I first started riding when I was 5 but although you ride and you learn, you don't, I think, gain an appreciation for what your horse or pony is doing for you until you're a bit, or maybe a lot, older.
I've talked about being lucky enough to have Georgia and Ollie when I was young, but what helped me most as a rider, and when I first started taking things in a learning/teaching myself and horses way, was riding for a dealer.
Ronnie Mowbray was from Cumbria and he was the dealer who had brought Ollie over and taken Georgia away - I didn't even cry. I hadn't had a chance to become attached to her. He would make a weekly visit to the yard to bring horses, but mainly ponies, to be schooled, have some competition experience and generally become rideable and sellable. He'd also take away the last batch who'd been there a few weeks.
Now, I can't remember how it came to me, except with all modesty I was the best under 12 rider there, probably under 16 too, but I wasn't big headed. I was shy as anything, which was a bit of an anomaly compared to the other kids who rode there. I had my own pony, which didn't make me popular, and we didn't have much money, which didn't help either. I could take or leave their friendship, but it was the riding that mattered. All year round there'd be new ponies for me to try. These ranged from the 10hh children's pony, Trigger, who just needed exercising and showing to potential buyers (I was small enough to ride a 10 hh pony!!) to the ex 138cms JA jumper Scarlett, who would hurtle into any size jump and more often than not jump it. But, when she didn't, she veered to the right at the last moment, leaving me in the dirt. I soon became wary and stuck to flatwork! There were 'Enry and 'Enrietta, the two chestnut lookalikes, both with a broad blaze and 4 white socks. There was Gump, who was really called Jake and with us to sell because his child didn't want him anymore. There was Zebedee, a canny grey with a wall eye who I'd have wanted for myself if he hadn't been only 13hh.
I was a bit too small to ride anything over 14hh but my biggest regret was an iron grey/blue roan mare named...Blue...who was the epitome of my dream pony at the time. I'd gone through the palomino phase and the black arab stallion phase, but at the time, and a little bit even now, my dream was a compact, grey pony who would jump and look gorgeous. And she was. But she was only 4 and feisty so one of the yard grooms who was jumping at a pretty high level took her on and made her her project. She was sold pretty quickly, but I couldn't help thinking: if only I was a year older!
I would usually ride with my mum watching but sometimes Ian the yard manager and my trainer, would keep an eye on me and make sure the ponies were progressing. I can't say I had much idea of what I was doing in view of long term goals. My idea was that I rode the ponies to keep them fit and taught them a few training movements. However now I look back I realise how invaluable that was. At that point I already knew, even if I didn't understand, the concept of impulsion from the hindlegs, tracking up, working a pony up into the bridle, flexion and transitions. I took all this knowledge for granted when I eventually had a bare broke 5 year old of my own to work with, but I knew it.
One of the older ladies at the yard owned the stables' favourite. Sylvester, a 15.1 fleabitten grey schoolmaster. What a find he'd been from the dealer. Sylly was a legend. All the competition grooms clamoured to take him in the show jumping classes and the higher level dressage classes as he was clearly a talented little horse. But he was inexperienced Irene's first horse. She loved him to bits and she worked on her flatwork with him, did small jumps and hacked out. He wanted for nothing and she loved to see him do the bigger classes, which he often won.
Sometimes though when we were riding in the evenings, Syl would calmly cheek his rider all through a session. He would be lazy, he wouldn't engage his hindlegs, he wouldn't work up into an outline, he would ignore a canter aid, he would stick his neck out on circles. Irene would get frustrated and so we'd swop, me onto Syl, her onto Ollie. She was very small and looked good on Ollie as she enjoyed his pony gaits and his lack of guile - within a year of having him he'd grown into a smart little chap who would do a very accurate prelim level test. His stubbornness under saddle lessened a lot. Meanwhile Sylvester would effortlessly transform back into the well behaved horse he'd been trained to be. A quick gee up and he'd settle into his standard way of going. Irene never disciplined him, save to tell him he was naughty but she was always puzzled as to why he wouldn't listen. Syl was far too much of a gent to really take the p*ss, but it was comical to watch as he serenely ignored her vocal reprimands. I loved her dearly but when I look back I do worry that if Parelli had been common then that she would have baffled that poor horse with it!
