My Destrier ~ My Warhorse (Revised Edition)

Destrier ~ Warhorse

Introduction

I LOVE Animals. Indeed, the Animal Kingdom is way beyond that inhabited by their ‘superior’ counterparts ~ the human species. Apparently perfect, we have one enormous flaw: human nature.

The short clip at the end is no ordinary film, no virtual film masquerading as reality, this is truly all about the Horse and their interweaving into every aspect of our lives, regardless of where we are in society, through history, and down the ages, and right up to the present day.

The blunt verses at the very end reflect the simple fact that human nature remains the same.

I grow tired of claims that we are all now so much more civilised than in former times. Human Nature regresses at an alarming rate. I look at Afghanistan as just the latest example. If ever there was evidence staring us in the face that the Taliban eventually intend to confine womanhood entirely to the four walls of the so-called family home, then it is in their latest move against the Beauty salons.

What is that, you say? An exaggeration you say?

Then look no further back than ninety years, to 1933, and think long and hard about what befell an entire People and their Diaspora. Think long and hard upon the hand-wringing of the League of Nations. Think about what followed and what had to be done. Now look at the United Nations and the same hand-wringing.

I wrote this on 7 November 2013 …


I

I smell the Mare upon the wind

and through the stable slits

I see her

Shimmering, White … … …

Grey, to you

Be careful with us today.

We know you want to win this event.

Heavy-handed rein is not your solution.

When we

in the sand

inscribe our Eight

upon the Serpentine

Move with me

Sit with me

Become me

Fuse our hearts and souls

The essence of every horse and rider

Avatar mine : Avatar yours

II

I feel the faintest heel

And as you counterbalance

right and left heel,

Ease gently on the bit,

Respect my mouth, my tongue ...

in so doing

You'll turn me on a coin.

Jagged-kicked heel and boot?

In like fashion will I respond …

Not in the way you would prefer!




Carelessly kneed my groin

Then to the judges, not me,

you must explain,

Why on your back

You suddenly appear,

Parted from saddle,

Riding crop one way

Top hat t’other!

III

We are meant to bear you

We go into battle for you

We protect you

We die for you

We are created and perfected

for your greater ease and transportation.

Note well :

Our intelligence is way beyond

many stable-hands.

Our lovely sense of humour.

I love to nip the backside

of stable hands …

or grab your trouser belt

and lift you,

Playful

Many a lass has asked

Please! Put me back down!

Many a lad has shouted same

so I lift an inch higher …

and then, let go!

I flick my tail in playful fun,

though I make no cover …

the lad I used my teeth

to bite ...

He is nasty!

He hit my Mare

And dared to whip me,

and paid the price of

arrogance and spite.

A trampling,

A mouthful of straw.

Yes!

At last, you’ve got it!!

‘So that’s why he never

comes in here!’

You people are not as quick

as you might think!

An embarrassment, more like!

IV

I love it when you talk to me

Holding my ear to your mouth

And whispering all manner

of lovely thoughts.

You even make me blush!

And that’s why I like you.

So when you’re accidentally

heavy-handed

I go with you because I know

you’re going with me.

I laugh when I recall that gallop

We gave you and Mem.

We raced the gallops

over Worcestershire.

You leaned down hard by my shoulder

I could feel your breath,

Your love too.

Your hands held taut to my mane

Keeping me on a short rein.

Then you released me … … …

Your gloved knuckles nudging my mane

And we flew like the wind

Remember?

La Roche on Eggs Hill on our way to the Gallops on Cleeve Hill, the Escarpment of the Cotswolds, the roof of the world (KTW 1973)

And we outrode Mem

and as I recall from your chatter 

she had to buy you a pint that night!

You pulled me up short!

From standing start

To seated trot

Thence rising trot

To rolling canter

Roll into fast canter

Release to gallop

Full gallop

The Destrier

Charge to Colours

Your Grandfathers [i] knew too well

Flanders and a lifetime earlier

Balaclava and India [ii]

Grandad Webb ~ Horace Arthur James Webb exercising the commanding officer’s horse each morning on the Western Front in France, the First World War 1914-1918. The sidewise V in front of Grandad’s stirrup is a heeled shrapnel wound. I grew up on this magnificent image, and as an infant Mum and Dad, at the seaside, had to be sure that the donkeys on the beach included ‘trotting donkeys’, not just walking donkeys. Kids!

