winter blues, whites, browns

Those are the main colours around this part of the country at the minute. It's been the coldest December in the 15 years we've had horses. My first Christmas with Oliver was 1995, and it snowed a teensy bit, but basically just a dusting. Since moving out into the hills, there have been more snowy times, but this takes the cake. The temperatures have been down to -15, which i'm not sure any of our horses have experienced before! It snowed so much that the lane to the house was blocked and my mum was snowed in. I was moved to order some new heavyweight turnouts for Frankie, who had finally ripped the last useable turnout he had (nice purple one!) and for Luke, who never grows a winter coat and is a bit delicate. Having said that, Luke had managed to not wreck - or have it wrecked by Frankie the thug - for about 10 years, so it is a timely replacement. They've also had polarfleeces on under rugs at night and Luke has had an additional lightweight stable blanket as he drops weight at the mere hint of freezing temperatures. Jack is the woolliest beast at this time of year, and grows an impressive beard, as well as belly and chest coat, so he can wait for a rug update as he's pretty careful with his Aspen combo. He likes to come up and exchange breaths which I don't mind at all as he has a lovely velvety nose, compared to Frankie's somewhat slobbery one and Luke's little blonde moustache. I haven't been able to get up to visit because of the weather, but I really want to go sledging on the hill in their field. I did this once a few years back, and unfortunately had my phone stolen that had a video of it on. I went down one side of the hill on my bright yellow sledge, and they kicked up their heels and ran down their side, bucking, snorting, rampaging. They whirled round and pulled up, puffing out hot air, eyes wide. As I drew to a halt, Frankie the brave dared to approach me, slowly, tentatively, in a serpentine shape, a few steps left and forward, a few steps right and forward. He looks (and maybe sounds) like a dragon when he gets going, nostrils flared, puffing little snorts out. He eventually figured out it was me, when I got up and spoke to him, but it was such fun, to feel the speed of the sledge, and to see them running in mock fear and excitement. Our horses are so much fun.

wet winter, scruffy beasts, playtime

the usual: F & J up front pestering, Luke looking on longingly

I'm being kept busy at work and outside work with the coaching I do and other bits and pieces.

I went up to my mum's a couple of weeks ago to help with the preparing for winter trim session which I just did in the field as the boys were grazing and milling around me as usual. They love/find it interesting when I go in and unless the grass or hay is very tasty, I usually have all three of them head over to see why i'm in their domain. Usually I have carrots, and this time I did, but they had to stand and have their manes and forelocks pulled for them this time. They also get their tails banged across just below their hocks to stop at least some mud getting in there. There's been so much rain, and the Highways Agency still haven't been to re-drain and fix the pasture so it looks like another winter of a muddy half of it. The other side is drier and much greener, but at coming in time, they have to stand in the mud or on the hardstanding by the gate, which sucks.

I was staying over this last weekend to horse sit, so when I got up to breakfast them on Sunday morning and it wasn't raining or sub zero temperatures and the field was still half wallow, I thought it might be nice to let them have a nekkid roll in the sand school. They all agreed - Jack twice, Luke only on one side, and Frankie fatly - and Frankie in particular showed off, bucking and kicking and flinging and snorting and prancing. Thinking back, I should probably have spent some time playing with him as they won't want to run around much on slippery ground, and he just gets this wicked look in his eye where he wants you to watch him show off his athleticism and his stops, slides and turns - he'd be great at running patterns - and to chase him a little bit, so he was seemingly disappointed when I just put Jack and Luke out with him, for him to chase and snarl at, before grooming, re-rugging and letting them head out to the field. They went quietly, almost keenly, but he was still in such a faffy mood that he 'forgot' where the gate was and ran up and down the fence line snorting, because he could see them in the field but couldn't get to them as fast as he wanted. Calling him didn't work, he didn't want to be caught, so I *had* to bribe him with some feed which of course calmed him instantly and he followed me to the field and indignantly found himself a pile of hay. I'm going up on Weds/Thurs this week, so i think i'll give him a bit of a loose school before he goes out on Thursday morning and he can have a roll and a mess around. I'll try for some pictures. It can't be fun to be in a rainy, muddy field, but nor is it fun to be stuck in a stable, even with hay in either situation. fingers crossed for a move to a warmer climes soon...

