Listening to Sybille Gibson, then, you
recognise an equivalence with her an-
cestors not just in process but in mindset.
" With mares you tr y one stallion, you
tr y another, until you find the right
blood cross," she says. "I can't say we
just tr y a bit of ever ything. The way we
handle the horses, for instance, does
not change. Nor does the place where
w e r a i s e t h e m , w h i c h i s t h e h e a r t o f
e ver ything. But with the crosses, you
are always tr ying something different."
Elegant and thoughtful, she is sitting
in the stall at Arqana that once housed
Montaigu's most famous graduate. It
is e a r l y o n e s a l e s m o r n i n g , t h e r e i s
h a r d ly anyone around—some prospec-
tive buyers have probably only just
reeled out of Le Drakkar—and Gibson
is in her element: the air is saturated
with the scent of fresh straw, and the
silence punctuated only by a drowsy
snicker, or a thud against wood echoing
down the row.
"And it's all a myster y," she says. "My
parents bought Martaline to be a Flat
