Tag Archives: horses

Sir Porridge’s Epic Journey…Day Four

Still full of vim after his days of hard travel, Sir Porridge, AK, was up early for a bracing sit and portrait on the Ceduna jetty.

jetty, Ceduna Continue reading

This Little Pig Went to Market But the Cow is Stationary

This little pig went to market.

And this little pig stayed home.

These little pigs look like content.

But this little pig is virtually unrecognisable:

I admit to a penchant for proscuitto, however, seeing the raw material puts me off just a teensy bit.

Yes, that is mould…

but, cin cin, a bit of red wine and Roberto’s your uncle. One surely cancels the other somehow.

We stood around the table under a tree, the horses on which we had just trekked through the nearby hills munching in their stables, a friendly white pony tethered to a tree next to us. Vino all round.

Home-made red wine in industrial quantities.

Laughter. A sharp knife slicing samples of the wares. Bargaining. Language translations. Deal sealed – a nice chunk to be collected down the valley. (It was mouldy yet proved delicious. The pick-up was accompanied by a celebratory wine, hard cheese and homemade pastries.)

The little white pony was ridden out to bring the cows in.

Home-made hobbles meant this one was not jumping over anything, let alone the moon.

Those graceful, defined veins make her a sculpture…or a body-builder.

This is not how Celia at The Kitchen’s Garden does it.

Sloosh, sloosh of milk into a plastic bucket.

It would almost be worth shaving one’s head for the sensation. Try it now. Place your head against a cow’s flank. Feel the warmth seep into your crown. If you’re bald or shaven, I expect you’ll love the rub of short hair against your pate. Perhaps you’ll feel the blood pumping through her body. I wonder what you’ll hear.

Yet here her head appears to be made of felt stretched over plasticine.

As if she were just a puppet character in a nursery rhyme show. Or a blog post.

Summer Streets

Summer has hit the streets of Amsterdam.

I really need to qualify that and say that it pokes its head out occasionally. Often it gets frightened off by the cold wind and rain. Some days it sits out the morning then appears around 1 or 2pm for a few hours.

Nevertheless, the folk here are revelling in it. Continue reading

Intact Horses and the Time-Space Continuum

After the recent unsettling business at the Kunsthaus I thought I’d treat myself to a live horse.

My nose lead the way from the train to the Wildnispark. The pleasing earthy smell of manure and large animal had crept down the hill and sneaked under the boundary fence. If you have a cold when you visit, follow the signs. Continue reading

City of the People

When I first visited Stuttgart, the capital of the state of Baden-Württemberg in southern Germany, in 2006, I found it as open, vulnerable and focussed as a toddler. It was the quarter final of the Soccer World Cup. The streets of this then 600 000-strong city were almost devoid of cars. A hush had fallen but a roar, muted by distance and walls, rose from apartments, houses and pubs whenever Germany scored a goal. Afterwards, the streets ran thick with jubilation. People crammed into the Schlossplatz (Palace Square) in the centre of the city, united in a single emotion. Continue reading

Trains, Carts and No Automobiles

I am decidedly unenthusiastic about locomotives but, moved by the ravings of The BB and a friend, I decided to give the National Rail Museum in York a whirl.

If you are remotely interested in trains, it’s heaven in several warehouses. Continue reading

Colours on the Camargue

One of the books I remember with pleasure from my childhood was set in the Camargue, the Rhone delta near Arles in the south of France. The geography was of little importance then. What mattered was the story of horses fording the waters from their island to the mainland.

Knowing we would need to spend the night in that area on the way from Switzerland to Spain, the part of me that kept the book in memory wanted to see the Camargue and the horses in it. I also read on the Arles website  that the fighting  bulls are bred there and that flamingos inhabit the area. White, black, pink – that would be a pleasing trio to sight. Continue reading