First Post

I'm not sure where i'm going with this straightaway. I've been reading plenty of equestrian related blogs for a few months now and like the idea of getting my memories and emotions about not living with my horses anymore (not literally, as in a 'raised by wolves' situation) and what I can do in the meanwhile. In my current situation I don't have any horsy friends, so it's a real novelty to be able to talk about it, even if just here.

I hope most people think this way about their horses, but I have been so fortunate to share experiences - maybe that's a bit cheesy, how about having the privilege of working with four brilliant animals, and one old boy who I never really hit it off with, but who was still missed when he'd gone. I'll start by describing them, not all in one go because it would take an absolute age, but it'll get me going and thinking what i'm saying.

My first pony, Georgia, was all a bit of a blur and in retrospect was a big ol' mistake. A young, bright, 12.2 chestnut mare, and me, a nervous 8 year old was not a great idea. Her skittish behaviour and my inexperience ended in tears and a broken elbow for me and us not even having her long enough to take a photo. She was only on loan, and she went back to the yard owner as a definite 'thanks but no thanks'. I certainly always wondered what became of her.

Did I mention I was a lucky child? Well, in terms of the sheer quantity of ponies I met, rode and looked after between the ages of 7 and 11, I was very lucky indeed. As Georgia was to head back to her owner, the lorry coming to pick her up had two ponies on board for me to try out, plus two horses I'd get to know well. There was a black mare, a bay gelding - for me, and a chestnut mare and a grey gelding for other would be's to try.

The ponies couldn't have been more different temperament wise, but I was saved from deciding between them when the day after arrival, the black mare, Poppy, died. Liver failure, apparently. That's what I was told anyway. So, the cruellest twist of fate delivered me a grumpy, thin, snarky bay gelding, about 8 or 9 teeth said, 13.2, cow hocks, odd, high stepping hackney ish trot - when you could GET him to trot for you - and a general bad attitude to anything and everything. He wasn't mean, but you could tell he was almost unfeeling, and even at 8, I could tell he was either a stubborn old beast, or someone had been horrible enough to him in his past to desensitize hiim and he was darned if he'd do anything for you now. Raise a whip to get a trot - nothing. Canter? What was that? Jump? Kidding, right? Riding him the first few times I almost found myself wishing for that zip that got me my broken elbow. Why couldn't I have a PROPER pony? I whinged, one with a PROPER trot, who did what you asked him, who could jump, who wasn't so grumpy all the time. Why do I have to put all this effort in like this? I was spoilt too, clearly.

I called him Oliver. None of the horses on that wagon had had names. I thought that was pretty sad, but a privilege, because he got a name that suited him, and I got to decide what it would be. Sometimes, weeks into the summer he arrived, he'd look happy when I called him Ollie and fed him carrots and groomed him senseless til his mane looked nice and his two white hind feet were clean and his coat lost the lacklustre look and began to shine. Despite his cardboard neck and unwillingness to bend - he had no idea how to accept the bit or achieve collection, or anything like that - he'd trot more willingly, canter a bit, and we enjoyed small rides out around the trails behind the stables with my friends on the school ponies. Things were getting better, slowly.