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Sunshine in the meadows

May 8, 2020   ·   0 Comments

By Constance Scrafield

One of the reasons this is such a great country to live in and this is such a great area of the country is spring. Many of us find winter a harsh time, if we’re not fond of being cold; others are not keen on the summers, when the mercury climbs the tube in the thermometers.

However, it is likely that we can mostly agree that spring has all the virtues, especially as it is the season of fresh birth: the retreating frost gives way to a warming soil and the first green tips are thrilling promises of the richness to come. We are reminded, after the somnambulant months in the garden, that, in nature at least, what looked dead is regenerated and life sings all around us.

The countryside becomes noisier as birds call and come back from the south, busy about their nests, looking to see if we’re still filling the feeders. There is more activity in the meadows, more sightings of bunnies and chipmunks and the energy in the rain, preparing the land for growth, invites us to an exciting time in the year.

Then, the sun comes out and it’s a wonderful to feel its warmth on our faces without a backlash of cold winds. 

For us, spring reminds us and makes us long for those lovely months of riding, me on the mighty Patrick and Patricia aboard her elegant Welsh-Arab pony, Windsor. We used to ride the whole year through and, to be sure, there were no bad times in any season, but the early weeks, as spring edged the world into summer, were special indeed.

It was in the snap in the air, the tingle of the new leaves and the sharp smells of early grass. The horses reacted to it, too, with their ears forward and a new jig to their steps. They would dance on their toes, eyes bright, nostrils wide, taking in the jazz that filled the trees and our own pleasure at wearing fewer clothes. 

Certain privileges were renewed – splashing across a narrow stream without fear of ice, trotting along a wooded path, knowing it was free of snow, likewise a canter across a field wouldn’t bear dangerous surprises under foot. There is a small conservation area on the Mono-Adjala Townline that used to welcome riders – it looked as though it had a gate across the entrance last time I drove by there – a pity to think of not being allowed to trot through those pathways again. 

However, at the time, Patricia and I were cruising, on horseback, the roads and trails of Hockley Valley, that area was open and we loved to ride there for its simple beauty and the way it was a meter of the passing seasons. In particular, there was a corner of this woods that looked like a movie set for a faery land and we used to call it that. It was treed by young poplars, whose broad leaves created low canopies for what might have been tiny beings. 

Anyway, one brilliant day, late in May, it had been decided amongst a bunch of us that we would have a picnic. We divided the preparations among us, that those of us who rode would make the lunch and those who didn’t would set it up and watch over it as prevention from marauding raccoons. The meadow in which the feast was planned to happen was part way up a hillock, open to the sun and with trees to tie the horses. 

There was a long way around to the destination and we took it, about eight of us riding together, side by side in the fields, single file on the roads. A tremendous amount of laughter goes on while you’re riding, largely because you’re so happy to be on a horse – scenery always looks from the back of a horse, I always say. 

A time to trot on, that swift controlled gait, to which one posts (meaning, rising and sitting to the horse’s rhythm), can last a while. It is a working gait and some horses can travel distances at a trot; when the rider and horse are in sync, it’s a comfortable motion for covering the ground.

Through the fields, where a path assured safe passage, we cantered or more, grinning like lunatics, and having the time of our lives. Once, though, the picnic site was near, we cooled our pace to a walk to cool our horses to relax. Barely touching our reins, we walked the hill and all was in readiness. 

A few moments of concentration while we loosened the girths, and made our equine friends safe with ties and grass to graze, we joined the others waiting for us. 

It could have been any century, in so many other places. This was a tradition of eons, to ride, to dine al fresco, life in the country at its best.

When times are harder, it’s great to review such happy days.

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