A Day At The Races

I've been in a state of turmoil in all this heat, wondering what on earth to wear to Flagg Races, as I'm used to putting on thermals and boots and suddenly it was T Shirt weather, but I needn't have worried, true to form, yesterday the weather reverted to the traditional arctic conditions required for holding Flagg Races.
But we Brits are made of stern stuff, so on went the sweater and the tweed jacket and we set off to Flagg Moor, just south of Buxton. The wind was whistling across the hills as we pulled into the car park, just in time for the first race.

This is point to pointing at its finest. We used to go to Welbeck when we lived in Worksop. That looks much more like a typical racecourse, but Flagg is a proper, traditional steeplechase course. To prove it, they decided to run the Members race in the oldfashioned manner, where you can take your own line. This means whizzing along and jumping the drystone walls wherever you see fit. In the old days this left things wide open for cheating, but things are, fortunately, a bit more organised now.

I have to confess, I don't understand how betting works, but it turned out either Mr O or I picked the winner in each race. And the thing that I am totally envious of, is that members of the Pony Club have their own races, in this case, two at the beginning. They don't jump the jumps and they run a shorter course, but my goodness, you should see them go!
There was one race with only one woman in it and she led in fine style all the way round, then got a slight bump going over the last fence and crashed to the floor, poor woman. Fortunately she was fine, and so was the horse, who sped on and was caught at the end by the huntsmen.

This point-to-point is run by the High Peak Hunt (in their beautiful green jackets) and is very popular. Half way through the meeting the hounds are paraded in the ring by the huntsman and children are invited in to stroke them (the hounds, that is, not the huntsmen!) Harriers are so called because they hunt hares (although that would be illegal now, of course) and are one of the fastest types of hounds (bloodhounds being the slowest, although you wouldn't believe it when you're belting along behind them!) I know a bit about harriers, because each year they put a call out if anyone wants to puppy-walk them, and two years ago, like a twit, I volunteered (we have had a bloodhound before, but they couldn't be less alike).
And so we had these two chaps:
They are Questor and Quavor. Hounds always have funny names for various complicated reasons, usually they take the same first initial as their mother. The bloodhound we had was called Poorbreck, I think his mum was Poppy, but Poorbreck is an area of woodland near Welbeck. They have names like Rogueish, Mermaid, and the very timid Rosewood. We had these puppies for about eight months, by which time they could jump out over the stable door, so they went back to the hunt kennels. They are very sweet chaps, but very sharp, they're not stupid and docile like bloodhounds.
You have to be quite fit to watch point-to-pointing, if you're going to walk backwards and forwards from the parade ring to the track, as it's all up and down hill, although strangely it was warmer at the top of the hill than it was at the bottom. At least you can buy burgers and hot drinks to sustain you, and there's always a beer tent.
As you know, Zak is an ex-racehorse, and is in fact a seasoned pointer. And can I just say, there were several horses there as skinny as he is, and quite a few he'd have given a run for their money, although perhaps not with Mr O as the jockey!
Finally, worn out and windswept, we made our way home through some of the most beautiful countryside I have ever seen. I so enjoyed it, despite the weather, roll on next year...

Thankyou

I'm not sure if I'll leave this post fairly short, but I just wanted to say a big thankyou to you all for your wonderful and uplifting messages of support after our saga on Sunday. They mean a great deal to me.

I am pleased and relieved to say that Barnaby is fine. He wasn't interested in his breakfast yesterday (which is a shame as it had antibiotics and anti-inflammatories in it!) so I just swapped his rug and put him straight out. He paced up and down a bit, but soon settled and I noticed he was having a snooze around ten o'clock. (No wonder he doesn't like being ridden in the mornings!) Hopefully this means the adrenaline is gradually leaving his system.

When the vet came she said there had been a hunt going on in our area on Sunday. She knew because her previous call was to a horse not far away who'd had colic as a result. This may well explain why Barnaby was more anxious than usual, as he gets very worked up when the hunt goes past.

