Demeter has five more attempts at the pose and each time falls into a cowpat. She’s totally smeared with cow shit, her face is red, and she looks furious.
“Enough,” I say in a serene voice. “Vedari says one must not exert oneself beyond the limits of one’s age.”
“Age?” Demeter looks livid. “I’m not old!”
“Let us now move on to Contemplation.” I beckon Demeter to a patch of grass free of cowpats. “Lie down and we will use the ancient Druid stones to release your muscles and your mind.”
Demeter eyes the ground cautiously, then lies down.
“On your front,” I explain. With a look of distaste at the mud visible through the grass, Demeter rolls over.
“Now, this is the Druid version of a hot-stone massage,” I say. “It’s very similar, except that the stones are not artificially heated. They have only the natural heat of Mother Earth.”
I’ve gathered a few rocks and stones, and I distribute them on Demeter’s back.
“Now, relax and contemplate,” I tell her. “Feel the energies of the stones penetrate your body. I will leave you to meditate. Free your mind,” I add over my shoulder as I walk away. “Feel the ancient aura from the ley lines. The longer you concentrate, the more benefits you will receive.”
I walk until I’m out of earshot, then settle down in the grass, leaning against a tree. Despite the sunshine it’s a bit breezy, so I pull my Barbour around me. Then I get my iPad out of my own jute bag and fire up an old episode of Friends. I watch it, glancing up every so often to check on Demeter. I keep expecting her to get up—but she doesn’t. She’s sticking it out. She’s tougher than I imagined. In fact, I can’t help feeling a grudging admiration for her.
Finally Friends is over, and I head back to where she’s still lying. God only knows how she’s feeling, lying in a cold, breezy field full of cowpats.
“I’m now removing the stones.” I start taking them all off her back. “According to ancient lore, your stresses will be removed along with them. How was your meditation?” I add serenely. “Did you commune with a higher power?”
“Oh yes,” says Demeter at once. “I could definitely feel an aura. Definitely.”
As she gets up, I feel a tweak of sympathy for her. Her face is mud-smeared and crumpled from the ground. Her hair is a bird’s nest. Her legs and arms are covered in gooseflesh, and her teeth are chattering with cold, I suddenly notice. Shit. I don’t want to give her hypothermia.
“Have my jacket,” I say in alarm, and proffer my knackered old Barbour. “You look freezing. It was a very challenging practice—maybe too challenging.”
“No thanks, I’m not cold at all.” Demeter gives the jacket a supercilious look. “And I didn’t find it too challenging.” She lifts her chin in that arrogant way she has. “I actually found it very stimulating. I have a natural aptitude for these things.”
At once, any sympathy I was feeling for her vanishes. Why does she have to be such a bloody show-off?
“Great!” I say politely. “Glad it worked for you.”
I lead Demeter back across the fields, eyeing her gooseflesh as we go. I offer her the jacket twice more, but she refuses it. Crikey, she’s stubborn.
“Now,” says Demeter bossily as I’m shutting the gate into Elm Field, “I’ve been meaning to mention something. I liked your homemade granola at breakfast, but I really think it should include chia seeds. Just a suggestion. Or goji berries.”
“It already contains goji berries,” I point out, but Demeter isn’t listening.
“Or what’s that new seed called?” She wrinkles her brow. “That new superfood seed. You probably don’t get it out here.” She gives me a kind, patronizing smile, and I find myself bristling. No, of course not. How would we get the new must-have seed out here in the countryside where we grow seeds?
“Probably not.” I force a polite smile. “Let’s move on to the next activity.”
—
On our way to the stables, I let Demeter get dressed again, and when she thinks I’m not looking, I catch her rubbing the worst of the mud off. Then she insists on stopping to check her emails on her phone.
“I work in something called ‘branding,’?” she tells me loftily as she swipes through her messages, and I smile back politely. Branding. Yes, I remember branding.
“OK, done.” She puts away her phone and turns to me in her bossy way. “Lead on to the stables.”
“The stables” sounds grander than it is. There are four dilapidated stalls and a tiny tack room, but only one horse. We’ve had Carlo forever. He’s a great big cob, and Dad keeps threatening to get rid of him, but then he can’t quite bring himself to do it, because the truth is, we all love him too much. He’s not much trouble, old Carlo. He lives outside most of the year, and he’s a good-tempered old beast. Lazy, though. Bloody lazy.
I brought him in last night, especially for this. I also made a sign that reads EQUINE SANCTUARY and put it on the stable-yard gate.
“So!” I say, as we approach. “Now for the equine de-stress activity. Are you a horse lover, Demeter? Here, put this on.”
I hand her a riding hat, which probably isn’t a perfect fit, but it’s only for a bit of grooming. I already know Demeter can’t ride, because I heard her mention it at work once. But I’m sure she’ll come up with some bullshit or other, and, sure enough, she lifts her chin again.
“Ah. Now. Horses. I’ve never actually ridden, but I do know a lot about horses. They have a special spirit. Very healing.”
“Absolutely.” I nod. “And that’s what we’re going to tap into today. This activity is all about communion with horses and carrying on ancient traditions.”
“Wonderful,” says Demeter emphatically. “These ancient traditions are marvelous.”
“This horse is particularly mystical.” I go over to Carlo and run a hand down his flank. “He gives calmness to people. Calmness and peace.”
This is a lie. Carlo is so lazy, the emotion he brings to most people is demented frustration. But I don’t bat an eyelid as I continue:
“Carlo is what we call an Empathy horse. We categorize our horses, according to their spiritual qualities, into Energy, Empathy, and Detox.”
Even as I’m saying it, I’m sure I’ve gone too far. A detox horse? But Demeter seems to be lapping it all up.
“Amazing,” she murmurs.
Carlo gives a whicker, and I beam at Demeter.
“I think he likes you.”
“Really?” Demeter looks pink and rather pleased. “Should I get on?”
“No, no.” I give a merry laugh. “This isn’t a riding activity. It’s a bonding activity. And we’re going to use an implement that was forged in this very farm, generations ago.” I reach into my jute bag and adopt an expression of awe. “This,” I say in hushed tones, “is an authentic hoof-picker. It’s been used on Ansters Farm since medieval times.”
Another lie. Or maybe not. Who knows? It’s an old cast-iron hoof-pick, which has been knocking around the stable for as long as I can remember. So, actually, you know what? Maybe it is medieval.
“We’re going to be cleaning out Carlo’s hooves, following the traditional, authentic Somerset method.”
“Right.” Demeter nods intelligently. “So, are there different methods in different counties, then?”
“This is an exercise in trust,” I continue, ignoring her question, which was actually quite sensible. “And empathy. And rapport. Grasp Carlo’s front leg and lift it up. Like this.”
I lean against Carlo, move my hands reassuringly down his leg, grab his hoof, and lift it up. Then I replace it.
“Your turn.” I beam at Demeter. “You’ll feel the power of the horse channeling through your hands.”
Looking apprehensive, Demeter takes up the same position, runs her hands down Carlo’s leg, and tries to lift up his hoof. Which, of course, he won’t let her do. She’s far too tentative, and he can be an obstinate old bugger, Carlo.
“Try speaking to him,” I suggest. “Try reaching out to his soul. Introduce yourself.”