Finding myself on Thursday morning a lot further south than I'd anticipated prompted the hatching of a new plan. As Chris couldn't collect me from London until Wednesday 25th August, and there was nowhere to stay if I got there any sooner, I had the weekend to spare. I rung home and asked Jake whether it mattered to him if I was there to cheer him on at the UK tetrathlon championships. He said he understood if I couldn't be there but would far rather I was. I knew that the bites or lumps which Micky and Magic had developed on their backs all those weeks ago at Yarm would benefit from a few days off, but I needed to get a bit closer to London if I was still to get there for Wednesday. So I rung Jill Perry, who I had helped organise a ride from Biggar to Bangor last year, and asked if I got to her by Thursday night, whether she could then be persuaded to have my ponies for the weekend so I could go over to Hartpury, near Gloucester. Absolute credit to Jill for being totally unphased at the lack of forewarning and for being so ready and willing to accommodate us. She even suggested coming and collecting us and boxing us down to her if it helped, which was very generous but not my way of doing things. If we're on a ride, we're riding, or leading, and if I can't do either, then we stay where we are until the ponies and I are ready to go again.
Fatal words. I should have realised that feeling smug at having got things organised, albeit very last minute, is a surefire prelude to disaster. There am I calmly leading Micky and Magic in from their field on a balmy morning, feeling all is well with the world, we're nearing the end of our journey and are still in one piece, etc. etc.
Next thing I know Mikado's full 500kg is bowling me over sideways and trampling on top of me as he flees from .... wait for it ... a completely innocuous miniature Shetland pony who he has been in a field next to all night but who is now in a tiny enclosure next to the stable, and who Micky didn't notice until his beady eyes suddenly spied it behind the fence. Why oh why Micky took such fright or offence I have no idea, particularly given how unflappable he has been at so much else along our journey, but as he galloped off across the lawn with Magic in hot pursuit, I was left spreadeagled on the gravel, unable to move, and all I could think was that I was damned if my ride, or my life, was going to end like this, when I wasn't even on a horse.
My back hurt, big time, and my neck felt like it had been wrenched, but thankfully nothing seemed broken, I was just seriously shaken. After staggering to my feet and catching the ponies, I rung home and after describing to Elsa what had happened, burst into tears. Me, that is, not her - forget the doting daughter. All that Elsa said was "You'll be right mum" and put the phone down. Thanks a bundle. A sharp reminder that in the end I'm on my own. Don't expect any sympathy from anyone for the consequences of setting out to follow your own dreams.
Tacking up was even slower than usual, hampered not only by stiff, sore fingers from where I fell off Micky weeks ago, but now struggling to bend down to pick anything up as well. Magic, my friend, at least showed some concern, but also reminded me that when she fell on her knees on our way to Lincoln I told her that keeping moving would stop her seizing up, on which basis I'd better get moving. Mounting wasn't an option, so I set off leading both ponies.
Half a mile down the road we met Ali, whose farm I had been staying at, out driving her pony, and her friend Julia riding another of Ali's horses. They were surprised to see me leading. Fatal to ask if I was OK, which simply prompted more tears from me. What a drip I have become. They suggested I turn back with them and stay an extra night but then I would miss Jake competing. Ali very kindly offered to trailer the ponies down to Hatfield Broadoak instead, but while I have no problem with anyone else doing so, to me it would have been tantamount to giving up. For goodness sake, if John Labouchere got back on a horse after his near-fatal injuries riding through South America, and so many other long riders have contended with far worse, it surely only came down to mind over matter.
I may be determined to keep going, but clearly I am less strong willed than others. I walked more than I rode, reminding Mikado (who'd been demoted to pack pony) that it was totally his own fault that I was on a zero tolerance campaign. He'd had all his verbal warnings on Monday and was now on his final notice of impending dismissal. At last he got the message and tucked in behind or alongside Magic. Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.
When my back hurt too much and I needed a break, I took the opportunity to telephone City of London mounted police to discuss my route into the city. So many people have asked whether I'd got permission to ride through the city, which I knew I didn't need, but at the same time I don't want to wind anyone up and asking for suggestions about my route seemed sensible all round. Full credit to Inspector Chris Rowbottom, who is in charge of the mounted police, who could not have been more helpful, if somewhat incredulous when he learned that my ponies were tied around a telegraph pole alongside the road as I spread my maps out to talk nitty-gritty with him. It seems police horses don't get subjected to such things!
No doubt the woman who stopped on her horse and who insisted she could tell me where to go if I were lost thought I was very rude to ignore her, but it was just going to take too long to explain why I was sorting out a route into London, and I wasn't in the mood for yet another person telling me I was mad to even contemplate it. Easier to smile sweetly and urge her on her way before Micky decided to prove he was faster than her horse twice his size.
My racism is such that I had thought riding through Essex would be a matter of grin (or grimace) and bear it, but it just goes to show how wrong you can be. In fact Essex has a whole network of really nice bridleways, RUPPs and byways, which either link together or do so easily with short sections of quiet lane. Better still, when we came down to Takeley we found ourselves on an old drove road with its broad verges either side. And then south of Takeley we rode through somewhere genuinely named Bullocks before riding across Cow Common. Who would have thought we'd be back following drovers footsteps on our way to Hatfield Broadoak?
Monday, 30 August 2010
Wednesday 18th August
Without any mobile reception, I left Ousden in the same predicament as I had set off the previous morning, without knowing where I would stay that night, and therefore unclear exactly which route to take. Elizabeth Barrett had kindly sent me before I set off various route descriptions, including a Dick Turpin ride and various others around Saffron Walden, which I had marked up on my maps, and weighed up in relation to their droving relevance. However I was now east of these, and reluctant to go west of M11, having previously identified the best route down into London as being through Epping Forest. As Chris couldn't come to London to pick me up until the following Wednesday, either I needed to slow down to a snail's pace, or hole up somewhere, both of which depended on finding suitable grazing for the ponies, which is the most challenging aspect of being away.
I hadn't fully appreciated until I was on this journey just how much the eastern part of England is now arable, with the majority of the fields no longer fenced or enclosed, and what little grass is left fully occupied by horses, whose owners do not necessarily want or need any visitors. Coupled with which, even though I've seen more than my share of rain this summer, prior to my arrival East Anglia has had a summer of drought, so what grass there was has now become a desert.
It's a lovely notion being entirely footloose and fancy free, never knowing where you are headed or where you will stay that night, but not necessarily so easy in practice. When we've travelled with my gypsy caravan in the past, we had tether pins which we knew were 100% secure, which enabled us to stop anywhere with a wide enough verge to peg out Lancer (and sometimes Rowan too), but tether pins are too heavy to carry when I'm riding. After their escapades (or perhaps I should say escapology) in the Highlands, I have no faith in Micky and Magic staying reliably within the electric fence I'm carrying, even with their front feet hobbled. And there's also the issue of my own safety. Many of the people I've met clearly expect or want me to have slept in hedge bottoms, but even I have some sense of responsibility and I can just imagine how quick people would be to criticise me had I met any bother sleeping alone by a roadside. And truth be told I am dog tired, I have no wish to court unnecessary hassle, nor to add needless miles to my journey.
