New shoes!

The BEST sort of new shoes

John the Farrier came on Friday and I had a sudden flash of inspiration while he was here. We'd been looking at Fatsy Isty in utter wonderment because her adipose tissue has resisted attempts to shift it, while Bulleye has nicely slimmed down.

So I asked John if he wouldn't mind popping shoes onto Itsy so we can burn off some fat by way of exercise. Last time I took her out on the road she winced every time she stepped on a stone which isn't fun either for her or her rider. Also as H9 is keen to get on board now a little more mileage is planned. Shoes seemed the obvious way to go.

She won't be in heavy work so only front shoes are needed, but it means I can have a little clip clop around the lanes with her and H9 can too.

Let me out!

In other news, Bullseye, the pony who thinks he's a mountain goat, has whacked another leg. So far he has scars on his near foreleg and off hind to demonstrate the error of his ways. Now he has no additional scars but spent Friday dangling his other back leg. John had a look and agreed that it was tendon or possible fracture (gulp). So Bullseye is indoors on a thick bed of shavings and letting the world know, in shrill whinnies, that he's not happy with the situation. Today he's putting weight on the leg, so I'm holding out hope that it is a pulled digital flexor tendon (which is bad enough).

Riding at Marros Farm

I have to admit I've resisted the clamour for riding lessons from my two little girls before now. Mostly it's because of the cost and also with three ponies of our own I felt it was a matter of waiting until the girls fitted the ponies rather than forking out for them to ride other people's equines.

But then Pony magazine carried vouchers for £5 off for new or lapsed riders to have a lesson at their local ABRS riding school and suddenly it seemed a good idea for the summer holidays.

(Left to right) G9 and Beau, H9 and Tally, R7 and Dylan.

I took the three girls (and my mum who had seen me through all my pony riding days) to Marros Riding Stables in south Pembrokeshire. The lesson was efficiently arranged by email. I told them the size and ability of the girls and helpful staff recommended a combination session - half an hour of lesson in the indoor school followed by a half hour trek. The price (£22 each) included hire of boots and hats. If you take your own hat they check that it is kite marked. Safety, here, is taken seriously.

Then the girls and the two other riders were taken into the school to meet their ponies. The latter were standing in a line, parked side by side down the centre of the school. Not tied up, just ready and waiting, ears pricked, for the lesson. That was impressive. Any pony quiet enough to be 'parked' like that is quiet enough for your precious child to ride.

G9 was riding Beau, a pretty chestnut mare, Hannah was on Tally, a little bay, and Rosie rode Dylan, the spitting image of our own Bullseye, who proved to have the one speed, slow, which was as it should be for a complete beginner.

Parents watched through the windows of the cafe which overlooks the indoor school, as the instructor explained the rudiments of riding, including stopping and steering (in and out of traffic cones) and then everyone had a go at trotting.

The hack part was a loop along a track around the riding stables. It was the perfect confidence-giving session and none of them wanted to get off their ponies when the hour was up.

They want to go back again, of course they do, and ride the same ponies, which may or may not be possible. The staff at Marros Riding Stables are friendly and fun. They take safety seriously and they know novice riders are going to feel nervous. They were experts in taking the absolute beginner and giving them confidence. I'm pretty sure we'll be heading back for another ride before the end of this summer holidays.

Patriotic in Pembrokeshire

Sometimes, living here on the side of a hill in the far west of Wales, it can seem as if we are on another planet. Watching the news this week has intensified that feeling. First the looting by people with not much to hope for, living in a society which promotes a level of consumerism they can never hope to afford. Then the armies of broom-wielding community-spirited folk suddenly proving that a city is really just a series of joined-up villages after all. I'm not sure what to make of it all. It seems such a long way away.

Then, yesterday afternoon, I looked up from my favourite seat at the front of our home and saw that the vapour trails from the planes that fly over us from the London airports had drawn a Union flag in the sky.

As I photographed I was struck how quiet, peaceful, sunny and lovely it all was. Then the trails wafted away into the blue sky and the moment passed.

Something big this way comes...

Something large, noisy, yellow and mechanical arrives...

...now it is busy digging on The Moor.

'The Boy' (Brian, 49) looks on. Occasionally there's a 'toot toot' from John JCB in the digger for 'The Boy' to move a flagstone or assist in some other way. The first of two 'scrapes' has been dug. They must be five metres across; shallow scrapes as new watery habitat for our newts and frogs.

John JCB likes 'The Boy' and has telephoned to check he'll be around this weekend and not working. 'The Boy' lops tree branches off so they don't scratch the digger and gets a Murray Mint as a reward.

John JCB sculpts the second of the two scrapes. This one is fed by a sparkling spring. We stop thinking 'frogs' and start thinking 'ducks'. John JCB realises he has an audience of two women and two little girls and chases 'The Boy' with the bucket. He looks over at his audience with a cheeky grin as 'The Boy' dives for cover.

