Summer grazing is the horse equivalent of black-eye Friday for hoomans. Law-abiding citizens turn into balm pots overnight and do things that will forever more induce a frosty silence around the dinner table. Cousin Eleanor will never speak to you again after the post jagger bomb incident.
Zed and friends went to their new field on Friday and immediately turned into little thugs, squabbling, playing and galloping around like yearling thoroughbreds.
They are feeling gooood, and are almost cross-eyed with sugar, much like myself after Easter. I did worry slightly that my dear, sweet, floofy coblet had been abducted on Saturday morning when he lunged like Guy Martin on the wall of death...
But normal service has since resumed. We did our first few trots on the long lines this morning and he was ver ver good. We can nearly steer for instance. On Thursday I'm aiming to take him outside. The yard where I am is really a long, wide corridor that you can handily close at either end to prevent loose-horse-on-flapping-lines-syndrome.
I'm dying (bad choice of word really) to ride him now. Waaaaaa!