So after leaving Julia's, I concluded that the first priority was to climb onto higher ground (we're talking Cambridgeshire here so think pimple, rather than hill)to try and find mobile reception to sort out somewhere to stay. Micky and Magic had spent the whole night stuffing their bellies but were only too happy to do so again while I worked my way through the list of every possible place I could find to stay between Brinkley, Saffron Walden and Haverhill. Having exhausted all of those, and the onward contacts they suggested, I rung home and asked Elsa to go on the web and see if she could find any livery yards, riding schools in an ever-widening radius. Eventually, after nearly two hours, and with my phone battery nearly dead, I struck lucky with someone suggested by someone who had been suggested by someone else. Further than I'd hoped to ride today, but beggars can't be choosers.
So Micky, Magic and I headed south-west on a mixture of quiet roads, bridleways and tracks via Kirtling, Carlton, and West Wickham to Horseheath, where the volume of traffic zooming along the A1307 was unbelievable. The bridleway which led on south towards Bartlow was a welcome contrast, sunken in a hollow from years of past use, with over-arching bushes and trees. I know nothing (yet) of it's history but it was a delight to ride, enough to distract me from lack of food and how much I really wanted a cup of tea and to put my feet up.
Emerging onto a broader track, I met a tractor driver who'd stopped for his tea. When he asked where I'd come from I couldn't resist singing 'I've just come down from the Isle of Skye'. "Never", he said. Oh yes. "You must be doing it for charity then?" So I explained how my friends dying from cancer inspired me firstly to do what I really wanted while I still had chance, and also to raise money for Cancer Research. Which prompted him to tell me about his wife who had been diagnosed with non-Hodgkins lymphoma many years ago, for which the radical radiotherapy, which was all that was available at the time, had caused all sorts of secondary health problems, quite apart from the other forms of cancer she had since developed.
I was so inspired by his story, by his resolute cheerfulness despite all he and his wife had gone through, and so totally preoccupied thanking my lucky stars, that I completely forgot to look at my map, and for the first time on this trip, realised only when I heard the roar of traffic again on the A1307 that the track I was on was not as marked on the map and the bridleway I wanted had turned off a mile before. I could have done without an extra couple of miles when we still had plenty more to do before dark, but I could only think how lucky I was that all I had to do was walk a bit further and cope with blistered ankles, stiff fingers and sore hips, a mere nothing in comparison to what so many people with cancer contend with.
Micky and Magic shared my cheerful mood and were happy as larry trolling along with me through Ashdon to Redgates Farm near Saffron Walden. Little did we know before we got there that we would receive such a warm welcome, with a bucket of feed each for the ponies while I untacked them, and a fluffy omelette for me instead of my crumbled oatcakes. The riding from Ali's is fantastic and I would recommend anyone who fancies a break with their horse to pay her a visit.
I hadn't fully appreciated until I was on this journey just how much the eastern part of England is now arable, with the majority of the fields no longer fenced or enclosed, and what little grass is left fully occupied by horses, whose owners do not necessarily want or need any visitors. Coupled with which, even though I've seen more than my share of rain this summer, prior to my arrival East Anglia has had a summer of drought, so what grass there was has now become a desert.
It's a lovely notion being entirely footloose and fancy free, never knowing where you are headed or where you will stay that night, but not necessarily so easy in practice. When we've travelled with my gypsy caravan in the past, we had tether pins which we knew were 100% secure, which enabled us to stop anywhere with a wide enough verge to peg out Lancer (and sometimes Rowan too), but tether pins are too heavy to carry when I'm riding. After their escapades (or perhaps I should say escapology) in the Highlands, I have no faith in Micky and Magic staying reliably within the electric fence I'm carrying, even with their front feet hobbled. And there's also the issue of my own safety. Many of the people I've met clearly expect or want me to have slept in hedge bottoms, but even I have some sense of responsibility and I can just imagine how quick people would be to criticise me had I met any bother sleeping alone by a roadside. And truth be told I am dog tired, I have no wish to court unnecessary hassle, nor to add needless miles to my journey.
So after leaving Julia's, I concluded that the first priority was to climb onto higher ground (we're talking Cambridgeshire here so think pimple, rather than hill)to try and find mobile reception to sort out somewhere to stay. Micky and Magic had spent the whole night stuffing their bellies but were only too happy to do so again while I worked my way through the list of every possible place I could find to stay between Brinkley, Saffron Walden and Haverhill. Having exhausted all of those, and the onward contacts they suggested, I rung home and asked Elsa to go on the web and see if she could find any livery yards, riding schools in an ever-widening radius. Eventually, after nearly two hours, and with my phone battery nearly dead, I struck lucky with someone suggested by someone who had been suggested by someone else. Further than I'd hoped to ride today, but beggars can't be choosers.
So Micky, Magic and I headed south-west on a mixture of quiet roads, bridleways and tracks via Kirtling, Carlton, and West Wickham to Horseheath, where the volume of traffic zooming along the A1307 was unbelievable. The bridleway which led on south towards Bartlow was a welcome contrast, sunken in a hollow from years of past use, with over-arching bushes and trees. I know nothing (yet) of it's history but it was a delight to ride, enough to distract me from lack of food and how much I really wanted a cup of tea and to put my feet up.
Emerging onto a broader track, I met a tractor driver who'd stopped for his tea. When he asked where I'd come from I couldn't resist singing 'I've just come down from the Isle of Skye'. "Never", he said. Oh yes. "You must be doing it for charity then?" So I explained how my friends dying from cancer inspired me firstly to do what I really wanted while I still had chance, and also to raise money for Cancer Research. Which prompted him to tell me about his wife who had been diagnosed with non-Hodgkins lymphoma many years ago, for which the radical radiotherapy, which was all that was available at the time, had caused all sorts of secondary health problems, quite apart from the other forms of cancer she had since developed.
I was so inspired by his story, by his resolute cheerfulness despite all he and his wife had gone through, and so totally preoccupied thanking my lucky stars, that I completely forgot to look at my map, and for the first time on this trip, realised only when I heard the roar of traffic again on the A1307 that the track I was on was not as marked on the map and the bridleway I wanted had turned off a mile before. I could have done without an extra couple of miles when we still had plenty more to do before dark, but I could only think how lucky I was that all I had to do was walk a bit further and cope with blistered ankles, stiff fingers and sore hips, a mere nothing in comparison to what so many people with cancer contend with.
Micky and Magic shared my cheerful mood and were happy as larry trolling along with me through Ashdon to Redgates Farm near Saffron Walden. Little did we know before we got there that we would receive such a warm welcome, with a bucket of feed each for the ponies while I untacked them, and a fluffy omelette for me instead of my crumbled oatcakes. The riding from Ali's is fantastic and I would recommend anyone who fancies a break with their horse to pay her a visit.
