Goodnight Columnist Tessa Waugh’s country diary

Visiting her parents in Wiltshire, Tessa Waugh takes a trip down memory lane and laments the creeping suburbia, while spotting some glimmers of the past

‘There are primroses and grass and bright fluorescent leaves on the trees. This is

magic stuff ’

Iam back in “the shire”, staying with my parents, and even the rain feels warmer down here. There are primroses and grass and bright fluorescent leaves on the trees. This is magic stuff.

Everyone at home in Northumberland is fixated by grass growth at the moment and the more we stare at the ground, willing the grass to grow, the browner and barer it seems. Here it is almost indecently green.

Coming here with the children is great, but over the years, a pattern has emerged. First day, joyous reunion; second day, riot of fun; third day, knackered and toxic. Time for us to clear off the premises for a few hours or, failing that, head out for a ride, leaving them all to it.

My sister and I grew up here, as did my mother and uncle, all riding, but the hacking has never been great. The farm is on the edge of a village which sprawls across a small, wooded hill and, although there are a few bridlepaths, much of the riding takes place on the lanes around the village. As I plodded up “grassy track” towards the Fox and Hounds pub, I started thinking about all the horses and ponies I had ridden this way over the years.

THERE were the ponies — Ollie, Crispin, Nuthatch and Bluejohn — and then various horses that my parents and uncle kept over the years — Danny, Leo, Chic, Wobbles, Misty, Cecil, Goose and Ravel. The horse I was on today, Tommy, a grey Irish draught, was mad when he arrived, spooking at nothing and cantering off left-handed (that side of his mouth was completely numb) whenever he got the chance. He didn’t go very fast, but you didn’t have a hope in hell of stopping him. He now has a scary bit that looks like a stirrup, and has come to hand as a beloved and reliable family hunter who everyone can ride.

My sister Gillian and I started hacking on our own when we were about eight and 10. I don’t think Alec and Mary could do that now because the road has become a rat-run for white-van men, who charge along it in droves at either end of the day.

The general vibe of the area is less agricultural and more suburban; tiny cottages have big gates and glamorous gardens, and Eric Clapton owns the house where the hunt secretary used to live. Halfway around the corner at Upton Farm, Tommy caught the old churn stand in his sights and put on the brakes like a million horses and ponies before him. Life moves on swiftly and there is nothing much we can do about it, but it is nice to know that some things never change.