Trains, brains, a sad refrain

Over toast at Jill’s, we had an interesting conversation this morning about farming (she grew up on a farm) and how EU policy has incentivised a farming system in N.I. that is highly inefficient and inflexible (and very meat oriented). Then I took the train to Derry--one of Michael Palin’s favourite train journeys.

The view through the train window, as captured on my camera, was like an impressionist painting. Once in Derry, I took a cab to the Ardlough Road home of Biddy Walker, my first riding instructor when I moved to Derry in the 1970s. Poor Biddy has an inoperable brain tumour and is not long for this world, although she is amazingly resilient. Her son and daughter helped her walk down a hill from the house to the hay rack, where she inspected the feed for her old horse, Betty.

Her daughter Henrietta and I would have ridden together during our early teenage years. Henrietta reminisced about a children’s hunt that was more fast-paced than intended. Children’s hunts were supposed to be pretty tame pseudo hunts, but the hounds were on the scent one day and the hunt master decided to go for it. At the end, the only children remaining were Henrietta, myself, and Karen, another American under Biddy’s tutelage. I remember nothing of this. Henrietta took me for a walk on fairy hill, which I also don’t remember. “Don’t you remember the cross country course we built? Remember we had a drop fence over there?” Nothing. “Remember riding at Strathfoyle, where we jumped over pipes and ditches?” Nope. "Remember galloping on the new road before it was built?” Ummmm. "Remember riding at Beech Hill? Remember the noise Marble’s hooves would make when we went through the tunnel?” Sorry...
Oh dear. I wish I had all those memories. I know riding in Ireland was one of the greatest experiences of my life. Yet I don’t have the details, just the love of being on a horse and having the freedom to explore the most beautiful land on earth.
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