Slimmer ponies, cooler weather

Although Jack and Frankie are far from slim overall, they have dropped some early summer blubber and Jack in particular looks fantastic; shiny, sleek and bright eyed. Frankie has rubbed his mane - a change from his usual tail rubbing of the summer. His hair is so thick that rubbing tea tree or medicated lotion morning and night doesn't provide enough relief for his beastly mane. He's happy, nevertheless and whickers at us as we cross the completely-run-dry stream to see him. I don't like to give in to his arrogance, so I don't go up to him straightaway. Mum walks past him and he noses out at her in case of treats, but there are none. I adopt my usual pose: a crouch a few metres away from him. This usually gets his interest, but not this time. Fine. I walk past, just inches from him, so he can't nose at me, although he half tries. Finally he gives in and curls round to follow me as I walk past him. I win. I give him a face rub under his huge forelock, check his ears for horrible flies and run my hand down his neck, over his back and quarters. All Frankie wants to do is mouth my hands, groom on my shoulder, burgle my pockets. For about 20 seconds anyway. Mum has walked up the hill to open the gate to the top paddock, and Luke and Jack in the other field have started to head over the dry stream bed for the promise of grass! and more grass! in the new section. Frankie loses interest in me and heads over. They all walk up to the steep bank and then effortlessly propel into canter for 3 or 4 leaps until they are at the top, and then brake back down to walk and graze mode once through the gate.

We spend the early afternoon, Mum and I, picking ragwort and other blown debris from the road - I hate litterbugs - off of the field as the boys graze around us.

After lunch, we try our new western saddle on Frankie with the bosal, but the seat is rather small - I think it may be a kids or breaking saddle? - for my seat, so I swap to my eventing saddle and a bridle with a bit - nathe dutch gag on middle ring - as I decide to head out for an explore. In my mind, I've had an idea that if the fields up by the village are still stubbled, we might go for a canter...I don't tell Mum this, but I say we're going up to see the cows/sheep etc. She tells me to watch out for the geese. Wise advice, as a flock take off out of the field next to the road and Frankie stops still, quivering, to watch these odd flying things appear from nowhere. He whinnies loud and high pitched as we head down the road, and he wants to turn back, yet he is fascinated by just about everything. As we get to the junction to head off to the field, a large tractor is rumbling towards us. I trust Frankie, but he's up on his toes anyway, so we turn around and go sit on the verge on the other side of the road until the tractor passes. The driver says thanks and we head on. In a couple of strides, he notices the green plastic-wrapped silage in a field. This elicits another fit of snorting and dancing. I pretty much talk nonstop to him, so i talk him through this and we finally get past, without me ending up in a ditch. result. We head past some cows and more geese and I can see the stubble field round the corner.

Being sensible, we walk in to scope out the ground and associated beasties. We startle three pheasants and two hares and spot no rabbit holes, which is GOOD. When we reach the top of the tractor track, I nudge him into a trot and we loop some circles on each rein, then we do the same in canter. He's pretty tense, but I want him a little warmed-up. I bring him back to walk, head to the start of the track and tell him: go on then! he needs no further encouragement so I crouch low over his neck, listening to the hoofbeats and trying to use his flying half-mane as a windbreak, which is buffeting my face hard. We pull up gently, and walk back to do it all again. There's a golden tinge to the sky and a light rain, despite the sun, which has brewed a large rainbow to the east. The cattle are rucking to be fed in the field next door as we bounce down the track and once we've gone far enough, I let Frankie turn and run hard for home again. I can see his white feet kicking up dirt with each stride and I can feel him stretching to go as fast as he can for me, and for his own enjoyment. It's over all too soon, but i'm not going to push it. We brake gradually and wobble to a jog. Frankie is mouthing the bit, striding out, going up into his bridle and right up on his toes. We show-walk most of the way back to the main road, not even noticing the scary horse-eating silage bales and I admire our shadow as we head back, remembering when we did this for show. It takes most of the way back for him to chill out and accept the loose rein. I love this horse. Adore him. He just wants his rain sheet on, his night time hay and to relax with his buddies. I can't stop smiling, even when Mum asks mock sternly where we've been.

Great Yorkshire Show

I go to the show every year. I used to compete in the Welsh Cob ridden classes, but was never placed. Frankie is very much a 'performance' built boy, and despite having a multi-championship winner for a sire and a very nice mother, he's a bit long backed, a bit long-legged, has a wall eye, and in those days, was quite lean for a Welsh, as we did plenty of jumping, cross country and general hacking and galloping around. Although he has stunning paces and loved the atmosphere of a big ring, he was never a match for the rounder, crested cobs who were taller, bulkier and more 'typey'. But I wasn't too bothered. We mainly went for the fun, and because he did a good show and it was good experience to compete in front of bigger crowds. I think i'd baulk at doing it now, knowing how he is not the right 'type'. Workers was much more our thing.

Anyway, this year was the first year of a 'retrained racehorse' class. Immediately I thought of Luke! The examples of TB forward ranged from tiny ex flat horses aged 5 who went well and regularly showed as riding horses (and won) to 19 year old pros who did a bit of everything and went maturely, to horses who people had clearly just entered through the qualification criteria that their horse that they had probably never ridden in a ring full of other horses and had to hand gallop, had raced twice as a two year old, or whatever. There were so many joggers, half-rearers, those going round with their heads in the air, riders showing in half chaps, synthetic saddles, no continuity between tweed or black jackets. Basically, Luke wouldn't have been an embarrassment in there.

