CaymanHavana

Excerpt:

Chapter 7 FALCONWOOD

******Terry led us down the steep narrow lane. I had worked out that, as with anyone who has something impressive to show, he was saving the best until last. It was a lovely afternoon; we turned down another lane – where there were still late bluebells in the hedge-bottom and the hawthorn was in blossom – and stopped at a five-barred gate into an idyllic, banked meadow of lush grass, liberally sprinkled with buttercups and daisies. We could see the first field in the distance and Terry’s white farmhouse, with its grey roof. There were no horses in the field. Terry whistled.
******It was like a film … a magnificent dark horse, lithe and fit, with a fast, active pace, trotted up the steep bank from the bottom of the field. He had a striking, broad white star on his forehead, which I recognized – I was spellbound. His herd fanned out behind him: half a dozen elegant, fine-legged Welsh Cob mares – one with a tiny spindly little foal, another with a slightly older foal. I could hardly believe that this was Falconwood! I was in awe. He was beautiful.

Falconwood came up to Terry at the gate and allowed him to rub his face and neck. There was a calm relaxation about him; although clearly in charge of his herd, Falconwood moved amongst the mares and foals with kindness. The herd stayed at the top of the field as we all leaned over the gate and Terry told us about the mares and foals; one was only three weeks old, the other three months. I needed to get closer to Falconwood, to actually touch him would bring me closer to Cayman; I needed to do that.
******Having no experience of stallions, I was unsure how Falconwood would react to an intruder in his field. Terry assured me:
******“He’s kind in the field, provided no one tries to take any of his mares away.” I was happy to climb over the gate, but Terry opened it for me. I walked quietly into the field and meandered my way towards Falconwood, hoping that he would understand from my unthreatening approach that I had no evil intentions towards any of his herd. I stretched out my hand as I gently approached. Falconwood was unconcerned and continued grazing methodically, whilst also keeping a watchful eye on the mares and foals. When I felt the warmth of Falconwood’s muscular neck under my hand, my heart leapt. Finally – finally, I was touching the life that gave Cayman life, his foundation; how crucial that was for me.
******I needed a permanent record of this beautiful horse, so I set about taking photographs but, by this time, I had attracted the attention of the elder of the two foals, for whom I was very obviously a novelty. He would not leave me alone. He kept getting in the way, popping-up between me and Falconwood. He had no fear whatsoever and was insistent that I should pay him attention. Like a ‘power ball’, the more he was rebuffed, the more energy he bounced back with. I had never come across an animal like him before. Finally, I shooed him away back to his mother and resumed my photography. I concentrated on Falconwood and the clever things that my digital camera could do – I was happy that I was getting some good pictures of this magnificent horse. But then, as I was bending down, my thoughts projecting through the camera lens to Falconwood’s noble head, I was brought swiftly back to earth by gentle, repeated tugging of the bottom of my hair, which is long and was loose down my back. It felt as if someone was trying to attract my attention, but why would they be doing it like that? Then the thought that someone was playing a practical joke flashed through my mind. As I stood up and turned round, ready to remonstrate with my assailant, that it is not easy to take good photographs when your hair is being tugged, I was surprised that there was no-one there … except the insistent foal.
******Lisa explained that what was really funny for everyone else, watching from their vantage point by the gate, was that the foal had crept up behind me – from right across the field – with his mouth open all the way, until he got to my hair. It must have reminded him of a horse’s tail.
******I thought that this was so funny and so sweet that, as he had now got my attention, I stroked him. He was covered in bright orange wool – there is no other description for his coat. His legs were black and white, in alternating horizontal stripes, his orange-tipped mane stood up vertically and fluffy orange tassels protruded from his ears. He was ridiculous – but he did not know that he was ridiculous. His silly, innocent confidence was compelling. As I stroked him he nipped me: my bare arms, my stomach, anywhere. I retreated to the gate to talk to Terry, but ‘monster foal’ was not going to be deflected. He followed me to the gate, turned round and squashed his orange back end into my hip; I had to scratch his rump. I did feel sorry for his mother. She was standing quietly, watching from the edge of the field; a pretty, bright-bay mare. Her long-suffering, patient expression, seemed to say:
******“I do hope that my baby is not bothering you too much; but it is so nice to have a rest.”