Near Newmarket
Away in a manger pictures always feature animals, but I'm quite sure Mary and Joseph had more sense than to choose a stable which didn't have a cockerel roosting on one of the rafters. The good news was that thankfully I didn't lay my sleeping bag directly in the line of fire underneath it. The bad news was that said cockerel started crowing at 4.15 a.m. but ignored all my suggestions that he might like to go and crow somewhere else, or rise and shine himself, rather than devote himself so religiously to waking me up.
Karen set me off on a lovely path through The King's Forest, just a shame the next section was closed for timber extraction, that it was raining hard, and that having spent the previous evening chatting convivially with Karen in her caravan, I had failed to arrange where I was going to stay tonight. The Icknield Way accommodation list I had includes any number of places for horses to stay around Newmarket, and a lot of time and effort has been invested into devising a safe alternative for horse-riders to the pedestrian only or road sections of the Icknield Way, but I had grave misgivings about taking Micky anywhere near racehorses in training for fear of him getting any ideas about proving who was fastest. I had already decided on a more direct route, albeit mainly on roads, some of it along the Icknield Way, via Gazely and Dalham. With Micky and Magic tethered around a couple of trees and me trying to spread out my maps without them getting too soaked, I telephoned any number of places from the accommodation list further on from Newmarket, but without success. Some had changed hands since the list was produced, others gone out of business, stopped accommodating horses or I could get no reply. In this part of the country it's not as though you can just pitch your tent and set up a corale for your horses wherever you like, and nearly all of the fields are unfenced cereal fields, so I wanted to try and sort something out in advance rather than rely on finding somewhere late in the day, which can so easily mean walking further and further. Yet again I found myself pledging eternal gratitude to Phyl Buxton for having given me several contacts, one of whom agreed to put my ponies in a field at her yard, and insisted I stay at her house.
To find myself staying with someone with virtually the same name as my sister - Julia Woods - and just as nice was more than I could hope for. Julia is currently eventing a lovely Connemara, but in the past has produced and shown Fell ponies, amongst many others. Wish that she lived nearer to sort out my unruly gang, and to keep in closer touch with.
Karen set me off on a lovely path through The King's Forest, just a shame the next section was closed for timber extraction, that it was raining hard, and that having spent the previous evening chatting convivially with Karen in her caravan, I had failed to arrange where I was going to stay tonight. The Icknield Way accommodation list I had includes any number of places for horses to stay around Newmarket, and a lot of time and effort has been invested into devising a safe alternative for horse-riders to the pedestrian only or road sections of the Icknield Way, but I had grave misgivings about taking Micky anywhere near racehorses in training for fear of him getting any ideas about proving who was fastest. I had already decided on a more direct route, albeit mainly on roads, some of it along the Icknield Way, via Gazely and Dalham. With Micky and Magic tethered around a couple of trees and me trying to spread out my maps without them getting too soaked, I telephoned any number of places from the accommodation list further on from Newmarket, but without success. Some had changed hands since the list was produced, others gone out of business, stopped accommodating horses or I could get no reply. In this part of the country it's not as though you can just pitch your tent and set up a corale for your horses wherever you like, and nearly all of the fields are unfenced cereal fields, so I wanted to try and sort something out in advance rather than rely on finding somewhere late in the day, which can so easily mean walking further and further. Yet again I found myself pledging eternal gratitude to Phyl Buxton for having given me several contacts, one of whom agreed to put my ponies in a field at her yard, and insisted I stay at her house.
To find myself staying with someone with virtually the same name as my sister - Julia Woods - and just as nice was more than I could hope for. Julia is currently eventing a lovely Connemara, but in the past has produced and shown Fell ponies, amongst many others. Wish that she lived nearer to sort out my unruly gang, and to keep in closer touch with.
Along the Icknield Way
I've concluded it's a mistake to ever give Micky a day off. When he gets going again he is just too full of himself, and far from showing any signs of tiredness on this trip, the further we've gone, the fitter and fitter he has got, which means he has even more capacity for pranks than usual. Within a mile of leaving Rachels' at Hockham Hall on the morning of Monday 16th August, Micky was snorting with glee at the smell of pigs, and dancing about all over the place at any excuse whatsoever. With the fingers on my right hand still far from right, so to speak, I was struggling to keep him under control one-handed at the same time as holding Magic's lead rein but in such a way that I could drop it quickly in emergency. At which point Jake (my son) telephoned to say that a lorry had run into the back of the car during his driving lesson in Dumfries and although he thought he and the instructor were OK, he was clearly shaken, and it wasn't what he needed two days before his test. Particularly given that the car was now off the road. Ho, hum, the trials and tribulations of everyday life, which serve to remind me how lucky I am to have dipped out of it all for the summer.
The B&B I stayed at on Sunday night had said goodbye full of good cheer about how I would never manage to ride anywhere within 10 miles of Thetford without getting blown up or fired at, and even if they weren't using live ammunition on the MOD ranges, then it was inevitable that I would be accosted, or the ponies spooked, by squaddies in camouflage jumping out of a bush. And if I survived that far, I'd never get across the A11 in one piece. It was therefore a pleasant surprise to find that my map, and the information I'd carefully gathered in advance, was more to be trusted than his advice, and that the southern end of the Peddars Way riding route includes a fantastic new underpass so there was no need to dodge the traffic on the A11. Having planned my route carefully, the bridleways I followed were well clear of any military activity. And even the voice at the end of the phone at the level crossing who asked if I could get across the railway in less than a minute turned out to be a wind-up as no train appeared until 5 minutes after Micky, Magic and I had successfully negotiated the railway crossing.
Roudham was an unexpected surprise, welcome compensation for the lack of any historical interest at many of the places I'd visited over the weekend. The information boards in the millennium shelter next to the remains of a previously thatched church told me all about the rich history of the village and the drove road which runs through it. Whoopee. Who cares that Micky and Magic stood stuffing their faces while tied to the church fence, and still fein disinterest in my historical musings. Roudham was enough to reinspire and revigorate me.
The lovely sandy track lined by ancient trees which led down to West Harling Heath was another unexpected treat, such a contrast to the cabbage country we'd ridden through only a week before. Only afterwards did I learn that Riddlesworth Hall School, which we rode through (well along it's drive and in front of it rather than through the buildings) was where Pricess Di was educated.
At Knettishall Heath we picked up the Icknield Way. Even if there wasn't a sign to tell me so, and even if I hadn't read a lot about the many different people who had used it over the centuries, no-one could be in any doubt that this is an ancient route of incredible interest. In places the long distance Icknield Way Path or trail diverges from the historic track, but for much of the way through to Euston and on west to the 134 you can walk or ride right along the Icknield Way, imagining the cattle being driven along it in one direction and sheep or pigs in the other.
