Irish charm all around!). Do you know Ronan Keating? He’s the guy who sang “When you Say Nothing at all”, the theme song for the romantic comedy “Notting Hill”, starring Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts. He has a nice voice, and he’s kind of cute.

At this point, I guess you’re wondering why the heck I’m rattling on about Ronan Keating on Equestrian Ink. Well, simply because I’ve had one of his hit songs, “Life is a Rollercoaster”, stuck in my head for the past week. It’s been pursuing me ever since I hit this wall of sad truth: Kwintus’ dressage career is over. Actually, it’s worse than that. Kwintus won’t be being ridden again.

Yes, life really is a rollercoaster,as maybe you’ll remember that the last time I blogged here, two weeks ago, my equestrian horizon was all blue skies, sunshine, and a happy, healthy, fully recovered horsey. That first ride in over two months was a dream (which is why I so related to Jami’s post on Sunday, although I read it with tears in my eyes, having already made my decision): Kwintus felt so…enthusiastic and youthful and bouncy. But the days that followed brought me back to earth with a bump. No, I didn’t fall off, but the way he started to stumble again brought back memories of close calls with hard surfaces. Falling off a horse is never fun, but having a horse fall away from underneath you is a truly horrible sensation. Also, a few days into his return to work, he started throwing his head in the air and yanking the reins out of my hands, something he’d only ever done when suffering from a pain in his upper neck. He also felt stiff and tired, and…well, just blah. But what really freaked me out was that tackling the slightest incline was clearly unpleasant for him. The way he shuffled down the not-so-steep hill leading from the stable block to the private road, making teeny-tiny steps, catching the tips of his front feet on every other surface irregularity was hard to watch. So, last Friday, with lead in my heart, I took him for a short hack to the next village, feeling terribly unsafe on his back as we inched down the gently sloped trail beneath the trees. He must have stumbled four or five times. Twenty minutes later, I dismounted. For good.


I could call in the top osteopath in the country. I could cart Kwintus right back across Switzerland, have him x-rayed from head to toe, and then infiltrate every creaky nook and cranny. I could. But it would be wrong. He’s going to be nineteen next year. He’s worked hard all his life, giving all his owners (I reckon he’s had about 5) his very best. He gave me back my confidence when I lost it to a rearing, twirling youngster. He taught my daughter and me flying changes, pirouettes, half-pass, piaffe and passage. He won first place for my daughter during their first competition outing together. He’s been an amazing horse. He’s had an amazing career.
But it’s time to lay off and let him take it easy.


And so Kwintus is officially an OAP (old-aged pensioner) as of last weekend. He will spend the rest of his life strolling around the huge pastures surrounding Stephanie’s stables, initially alone as he’s still wearing shoes (I shod him ten days ago, so his feet need to grow a little before we can take his shoes off), and later in the company of Stephanie’s old, retired eventer.

I’ve shed numerous tears this week, and hauled back buckets loads of other. I’ve never enjoyed riding any horse as much as I’ve enjoyed riding Kwintus. Heck, I’ve never loved a horse as much as I love Kwintus! So I’m therefore extremely grateful to Steph for letting him stay on at her place, as the last thing I want to do is send him off to a retirement home for horses hundreds of kilometers away, which would mean no longer being able to see him regularly.

So there it is. In the space of one week I went from ultra high to mega low. Now? I’m coping. Okay, so I’m a little blah. But I’m also at peace with my decision. There’s comfort in knowing that I did everything I could for my horse’s wellbeing, that I can get off this particular rollercoaster, that I’ll no longer keep second guessing myself over whether or not Kwintus had really reached the point where he was dangerous to ride.

My equestrian future? Meh, it’s sort of vague. I’ll give myself some time, get through the winter. Come spring, I’ll hopefully be able to start searching for another horse, hopping on a whole new rollercoaster.

Right now, I’m just hanging with Ronan Keating. Go on, sing it to me, Ro! Life is a rollercoaster, just gotta ride it…

The Kwintus Chronicles: Showtime!