Thursday, 29 October 2009
Wednesday, 14 October 2009
Messed about timeline
I've written about different things at different times because to keep to one timeline would be difficult and things happen that I want to make note of.
Since I'm inspired by showing, I'll jot a bit of that down - and how I wish I could go back and do it again!!
By the time I was 11 I'd grown into Frankie a little bit. We did local shows, we show jumped, dressaged, did cross country, although the battering my nerves had taken from experiences with Ollie took another year or so to be healed. Taking Frankie cross country was a dream. I took he and Ollie to Brettanby, our local Hunt's hunter trial. This had been my first ever away from home event when I first got Ollie and it lasted 3 fences, before the first water crossing and elimination.
Coming back brought some memories but since Ollie was now a water pro, I wasn't worried. He was entered in the triers at around 85cms and Frankie in the open at around 95cms.
I knew the course well, having schooled there before and although it had been reversed, my ride on Ollie went brilliantly. He flew round, I was riding him in a short cheek hackamore at this point, but our relationship was excellent and I could just give him his head. We finished in something like two minutes under optimum time which meant no chance of a result! But I didn't care. Ollie had made it. He'd gone from being grumpy, withdrawn, misunderstood and slow to happy, outgoing, supported and FAST!
With him finished, I cooled him down and handed him over to Mum, swapping over to Frankie for the open. I put in his studs and overgirth - yeah, all the gear! - and started warming him up. Nothing really fazed him, even at 6. He was alert to everything, but always controllable. I'd walked the course, which incorporated a wooded section - very twisty and turny - that had a treble of elephant traps set on odd distances. They were probably my scariest fence, but approaching them on Frankie, with my mind screaming 'they're huge! surely not! i can't even see the next one!' he was bold enough to take a stride out at the first, then head for the next which was to the right, round a treestump, leap that, and then to the last, which was left and diagonal, and flew over that too. At that moment in our relationship I knew I could trust this horse with anything. What an alien feeling!
The memory that sticks in my mind most was a qualifier for working hunter where fence 8 was a bullfinch, around 5 foot high, which I could not see over on the course walk. The idea was the horses brush through the top, like a chaser fence. That idea to me was a nauseating one. Frankie didn't know to do that! He'd just see a solid wall of brush! We'd got round the course with a couple of poles down up to then, so we weren't in the running. I harboured no hope of a rosette but barrelling down to this hedge, I have never had such a feeling of 'not gonna make it!' as this. Now, that's meant to transmit to your horse, right?
Not Frankie. He went for it. Tried to clear the brush but ended up going through the top as he was meant to. We had one stop at a large stile, but maybe my negativity had seeped through by then, Frankie thinking 'jeez, I've just taken her over that hedge, what more does she need me to do?!' It was a harrowing experience but we managed a 4th place as 23 out of 28 people were eventually eliminated in the class, the course was that grim!
Since I'm inspired by showing, I'll jot a bit of that down - and how I wish I could go back and do it again!!
By the time I was 11 I'd grown into Frankie a little bit. We did local shows, we show jumped, dressaged, did cross country, although the battering my nerves had taken from experiences with Ollie took another year or so to be healed. Taking Frankie cross country was a dream. I took he and Ollie to Brettanby, our local Hunt's hunter trial. This had been my first ever away from home event when I first got Ollie and it lasted 3 fences, before the first water crossing and elimination.
Coming back brought some memories but since Ollie was now a water pro, I wasn't worried. He was entered in the triers at around 85cms and Frankie in the open at around 95cms.
I knew the course well, having schooled there before and although it had been reversed, my ride on Ollie went brilliantly. He flew round, I was riding him in a short cheek hackamore at this point, but our relationship was excellent and I could just give him his head. We finished in something like two minutes under optimum time which meant no chance of a result! But I didn't care. Ollie had made it. He'd gone from being grumpy, withdrawn, misunderstood and slow to happy, outgoing, supported and FAST!