We diverged from the official route to cut through the forest on bridleways and forest tracks down to where I'd arranged grazing for the ponies overnight and somewhere for me to pitch my tent. Delayed by a few stops to sort out the slipping pack saddle, and having taken our time enjoying what we saw along the way, it was gone 8 p.m. by the time Micky, Magic and I reached Wordwell, tired and hungry after a long day of over 23 miles. As a result of which I really hadn't a clue what the farmer meant when he said "There's another one of you around the back". I don't suppose Karen, who used to live locally and was staying at the farm for the summer, would be particularly flattered to be likened to me, nor her Arab to my rotund Fell ponies. But how lucky for me that she was, and that I was yet again spared eating my now very beat-up oatcakes or a packet of tortilla chips for dinner by her invitation to join her for supper in her caravan.
By the time we'd eaten and talked, and talked some more, it was late and I really couldn't be bothered putting my tent up when there was a perfectly good stable to sleep in, with Micky and Magic electric-fenced and hobbled directly outside. In comparison to a tin sheep hut on the footslopes of Ben Nevis it was comparative luxury, even if the shavings on which I laid my saddle blankets and sleeping bag weren't exactly clean, but if you're used to sleeping in a proper bed, perhaps not. When I spoke to my friend Helen she seemed shocked at my sleeping in a stable, which she described to her husband as being "like Jesus". If only!
The B&B I stayed at on Sunday night had said goodbye full of good cheer about how I would never manage to ride anywhere within 10 miles of Thetford without getting blown up or fired at, and even if they weren't using live ammunition on the MOD ranges, then it was inevitable that I would be accosted, or the ponies spooked, by squaddies in camouflage jumping out of a bush. And if I survived that far, I'd never get across the A11 in one piece. It was therefore a pleasant surprise to find that my map, and the information I'd carefully gathered in advance, was more to be trusted than his advice, and that the southern end of the Peddars Way riding route includes a fantastic new underpass so there was no need to dodge the traffic on the A11. Having planned my route carefully, the bridleways I followed were well clear of any military activity. And even the voice at the end of the phone at the level crossing who asked if I could get across the railway in less than a minute turned out to be a wind-up as no train appeared until 5 minutes after Micky, Magic and I had successfully negotiated the railway crossing.
Roudham was an unexpected surprise, welcome compensation for the lack of any historical interest at many of the places I'd visited over the weekend. The information boards in the millennium shelter next to the remains of a previously thatched church told me all about the rich history of the village and the drove road which runs through it. Whoopee. Who cares that Micky and Magic stood stuffing their faces while tied to the church fence, and still fein disinterest in my historical musings. Roudham was enough to reinspire and revigorate me.
The lovely sandy track lined by ancient trees which led down to West Harling Heath was another unexpected treat, such a contrast to the cabbage country we'd ridden through only a week before. Only afterwards did I learn that Riddlesworth Hall School, which we rode through (well along it's drive and in front of it rather than through the buildings) was where Pricess Di was educated.
At Knettishall Heath we picked up the Icknield Way. Even if there wasn't a sign to tell me so, and even if I hadn't read a lot about the many different people who had used it over the centuries, no-one could be in any doubt that this is an ancient route of incredible interest. In places the long distance Icknield Way Path or trail diverges from the historic track, but for much of the way through to Euston and on west to the 134 you can walk or ride right along the Icknield Way, imagining the cattle being driven along it in one direction and sheep or pigs in the other.
We diverged from the official route to cut through the forest on bridleways and forest tracks down to where I'd arranged grazing for the ponies overnight and somewhere for me to pitch my tent. Delayed by a few stops to sort out the slipping pack saddle, and having taken our time enjoying what we saw along the way, it was gone 8 p.m. by the time Micky, Magic and I reached Wordwell, tired and hungry after a long day of over 23 miles. As a result of which I really hadn't a clue what the farmer meant when he said "There's another one of you around the back". I don't suppose Karen, who used to live locally and was staying at the farm for the summer, would be particularly flattered to be likened to me, nor her Arab to my rotund Fell ponies. But how lucky for me that she was, and that I was yet again spared eating my now very beat-up oatcakes or a packet of tortilla chips for dinner by her invitation to join her for supper in her caravan.
By the time we'd eaten and talked, and talked some more, it was late and I really couldn't be bothered putting my tent up when there was a perfectly good stable to sleep in, with Micky and Magic electric-fenced and hobbled directly outside. In comparison to a tin sheep hut on the footslopes of Ben Nevis it was comparative luxury, even if the shavings on which I laid my saddle blankets and sleeping bag weren't exactly clean, but if you're used to sleeping in a proper bed, perhaps not. When I spoke to my friend Helen she seemed shocked at my sleeping in a stable, which she described to her husband as being "like Jesus". If only!
Sunday, 15 August 2010
In search of the drovers
As I don't have to nip back to Scotland for work, and it's less far to London than I thought (but still more than the milestone said if you go the way I'm going), I could easily be in Smithfield at the end of next week. Except there's no point me getting there until Chris can come and pick me up, and as he's driving Jake and his horse Bonnie Prince Charlie to the tetrathlon championships at Hartpury in Gloucestershire next Thursday, they can't come to London to get me until the following Wednesday. Pah. Which just rubs salt into the wound about the fact that had things been different, I could have ridden to St. Faiths and several times around Norwich and still been there by the 25th.
Inspired by a pep talk from my sister Bea, I realise that I shouldn't be whinging about lost opportunities, and oh woe is me, but making the most of the extra time I find I have. When I get back home, there'll be precious little chance to do anything I want, and here I am, with time on my side, doing exactly what I want.
I hatch a plan to find somewhere to leave Micky and Magic at grass for two days, while I hire a car to go back to St. Faiths to poke around and see what I've missed, and to visit all the other places which I'd marked on my map as potentially of droving interest but which I couldn't hope to include in one single trip on horseback. Having failed to find anywhere else for them, Rachel Wilson who had so kindly been persuaded by Phyl to put me up on Friday night, agreed to keep the ponies over the weekend while I took off behind the wheel of a hired Toyota, which is not dissimilar to my ponies but with six gears. It's brakes, like Micky's, are not as sharp as I would like, and like Magic it is prone to intermittently and inexplicably stalling.
For the past two days I've driven around Norfolk, and back around Lincolnshire, in search of the drovers. It's been an interesting contrast to travelling on the hoof. So easy to cover the miles, but so much more detached from what I'm driving through and what is going on around me.
At Horsham St. Faith's I laid my demons to rest by proving to myself that there really was nothing more to see than the roadsigns for Bullock Hill and Calf Lane, which I've now satisifed myself by walking along. I was pleased to see that the village sign has a drover and two cattle on one side, but there is no other sign or mention of the village's significance in the history of droving. The village pub is called not the Drover's Lad or Highland Coo or whatever else I might have expected, but the Black Swan. And on a sleepy Saturday afternoon, no-one in the village was the least bit interested, or aware, of bygone happenings.