Balaclava … ‘The Aftermath’ by Elizabeth Southerden Thompson Butler, 1876, Manchester Art Gallery.

That nudge on my mane

A mile we covered!

And Mem was laughing …

Then sudden shriek!

Ken - the cattle grid!!

Barbed wire looming

at furious pace

You pulled me round right,

left heel counter-balanced

In that instant,

that grid opened wide its jaws!

Responding,

Digging hooves in so fast,

Feeling you lurch up my neck

But maintaining your seat

And we stopped on the grid edge!

Jaws clamped closed!

Empty!

I snorted my disapproval!

I’d seen it.

I was playing with you.

And had I had to,

I would have jumped it

And saved us both …

My stride prepared

Avatar between us

I knew your dismay,

Your love for me.

Why?

Because I love you!

Love, to us, is unconditional

We have the edge on you.

If humankind followed our lead

This world would be in a safer place

V

I haven’t forgotten

Your tenderness

That time

on a Cotswold country lane,

Near-high vertical banks.

Me, you

My Mare and Meriel

Riding siding by side.

17 high

Stone-flagged walls mounted

half our height again.

You were both giggling,

We were both having playful snorts.

A slow loose rein on sloping

downward tarmac

Heat shimmering,

A mirage ahead of us

And then we heard it!

The high-pitched revved-up motorbike!!

No where to go,

No way to turn,

No bank

to straddle or leap on.

When a millisecond

seems like an hour

before impact

All of us in suspended animation

Hurtling round the bend behind us.

You told me later the shock on his face

when you came to whisper in my ear

And soothe me out of the after-shock.

The motorbike crashed into me.

My Mare shielded behind me

You and I went up in the air,

as a screaming bike took my legs

from underneath me

That screaming banshee sound

Sliding out the other side,

helmeted rider

still hanging onto handlebars

of his whinnying cycle,

grinding across the tarmac

and coming to rest some 20 metres

ahead ...

Grazed hands

blood, boy, horse, mixed ... 

a mess.

You and Mem dismounting.

You stepped off me, for I was down.

Involuntary posture.

The tenderness of your hands

as you felt my underside

Meriel holding my head

My Mare shaking

Sniffing me as I lay,

You guiding me back up

On all fours.

And here is the truth

of our sincerity and our love

for you, the people, who ride us.

You remounted,

And we carried you home.

Later the shock set in.

I listened through the stable door

standing your ground

to the family - the village bullies,

who’d come to beat you up,

taken aback.

They’d not bargained to challenge

police, military, and law

Intertwined, Impregnable.

Your fast staccato replies

a machine gun

that silenced their rough

growled common-english-speak.

Well known in the village

And I liked what you said to them,

and the way you said it.

“Hot!” As the guys and girls

talk in the yard these days.

I felt in those moments

As if I was your warhorse

Your destrier

 

So go easy on me today

I'm old now.

So are you! Haha.

But come on,

Let’s ride together again.

Let’s do the Serpentine.

I want to see if you still have those

amazing muscles in your legs

transmitting commands to me

without a heartbeat even!

Come on

Mount!

The tackle is there

Your boots are behind the stall

The spurs are up there,

if you think you’ll need them

But I don’t think you will

You never used them.

You whispered one day,

Beauty, my Grandad wore these spurs

on his Destrier in the First World War

in France.

I liked that!

Now remember what Delia used to say …

Ken

Flow with him

Become part of La Roche

You he, he you

Only then can you ride to dressage

young man!

Oh!

And will you whisper to me

those messages you used to give me, again?

I've never forgotten them you know!

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

22 August 2023
All Rights Reserved


LIVERPOOL

© 2023 Kenneth Thomas Webb

An Explanatory Note
22 October 2021

[i] My Paternal Grandfather, Horace Albert James Webb, was a coachman-chauffeur until he volunteered for war service in 1914. His trade, therefore, saw him posted to the newly motorised division of the British Army. The image shows him mounted on a charger, and this was the commanding officer’s charger. In light of his trade, he was frequently requested to exercise the charger. I remember him showing me the stitched shrapnel wound on the horse’s left flank.