With him finished, I cooled him down and handed him over to Mum, swapping over to Frankie for the open. I put in his studs and overgirth - yeah, all the gear! - and started warming him up. Nothing really fazed him, even at 6. He was alert to everything, but always controllable. I'd walked the course, which incorporated a wooded section - very twisty and turny - that had a treble of elephant traps set on odd distances. They were probably my scariest fence, but approaching them on Frankie, with my mind screaming 'they're huge! surely not! i can't even see the next one!' he was bold enough to take a stride out at the first, then head for the next which was to the right, round a treestump, leap that, and then to the last, which was left and diagonal, and flew over that too. At that moment in our relationship I knew I could trust this horse with anything. What an alien feeling!
The memory that sticks in my mind most was a qualifier for working hunter where fence 8 was a bullfinch, around 5 foot high, which I could not see over on the course walk. The idea was the horses brush through the top, like a chaser fence. That idea to me was a nauseating one. Frankie didn't know to do that! He'd just see a solid wall of brush! We'd got round the course with a couple of poles down up to then, so we weren't in the running. I harboured no hope of a rosette but barrelling down to this hedge, I have never had such a feeling of 'not gonna make it!' as this. Now, that's meant to transmit to your horse, right?
Not Frankie. He went for it. Tried to clear the brush but ended up going through the top as he was meant to. We had one stop at a large stile, but maybe my negativity had seeped through by then, Frankie thinking 'jeez, I've just taken her over that hedge, what more does she need me to do?!' It was a harrowing experience but we managed a 4th place as 23 out of 28 people were eventually eliminated in the class, the course was that grim!
I've been out of touch
with horses for a while. Then a friend asked me to judge some showjumping a couple of weekends ago. Another judge there was a girl I used to compete with and against. She'd done the Uni thing too, but had stayed at home and currently has a 4 year old novice hack/riding type with whom she's aiming for HOYS.
HOYS always stirs something in me, it was this time last year I started this blog, and what a failure it was after a couple of months!
I read plenty of other blogs, but i'm just not in the position at the moment to get back into riding, much though I would dearly love to. I'd love to take Jack, my 'novice' 15 year old to the show I judged at, next year. I'd love to do hunter trials again with Frankie, even working hunter and go to HOYS. But things change and you can't always get what you want (Thanks, Rolling Stones)
HOYS always stirs something in me, it was this time last year I started this blog, and what a failure it was after a couple of months!
I read plenty of other blogs, but i'm just not in the position at the moment to get back into riding, much though I would dearly love to. I'd love to take Jack, my 'novice' 15 year old to the show I judged at, next year. I'd love to do hunter trials again with Frankie, even working hunter and go to HOYS. But things change and you can't always get what you want (Thanks, Rolling Stones)
Wednesday, 7 January 2009
From a ginger cat, to a ginger Ferrari.
One of our family cats, Tig, was put to sleep on Monday. He’d lived with us for nearly 12 years, after my mum brought him home from the vet’s she worked at. Something about him just niggled her, and she felt she couldn’t let him go up for adoption. So, we got a ginger bundle of curiosity and, to put it kindly, one with the mental density of two short planks. A genius he was not.
I began to call him Ming (I don’t know why, it just happened. Most of our animals have a variety of pet names), but he would come running whether you called him, our other cat, Felix, our dog, Nicky, if my mum called me…anything. He was a real softie and you could do anything with him, pick him up, drape him over you, gently tackle him to the floor – a particular favourite. He would even stand on his back legs just at the tapping together of fingers – he thought you had food EVERY time, even though you never did.