South of Norwich, I have visited all the villages which my research identified as featuring on the drovers' onward route to London, or which had markets and fairs at which Scottish cattle were sold: Long Strtaiton, Tivetshall St. Margaret, Dickleburgh, Scole, Wortham, Botesdale, Brockdish, Hoxne. The pubs, which many suggest are a good way of tracking droving, are called irrelevant names like the Dolphin, the Mermaid (why, so far inland?) or the Blue Boar; the attractive village signs bear no relation to droving and there is no whiff or sign that the drovers were ever here. Only in Harleston, where my mother's great grandfather was a butcher in the 1860s, presumably butchering Scottish cattle, do I find Bullock Fair Close, now the home of Budgens supermarket. The only other thing I notice is that in villages such as Walsham le Willows, another at which Scottish cattle were once traded, there is no longer a village shop yet there is a large butchers.
Today, Sunday, I've spent the day tracking back up the Harling Drove which runs up through Hockwold cum Wilton to Southery and Downham Market, which always seemed offline for the Scottish cattle which purportedly were driven east from Spalding to Wisbech and Setchey. I wonder if it was more important for cattle from other sources, such as the Midlands, headed for the rich East Anglian grazing.
I felt when I rode east from Gosberton that I had come too far north, and perhaps should have been further south, closer to Spalding and Wisbech. Rachel's son, an engineer who works for the Environment Agency who is responsible for many of the sluices and drainage controls on the Fens, told me on Friday night that he thought they might have had to come that way to stay on the higher ground as so much of the ground to the north would have been under water. So today I have driven all around the routes the drovers might have taken, and through the many villages which hint at past droving history, including Parson's Drove, Holbeach Drove, Whaplode Drove. Each had plenty of roads with interesting names such as Dog Drove East, Drove Road, Chapel Drove etc., but other than that there was no more sign of droving there than where I had ridden through, and many of the old drove roads I'd identified on early maps now had plain boring road names, with nothing whatsoever to differentiate them physically or in any other way from any other road, modern or old.
Coming over the Highlands, and down through the Borders, the sound of the drovers and their cattle was still on the wind, the remains of the drystane dykes and the places they stayed all adding to the picture. Here on the flatlands, so very much has changed that it's hard to get any sense of who has gone before, and I find myself somewhat like a fish out of water, longing for the hills of home. The somewhat incongruous picture of Highland cattle grazing around a sea loch which hangs on the wall over my bed in the faceless B&B in which I am staying tonight near Wymondham serves only to remind me where my heart lies. I wonder if the drovers felt the same.
I'm sure there's plenty more I could find out given time to dig deep into records, but for now at least I've satisfied myself that I lost nothing by taking a more pragmatic route slightly north, which in places was in fact only a mile or two from where I've searched today.
And I've proved that it was a wise decision NOT to have diverted miles out of my way on horseback just to take in Black Horse Drove because I liked the name. What a disappointment. I arrived in my car to find no sign of black horses, or anything to do with droving, just a ribbon of houses sandwiched between fields of wheat, linseed and sugar beet in the middle of the Fens.
Tomorrow we head onwards, to pick up the Icknield Way, the oldest route in Britain. I'm looking forward to being back on a real ancient track again.
Inspired by a pep talk from my sister Bea, I realise that I shouldn't be whinging about lost opportunities, and oh woe is me, but making the most of the extra time I find I have. When I get back home, there'll be precious little chance to do anything I want, and here I am, with time on my side, doing exactly what I want.
I hatch a plan to find somewhere to leave Micky and Magic at grass for two days, while I hire a car to go back to St. Faiths to poke around and see what I've missed, and to visit all the other places which I'd marked on my map as potentially of droving interest but which I couldn't hope to include in one single trip on horseback. Having failed to find anywhere else for them, Rachel Wilson who had so kindly been persuaded by Phyl to put me up on Friday night, agreed to keep the ponies over the weekend while I took off behind the wheel of a hired Toyota, which is not dissimilar to my ponies but with six gears. It's brakes, like Micky's, are not as sharp as I would like, and like Magic it is prone to intermittently and inexplicably stalling.
For the past two days I've driven around Norfolk, and back around Lincolnshire, in search of the drovers. It's been an interesting contrast to travelling on the hoof. So easy to cover the miles, but so much more detached from what I'm driving through and what is going on around me.
At Horsham St. Faith's I laid my demons to rest by proving to myself that there really was nothing more to see than the roadsigns for Bullock Hill and Calf Lane, which I've now satisifed myself by walking along. I was pleased to see that the village sign has a drover and two cattle on one side, but there is no other sign or mention of the village's significance in the history of droving. The village pub is called not the Drover's Lad or Highland Coo or whatever else I might have expected, but the Black Swan. And on a sleepy Saturday afternoon, no-one in the village was the least bit interested, or aware, of bygone happenings.
South of Norwich, I have visited all the villages which my research identified as featuring on the drovers' onward route to London, or which had markets and fairs at which Scottish cattle were sold: Long Strtaiton, Tivetshall St. Margaret, Dickleburgh, Scole, Wortham, Botesdale, Brockdish, Hoxne. The pubs, which many suggest are a good way of tracking droving, are called irrelevant names like the Dolphin, the Mermaid (why, so far inland?) or the Blue Boar; the attractive village signs bear no relation to droving and there is no whiff or sign that the drovers were ever here. Only in Harleston, where my mother's great grandfather was a butcher in the 1860s, presumably butchering Scottish cattle, do I find Bullock Fair Close, now the home of Budgens supermarket. The only other thing I notice is that in villages such as Walsham le Willows, another at which Scottish cattle were once traded, there is no longer a village shop yet there is a large butchers.
Today, Sunday, I've spent the day tracking back up the Harling Drove which runs up through Hockwold cum Wilton to Southery and Downham Market, which always seemed offline for the Scottish cattle which purportedly were driven east from Spalding to Wisbech and Setchey. I wonder if it was more important for cattle from other sources, such as the Midlands, headed for the rich East Anglian grazing.
I felt when I rode east from Gosberton that I had come too far north, and perhaps should have been further south, closer to Spalding and Wisbech. Rachel's son, an engineer who works for the Environment Agency who is responsible for many of the sluices and drainage controls on the Fens, told me on Friday night that he thought they might have had to come that way to stay on the higher ground as so much of the ground to the north would have been under water. So today I have driven all around the routes the drovers might have taken, and through the many villages which hint at past droving history, including Parson's Drove, Holbeach Drove, Whaplode Drove. Each had plenty of roads with interesting names such as Dog Drove East, Drove Road, Chapel Drove etc., but other than that there was no more sign of droving there than where I had ridden through, and many of the old drove roads I'd identified on early maps now had plain boring road names, with nothing whatsoever to differentiate them physically or in any other way from any other road, modern or old.