I was determined to be super organized the night before Saturday’s dressage competition. I figured the more organized I was, the more Zen I’d feel when the alarm went off, rousing me from a long, restorative, competition-priming sleep. So, in an élan of efficiency (okay, so it was more of an élan of anxiety, but let’s pretend…), I gathered all my show paraphernalia. I lay my brand new hairclip with the pearl embellished, navy blue chignon basketty-net thing next to my “tubette” (French for dressage hat; what’s it called in English?). I repositioned the pin in my stock, put my pale blue, sleeveless competition shirt on a hanger under my navy blue jacket. I rummaged through my underwear drawer to find my favorite (albeit somewhat frayed) Calida granny knickers and my new, wobble-defying, extreme hold sports bra (do you have ZeBra sports bras in America? They are brilliant! ), and put them on the old white rocking chair beside my bed. I folded my brand new bright white “sticky bum” jodhpurs and placed them at the bottom of a basket, along with a pair of pale-blue and white socks. I added a towel, as well as a sponge bag filled with miscellaneous indispensables: sunscreen, deodorant, lipgloss, a brush and comb, a gallon of Rescue Remedy.

Then, satisfied with my preparations, I took a long, cool bath (it's still mad hot over here in Switzerland), pulled on my PJs and went to bed early, ready for my aforementioned long, restorative, competition-priming sleep.

Yeah right.

Actually, my zzzzzs got off to a good start, and I didn’t even notice Mr. Prescott slip into bed beside me a couple of hours later. I did, however, pick up on his nasal obstruction issues when at two am, snuffling and sniffling, he pottered into the bathroom, unraveled a length of toilet paper and trumpeted away his discomfort at a level of decibels powerful enough to wake up the entire neighborhood. Then, satisfied with the state of his nasal passages, he pottered back to bed.

And started snoring.

I poked. I kicked. I poked again. The nocturnal concert continued. I tossed. I turned. I grumbled. I fretted. I checked the time. Two-thirty. Three. Three-thirty. At three-thirty-five I grabbed my favourite pillow and my mobile phone (set as an alarm clock) and stormed down the corridor to the guest-room. Where I tossed and turned, and fretted and sweated, imploring the Sandman to come back. He didn't. Maybe he'd run out of sand.

Imagine my bleary state at seven-thirty a.m. See me at the kitchen-table, round shouldered and grumpy as heck, sipping my tea and contemplating toast. Witness the ocular ice-picks I hurled at my poor husband as he spread Cenovis across his toast (Cenovis is the Swiss equivalent of Marmite) and proffered apologies for disturbing my peace, before kissing me, wishing me luck, and setting off for an early morning waterskiing session with his friend. I showered and dressed, hoping Kwintus had had a less eventful night.

Kwintus had obviously had plenty of beauty sleep. He looked like a superstar when I arrived at the stables, having already been groomed, plaited (tail too!), oiled and doused in insect repellant. While Steph added the finishing touches, I hauled the day’s necessities into her lorry, my stomach showing increasing signs of preoccupation. My spirits lifted when Kwint - proud as an Olympian athlete - astronaut-strutted into the lorry in his protective boots, clearly looking forward to the task at hand.

The trip went smoothly. We arrived at the show an hour before I was scheduled to tack up, and even found a parking place in the shade. My trainer, Marie-Valentine,
met us with her usual bubbly enthusiasm, and we opened up the lorry to give Kwintus as much air as possible (it was 34° and mega muggy), and went to take a look around. My daughter and her boyfriend arrived, armed with multiple cameras, as did my lovely friend Sybile, the owner of a stunning, seriously talented, young black stallion.

With such a show of support, I definitely felt the love!

But time flies when your stomach’s in a state; before I knew it we were back at the lorry, unloading Kwintus and tacking up. I was lucky to have so many people around because they took care of my horse, leaving me free to take care of myself. Applying a touch of sunscreen, I watched Kwint enjoying the devotion of ladies fussing around him, telling him how fabulous he looked. I could tell he thought he looked rather fabulous, too!

I mounted, and we headed towards the warm-up arena. Thankfully, I was one of the last few competitors riding this test, so there weren’t a gazillion other riders buzzing about, something I always find intimidating. I tend to have a problem with left and right; it takes my brain a fraction of a second to figure out which is which, so even the simple matter of passing other riders on the right requires concentration. We walked on a loose rein for ten minutes, Kwint stepping out proudly, definitely in “look at me” mode, me trying to breathe deep into my diaphragm, mentally revising my program. Gradually, I picked up the contact, shortened his stride, and pushed him into trot.

Wow!

Could this horse be more of a show-off? Marie-Valentine gasped. “Magnifique!” she exclaimed. My daughter Olivia giggled. I grinned, enjoying the swing of his back beneath me, the soft contact in my hands. It was magical, a moment I'll never forget.



