Return Journey

Steve Bull

Description

When talented horsewoman Kathryn Bull died in a freak accident aged just 39, her husband, Steve was devastated and completely lost. Kathryn had been his rock, helping him through his battles with depression and giving him a reason to return home from the expeditions he ran in far-flung countries.Horses brought them together and ultimately it would be a horse that would tear them apart but Steve knew that Kathryn would not want him to leave the yard that she had run and loved for so long, so he made a pact with her memory. He would take on the yard, look after their horses and their dogs and make Cross Lane stables the ultimate memorial to the girl who loved horses - and him - so very much.In this moving and uplifting memoir, Steve Bull describes the challenges he faces when he commits to running the yard. He gives up his own business, faces doubts from friends and family and gains a renewed appreciation ofKathryn's talent and commitment and the legacy she has left.This tender and poignant memoir will be treasured by everyone familiar with the inexplicable bond between man and horse and the reader will end up cheering for Steve as he travels his return journey and begins to triumph over the terrible tragedy that threatened to break him.

Sujets

• Lettres et linguistique

Informations

• Publié par: Distributed by eBookpartnership
• Date de parution: 12 septembre 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781913227333
• Langue: English

Extrait

Praise for The Return Journey
‘ The Return Journey is a lyrical and deeply moving meditation on the infinite capacity of the human heart to give, to risk, to love, and, ultimately, to live. Explorer Steve Bull has ridden through the valley of the shadow of death and refused to yield. Instead, he has written a love story that explores not the far ends of the Earth but the dark places of our grief, and demonstrates, as the apostle Paul wrote, that love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things; that love never ends.’
Ben Johncock, author of The Last Pilot
THE RETURN JOURNEY
An Expedition of Love and Loss
STEVE BULL
Published by RedDoor www.reddoorpress.co.uk
© 2019 Steve Bull
The right of Steve Bull to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or other wise transmitted without written permission from the author
Although the author and publisher have made every effort to ensure that the information in this book was correct at press time, the author and publisher do not assume and hereby disclaim any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause
Every effort has been made to trace copyright holders and to obtain their permission for the use of copyright material. The author apologises for any errors or omissions and would be grateful if notified of any corrections that should be incorporated in future reprints or editions of this book
Excerpts from ‘The Waste Land’ and ‘Little Gidding’ from Collected Poems 1909–1962 by T.S. Eliot. Copyright © 1936 by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, renewed 1964 by Thomas Stearns Eliot. Reprinted with permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. All rights reserved. Excerpts from ‘The Waste Land’ by T.S. Eliot reproduced with permission of Faber and Faber Ltd.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Cover design: Rawshock Design
Typesetting: Westchester Publishing Services
For my wife, Kathryn
‘I heard my country calling, away across the sea, Across the waste of waters, She calls and calls to me.’
‘Urbs Dei’ or ‘The Two Fatherlands,’ Sir Cecil Spring Rice
FOREWORD by Sir Ranulph Fiennes
I have had the pleasure to have been Patron to several of Steve’s expeditions; including the Polar Challenge in 2004. This particular expedition was ground breaking as it saw the first college students reach the South Pole. Having undertaken many pioneering expeditions myself to Antarctica I know what an unforgiving and harsh environment it is. All of us that have ventured into these white and wild lands have done so with loved ones in our heart. With the hope we will do them proud and return safely home.
This is part of what this book is about; of the venturing into such places, to carry out a journey of note with the love of those that make it happen. Whilst on my expeditions my late wife, Ginny, would look after Aberdeen Angus cattle. In a similar vein Steve’s wife looked after horses and cared for them when he was away.
These pages tell of Kathryn’s and Steve’s story, from early beginnings to the horsewoman she became, and of the expeditions Steve led. Of riding horses of all types, working in all weathers and helping others. Her commitment to the local equine community and beyond. It’s also about the smile so many knew her for.
Kathryn’s love of horses and dedication to them is obvious, as is her support of Steve on his expeditions. Together they made a life; each supporting the other through thick and thin. From the South Pole to the fields of home, the bond between them smiles through and shines. Then when tragedy strikes and all is lost the bond gets stronger.
Here is the heart of what The Return Journey is about, the faith to carry on in the face of the deepest loss. Following Kathryn’s death Steve decided to carry on his wife’s work, looking after her horses and her livery yard. His decision to do so is a reflection of his love for Kathryn and the faith she gave him on his expeditions.
My wife Louise has a wonderful way with her horses and my father was Commanding Officer of The Royal Scots Greys. Albeit at a time when tanks took the place of the horse, the lineage is there. A link through time when horses were used in battle and also on expeditions such as Captain Scott’s.
Carrying those with us that have departed is something we can all relate to; The Return Journey is not just Steve’s and Kathryn’s journey. It is the journey we all take at some point in our lives.

