The ride of the Equestrian Writer.

As an Equestrian writer I have the contacts and the access, not just to the club sandwiches and the free passes. I am the observer, the voice, the researcher. Everyone involved in this community is happy to chatter to me, to put the world to rights as they see it. They share their opinions and are always keen to try and promote any rider or breeding program that they are involved with, in the hope that they get a mention somewhere. "Hope you saw that there", "Sod's law that was, we missed the class. We're lambing ya know". Staying up with the current equestrian affairs and being on the ball and in the know is a passion - normally. Yet this morning, I’m stalling. I sit, inexplicably trying to coax myself to write….something.

Searching my soul and brain for a starting point, I ponder and head off down into irrelevant rabbit holes of life. So why is today different. I stand up and stretch trying to vaguely copy some Tai chi moves that I’ve seen while time wasting in the early hours. I often find myself addicted to aimlessly scrolling through reels on my phone. The stuff that the algorithms think I should be interested in. "For just 300 dollars per personalized plan", or something, "You can lose half you're body weight and look 30 again!" An attractive thought for a fleeting moment, until the voice of reason tells me that Mrs Tai Chi’s advertising campaign is working on me. I give up and accept this week's insomnia attack and once again take up my fat position in front of my blank screen.

I attend all the major equestrian events, rubbing shoulders with the best and of course the defeated. Traveling to Badminton, Burghley, Chester racecourse and Smiths lawn polo tournaments, everything down to the annual Pant y Dwr pony show, with all its unique, local characters. Such is the contrast of the 5* eventers with their shape shifting lorries and the sleek, polished BD competitors with sparkly hats and Holland Cooper attire, "Daddy don't be a fuckwit, pass my boots", to the loud opinionated farmer with a bell in every tooth, leading his kids around on scruffy ponies, that live with the cows, "Should have give it more cow cake over winter, it's nit as shinny as them others". Competition is always fierce, whatever the level. Cutting each other up in the showing rings, to block the judge's line of sight, the disagreements between polo grooms for the best tie ups on the pony lines. I have an infusion of information running through my veins. It's all there, somewhere.

Inspiration for me can be encapsulated from every conversation, every side eye, nod and suggestion. Every argument and even unspoken gestures, every thrill and spill. The disgruntled groom and the snappy, rude “over horsed” rider, "It has no idea what to do with its legs" The euphoric support team, chewing the ring side ropes, "Get in there, kick it" and the young horses thriving on the challenges, to those looking decidedly over faced.

I know I have a wealth of anecdotes gleaned from each outing, some going back years and some burning in my brain from earlier this week. Too many in fact. Maybe here lieth the problem and not in the Tai chi reels. I need to organise the random expression recalls and the spontaneous bursts of imagery in my memory. I am over nourished with ideas spilling out of my senses. Things I hear, see, smell and feel. Today, tomorrow and from yesteryear.

Yet today here I am listening to the infuriating tap tapping, the deafening creeping noise coming through the air vents towards the single light. Insects, hell bent on becoming entrapped in a sticky lure, where the tap tapping becomes frantic buzzing. The galloping clock has been banned for its deafening tick, and my overweight but dedicated companion is stretched in oblivious contentment, to match the length of the “stressed pet cocoon basket" - 27 euros from Temo, the result of another brain dead scroll into the abyss. "You have been chosen to receive 6 gifts for 0 euros" if you buy 60 euros of other useless products.

Our regular walking routine to inject fresh air into the brain has dwindled in frustration, in unison with pen refusing to connect with brain. The white out from the blank page blinds. So, we sit, lie, vegetate. I try low volume music as a backdrop for thought process and to maybe over-ride the dying fly din. However, all this achieves is to irritate me further as Forum F.M. decides to speak utter tosh between playing “The Final Count Down” and “Sylvia’s Mother” ?! as if I need to be reminded about deadlines or Dr Hook, in my current state of writer's block.

I reach for my millionth cup of tepid tea, and the sticky teaspoon is accidentally nudged, shocking the slumbering beast. My companion opens one eye in disgust and lets out a lingering sigh as he re-adjusts himself into an even longer length, legs stretching out towards all corners of the earth as if he is pointing to four important directions that must be considered. At that precise moment inspiration spooks. Involuntary, lateral thinking sparks and dances provocatively, as the focus of intent looms on the horizon. Trying not to cartwheel, trying to contain central, forward momentum as hurdles present themselves. Progress is threatened as brash and thorns are thicket laid. Yes, I’m on my way at last. Stagnation drains away rapidly.

Counting strides that don’t match the speed. Disaster threatens as instinct takes a hold. Picking up the contact, the bio- mechanics of progress excites and exhausts as the gallop becomes survival lead and breathing is shallow, while lungs and heart beneath verge on explosion as the engine powers up and powers on. I’m so thankful for the farrier's stiletto inserts. “Ssh….it!”

The expressions, words, flash and tease and expire, returning like melting snowflakes as they land in my vision. Feeling momentarily awkward as though I left a leg behind at "Huntsman's close", I can see the deleted, Badminton Mars M Flowerbox, advancing towards us in the wrong direction. “Not a frangible option” “This section is off limits” I say out loud, " You will be crucified”! yay.......

My subconscious sparks through me and if the shredder is to be avoided then several re-runs will have to precede any submission. Names will have to be changed and dates distorted. The final whistle of the kettle becomes audible in my preoccupied brain, the as my typing canters to a close…….........