His father-in-law had seen service in the Indian Army and had built a reputation for his ability to ‘break’ horses in. The term can, sometimes, be off-putting. In reality, very great affection and understanding - an ability ‘to connect’ - what I call that Avatar instinct - was essential. My paternal grandmother’s grandfather saw service in the Crimea, and it was reputed that he had taken part in the charge of the Light Brigade. Family records are silent.

But the Painting, Balaclava my Grandparents had in the hall at 25 Windsor Street. That haunted soldier used to stand, as it were, just above the first step of the staircase, so there was no escaping the aftermath of that battle, which the Artist Elizabeth Southerden Thompson Butler painted in 1876.

This note that appears with the painting, and by courtesy of the Manchester Art Gallery, gives a clear explanation:

The Real “Balaclava”

In 1876, some years before Scotland for Ever, Elizabeth Thompson had painted an image of the Light Brigade. But not of the Charge itself. She chose instead to depict in uncomfortable detail of its grim aftermath.

Her remarkable painting Balaclava has been out of the country for a while, on exhibition in the USA. But now it’s back home in the Manchester Art Gallery and due to be re-hung a few months into the new year.

The copy of this painting, and two others also depicting Balaclava, framed and mounted on the wall in the hall and also as the centrepiece in the front room had quite an effect on me,. My sisters disliked them intensely.

I’ve often asked myself, What on earth caused Grandma and Grandad to display such grim scenes?

Only recently, in family archive work, did I find a possible explanation.

These were inherited, coming with Granny Budd to Windsor Street, when her husband, my great-grandfather (Albert Budd) died. Granny remained at 25 Windsor Street from before the Second World War, survived that war too, and died in 1948 at home aged 96 years. This is covered in greater detail in Windsor Street Days. He had served in the Indian Army in his early years as a breaker of horse, for which, by family anecdote, he had a high reputation.

End of Explanatory Note

Note on the YouTube Clip

The film is an accolade for superb film direction, not to mention the standard of acting and the horsemanship throughout every scene depicted.

This is no ordinary film, no virtual film masquerading as reality, this is truly all about the Horse and their interweaving into every aspect of our lives, regardless of where we are in society, through history, and down the ages, and right up to the present day.

Long may it continue.

Afterword

For twenty years I had the joy and pleasure of riding the most beautiful horses, riding to dressage early on, and then in the last six years, continuing to ride hunters and retired racehorses across the various gallops of the Cotswolds in Gloucestershire and Worcestershire, three of those years with my very good friend Meriel, and without whom much of this would not have been possible. A distant memory now, they are as resonant as if but yesterday, this morning, even.

Readers may be aware of earlier references in previous publications when I also rode with my, then-young nephew, and my own joy too to have Meriel alongside me, and I think we blew his mind when we went at the full gallop across the rides of Worcestershire, and he experienced for the first time the thrill of his head deep down to the right of the mane and neck – the sheer power and exhilaration pounding from the ground up and then standing up in the stirrups as we all reined in a mile and a half later, with his mum and dad looking on. Great memories.

As far as is in your power to do so, let not family memories fade or depart. This is easier said than done.

© 2023 Kenneth Thomas Webb

Originally composed on 7 November 2013

One dark 1970s night,
in deepest Gloucestershire,
criminals reversed,
opened the five bar gates,
smashed the locks
and spirited La Roche away.

This beautiful, gentle Grey Mare
was never found.

For the first time
I understood why
in the century before
a convicted horse thief
swung dangling on the noose.

In this 21st Century
our family pets suddenly disappear
in the exact same way,
but more often in broad daylight
because the law has no authority,
because the people
have removed that authority,
but are the first to complain
when their idiocy
strikes them in the face.

Dare not to ask what my response would be
should in the act of your criminality I catch you.

It would be the day, the hour, the moment,
when on your corrupted lips
you would scream out…
I would treat you as the invader,
that treatment would show you

no mercy…

© 2023 Kenneth Thomas Webb