Coming over the Highlands, and down through the Borders, the sound of the drovers and their cattle was still on the wind, the remains of the drystane dykes and the places they stayed all adding to the picture. Here on the flatlands, so very much has changed that it's hard to get any sense of who has gone before, and I find myself somewhat like a fish out of water, longing for the hills of home. The somewhat incongruous picture of Highland cattle grazing around a sea loch which hangs on the wall over my bed in the faceless B&B in which I am staying tonight near Wymondham serves only to remind me where my heart lies. I wonder if the drovers felt the same.
I'm sure there's plenty more I could find out given time to dig deep into records, but for now at least I've satisfied myself that I lost nothing by taking a more pragmatic route slightly north, which in places was in fact only a mile or two from where I've searched today.
And I've proved that it was a wise decision NOT to have diverted miles out of my way on horseback just to take in Black Horse Drove because I liked the name. What a disappointment. I arrived in my car to find no sign of black horses, or anything to do with droving, just a ribbon of houses sandwiched between fields of wheat, linseed and sugar beet in the middle of the Fens.
Tomorrow we head onwards, to pick up the Icknield Way, the oldest route in Britain. I'm looking forward to being back on a real ancient track again.
On the last leg
The Scottish cattle were sold at St. Faith's in the same way store cattle are sold today, being bought by local farmers who then fattened them on the marshes between Norwich, Beccles and Yarmouth over winter before either selling them locally or paying drovers to drive them on to Smithfield market in the spring. We, however, are pushing on, on the last leg of our journey through to London.
I didn't dare mention to Phyl and Ron Buxton, who had been persuaded by John to have me to stay at Kimberley Hall, that there had ever been any doubt as to whether I arrived with them on Thursday evening, having decided it better to keep the dilemmas of my day to myself. They had enough else to think about, and I welcomed Ron giving me food for thought as he showed me the pictures of his three week ride through Kashmir in the 1950s during his time with the Indian army, which he proclaimed the best ride he had ever had, following the "government bridleway" constructed to reduce the number of fatalities previously experienced getting the post through Kashmir. Another reminder of how tame my little ride is in comparison.
I also thoroughly enjoyed reading an account by their son Peter, who 30 years ago set off without any preparation on his in-foal grey Connemara mare to ride from Norfolk to Devon. His route south from Bath coincided with much of Elsa's and my route from John O'Groats to Lands End.
Before I set off again from Kimberley on Friday morning, I e-mailed Boris Johnson to invite him to meet me on arrival at Smithfield, although I've since heard he may be on safari. Perhaps that's what I am?
Riding through Kimberley Park, the thunder was so deafening I thought a bomb might have dropped. Whether excited by that or spooked by some other odd rumbling, Micky yet again had to remind me there are other paces than walk with a brief unscheduled canter up the road before we turned off to Wicklewood. My fingers are much improved after Mary sent me to bed on Wednesday night with a pad of cotton wool soaked in witch hazel wrapped round my fingers, then wrapped in a sandwich bag, but I still can't bend my little finger properly on my right hand so I'm still not as adept with my hands as I usually am. My next finger is blotchy white instead of the purple it was, which I'm taking as a turn for the better.
Heading up the road towards Deopham, Micky and I were taken aback by a white painted stone milepost which said London 100 miles - much less than I thought, and enough to inspire panic at the thought of our fun being nearly over. Which is Micky's excuse for why he spun round and set off at a gallop in the other direction with Magic wondering what was going on because she couldn't see any problem with the milestone in the first place. Later in the day we met a traction engine pulling a giant roller along the road, on its way to a rally. I quickly pulled off the road onto a ploughed field, but needn't have bothered, neither Micky or Magic giving two hoots about something any other horse would go ballistic at.
On we headed past Great and Little Ellingham, along a lovely old byway and bits of track where we could, with it raining harder and harder as the day went on. At least skin is waterproof and there comes a point when you can get no wetter.
Just as well as there were other things to dampen spirits on Friday. Much as I don't want to think about life after this trip, reality (and particularly finanaces) dictates otherwise, and for the past week I've been waiting for word about the outcome of the tender I submitted last week. It was mid-afternoon before I got a phone call saying I'd been pipped at the post, having come a close second, which is always disappointing, particularly this time when I felt that had I spent the time I'd put into the tender sorting out accommodation, I could have made it to St. Faiths. And although it's a relief not to have to find somewhere to dump the ponies and scurry back to Scotland for an inception meeting on Monday afternoon, had I known that morning that I didn't need to do so, I would have retraced my steps and gone to St. Faiths. Too late now, but not too late to spend the rest of the day beating myself up about what with the benefit of hindsight I should have done.
I didn't dare mention to Phyl and Ron Buxton, who had been persuaded by John to have me to stay at Kimberley Hall, that there had ever been any doubt as to whether I arrived with them on Thursday evening, having decided it better to keep the dilemmas of my day to myself. They had enough else to think about, and I welcomed Ron giving me food for thought as he showed me the pictures of his three week ride through Kashmir in the 1950s during his time with the Indian army, which he proclaimed the best ride he had ever had, following the "government bridleway" constructed to reduce the number of fatalities previously experienced getting the post through Kashmir. Another reminder of how tame my little ride is in comparison.
I also thoroughly enjoyed reading an account by their son Peter, who 30 years ago set off without any preparation on his in-foal grey Connemara mare to ride from Norfolk to Devon. His route south from Bath coincided with much of Elsa's and my route from John O'Groats to Lands End.
Before I set off again from Kimberley on Friday morning, I e-mailed Boris Johnson to invite him to meet me on arrival at Smithfield, although I've since heard he may be on safari. Perhaps that's what I am?
Riding through Kimberley Park, the thunder was so deafening I thought a bomb might have dropped. Whether excited by that or spooked by some other odd rumbling, Micky yet again had to remind me there are other paces than walk with a brief unscheduled canter up the road before we turned off to Wicklewood. My fingers are much improved after Mary sent me to bed on Wednesday night with a pad of cotton wool soaked in witch hazel wrapped round my fingers, then wrapped in a sandwich bag, but I still can't bend my little finger properly on my right hand so I'm still not as adept with my hands as I usually am. My next finger is blotchy white instead of the purple it was, which I'm taking as a turn for the better.
Heading up the road towards Deopham, Micky and I were taken aback by a white painted stone milepost which said London 100 miles - much less than I thought, and enough to inspire panic at the thought of our fun being nearly over. Which is Micky's excuse for why he spun round and set off at a gallop in the other direction with Magic wondering what was going on because she couldn't see any problem with the milestone in the first place. Later in the day we met a traction engine pulling a giant roller along the road, on its way to a rally. I quickly pulled off the road onto a ploughed field, but needn't have bothered, neither Micky or Magic giving two hoots about something any other horse would go ballistic at.
On we headed past Great and Little Ellingham, along a lovely old byway and bits of track where we could, with it raining harder and harder as the day went on. At least skin is waterproof and there comes a point when you can get no wetter.
