Postcard from Portugal

Ferret – I really hope you enjoyed your holidays.  I have spent the intervening time trying to reconcile  the image of something small pink and furry donning  a hi-vis jacket and liney gloves every morning.   Here’s my contribution, for what it’s worth.  1,000 words on the button.

Dear Auntie Araminta and Auntie Bilby

I’ve borrowed this computer just to let you know I have arrived safely in Portugal  – the trials and tribulations of my journey need not concern you at this juncture –  but suffice it to say I have decided to stay for the duration with Uncle OZ in The Cave, (1,570 feet above sea-level to be precise), the final straw being your heartless and, frankly, unwarranted comment a few weeks ago:-

“Blimey, OZ good luck. I haven’t seen the the little pest since she stole one of the horses and headed for Badminton earlier this month. If she arrives with equine, could you keep Eff and sent the horse back. Ta!”

Sob!

Badminton was a hoot thanks not for asking, but only once I had negotiated the electric fence and barbed wire around the perimeter and which I don’t remember being there last year. Please tell me you didn’t mention at the time anything to the authorities about that unfortunate incident with the stable lad, the longeing whip and the pitchfork. No matter, I managed to slip a pre-dated application into the entries without anyone noticing and was allowed to compete. The dressage stage was a doddle to be honest, as I had a quiet word in the horse’s ear before we set off, know what I mean? Anyway, he danced like a good ‘un and didn’t put a hoof wrong throughout. I’m sure I read somewhere that a horse’s hoof is all that remains of its paw, so the horse is dancing, in effect, on its one remaining claw, or on one finger if you like.

Day 2, the cross-country section, proved a little more troublesome as it is so difficult to keep the blunt end of a broom handle hidden underneath the horse’s tail while hoofing it around the countryside at thirty miles an hour in front of all those cameras. There is a fad these days for doing a horse’s tail in one of those poncey, folded up plaits with the white duct tape, especially in the dressage, and this makes the concealment of a broom handle up said nag’s fundament somewhat problematic, should you need to do so, but I broke with “tradition” and left the tail hair flowing. And the least said about the water jump the better. How was I to know that I’d taken the only horse in the stable that suffers from hydrophobia? Anyway, a hefty boot in the ribs and a surreptitious kick on afore-mentioned broom handle did the trick and the nag sailed over the hazard like he had wings, albeit with an extremely startled look on his face, not to mention the worrying trace of a smile.

Sunday dawned clear and bright and the only hurdle (a little equestrian joke there) left was the showjumping. Luckily, the broom handle was still in place and, eased in a little further and coupled with another judicious word or two in the ear, proved to be the margin ‘twixt success and failure. The BBC interviewed me as Harvey offered his customary greeting at my victory. Zara sends her regards nevertheless, both of which I promised to pass on to you both. Sniff! On the positive side, I did negotiate a lucrative little side deal and have been photographed in flagrante for page 3 of Nag Fanciers’ Monthly, hot off the presses in July. Regrettably, the stable lad has also sold his side of the story to some of the more downmarket Sunday tabloids, but I advise you to ignore the fantasies of this nouveau-arriviste guttersnipe.

It did take me some time to track Uncle OZ down – they don’t call wolves “Ghosts of the Forest” for nothing I can tell you, hence the delay in sending this missive.  Anyway, after several days I did eventually manage to find him, but only by using the unique talents that you seem so keen to suppress in me. Ah, the freedom! In fact, my talents were such that, when I first emerged from behind the bush, Uncle OZ quite lost interest (no mean feat, let me tell you) in the goat he was in the process of disembowelling

The Cave is a wondrous, secret place to stay. Uncle OZ has given me my own room (and keys!!!) on the lower floor nearest the pool and has been working hard to make the gardens presentable and colourful. OK, so they’re nothing like Auntie Christina’s, but he does his best in the circumstances of a late, but baking hot, Alentejan spring.

I know he’s already published photographs of the approaches

https://boadiceaschariot.wordpress.com/2010/05/17/a-lope-to-the-cave-for-janh/

to The Cave but I’m the only one of you lot to have seen the real thing and there is even more colour in the gardens than on the track.

And it is not only the gardens. At dusk, Mother Nature provides a spectacular display – let down, sadly, only by Uncle OZ’s amateur photography.

Dawn is equally impressive, but at OFFS hrs early morning, Uncle OZ is still snoring deep in the darkest recesses and no photography is available.

On the management front, I regret to report there has already been an unfortunate incident when the sight of so much fresh red meat overcame Uncle OZ’s better judgement in terms of your above request re: said equine. Once we arrived back at The Cave and following prolonged drooling and significant restiveness, there was a sudden, but, to be honest, not wholly unexpected flurry of hair and much whinnying followed by the glow of the barbie and the smell of rosemary, garlic and olive oil. And jolly tasty Dobbin proved to be too!

Psst! And don’t believe anything that Uncle OZ writes about Das Fürballen. If the truth be told I haven’t had sight nor sound of them since I arrived, not that there is any connection I hasten to add.  He may just be somewhat deluded about their existence, poor old soul.

Your much neglected and misunderstood addendum,

Ethel