Foxglove - December 2 2009

These are young horses with wide Bambi eyes and slender legs, most of them narrow to sit upon, some of them looking for amusement of the sort that shakes up a stable lad and tests his or her (for the lady riders are known as 'lads' also, and very proud to be so) mettle.

A starburst of squirrels jittering along the end branches of a tree causes a certain amount of quick-stepping, but then the horses settle again.

They are wearing exercise sheets, and their riders are muffled against the rain and wind so that you can hardly see their faces, but most of them smile and nod a greeting as we pass.

It is not a day to be out in unless you have to be, and the dogs and I are looking forward to being under cover again.

I am nearly finished with the outside duties, and can soon leave the lane and be under the partial shelter of some trees.

Spindleberries glow in the half-light, an impossible combination of hot pink and orange. Only Nature could make that work, and She is pushing the boundaries with spindleberries, I think.

The old-man's-beard drips moisture from its white whiskers, trailing raggedly through naked branches.

My sleeve catches on a briar, and as I turn to free it, I see a single rabbit hunched under the fallen boughs that came down in the summer.

The dogs have not noticed, and I say nothing, catching its eye briefly and then passing on. It is doing no harm there.

Back on to the footpath, I ease down the slope into the sunken lane and then across where the little bridge has collapsed.

The dogs leap over, barely noticing, but I am glad of my stick.

To the left, the racehorses are now cantering up the long hill.

You have to be quick at the beginning, for the horses know what is about to happen: the lads check their girths and then snap their leathers up short while the horses wheel and plunge.

Then they face the long incline at a steady canter, unless the trainer has instructed otherwise, or a horse gets the better of its rider.

I watch them go, always a lovely sight, and then I leave the sheltering trees for the last stretch of the walk.

The sky is pewter, and the wind is getting up; the dogs caper and flaunt in the lively weather.

Looking across, I see the Downs disappear in a belt of grey rain that is coming my way.

The main road goes next, then the fields beside, and now there is only a mile or two between me and the weather, closing fast.

I have flat open fields around me, and I know that I am not going to get to the next patch of shelter before the rain gets to me, so I send the dogs forward to find their own refuge.

But when the grey reaches me, it is hail, stinging even through good tweed, the wind hard enough to make me gasp.

I reach the dogs, huddled by the church gate, and open it for all of us. We scurry to the shelter of the churchyard yew beside the flint wall, all of us fitting under it.

I hope the racehorses are back under cover, for the ground is whitening all around and the wind is spinning leaves for fun. Behind the grey, the sky opens into sunlight, and a magnificent rainbow.

It is almost a philosopher's moment, I think, as the dogs and I leave our sheltering yew and crunch through the hailstones, once more on our way.