Just as well as there were other things to dampen spirits on Friday. Much as I don't want to think about life after this trip, reality (and particularly finanaces) dictates otherwise, and for the past week I've been waiting for word about the outcome of the tender I submitted last week. It was mid-afternoon before I got a phone call saying I'd been pipped at the post, having come a close second, which is always disappointing, particularly this time when I felt that had I spent the time I'd put into the tender sorting out accommodation, I could have made it to St. Faiths. And although it's a relief not to have to find somewhere to dump the ponies and scurry back to Scotland for an inception meeting on Monday afternoon, had I known that morning that I didn't need to do so, I would have retraced my steps and gone to St. Faiths. Too late now, but not too late to spend the rest of the day beating myself up about what with the benefit of hindsight I should have done.
Slip Sliding around Norwich
The flip side of finding someone (i.e. John) who talked exactly the same language as me was finding myself the following day totally incapable of instilling any sense of understanding of what I am currently doing in the people I spoke to at Norfolk College of Agriculture at Easton.
My plan from North Elmham was to continue east, via Horsford, to Horsham St. Faith's, just north of Norwich, which was where so many of the Scottish cattle were headed. Apparently there's been a cattle and horse market at St. Faith's since the priory was established there around 1100. By 1720 there were over 20,000 Scottish cattle a year passing through the market, which started each year on 17th October, and went on for up to three weeks. During the 1800s the numbers increased much further, until the market closed in 1872 - quite why, I don't yet know, as this predates the demise of the Scottish fairs and trysts which coincided with the coming of the railways.
Since that time, much has changed around Horsham St. Faith's, not least the construction of the airport immediately south of the village, and the development of many of the surrounding villages as dormitories for Norwich. Partly because of this, I had really struggled to find anywhere for me and the ponies to stay, and because it is now so built up, I felt I was really pushing my luck to ride through without having fixed something in advance, particularly if at the end of >20 miles in a day I found we had no choice but to push on much further. John and Mary rung everyone they could think of, without success, not least because so much of what usd to be grass is now cropped for cereals. I concluded that in the end I might just have to accept that I couldn't actually ride across to St. Faith's, and would have to make do with visiting it on foot instead. To which end John drove me through there, and I got terribly over-excited finding Bullock Hill and Calf Lane, one and the same as the very site where the fair was held for all those hundreds of years.
I really did convince myself that was enough, and went to bed exhilerated by tales of riding through South America, by visiting Bullock Hill and having such a good time with John and Mary. It was only after I set off again from John's the next morning that doubt set in. With each mile that passed I felt more and more like I was cheating. Any rules for my ride, such as there are any, are set by myself, and there was never anything hard and fast to say I had to ride to St. Faith's itself. However as I rode along the pretty little lanes east of Swanton Morley, as each mile passed, it hit home more and more how much it mattered to actually ride to St. Faith's. Surely that was why I'd ridden across Norfolk, to follow as closely as possible in the footsteps of the drovers? There may not have been anything left to show for it, but Micky, Magic and I have ridden across what is now the golf course at Falkirk Tryst in the pouring rain, we rode right alongside the site of Stagshaw Bank, again in the pouring rain, and now having come all this way, I felt that if I wasn't actually going to ride up Bullock Hill then I'd failed. But equally that if I didn't keep going and turn up at the friends of John and Mary's who they had very kindly arranged for me to stay with tonight, then I risked offending everyone who had been so kind and helpful. It wasn't that John had tired to scupper my plans. Far from it, he and Mary could not have been more helpful and encouraging. It was me who had said that I'd be happy if I got within a few miles of Horsham St. Faith's with my ponies and then had to do the last few miles on foot then I would be happy. Except now I definitely wasn't. Call me fickle, call me Jekyll and Hyde, call me what you want. More fool me for having got so wrapped in the everyday trials and tribulations of a long distance ride that I had lost sight of what mattered most to me.
Wracked by inner turmoil, I stopped alongside a signpost on a triangle of grass at Elsing and rung to regale Chris with my predicament. He was on his lunchbreak walking up the high street in Dumfries - bet he was really glad to have to wait to buy his sandwiches. Chris told me not to give myself a hard time and to accept that it wasn't as though I hadn't made it to St. Faith's at all, and that if I'd tried but failed to sort out anywhere to stay nearer St. Faith's which allowed me to ride there, I should stick to what John had arranged. So I plodded on, but for someone who lives very much by intuition and is wholly committed to doing what I believe to be right, I was not a happy bunny.
Once I'd got over the A47, I knew I was getting to the point of no return. I'd already strayed well off the route I would have taken had I gone straight from North Elmham to St. Faiths, but there was still a chance of cutting back across, if I could find somewhere to stay midway, but once I went any further south, then I would already have started on the last leg of my journey to Smithfield. The ponies were glad of the opportunity to graze the verge while I dug out all my maps again. Only then did I notice that Norfolk Agricultural College was not far from where I was, and my spirits lifted as I hatched a plan to stay there tonight, and then ride to St. Faith's in the morning, and down to Kimberley the next night, which I hoped wouldn't offend anyone too much and would appease my conscience.
When I rung the college to explain what I was doing and ask if they could possibly put the ponies up for the night at grass on in a stable, the very helpful girl on reception said that as it was the vacation there weren't many people around so it would be better if she asked around and got someone to rung me back. Credit to their efficiency that 10 minutes later I got a return call from another girl who sounded helpful but was on a different planet. The conversation went like this:
"I'm sorry but we can't possibly accommodate your ponies here tonight (no reason given, but mine is not to question why, and I have already reinforced the fact that they are in prime health, vaccinated etc.). However, I have two other suggestions for you" (Not that I said so, but I was thinking, oh well, that's helpful).
"I ride at a riding school out on the Yarmouth Road and I think they might put your ponies up".
Hang on, isn't that on the east side of Norwich and wouldn't it involve riding through Norwich city centre? Which I try and say as politely as possible.
"Oh no, you just keep going on the A47"
But as I explained already, I'm riding one pony and leading another and the A47 is a dual carriageway which I can't ride miles along .... even if the riding school weren't another 20 miles away in the wrong direction and by the time I got there, if I ever did alive, I'd be worse off than I was now.
No matter what I said, no matter that she'd already commented on being able to hear the clip-clop in the background, I couldn't get her to understand that I was on horseback rather than in a trailer (drrrr... that's the basis of riding from Skye to Smithfield ...)and that the whole point of asking to stay at the college was because I could only travel so many miles in a day etc. etc. And yes it was in aid of Cancer Research and it mattered so much to me to go to St. Faiths because I was following drovers etc. etc.
I suppose if you've only ever ridden around in circles in an arena, then perhaps you can't begin to imagine that someone might actually be riding through the countryside, or that riding around the Norwich ring-road is a non-starter.