I found out today it was the Four Shires Bloodhounds, and it could explain a great deal, although the person who told me is a foot follower from the Barlow Hunt who I've been talking to this morning as they met at 11am just up the road. I'd just finished mucking out and heard a strange sound. I knew instantly what it was though - hounds! I dropped everything, grabbed my jacket and a camera and hot footed it up the road.

I just hope Barnaby isn't too worked up by it, although when I looked they were all standing in the field staring at all the horses and lorries up the road. Hopefully they'll be finished by one, so the horses may have calmed down by three when I go to get them in.

One other thing. I have been wondering how this would work. It was icy everywhere this morning, so of course the pond has frozen over. I let the ducks out, who went racing along, came to a pool of water on the grass and skidded straight across it! I am sorry, but I was most amused. They went down to the pond, then a moment later they reappeared, all chuntering to themselves that the pond is frozen too. Ah well.

It's life Jim, but not as we know it

I have made the decision to turn the horses out, even though the hunt is meeting up the road. The horses can see the lorries and trailers from their field. Last time they came it took 45 minutes to catch Barnaby, who clearly thought he should be out with them and generally taking charge. Max was shaking, too. But this morning I knew Barnaby wouldn't stand for being kept in, and if I'd done so, I would have had to sedate him, which I don't really want to do, and besides which, I couldn't lay my hands on anything to sedate him with.
I was straining my eyes to see people arriving, and couldn't see anyone. I thought what an idiot I was about to look as I've told people at the livery yard and my neighbour that they are coming, so they could keep their horses in if they wanted to.
A couple of days before they came in the spring, we had seen a dead fox in a gateway up there, but didn't think anything of it. When the hunt arrived, the hounds came streaming out of the lorry, found the dead fox, said in unison, "Duty done, I think!" and ran back into the lorry!
I would have gone up to watch the hounds move off, but then I got a phone call from Pop's Attic saying they were on their way with the furniture, so I couldn't have gone anyway. Then when the delivery men arrived, they said, "There's 'ell of a fuss goin' on up there - dogs all over the place!" I just smiled. I also put Tessa into a stable, as she'd barked beautifully for me and I wanted to keep up the pretence of her fierceness. She isn't the only dog here. Pongo and Missis have two dogs, a black lab and a sheltie. The sheltie would, in fact, probably bite you, but the most the lab would do is pin you to the floor and lick you to death. I could think of a worse fate.



Purdy, my tiny cat, is sitting on my shoulder as I write this. I'm amazed at how well she is since we moved here. She is a stunted cat, so has always been very small, but before we moved here she had terrible skin, very bumpy and scabby. Now when you stroke her she is totally smooth, and you can tell she is well. Country life obvioiusly suits her. We have a 'cat room' next to the kitchen, which is where Pongo and Missis put the farm cats when they were kittens. We put Tigger and Purdy in there for two weeks when we first moved in, with the cat-flap closed. It is a feline heaven, with a climbing frame, a little igloo and a big cushion. When we were ready, we let them out to explore their new world.
Bear in mind that we moved from a semi-detached house with an extremely small garden, with a high wall round it, which Purdy couldn't climb over. Her world consisted of the house, this small garden and any butterflies that were silly enough to fly into range.
So imagine her reaction to the vast amount of space we have here. Tigger was a feral cat, so felt at home straight away, but Purdy was speechless. I saw her one day, sitting next to Tessa at the edge of the barn, both with their backs to me, not realising I was watching them. It was a Lion King moment. It seemed as if Tessa was saying, "And all this land is ours as well," and Purdy was gazing at grass as far as the eye could see, amazed at this new vista. No wonder she loves it here. I quite often catch her asleep in one of the stables, or curled up asleep in my tack locker. Actually, the first time she did it, I didn't know she was in there, and shut her in for the night! It's only because Tab, one of the farm cats, kept tapping on the door the next day, that I opened it and found Purdy inside, none the worse for the ordeal. Oops!