Olivier Philippaerts' ride Henna de Goedereede (Argentinus x Heartbreaker) has been sold and the new rider will be Alexandra Thornton.  "Today Henna de Goedereede left our stables to her new owner Henna was one of the best horses I have ever ridden I wish this horse and Alexandra Thornton the best of luck in the future!" writes Philippaerts on his Instagram account.  Philippaerts competed the 10-year-old BWP-mare successfully at Grand Prix level and was placed 6th in this summer's CSI3* Grand Prix in Knokke as well as having top three-finishes in five-star 1.55m classes in St Estoril and Treffen during the outdoor season.  Source: Olivier Philippaerts' Instagram account // Picture © Jenny Abrahamsson © 2025 World of Showjumping - All rights reserved Powered by Artionet - Generated with IceCube2.Net We know life is finite.Why should we believe death lasts forever The shadow of a bird moved across the hill; he could not see the bird Desire permeates everything; nothing human can be cleansed of it We can only think about the unknown in terms of the known Perhaps the most important things we know cannot be proven he did not believe that the mystery at the heart of things was amorphous or vague or a discrepancy but a place in us for something absolutely precise he did not believe in filling that space with religion or science perhaps it could be defined by the principle of stationary action Mist smouldered like cremation fires in the rain It was possible that the blast had taken his hearing Through the curtain of his breath he saw a flash Somewhere out there were his precious boots They decided they would walk to each other across the city and meet in the middle a pale solid from which the snow detached and fell.The cold was cleansing a benediction.They would each leave at the same time and keep to their route they would keep walking until they found each other it was hard yet to tell how far away she was he shook the snow from his hat so she might see him too.yes she lifted her arms above her head to wave only her hat and gloves and the powdery yellow blur of the street lamps were visible against the whiteness of sky and earth he could barely feel his feet or his fingers They were close now but could not make their way any faster somewhere between the library and the bank they gripped each other as if they were the only two humans left in the world That Helena matched her socks to her scarf even when no one could see them in her boots the novel she had been reading in the park the day they understood they would always be together The paper-thin leather gloves she found in the pocket of the men’s tweed coat she bought from the jumble sale her mother’s ring that she wore only when she wore a certain blouse That she left her handbag at home and slipped a five-shilling note in her book when she went to the park to read The boiled sweets tin she kept her foreign change in Helena carried the handbag he had bought for her on the hill road she wore the silk scarf she had found in the market and her tweed coat with velvet under the collar how many times had he felt that velvet when he held open her coat for her Even the stain of pleasure and its taunting: loss The finite as unmanageable as the infinite They walked to his flat and left their wet clothes at the door and so gentle and fierce he couldn’t breathe he had bought the scented powder she liked and he filled the tub he added too much and the foam spilled over the steaming edge.‘A snowbank,’ she said The young soldier was lying only a few metres away The paper bag of chestnuts from the vendor with the brazier in front of the shops leaning against his mother’s heavy wool coat Peeling the brown paper skins of the chestnuts to the steaming meat The edge of his mother’s apron escaping from the edge of her coat the burnished warmth of her necklace as she leaned over to him The inn had been built beside the rail tracks the inn and the valley had been a tourist destination promoted by the train company for its view of the mountains The rail tracks were shadowed by the slow river like a mother struggling to keep up with her child silver lines running the length of the vale Helena had been heading for the larger town beyond she could not stop herself from drifting off succumbing as if drugged by the motion of the train And when the train stopped at the last station before the town misunderstood the conductor booming out the next stop and had grabbed her satchel and disembarked a station too early she felt foolish and slightly afraid; the deserted platform she was about to sit on the single cold bench and wait for daylight not wanting to leave the pitiful protection of that single dusty bulb in the station she would imbue the short walk in the darkness towards that corona of light – the endless fields of invisible grasses rustling in the dark – with the qualities of a dream; the inevitability of it helena saw a room enclosed in a time of its own with a store of logs to last the coldest winter the self-perpetuating supply of a fairy tale magically replacing itself over the centuries an encounter of sudden intimacy in this public place; the angle of her head he watched as a man – soused and staggering every careful step an acknowledgement of the spinning earth and its axial tilt – fell into the vacant chair opposite her John and another onlooker jumped up to help at the same time and dragged the man to the back of the pub to sleep it off.When John returned he found his own table taken by a couple who did not look up she asked if he would care to sit with her later she would tell him of the feeling that passed through her not even a thought: that if he sat down she would be sharing a table with him for the rest of her life The black lines of the trees reminded him of a winter field he’d once seen from the window of a train and the deep black bonnet and apron of his grandmother climbing up from the harbour leading their ancient donkey burdened with heavy baskets of crab All the women in the village wore their tippie and carried their knitting easy to hand growing steadily over the course of the day Each village with its own stitch; you could name a sailor’s home port by the pattern of his gansey which contained a further signature – a deliberate error by which each knitter could identify her work Was an error deliberately made still an error Coastal knitters cast their stitches like a protective spell to keep their men safe and warm and dry the oil in the wool repelling the rain and sea spray They knitted shorter sleeves that did not need to be pushed out of the way of work like the fields in march when they put in the potatoes The black and white socks of Terschelling (two white threads The tree of life.The eye of god over the wearer’s heart his gansey was removed and returned to his widow the stitch of his sweater as good as a map his widow could claim his beloved body by a distinctive talisman – the deliberate error in a sleeve the broken pattern as definitive as a signature on a document The error was a message sent into darkness a man might be returned to his family and laid to rest The error of love that proved its perfection From Held by Anne Michaels Created by Grove Atlantic and Electric Literature Masthead About Sign Up For Our Newsletters How to Pitch Lit Hub Privacy Policy Support Lit Hub - Become A Member Lit Hub has always brought you the best of the book world for free—no paywall you'll keep independent book coverage alive and thriving passed peacefully at Benchmark Senior Living at Nashua Crossings Julius Karel Isaac de Clercq Zubli and Daniella (Langenbach) de Clercq Zubli his beloved wife and author Charmaine (Rita) Richard and Peter journeyed to America from Holland in 1960 to make their home in New England He embarked on a career in computer sciences while working for the Smithsonian Institute in Cambridge where he would retire from after many years of service with the company Dan could often be found at the Nashua Municipal Airport Piloting one of his airplanes with family and friends on board was one of his great pleasures in life He also enjoyed sailing on Lake Winnipesaukee with his family on Sundays and is survived by his three sons Richard of Jaffrey Peter and his wife Bettie Jo of Mount Dora and daughter Birgit Rigg and fiancé Randy Gomes of Hudson Craig and his wife Kaitlyn de Clercq Zubli On behalf of the entire de Clercq Zubli family we would like to express our sincere gratitude for the devoted friendship Steve Budd and his wife Christina kept with our father for over the past thirty years We would also like to express our many thanks to the staff at Benchmark Senior Living at Nashua Crossings for their caring and exceptional support over the last year and a half Copyright © 2025 Ogden Newspapers of New Hampshire LLC | https://www.nashuatelegraph.com | 110 Main St