Unfortunately when I showed, these classes were very rare, otherwise i'd have been keen to have a go. Luke has lovely conformation and paces, although i have no idea how he'd react to the crowds. He'll be 21 next year, but this year's second place was 19...

The whole thing, combined with meeting old friends and hearing their stories made me miss living with horses even more acutely.

I'd love to start again, or at least get the boys fit, possibly have them front-shod, and just get back to riding regularly. I'd love to do some smaller shows with Jack, and maybe get Frankie out and about in veteran classes now he's 18, something I cannot quite believe.

It's something to look forward to anyway, with a bit of luck and hope.

I'm getting seasonal

The Jackal checking out his paparazzi.

Despite living without the horses, I do ring my mum every week for updates and go to visit them when I can. On my last visit in June, just as summer was breaking, the boys had been given the 'extra' bit of field at the top of the property and were quickly making their way through the untouched grass. Frankie came down to the stream first of all as soon as he saw me, boyfriend, mum, and dog wandering around on his property. Dog isn't allowed in horse field any more after one day, 10 years after we'd had the dog and the horses knew her and allowed her in the field whilst we were there, Frankie decided he wanted to kill her and chased her down, teeth bared, ears flattened. A firm yell of 'FRANCIS!' halted him briefly but he still looked like he fancied murdering something, so the dog was removed and has been ever since, justincase.

Anyway, I crossed the stepping stones to go see Frankie, minus dog, whilst Mum checked out the young fish in the stream. Frankie let me give him some rubs, play with his face, soothe his ears but after his customary worship time, he'd had enough and mooched back to the others, except there was a smooth transition to gallop as he headed up our 'derby bank' which is the quickest way to get to the upper field.

I skipped the gate and headed up the lane to check on Luke and Jack, who were too interested in nomgrassnom to come say hi, but Jack did look up for the crazy girl with a camera lurking in the bushes to be able to take a nice photo of him against the backdrop of orangey Luke and yellow oil seed rape. Good boy. Luke rarely lets himself be distracted by anything whilst eating, he's faaar too chilled for that.

spring! it's sprung!

And i've seen daffodils and crocuses (croci?) and a small deer in the field up the lane from my house. There hasn't been snow for over a week now and everyone and everything are breathing sighs of relief. Our horses were able to be turned out nekkid yesterday in the outdoor school, for a scritch and a groom and a 'shed our coats everywhere', except Luke, who is far too refined to shed much at all. Frankie and Jack shed indiscriminately all over, all the time. They look like old, bedraggled toys, despite grooming with the scraper, until about May, then they start to become sleek and shiny and their heads take back their shape from their beardy chins and jaws. Frankie has a decent speckling of grey now on his muzzle and whiskers, as well as around his hind end whorls and big star. He's getting older, but he doesn't mind. Life's pretty easy for him as alpha gelding, even if Jack is trying it on a bit these days.

I don't remember much in the spring of '99, I passed from school to the yard to bed and repeated it everyday, with just the yard on weekends.

It sounds callous, but it took losing Oliver for me to look at Frankie seriously, which now, shows how unimpressed I was by potential or breeding - like I knew a thing! - or things like that. Frankie is a 14.3hh Welsh section D, by the stallion Mabnesscliffe Survivor, who set the all time stallion sale record in 1988. He's bay. Frankie's dam was bay. Frankie is black. He bleaches ginger in the summer. He has 4 white socks, a wall eye, heaps of mane, tail, muscle and oozes curiosity. He became mine when he was 5 and he was 7 when he became my only pony.

In retrospect, my not having any expectations for him probably was for the best. He spent time with my mum hacking him out, with me building his topline and introducing him to cross country and the fun of galloping and flat schooling. He was a dream to train, after our intial scuffles and bucking arguments. He has a stunning extended trot that he likes to roll out whenever he can. Despite a long back, he will collect nicely. I never had to introduce the concept of being 'on the bit' or 'on the bridle', he did it naturally. It was like I put in years of toil with Ollie, for wonderful rewards, and Frankie, with his lack of baggage and mistreatment was just...a gift. Cheesy, huh?

