The New Year begins

The snow falls lightly and softly, wafting to earth, muffling laughter and sighs

January brought glacial wind and piles of feathery snow

Chère amie, cher ami,

The wind from Moscow blew cold over the rooftops of Paris, over the hills and fields of Normandy, and out to the sea. In his garret in Paris, our son Henry practiced the piano with chilled fingers. He went for a walk in the Jardin du Luxembourg, and sent us a picture of the frozen bassin.
 
Snow covered the Chateau de Courtomer, its Farmhouse, the trees, and the fields. Over the dark water of the moat, a thin film of ice reflected the waning crescent of the moon.
 
The glacial wind swept across the ocean. And in mid-January, in a pasture in New York while fine pellets of snow swirled in the air, my sister and I visited young Finn. His silvery grey coat was the same color as the sky.

In his pasture, a muddy Finn contemplates the coming snow
 
Finn was sent to America to become an eventer. He is my first proper home-bred, born of my home-bred broodmare Victoire and sired by a Norman neighbor, descendant of an illustrious line of pères de la race – founding sires of the French sport horse breed, the Selle Français. Ulmar was bred, born, and reared just down the road from Courtomer, at the haras of Brullemail. I had a good look at him there before making the final choice of a stallion for Victoire’s first produit.
 
Subsequent events did not go Finn’s way or mine. A cold wind blew on his youthful prospects, and at the ripening age of 7 he is now relearning equine fundamentals. Somehow, he developed into an unwilling partner for his riders. He threatened to bolt – and sometimes did. He refused to walk, trot or canter past imagined horrors in a corner of the manège, where he was supposed to be working on his dressage. He obstinately preferred to jump his own way – leaping high into the air and jolting down to earth. Finally, he tore both front shoes off and became lame. Forced to stay in a stable most of the day, he became fat. Bored, he chewed through cross ties and ripped off his blankets.
 
Fleetingly, I contemplated the remark once made to me by a former neighbor, a longtime and disillusioned breeder of French sport horses: “It’s too bad more people don’t eat them.”
 
But luckily for Finn, his beauty and talent still captivate the eye of his beholders more than their palette.
 
Il est compliqué. Perhaps it was the fault of the pandémie, which shut down his education. 
 
He was already 5 the first time I rode him, in the summer of 2021. It was like trying to guide a light, feathery cloud. We wafted around an outdoor ring, walked and trotted in both directions, cantered on both leads. Aside from the occasional distraction of a breeze and the passing scene, rien à signaler – nothing of concern. He was délicat, said his trainer Michel. “You can’t give him orders. You have to ask.” That didn’t seem like such a bad thing.
 
Finn went to America. I rode him a few times once he had settled into his new routine. We jumped over a few small logs and cross poles, and I thought he would have a nice career. 
 
Last summer, unwilling to believe in his delinquency, I went to ride him myself. All his bad habits were on display. As a grand finale, we careened at top speed in between the barely-open doors of the stable and slammed to a halt in front of a wash stall. He had bolted. It was time for a change of program. But, as mentioned above, the new program suited neither Finn nor his new rider.
 
Luckily for me, my sister lives a few minutes away from a center for horse rehabilitation. From far away across the sea, I outfitted Finn with padded boots for his front feet instead of iron shoes and Vitamin E to help maintain condition while he lost weight. A standing order for the expensive potion Gut X was to soothe his stomach in case tension was giving him indigestion. His new trainer took away his blankets and put him out to paddock. Since his feet were still too sore for riding, she started with groundwork.
 
Now, despite the swirling snow and gathering wind, Finn allowed my sister to slip a halter over his head. I noted that he had lost about 100 pounds of gras. His front hooves had grown into rounded ovals, neatly trimmed.
 
Finn’s new program follows a training philosophy called “relationship-based horsemanship.” Heather, its practitioner, draws upon her years of work with Lipizzaner horses in a Spanish Riding School. These horses learn to rear and kick on command, prance, and strutt. They bow and lie down. But Heather is also a horse whisperer, basing her training on observation of a horse’s behavior and on mutual trust. 
 
We watched Heather and Finn at work. He circled around her at the walk, trot, and canter, first at the end of a lunge line, then unconstrained. Although she carried a long lunging whip, she used subtle hand signals first, then a soft cluck, and only as a last resort a flourish of the badine. The “relationship” relies on mutual attentiveness, rather than threat. 
 
“An exchange of energy,” explains Heather. “He respects me, I respect him.”
 
Next, Finn trotted over cavalletti, poles on the ground. A horse must learn to calculate his length of stride to avoid hitting the poles. He learns to flex his rib cage and lift his back, to control his feet and legs. Cavalletti can impose a short stride or a long one, and even a variation. For such unimposing obstacles, cavalletti demand concentration.
 
There were only three cavalletti for Finn. Surprisingly to me, he floated over them several times without objection and in perfect rhythm. Then, he struck one slightly. The session was over. No pressure, the trainer explained. Finn seemed to agree. He went amiably back to the stable, stood calmly while my sister brushed him. He gave me a gentle nudge with his muzzle while I gave him a treat.
 
“He remembers you!” said Heather. 
 
Ah! The return of the prodigal.
 
I heartily thanked my sister and bid her and her family farewell. In snowy darkness before daybreak, I stepped onto the train for the long journey home.

Early morning departure, view from the train platform
 
This has been a wonderful festive season, warm with song and cheer. We had festooned the banisters with ropes of evergreen and hung wreaths on the front doors. The tree glowed with silvery glass and colored lights. A pair of crackling geese perfumed the kitchen. We made fruit cake, taught les petiots to roll and shape Christmas cookies. Our gendre Adrien made fluffy, alcoholic eggnog to his own recipe. We had goûters with the little ones, celebrated a Christmas and two January birthdays with the older ones, and fondly toasted an engagement. We have been reunited with dear friends. 
 
As the New Year turned, there was sadness amidst the joy. An old friend suddenly died. Another became very ill. Another’s estranged child did not come home after all.
 
The snow falls lightly and softly, wafting to earth from the heavenly dome, muffling laughter and sighs. 
 
It’ll be cold and rather cloudy next week, says the weatherman. It might even rain on Wednesday, la Saint Valentin. The 14^th is also the beginning of Lent, mercredi des cendres or Ash Wednesday. Hearts and ashes, love and regret.
 
But we’ll stoke up the fire and our spirits in our winter quarters at the Farmhouse, while hammers ring over in the old stable block, and Monsieur Martyn plies his paintbrush on the walls and window frames of the Chateau. And we’ll await more news from Finn.
 
                        Bonne année, chers amis!

Until next week!