Foals Day and Night
11th June 2011

The signs appeared on the lanes shortly after we moved to the New Forest - Foals Day and Night. It was one of several mysteries, like the words 'New' and 'Forest'.

The New Forest, in England's leafy Hampshire, is a thousand years old. Its newness derives from William the Conqueror's whim to grant the forest to himself as a royal sports arcade. The forest is, of course, as old as time itself.

Then again, it isn't a forest as we conceive it. It is neither bush nor plantation, not a landscape of trees to the horizon. It is a 'forest' in a more traditional sense, possessing certainly a high density of trees but also fields, fallows, heaths, swamps, ponds and grassy plains. It has also acquired, since good king Willie's time, villages, roads, railways, manors, farms, pylons, factories and a pub on every corner.

Furthermore the New Forest is a National Park and, as a kiwi, it requires some adjustment to accommodate the idea of a National Park not as a place which largely excludes human activity but one which, by necessity, tries to maintain a balance among all its native populations, human and non-human, fauna and flora.

I must also rethink gorse. Our home sits on Bull Hill, a slight prominence at one end of Beaulieu Heath (“Bewley” to the locals). We are almost completely surrounded by wide open spaces of grass, bracken and tangled gorse. As a son of Mid-Canterbury I constantly repress an urge to strap on a spray pack or pick up a slasher and beat back the malefactor. I remind myself it is I and not the gorse that is the exotic element in this landscape - perhaps even the noxious weed.

Gorse aside, the New Forest is charming. There are in fact large areas of trees, some obviously working plantations, others skilfully contrived to seem as wild today as when William and his robber barons cavorted here. It is a place of winding lanes, thatched cottages, sudden silent churchyards in dappled May sunshine, arched stone bridges over slow-flowing streams and a gentle tumble down to the Solent, the narrow water that divides Hampshire and the Isle of Wight.

The management of the Forest is a gentle tug of war between local and national authorities that has wound across two or three centuries after usurping the royal monopoly. A Verderer's Court of local worthies maintains vigilant watch over traditional commoners' rights, defending the land against the threat of enclosure, or its modern counterpart, privatisation. They have their work cut out – as recently as last year the government proposed scrapping all National Parks and selling off the public bits.

Traditional rights are many and sometimes obscure. We hold a right of pannage, which means we can release our pigs to forage in the forest for up to 40 days in November and December, to hoover up the acorns. Sylvia's sister, who lives up the road, has the right to take firewood and cut peat (the 'right' to split and stack her firewood has fallen to me this year). Rights are assigned to the property and pass with it from one owner to the next.

The most visible right of all is the right to graze livestock. The New Forest is famous for its ponies; small, gentle creatures that graze the open spaces, confined only by occasional cattle stops and fences. These creatures are not wild, each is traceable to its owner by a brand, a fluorescent collar or the cut of its tail. We are woken each morning to John Wayne sounds of whinnies and hoofbeats and they gather at the front gate at dusk to nibble the hedge or sniff a handout.

Ponies and cars compete for the roads and driving is a test of patience. This is particularly true just now when the mares are giving birth. The foals, all legs and nerves, shadow their mothers as they amble from one grazing spot to the next. There have been collisions and caution is advised: foals day and night.