Ming was rubbish at catching things, I think a butterfly, once, but little else. He wasn’t really bothered. He was never a barn cat, in fact to have him outside was dangerous, for he liked to lie on the hot tarmac of the lane outside our house in summer, and was forever being rescued and brought back. Heat was very much his thing. Lying along radiators so his paw pads burned, lying on the hearth in front of the fire, lying in the sun so long he was VERY hot to the touch. A gentle reprimand would elicit a few blinks and an affectionate purr as if to say ‘but it’s so warrrrrrrrm!!’ as he stretched luxuriously, hoping for a bit of attention. He never liked being picked up, staying put for a few moments, before slowly wiggling around so you’d put him down. But as soon as he was down, he’d look up and ‘rrrow?’ at you, which made you wonder what he wanted. Usually a gentle tackle and a tummy rub resulted.More recently he’d become a bit mischievous, taking to leaping on our biggest, baddest cat, Barry, when he least expected it and tackling him to the floor. All in all, Tig was the friendliest, most easygoing, happiest cat who lived with us. Everyone loved him, and I shall miss his chilled out way of life at the heart of the best heat sources, and the way he would miaow if you asked him to. He was a fab cat.
Tig is of course not the first pet or animal I’ve loved and lost. In my life I haven’t had much family – or at least very few of them worth caring about – and animals, particularly horses, have helped form most of my lasting bonds.
In my last post, Frankie’s story and ridden life were just beginning, but my time with Oliver was drawing to an end. Whilst at the smaller yard, I was growing quickly, and 13.3 was looking unlikely to be a height I could ride for much longer. My mum and I looked into putting Ollie out on loan or into a lesson program at a very good riding centre. We never wanted to sell him, after all the hard work and experiences we’d been through and the resulting happy, bouncing Ollie, we could never have done that.
We hacked out plenty at the farm, and one of my favourite shorter rides was up a long incline that you could take at a decent pace, then cooling off through a forest and back down windy hedgerowed lanes to the yard. One fresh spring day my mum and I headed out on Luke and Ollie, intending a bit of fun on the hill. Ollie was rapid, could beat any of the horses on the yard up the hill apart from one or two of the novice eventers. As Luke was an ex racehorse, this was no mean feat for a medium sized pony – except Luke just had no interest in racing. He’d happily canter steadily up the hill, getting to the top eventually, whereas I’d give Ollie his head and he would positively fly up the long logging trail, breathing like he’d run the Grand National at the top, but still wanting to canter or gallop on through the trees. He loved to run.This day was no different; we crossed the main road and headed through the village to the road up the hill and the track that led up into the woods, Ollie dancing as we opened and shut the gate – he knew what was coming! We meandered on, picking up a trot on the softer trail, Luke’s fluid stride matching four of Oliver’s jittery ones. We never bothered with ‘fair’ starts since mum didn’t intend to race and I just wanted to go fast, so we picked up a canter side by side, the horses knowing from experience that the start of the incline was the time to go. As usual, as soon as I gave Ollie the rein and his head, he was off. I was up out of the saddle, over his withers, feeling the wind hit my face, whistle in my ears and the trees streak by all blurry. It was a good few minutes to the top, but Ollie was fit and he kept his pace well. It was therefore a massive surprise to me when a chestnut form appeared next to us, hovered briefly, then powered away ahead, giving me just enough time to see the huge grin on my mum’s face. Luke had found it in himself to GO. And go he did. Ollie tried his best, but like a truck next to a sports car, there was no chance. They were waiting for us at the top, Mum looking smug, Luke matter of fact, like it had been nothing. It probably hadn’t.
I got to experience Luke’s Ferrari-smoothness for myself one day at our next stables. Mum let me take him around a part of the tracks. At 14, she was beginning to trust me on him a little. He’s a fairly laid back guy, so I felt safe on him, at least on grass. We trotted some, up the first side of the field, then took the corner to our right, and I eased him up a gear – lovely smooth, long striding canter. There was another corner to go on the trail, so I didn’t want to be flat out there as sometimes dog walkers or pheasants or rabbits sat around there. I slowed back a little just to check, and seeing the path clear all the way, we rocked back up to a fast canter, and then with a squeeze, he was in top gear, the power from his hind end so smooth but efficient, and it’s honestly the fastest I’ve ever gone on horseback. The distance just rushed past, and all too soon, far too soon, I had to put on some brakes. He responded nicely, so I stroked his shoulder – patting is too violent for Luke, it makes him twitch – and ruffled his mane, as we headed back to the yard, cooling down and appreciating the setting sun as we went.