Because of the furnace-like atmosphere, we’d planned keeping the warm-up to a minimum. Kwintus isn’t the type of horse to goof around; pick up your reins and he goes straight to work, all he needs is a little time to warm-up his muscles. We’d aimed for fifteen minutes but it still proved to be too much. The heat sapped his energy, and reduced me to a perspiring, nervous, jelly-like blob.

Showtime came. With shaky legs and flagging impulsion we trotted into the arena.

“Breathe,” I told myself, smiling as we passed the judges, urging my horse to step under a little more. “Come on, Kwintus; it’s only five minutes. We can do this.”

The bell rang. We trotted down the centre line. Except it wasn’t quite the centre line. Oops. Oh well, nothing we can do now, I decided, closing my legs and seat to halt at X. Our halt wasn’t quite square, nor was it entirely straight, but at least Kwintus didn’t look around to see if everyone was admiring him, which is what he usually tends to do. Maybe even he knew we’d fluffed it! We moved into a decent working trot. For some reason, I was somewhat caught off guard as we turned right and extended up the long side; we definitely lacked amplitude and brilliance. I then had a hard-drive meltdown and rode the ten-metre circle one letter late. Luckily, I didn’t hear the judges ring the bell to tell me I’d made a program error (there was another arena right next to ours with another test in progress, so the bells were a little confusing. And had I heard the bell and realized my mistake, I’d probably have become irretrievably flustered), and carried on to turn right at E and halt at X for four seconds. Ha! That halt was brilliant! So pleased was I with our halt that I almost forgot the ten-metre circle at R, remembering with barely two half-halts to spare, and then lost his haunches a little as we returned to the track. Bummer. We transitioned to walk at C, turned on the haunches before the corner, moving into an extended walk that lacked ground coverage (Funny how Kwintus can cover ground fabulously when we’re out hacking, yet when we’re working he can’t be fussed). I
collected him before K and pushed him into canter, leaving the track at P to turn into the centre line, transitioning to walk for three strides in the middle, then moving into the opposite canter lead. I probably should have breathed more deeply into the transition as his walk was a little precipitated. We repeated this exercise at S (more smoothly this time), and then cantered past the judges, extending down the long side (H to K), collecting at K to turn into the half-diagonal (F to E) where we transitioned to trot at L. Yay! Good one! We resumed canter at S,
but ran into trouble just after C when I got my collection technique in a twist just before the extended canter down the long side. Oops! Kwint fell into a big, bumpy, trot, and it took me a couple of strides to rebalance him and resume the extended canter. Major bummer, and major loss of points. At A we transitioned to trot again, and I collected him in the corner, determined to ace the extended trot right down the diagonal. Ta-dah!


Then came our bête noire: the twenty-metre circle while progressively giving the reins. As I mentioned in my previous entry, “The Final Countdown”, Kwintus thinks this part of the test is a complete waste of time. I’m not too fond of it either, mainly because Kwint has always had a tendency to stumble when you drop the contact; it’s one of his few weak points. Consequently, I did what I dared, he did something half-way decent, we didn’t fall over, and I collected him at C, rode towards S where we turned into a semi-circle and rode down the centre line towards G, where we executed a pretty good halt. I saluted, dropped the reins and hugged my horse.

Phew!

We’d finished. We’d done it! I’d overcome my nerves, pushed my boundaries, ridden my first test in an unfamiliar environment (the only other tests I’d done with Kwintus had been at my previous stables, on my “own terrain”). Kwintus had done his best for me in temperatures he’s never been comfortable with. We hadn’t made total idiots of ourselves. In fact, some parts of the program had felt pretty darn good!

We didn’t place; didn’t even come close to placing. Precision-wise, we have considerable work to do, and I need to work on controlling my nerves in order to avoid the sort of hard-drive meltdowns that lead to program errors. But in the past six weeks, from the moment I signed up for the competition, my riding has definitely improved. Competitive riding will never be my thing, but I’ve realized that the challenge of riding a test gives me something to work towards. And if only for that reason, I’m sure I’ll be signing up for competitions again.

Besides, I think we look pretty good in the photographs!

Thanks for your support, and for reading this very long, very detailed account of my latest adventure with Kwintus!

I’d love to hear about your experiences with competition. What drives you (or not) to compete?