Her other suggestion was the Redwings Horse Sanctuary at Horsham St. Faith's. I was surprised I'd never found anything about it, but she insisted that's where it was and only when I rung Redwings did I confirm that no they didn't have any facility near there, nor had there ever been one.
So it was with heavy heart that I turned south, too soon in my book, instead of carrying on east, having got very close, but with no-one but myself to blame for having failed to reach Horsham St. Faith's on horseback. Whether it was because my mood rubbed off onto them or the type of tarmac I do not know, but Micky and Magic dragged along, hind feet slipping and sliding, which I felt is what I'd let happen to my hopes and dreams.
My plan from North Elmham was to continue east, via Horsford, to Horsham St. Faith's, just north of Norwich, which was where so many of the Scottish cattle were headed. Apparently there's been a cattle and horse market at St. Faith's since the priory was established there around 1100. By 1720 there were over 20,000 Scottish cattle a year passing through the market, which started each year on 17th October, and went on for up to three weeks. During the 1800s the numbers increased much further, until the market closed in 1872 - quite why, I don't yet know, as this predates the demise of the Scottish fairs and trysts which coincided with the coming of the railways.
Since that time, much has changed around Horsham St. Faith's, not least the construction of the airport immediately south of the village, and the development of many of the surrounding villages as dormitories for Norwich. Partly because of this, I had really struggled to find anywhere for me and the ponies to stay, and because it is now so built up, I felt I was really pushing my luck to ride through without having fixed something in advance, particularly if at the end of >20 miles in a day I found we had no choice but to push on much further. John and Mary rung everyone they could think of, without success, not least because so much of what usd to be grass is now cropped for cereals. I concluded that in the end I might just have to accept that I couldn't actually ride across to St. Faith's, and would have to make do with visiting it on foot instead. To which end John drove me through there, and I got terribly over-excited finding Bullock Hill and Calf Lane, one and the same as the very site where the fair was held for all those hundreds of years.
I really did convince myself that was enough, and went to bed exhilerated by tales of riding through South America, by visiting Bullock Hill and having such a good time with John and Mary. It was only after I set off again from John's the next morning that doubt set in. With each mile that passed I felt more and more like I was cheating. Any rules for my ride, such as there are any, are set by myself, and there was never anything hard and fast to say I had to ride to St. Faith's itself. However as I rode along the pretty little lanes east of Swanton Morley, as each mile passed, it hit home more and more how much it mattered to actually ride to St. Faith's. Surely that was why I'd ridden across Norfolk, to follow as closely as possible in the footsteps of the drovers? There may not have been anything left to show for it, but Micky, Magic and I have ridden across what is now the golf course at Falkirk Tryst in the pouring rain, we rode right alongside the site of Stagshaw Bank, again in the pouring rain, and now having come all this way, I felt that if I wasn't actually going to ride up Bullock Hill then I'd failed. But equally that if I didn't keep going and turn up at the friends of John and Mary's who they had very kindly arranged for me to stay with tonight, then I risked offending everyone who had been so kind and helpful. It wasn't that John had tired to scupper my plans. Far from it, he and Mary could not have been more helpful and encouraging. It was me who had said that I'd be happy if I got within a few miles of Horsham St. Faith's with my ponies and then had to do the last few miles on foot then I would be happy. Except now I definitely wasn't. Call me fickle, call me Jekyll and Hyde, call me what you want. More fool me for having got so wrapped in the everyday trials and tribulations of a long distance ride that I had lost sight of what mattered most to me.
Wracked by inner turmoil, I stopped alongside a signpost on a triangle of grass at Elsing and rung to regale Chris with my predicament. He was on his lunchbreak walking up the high street in Dumfries - bet he was really glad to have to wait to buy his sandwiches. Chris told me not to give myself a hard time and to accept that it wasn't as though I hadn't made it to St. Faith's at all, and that if I'd tried but failed to sort out anywhere to stay nearer St. Faith's which allowed me to ride there, I should stick to what John had arranged. So I plodded on, but for someone who lives very much by intuition and is wholly committed to doing what I believe to be right, I was not a happy bunny.
Once I'd got over the A47, I knew I was getting to the point of no return. I'd already strayed well off the route I would have taken had I gone straight from North Elmham to St. Faiths, but there was still a chance of cutting back across, if I could find somewhere to stay midway, but once I went any further south, then I would already have started on the last leg of my journey to Smithfield. The ponies were glad of the opportunity to graze the verge while I dug out all my maps again. Only then did I notice that Norfolk Agricultural College was not far from where I was, and my spirits lifted as I hatched a plan to stay there tonight, and then ride to St. Faith's in the morning, and down to Kimberley the next night, which I hoped wouldn't offend anyone too much and would appease my conscience.
When I rung the college to explain what I was doing and ask if they could possibly put the ponies up for the night at grass on in a stable, the very helpful girl on reception said that as it was the vacation there weren't many people around so it would be better if she asked around and got someone to rung me back. Credit to their efficiency that 10 minutes later I got a return call from another girl who sounded helpful but was on a different planet. The conversation went like this:
"I'm sorry but we can't possibly accommodate your ponies here tonight (no reason given, but mine is not to question why, and I have already reinforced the fact that they are in prime health, vaccinated etc.). However, I have two other suggestions for you" (Not that I said so, but I was thinking, oh well, that's helpful).
"I ride at a riding school out on the Yarmouth Road and I think they might put your ponies up".
Hang on, isn't that on the east side of Norwich and wouldn't it involve riding through Norwich city centre? Which I try and say as politely as possible.
"Oh no, you just keep going on the A47"
But as I explained already, I'm riding one pony and leading another and the A47 is a dual carriageway which I can't ride miles along .... even if the riding school weren't another 20 miles away in the wrong direction and by the time I got there, if I ever did alive, I'd be worse off than I was now.
No matter what I said, no matter that she'd already commented on being able to hear the clip-clop in the background, I couldn't get her to understand that I was on horseback rather than in a trailer (drrrr... that's the basis of riding from Skye to Smithfield ...)and that the whole point of asking to stay at the college was because I could only travel so many miles in a day etc. etc. And yes it was in aid of Cancer Research and it mattered so much to me to go to St. Faiths because I was following drovers etc. etc.
I suppose if you've only ever ridden around in circles in an arena, then perhaps you can't begin to imagine that someone might actually be riding through the countryside, or that riding around the Norwich ring-road is a non-starter.
Her other suggestion was the Redwings Horse Sanctuary at Horsham St. Faith's. I was surprised I'd never found anything about it, but she insisted that's where it was and only when I rung Redwings did I confirm that no they didn't have any facility near there, nor had there ever been one.
So it was with heavy heart that I turned south, too soon in my book, instead of carrying on east, having got very close, but with no-one but myself to blame for having failed to reach Horsham St. Faith's on horseback. Whether it was because my mood rubbed off onto them or the type of tarmac I do not know, but Micky and Magic dragged along, hind feet slipping and sliding, which I felt is what I'd let happen to my hopes and dreams.
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