Through the Portal by Irena Szirtes

credit Irena Szirtes

credit Irena Szirtes

 

 

    The instant my wellies hit the mud track, I cross the portal. The Burwarton Agricultural Show is late summer, hung-over by steely clouds, but portal crossed, their edges flare moon-bright, and all seems animated, fatter, charged with summer's vigour. It is too long since I attended a show- this being the first since Harriet died. Through the portal again at last, I feel my flesh and bones stripped away, and I can reach inside myself, touch my own soul. I touch the Yorkshire childhood left behind, yet keenly feel the present: farm animals at silly o'clock, and mud-splattered, glorious, unglamorous country life. It feels so good, my soul sings.

There has been a long wait for soul-singing, a fresh tuning in to the world that formed me. I gasp at the bulked magnificence of Hereford bulls, stroke the rabbity ears of Border Leicesters, cheer on young Highland calf-handlers as their charges protest and back up, trying reach their mothers. I wander round preparation pens, watch bathing and brushing, satiate my eyes with precious rare breeds. Unremitting work and abundant love might just produce the animal to catch a judge’s eye. My eye was trained on a Welsh pony stud decades ago, but the conformation of any quality animal -especially one with charisma- still takes my breath away.  

     I brave a sharp shower, strip layers as sun goes Mediterranean, ogle country boots at bargain prices, almost buy some. Instead, I purchase an enormous tub of strawberries with whipped cream, and one more latte. I forget how old I am: portal-crossing sharpens my senses, invigorates mud- squelching, colours   landscape with the luminosity which often heralds a storm. The very air I    breathe feels super-charged, heady, even a little dangerous. Time telescopes backwards: it’s as if I’m present, yet back at Westmorland County Show, all at the same time. I experience the thrills of show jumping, as if I've never seen it before. I wonder if judges will agree my choices in the horse show, and they sometimes do. Selecting the winning Cob feels especially good. I might have owned a Connemara, but being up close and personal with Welsh ponies has never left my consciousness. Yet there is something missing. Burwarton has no lurcher show, so I home in on collies, terriers, and sight-hounds in the crowd. Most are generous enough to lend connection for a few snatched moments. Offering heads and ears to be fondled, their gaze is perceptive, sympathetic.

   It’s human-animal connection that eventually brings tears to my eyes, the empathy between a young man and his team of stunt horses. He demonstrates liberty -when there are no head collars, reins or harnesses - with eight horses at a time. Though his skill- set is way beyond mine, I see something familiar and precious, the intuitive communication, the speaking without words, that I shared with Tilly, my Connemara. I marvel again at how another being, free to choose non-cooperation, was happy to move with me and for me, who understood what I wanted and somehow drew it out of me. I silently thank her as I watch. I am spellbound. My soul is soaring, thrumming, woozy with wonder.

     I know I must step back through the portal soon, and when I change wellies for driving shoes, the portal's edge catches my foot. I am aware of flesh and bones again. I remember how old I am, and marvel that so many years have compacted, tardis-like, into what seems a single moment. But full-muscled joy is still humming round the portal’s perimeter, and comes home with me, trailing from my ankle. I will not neglect the portal too long: re-entering has sharpened and affirmed my reality, and I will not be quite the same again. 

credit Irena Szirtes