Little Red Corvette

We were astounded by the number of wild horses running loose on Bodmin Moor, from single mares with their foals to herds of a dozen or more chasing each other unencumbered by fences or fields. They were beautiful and slightly intimidating, especially when the stallions galloped over the grassy moorland with their heads lowered and teeth bared in aggression towards their mares or rivals. We could hear them thundering from a distance, and when seen against the skyline the romance was intense. The horses came in all colours, brindle to grey to roan to piebald and mustang skews, all slightly unkempt and tatty from recently losing their winter coats.

There's a line in Prince's song "Little Red Corvette" that goes: "The place where your horses run free" so the song lodged in my brain for the whole weekend, mixing the presence of Bodmin with my idealised visions of the American plains (which I've never visited) and memories of the preceding New York weekend spent in the company of E and her stories of a complicated past in Texas.





"It was a Saturday night, I guess that makes it alright; and what had I got to lose?"



:o)