Of young horses and old traditions.

The pinkish purple heather is in full bloom, and in places it transforms the ground into an airy, rosy sea. Out and about in that curiously limpid light of autumn, we've been busy foraging for mushrooms in the heather, fields and forests. The nights and early mornings have significantly chilled.At the market, the squash and pumpkin are for sale, alongside the last of the summer harvest. With the change in season come the fall traditions of the Cevennes. We were charmed to be invited to a neighbor's ferrade: fresh air, lots of eating and drinking, just as much socializing, and horses--what's not to love? The horses in question are Camarguaises, the famously hardy white breed that run wild (in now significantly reduced numbers) across the pink flamingo-flecked Camargue marshes. We said yes without hesitation, knowing the lovely people who were so kindly inviting us, and not really thinking through the activity around which the whole ferrade is built: the hot branding of horses.Branding has been practiced since at least the time of the Egyptians to identify (free-ranging) hores and prevent horse theft. Unfortunately, as one might imagine, it causes a good deal of stress and pain to the horse. Camargue horses are born very dark, and only turn white as they mature. The colts we saw, about six months old, were separated from their mothers for the first time in order to perform the branding, which involved one burn on the rear haunch, and a smaller one on the neck. The colts appear dazed and shocked after the brand is applied and the disinfectant dabbed in the wound. The brand, applied correctly, causes a superficial burn and permanently removes the hair.Having been invited for the occasion, I didn't feel it would be either fruitful or appropriate to embark on a discussion about the morality of hot-branding--or the possible alternatives. While hot-branding has recently been made illegal by the Scottish parliament, it is still in rather wide use in Latin and North American horse country, as well in Australia and other countries. The ban in Scotland was widely supported by animal welfare groups, unsurprisingly, but also by veterinary groups, who found the practice causes undue distress and pain. I am planning on asking our neighbor about his views on the increasingly popular freeze-branding, which is just as effective, low-cost, causes little to no pain, and as such can be administered by a single person. I hope to report back a change of approach for next season's foals...

April showers in May.

We got hailed upon, too. The wisteria suffered a bit. This may nearly qualify as an armegeddon of sorts, for the south of France. But the chickens (now there are three), horses (now there are many) and dog (just one but it feels like more) are none the worse for wear...Hope there is better weather to come this weekend, here and in your neck of the woods!

(There's a) new Marechal in town.

Right, so Marechal Gaspar has actually been plying his trade around here for some 15 years, but I'm a sucker for a play on words.

The marechal ferrant is a farrier, and ours is Monsieur Gaspar. He explained that to become a farrier involves going to a special school. This is unsurprising: in France there is a special school for everything. It is a one to two year program, involving in-depth study of all aspects of the horse, as well as the profession itself. And yes, women do become farriers. He has had two female apprentices himself. There is obviously a period of apprenticeship before becoming certified in this physically demanding position.

The marechals come every two months to replace the shoes of working horses; for less active horses like ours, they come every 3-4 months. It adds up to a lot of iron.

They travel with all their equipment (often U.S. made) in modified pick-up trucks or delivery vans. Their trade is, in spite of the heavy tools, a delicate and most necessary art. The marechals lay out all their equipment first, tie on the heavy leather chaps (not a decorative accessory), and take a good look at the horse's feet.

Each hoof is cleaned, the old shoe removed, the hoof clipped and filed (think of it as a single, seriously overgrown toenail). In the photo above, you can see the bits of hoof near the smoking horseshoe. Once this is done, the new shoes are heated and custom-shaped while red-hot with a hammer upon the anvil. I don't suppose too much of the basics has changed in the 3000 years of shoeing horses. Each hoof is fitted several times: the still hot iron is placed on the hoof, where it smokes and leaves a burnt impression. Each time, the farrier can verify how (more) closely the shoe fits. It's smelly, smoky and precise work. Accuracy is essential for the health and comfort of an animal who spends nearly all her life on her feet. Or, more accurately, her toes.

Marechal Gaspar enjoys his work. He got into it because he rode and loved horses. He actually worked in a restaurant for a decade. In Paris. Before that incarnation, he worked (for another decade) across the street from the Sacre-Coeur on the most prestigious floor--les tissus d'ameublement--of the Marche St. Pierre (http://www.marchesaintpierre.com/). The enormous fabrics warehouse is a magnet not only for interior designers and stylists from the world over, but also for the cost-conscious housewife from down the street.

It is difficult to imagine him cutting endless measures of sussurating, expensive fabric, but I suppose he handled the customers with the same ease and gentle direction as he does his equine customers. The more French people I meet in the Cevennes, the more I begin to suspect that there is a subtle yet significant movement toward an alternative, simpler lifestyle. Even in downshifting, however, we remain plugged in: if you'd like to engage our farrier, you can visit his site at http://www.marechal-ferrant-gaspar.com/

Horsing around in Montpellier.

Equisud is a large-scale horse exhibition and fair that takes place every November in Montpellier. Visiting Britta's stables made me rummage around for the photos of the show...

Yup, Virginia, there really were line-dancing Frenchmen.

There were well over 25 different horse breeds on display and for sale, and all the horse gear you could possibly imagine, let alone require. Horse earrings and matching skirt, anyone?

A gorgeous "cow" horse (said Sophie), performing with an octagenarian.

And only in France (or at least not in the U.S.): there was a horse cabaret. At ring-side, you could choose your seating according to which of the three restaurants you wanted to dine at. Tapas, yes, fast-food, no. Translation: we got to drink wine and linger for hours over a good Moroccan lunch while sitting directly ring-side with the kids. Parfait, especially given the crowds everywhere else. One performance followed another, and then, fairly saturated, we left to wander. (The thirteen-year-old in me--the one who lined her bedroom with equine posters-- was a little breathless.) Outside, they were lining up for the churros and sausage, which didn't look half-bad. We ducked into the auctions. And headed for home without a horse.

An afternoon in Pompignan.

A pair of Icelanders.

The other day, we ran into friends we haven't seen in a long time. As usual, they invited us to their stables. It's the sort of invitation that, while very appealing, has always been over-ridden by whatever else was already going on. This time, warming ourselves with coffee at our usual cafe before hitting the frigid marche, we had nothing further planned. For once. So we accepted the invitation with pleasure and anticipation.

A Lusitano stallion, au naturel.

I've no idea why, but we've never been to the area of Pompignan before. It is certainly visit-worthy. It is beautiful and wild and wide, ringed on three sides by a gorgeous mountain range. Thyme, sarriette, box hedge and juniper are found everywhere. Hard to imagine, but before tanneries and glass-making became the primary 17th and 18th century industries, this wind-swept plateau was a dense forest. The one industry still active is quarrying, for Pierre de Pompignan, a limestone valued since Roman times.

Dakar had to be on a lead, but we chose a box stall for him instead.

Britta and Claude have over 40 horses scattered across some 220 hectares, and it was easy to see why we haven't seen them: they're far too busy. Britta is doing quite well in her immaculate, well-designed operation, as word of mouth has spread about her natural, gentle way to raise, train and educate horses (and their owners). In addition to boarding on a selective basis, they handle "problem" horses one-on-one, and provide full breeding services for Lusitanian horses. Britta has an extraordinary patience with horses, investing an enormous amount of time in them, and the operation is her life, as she freely admits. We had fun visiting with the horses and exploring her life. If you would like to know more about the stables, go to their website: http://www.lesugagnaux.com/. I, for one, would like to know more about the song playing on it...

Sophie communing with the unofficial mascot, an award-winning, very friendly Percheron named Oscar. Note the horse in the stall next to his is a "normal" sized, adult horse.