Sir Ranulph Fiennes
PROLOGUE
The large grey horse she arrived on caused quite a stir, And was quickly dispatched back across to earth, For heaven is a sideways step, not upwards.
In a field of Elysium dreams where grass grows deep in spring, and shadows lie long in summer. Where winter drifts in after autumn like an afterthought of nature, and a grey horse lives in perpetual peace. There under the weather of a destiny day and the stopping of clocks, Kathryn and the horse became one. She exploded into all the horses she had ever ridden, owned and loved. For on the 29 April 2016 at approximately 12.30 in the afternoon, the last horsewoman was killed by a horse. As the silent trees swayed in the meadow of wind and life the grey horse looked on. He watched as blue lights descended around the field, flashing in sorrow. He watched as the figures carried her away from the field, for ever. It was the ending of all things, except love.
In the beginning fourteen years earlier, we had a simple wedding; old-fashioned vows said in love. I remember the sound of hooves trotting on tarmac as Kathryn arrived at the church. There were only two of us in church, Kathryn and I, no one else existed. It was just her eyes and mine, holding each other’s, as the horse and carriage waited on the road outside. The horses had brought us together, formed the beginning. It was fitting a horse carried us into the future of our lives. Into the unknown lands of our shared expedition. A time before the field, a time when the ghosts of the grass lay quiet and peaceful. Before the ending in the wind of the trees and a horse looking on. A time before the last expedition.
I am haunted by horses from the past. Horses she rode, horses I rode. Hooves echo on sandy paths in a dull ringing of lives in the past. They speak across the years of events we did together. Of times on gallops, laughing and crying with the wind in our hair. Of chases through pine trees on lazy Friday afternoons. The smell of cones and dust in the air. That damp straw smell that lies heavy in stables being mucked out. Early mornings when the sun hasn’t woken and the moon hangs on. It was a long time ago, but only if you measure time in years. In reality it was a moment ago.
Their names bring back memories of a life: TC, Tommy, Nora, Peter, Gordon, Scarlet, Dan, Chancer, George. Their names aren’t written down in any book, they were horses, destined to live out a life in work and leisure. To carry us on rides in forests and over fields. They did nothing important, but then that depends on what you count as important. They gave joy and laughter, meaning to a day and a weekend, a reason bigger than ourselves.
They had a touch, the coarse rough feel of equine hair, each one felt different. Like different people’s hands. Each with its own stamp, a callous here or a scar there; a character and personality, just like us. They asked for nothing and gave their all.
I am haunted by horses in the present. The ones that live on without Kathryn. The ones I see alone and ride alone; look after without her. I like to think she looks after me whilst I try to do what she did so brilliantly and naturally. She was born to it; I was born to wander mountains. That’s what’s natural to me, wild places. Yet she gave me her love of horses, over the years she taught me. I feel like I now work with a great big grey shadow of a horse so strong not even she could ride. He rides that high ground on the distant horizon, in the fading light that is neither dawn nor dusk.
Times I spent without her on expeditions, in Africa and South America, in the Arctic and Antarctic were still times with her, because she talked to me over the oceans and guided my hand and leg when I felt unsure. She rode with me. She walked and skied with me.
Expeditions don’t haunt me. There is a missing there I suppose. She doesn’t write notes for me anymore and leave them in a passport or a Gerald Seymour novel for me to find on the plane. It’s a paradox, because I don’t want to go away anymore as there is no one to come back to. I already exist in an empty place. But if I go away the horses are left behind and the dogs too. So, the animals will still haunt me.
Mountains though, mirror the horses’ moods and personalities. Some daunting in their height exhibiting a foreboding quality of dread. In the mist on a steep rocky ridge with rock wet from dew and rain, in the early morning. A hint of wind on the sky, whispers of being on a horse with a will stronger than yours. Stiffness in the back, a rising of withers and the tense body of the grey hunter give me that feeling of dread, of an unknown about to happen. It’s a haunting in the wilderness. A feeling of a ghost, of the last grey horse and the last girl that rode it.
As a nation we are founded on the nobility and honesty of the horse, something many people have forgotten. Our horses made England, long before oak-made ships sailed forth across the high seas and made the world an English empire. The horse ploughed our fields and fed the people, led the charges in bro