I began to call him Ming (I don’t know why, it just happened. Most of our animals have a variety of pet names), but he would come running whether you called him, our other cat, Felix, our dog, Nicky, if my mum called me…anything. He was a real softie and you could do anything with him, pick him up, drape him over you, gently tackle him to the floor – a particular favourite. He would even stand on his back legs just at the tapping together of fingers – he thought you had food EVERY time, even though you never did.
Ming was rubbish at catching things, I think a butterfly, once, but little else. He wasn’t really bothered. He was never a barn cat, in fact to have him outside was dangerous, for he liked to lie on the hot tarmac of the lane outside our house in summer, and was forever being rescued and brought back. Heat was very much his thing. Lying along radiators so his paw pads burned, lying on the hearth in front of the fire, lying in the sun so long he was VERY hot to the touch. A gentle reprimand would elicit a few blinks and an affectionate purr as if to say ‘but it’s so warrrrrrrrm!!’ as he stretched luxuriously, hoping for a bit of attention. He never liked being picked up, staying put for a few moments, before slowly wiggling around so you’d put him down. But as soon as he was down, he’d look up and ‘rrrow?’ at you, which made you wonder what he wanted. Usually a gentle tackle and a tummy rub resulted.More recently he’d become a bit mischievous, taking to leaping on our biggest, baddest cat, Barry, when he least expected it and tackling him to the floor. All in all, Tig was the friendliest, most easygoing, happiest cat who lived with us. Everyone loved him, and I shall miss his chilled out way of life at the heart of the best heat sources, and the way he would miaow if you asked him to. He was a fab cat.
Tig is of course not the first pet or animal I’ve loved and lost. In my life I haven’t had much family – or at least very few of them worth caring about – and animals, particularly horses, have helped form most of my lasting bonds.
In my last post, Frankie’s story and ridden life were just beginning, but my time with Oliver was drawing to an end. Whilst at the smaller yard, I was growing quickly, and 13.3 was looking unlikely to be a height I could ride for much longer. My mum and I looked into putting Ollie out on loan or into a lesson program at a very good riding centre. We never wanted to sell him, after all the hard work and experiences we’d been through and the resulting happy, bouncing Ollie, we could never have done that.
We hacked out plenty at the farm, and one of my favourite shorter rides was up a long incline that you could take at a decent pace, then cooling off through a forest and back down windy hedgerowed lanes to the yard. One fresh spring day my mum and I headed out on Luke and Ollie, intending a bit of fun on the hill. Ollie was rapid, could beat any of the horses on the yard up the hill apart from one or two of the novice eventers. As Luke was an ex racehorse, this was no mean feat for a medium sized pony – except Luke just had no interest in racing. He’d happily canter steadily up the hill, getting to the top eventually, whereas I’d give Ollie his head and he would positively fly up the long logging trail, breathing like he’d run the Grand National at the top, but still wanting to canter or gallop on through the trees. He loved to run.This day was no different; we crossed the main road and headed through the village to the road up the hill and the track that led up into the woods, Ollie dancing as we opened and shut the gate – he knew what was coming! We meandered on, picking up a trot on the softer trail, Luke’s fluid stride matching four of Oliver’s jittery ones. We never bothered with ‘fair’ starts since mum didn’t intend to race and I just wanted to go fast, so we picked up a canter side by side, the horses knowing from experience that the start of the incline was the time to go. As usual, as soon as I gave Ollie the rein and his head, he was off. I was up out of the saddle, over his withers, feeling the wind hit my face, whistle in my ears and the trees streak by all blurry. It was a good few minutes to the top, but Ollie was fit and he kept his pace well. It was therefore a massive surprise to me when a chestnut form appeared next to us, hovered briefly, then powered away ahead, giving me just enough time to see the huge grin on my mum’s face. Luke had found it in himself to GO. And go he did. Ollie tried his best, but like a truck next to a sports car, there was no chance. They were waiting for us at the top, Mum looking smug, Luke matter of fact, like it had been nothing. It probably hadn’t.