There's tremendous skill to wielding such a machine. John JCB uses the bucket like it's an extension of his arm. Yesterday he cleared the lambing shed with his other digger and piled the manure in the garden (it looks like Everest at the moment, but it will rot).

The stream is trickling clean, clear water into the 'scrape'. We note how deep it is, stop thinking 'ducks' and start thinking 'wild swimming'.

Just a final bit of patting and sculpting. Edges cannot be left untidy, John JCB is a craftsman. He's also a character - I once had a whole conversation with him where his gaze never left the comfort of my cleavage while he regaled me with tales of 'f***ing this' and 'f***ing that' with my two little girls listening in with wide eyes and big ears. I'd love to think of him meeting the Queen, I'm sure he'd say something (in his broad Pembrokeshire accent) about the 'f***ing weather, Ma'am, while gazing happily at the Royal bosom.

The side effect of digging - useful flagstone sized bits of slate.

The liberated stones piled into the garden. They've been slumbering underground for who knows how many years. Now they face a new life over ground as part of our garden.

More from Dorset...

More pictures from our day out in Dorset, starting at Maiden Castle with a quick lesson from Andrew on butterfly spotting. It's chalky land here so there were blue ones - adonis blues, small blues - lots of marbled whites (which we don't see in Pembrokeshire) and meadow browns (which we do).

Poundbury.

I wonder what Iron Age man (here in about 600BC) and the Romans (whose army took over Maiden Castle in AD43) would have made of Trumpton Poundbury? I'd like to think the Romans would have approved.

Fabulous view from up here.

Maiden Castle is a magical place, steeped in history and butterflies. It must have been a phenomenal undertaking to build it. One can only imagine the brutality of the battle that took place when the Romans decided they wanted it. I can see why they did though but I feel sorry for the inhabitants who were turfed off and moved to Durnovaria (Dorchester).

Heading for the coast. Sadly we couldn't all fit into one car so two of us had to travel in Nicola's BMW Z3. Here we're doing about 150mph and as you can see I haven't a hair out of place...

On Chesil Beach we found a partially buried man. I think he'd been there since Neolithic times.

When in Dorset it is obligatory to eat fish and chips in West Bay. The best are from the blue and white kiosk with the biggest queue. Sometimes they have pollack which is our favourite but they'd run out so instead we made do with haddock, chips and mushy peas, washed down with proper English tea.

Then it was a quick stroll down the pier, past all the fishermen with their buckets of crabs, before we headed for home.

Waving

We went on one of our regular trips to see lovely friends in Devon last week. Saturday was spent in Dorset at Sherbourne and Maiden Castle near Dorchester and included a visit to Chesil Beach.

I adore Chesil Beach and every one of its 180 billion pebbles. I'm mesmerised by the crunch of the pebbles under my feet and the crashing of the waves on the shore.

I can lose hours there just playing with the pebbles and watching the waves. I love the wonder of the beach - it seems astonishing that nature can make something so beautiful and architectural. I'm endlessly fascinated by the power of the waves too. The sea is so deep so close to the shore - perfect for sea fishing - and there's something a little perilous about sitting so close to the edge.

Grrrr

The telephone rang today while I was wandering around aimlessly wondering what to do next doing the housework. As usual it was a voice from India. I think he said his name was Marvin and he worked for Mutter Mutter but the line was so rubbish he could have been anyone.

He asked to speak to "Mr or Mrs Margaret".

"Speaking," said I, irritated.

"Mrs Margaret we have been informed that you or Mr Margaret has had a road traffic accident in the last seven days."

"NO YOU HAVE NOT," I told him none too gently. "I HAVE NEVER HAD A ROAD ACCIDENT. EVER."

CRASH. (The phone, not the car.)

It immediately rang again.

"Perhaps," he continued, as if we'd never been interrupted by me slamming the phone down (although it being a new-fangled digital jobbie all I did was angrily press the 'end call button') "another member of your family has had a road traffic accident."

"NO THEY HAVEN'T," I replied, "AND IF THEY HAD MY HUSBAND WORKS FOR THE POLICE AND HE'D BE THE FIRST TO KNOW NOT YOU."

CRASH. (Well, beep.)

It didn't ring again.

How very dare they though. Absolute parasites. They barely speak English. They have no idea if a 'Margaret'* is a male or a female, yet they have my telephone number. It's very unsettling and it makes me distrust the telephone. It only rings now with bad news, wrong numbers or parasites from foreign call centres ringing to see if I'm a soft target. Everyone else Facebooks or texts or emails or calls me on my mobile.

And the new digital thing is most unsatisfactory. What happened to all those wonderful old fashioned heavy telephones with the lovely rattly dials and a proper bell? Now those you could really SLAM.

I must get one of those**.

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* A 'Margaret' is a female and this one is of the Mags or Maggie variety and hates being called 'Margaret'. You can call me Margo, should you wish (see earlier blog).

**Good old Amazon. That lovely red thing pictured above has got a proper bell and a dial. I'm going to put it on the house's Christmas list.