I remember taking him for flat schooling with Ian and we'd get through so much work as we rarely needed to repeat a movement. I was learning things I'd only seen in books like pirouettes, travers and renvers then going onto shoulder in and half pass, extension and collection. It was incredible. I sound like I'm gushing, but my nostalgia here is not misplaced. He was a dream to jump as well. We never had a stop across country or show jumping, but then I never pushed him to the bigger tracks in these. With his inbetween height and my young age, I never wanted to get into eventing (too chicken), showjumping (too many other people doing it), dressage (fun at home, but not varied enough for me to specialise in). So, showing it was. I still did the other disciplines on the side, but I started to get serious when I realised Frankie was better than good.

remarking the years: sorrow

me exhibiting my version of what was described as the 'Oliver crouch' in a showjumping book from the 1960s. Apt, since I'm on Oliver. Ollie's perfect bascule must have been because the photographer was there. We were at a Pony Club area comp, and we probably didn't win!

I'm an absolute pita for nostalgia, well, in my own head I am. The best - and worst, by far - year of my life was 1999. I judge my life in 'years where something significant happened' or 'songs that remind me of something that happened in such and such a year'.

For example, 1999 was the first year I qualified for the British winter novice championships in flat and jumping classes as well as the summer open championships. It was also the year we had to say goodbye to Ollie. I've never written about it, so I don't know how it'll go, but i'll give it a try.

One ghastly dark and raining February evening we'd gone to bring in the ponies. Frankie was hustling the others at the gate as usual, and Ollie was hanging back, as usual. I squelched in to go put on his headcollar and started leading him away to get back to the light, warm stable. He wouldn't budge. I shouted my Mum to tell her and began checking him over. He was shivering and would not move a muscle. She quickly took Frankie in and came back to help. He still wouldn't shift and I found a large gash on his off hind, about half way down the inside of his upper leg. I was a bit panicky at this point and mum told me to run and call the vet. On the way, I met Liz, the wife of the yard owner and hurriedly sobbed a garbled explanation. She rounded up her husband and very tall sons and headed down to the field to help.

I told our vets we had an emergency and they said after they'd been out to a horse with a hole in its head (yikes) they'd send someone. I ran back out to see the guys carrying Ollie through the yard. I think at this point, everyone knew what was what. We got him in the stable and cleaned him up, tried to get him to feed, but he'd lost a lot of blood it seemed. I can't write about the first vet visit or the first night, because that's too painful, but the next morning when our regular vet, our trusted vet, Richard Phillips, came, we knew the truth. His leg was broken. Shattered. The inexperienced vet who had come out initially had cruelly given us hope, told us to keep it bandaged and he on box rest, and she would follow up.

It took Richard one look.

I am eternally sorry for him that he had to do that. Not only was he telling two people - clients he knew pretty well - that their beloved pony would not make it; he was shattering the hope that she had given us when we were so worried. I know it's not right, but I hated her that day. We never saw her again, and I can't imagine her guilt when Richard told her her mistake.

He didn't even have to explain what a broken leg meant. I knew. I ran away. Frankie was stabled next door, but I didn't like Frankie. Liked him even less now I wouldn't have Ollie. I ran to Luke, big, gentle Luke who was on the horse yard. I hid in his stable and howled into his neck. Luke and Ollie were best buddies. He would understand. Luke's neighbour, Wolfie, was owned by Carol, who looked like Debbie Harry. Unsurprisingly, she could hear me through the thin tin walls. I didn't know what to do, where to go, how to unleash my anguish. I wanted my pony and I couldn't have him and it HURT. Carol let me hurt for a while (I don't know where my mum was at this point, I wasn't thinking) and then she let herself in to Luke's stable. Upon seeing her, I told her everything. I remember her trying to comfort me, although understanding that that was impossible. She said some standard, comforting stuff, and then that I needed to try so very hard to be strong, for myself and for Frankie. Frankie? Now that got my attention. She may have just been searching for something to say, but taking something that I hadn't thought of and giving it to me to focus on made me think. She didn't say 'for your mum' or 'for Ollie' which would have made me cry more, but something utterly different. I calmed a little, although not much, thanked her, and set back off to the grim task of saying goodbye to my best pony buddy. Richard was still there, poor guy, and I got to say a semi dignified goodbye - Ollie wasn't very cuddly, but he appreciated the treats - and as a kid, my biggest relief about the whole situation was the injection, not the alternative. When younger, I'd known of horses and ponies being euthanased and it terrified me. This was a bit calmer.

I remember one moment amidst the chaos where I was outside Ollie's stable and he was perkier because of the drugs, and he was looking out with his ears pricked, looking utterly gorgeous. Perfect to my eyes. I willed that image into my brain, and I still have it now, a little fuzzy, but still there.

I tried to be there for him, right to the end, but to a 12 year old, there are some things that are just too much and I ran away again.

I remember little of the time afterward, just a haze of tears and sorrow and people offering their sympathies. I'd had a lesson booked at Ian's, on Ollie, the following Saturday. When my mum rang him to tell him what had happend, I asked her to see if I could take Frankie instead. Seeing Ian was exactly what I needed. He'd understand and work me through the pain.

And I needed to be strong for Frankie.