I got to experience Luke’s Ferrari-smoothness for myself one day at our next stables. Mum let me take him around a part of the tracks. At 14, she was beginning to trust me on him a little. He’s a fairly laid back guy, so I felt safe on him, at least on grass. We trotted some, up the first side of the field, then took the corner to our right, and I eased him up a gear – lovely smooth, long striding canter. There was another corner to go on the trail, so I didn’t want to be flat out there as sometimes dog walkers or pheasants or rabbits sat around there. I slowed back a little just to check, and seeing the path clear all the way, we rocked back up to a fast canter, and then with a squeeze, he was in top gear, the power from his hind end so smooth but efficient, and it’s honestly the fastest I’ve ever gone on horseback. The distance just rushed past, and all too soon, far too soon, I had to put on some brakes. He responded nicely, so I stroked his shoulder – patting is too violent for Luke, it makes him twitch – and ruffled his mane, as we headed back to the yard, cooling down and appreciating the setting sun as we went.
Monday, 5 January 2009
Settling In
After Frankie’s hair raising antics, things settled down for all of a couple of months, when some personality clashes in the yard meant that my mum decided it was time for a change of scenery. We packed up and headed to a new yard, right at the foot of the Cleveland hills. The only problem was that we were the only liveries. No other kids, no other ponies to ride, it was probably time to get serious. Over the winter that followed, I barely rode Frankie, instead my mum hacked him out and schooled him whilst I focussed on Ollie’s flatwork and jumping, which was improving, despite our fears he’d never lose his old ways. I would take him out on long hilly trails into the moors with the yard owner’s daughter who had a couple of eventers, and he loved to gallop and jump natural obstacles, which in turn gave him confidence to jump up to 3 foot in the school. This yard only had an outdoor school, and barrels and poles for jumps, which was a big come down from a competition yard, but the stables were indoors and spacious, the horses had a paddock to themselves and I couldn’t complain. It was while we were there that the yard owner took on another livery with 3 horses. Anne was disabled and competed in dressage, and she had a coloured mare that was being aimed at coloured and show hunter classes. It was Anne who saw the potential in Frankie for showing, which at any level higher than local was very new to me. By this point, we’d done more show jumping, and had been selected on pony club area teams, I particularly enjoyed cross country and I schooled him whenever I could at the yard Ian had moved to. Working Hunter seemed a logical next step, since at 14.3 he could not jump in pony classes and at 11, I didn’t fancy moving into horse classes.
We did our first local-ish show in the summer of 1998, coming I think 5th out of 6, or something, but more to the point, I’d enjoyed it, Frankie had behaved beautifully – he seemed to enjoy the attention, and we hadn’t looked out of place. However, at a higher level, his confirmation would let him down, which I soon began to realise. A long back and not being a natural weight carrier would mean he’d never get placed above a typey, chunky, short coupled cob. We’d entered the Great Yorkshire Show Welsh class and been pulled in 15th or so, which we never managed again! So, we tried working hunter. He de-noviced himself in his first ever class, winning easily. We also qualified for the British Show Pony Society winter championships, in working hunter and flat classes. This would be our first ever trip away that involved staying overnight, which seemed a pretty big deal to me.
We did our first local-ish show in the summer of 1998, coming I think 5th out of 6, or something, but more to the point, I’d enjoyed it, Frankie had behaved beautifully – he seemed to enjoy the attention, and we hadn’t looked out of place. However, at a higher level, his confirmation would let him down, which I soon began to realise. A long back and not being a natural weight carrier would mean he’d never get placed above a typey, chunky, short coupled cob. We’d entered the Great Yorkshire Show Welsh class and been pulled in 15th or so, which we never managed again! So, we tried working hunter. He de-noviced himself in his first ever class, winning easily. We also qualified for the British Show Pony Society winter championships, in working hunter and flat classes. This would be our first ever trip away that involved staying overnight, which seemed a pretty big deal to me.
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