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.

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.

G'bye, 2008

I'm finding it hard to get my timelines sorted, and am writing out a lot of my thoughts without actually publishing them. I suppose it doesn't really matter!

Just got back from a trip to Colorado, skiing. Would rather have been trail riding, but definitely the wrong season for that.

Sometimes it's not enough!

As I said in my last post, I preferred Ollie to Frankie for quite a while. After our indifferent start, we found a level of trust at which we were comfortable, overcame challenges such as water, jump fillers, loading, and had become a decent partnership. We did all kinds of stuff, fun trail rides, long gallops, prelim dressage, small cross country and show jumping and a little bit of working hunter pony, which I enjoyed. The smaller achievements I had with Oliver back then rank up there with the larger ones I'd go on to have. We were supreme ridden champion at a local show once, and a very popular choice, I'm immodest enough to say! We also used to go jumping at a high profile competiton yard's unaffiliated night, which attracted large numbers every week. I'd only jump in the under 12s section, but there were often 40 in a class, including kids who were already riding affiliated on push button ponies that had been handed down to them having been there, done that. We'd managed to come 2nd twice, but there was always someone who could turn tighter, gallop quicker, take more dares.

Now, Ollie had come a long way from his lazy days, and was now a bouncy, keen, bold pony, almost strong at times. He was never snaffle mouthed for jumping, which I regret a little, but in the interest of control, a kimblewick or pelham sufficed. We were both happier that way.

The thing he and I enjoyed the most was the thrill of the jump off. No turn was too tight, rarely did he have a pole, and he just loved to go fast for me. Well, one night, we won the class. It felt BRILLIANT.

That wasn't the story I wanted to tell, but it kind of leads up to the one I do. By this point, it may seem that I'd figured him out. But when we went to the big local outdoor summer show, 3 refusals at the first fence in the under 12s was the story, and I was upset that the trust hadn't been there. Fortunately for me, I had Frankie in the same class, and, with a bit more experience by now, we finished a creditable 6th in his biggest class to date. He was so much bigger than the ponies belonging to the other competitors, but his ground covering stride made up for the turns they did, and I was proud of him for keeping his composure.

I wasn't 'talking' to Ollie after the incident, so when we got back to the yard, my mum suggested we go out for a ride to forget about it and make friends again. I took Ollie, my friend Jasmin took Frankie and another friend rode her horse. We headed off up the 'Gypsy Track' - so called because of the traveller camp next to the trail that led to the best galloping fields around. The fun was the half mile field, where you walk/jogged up to the top and then whirled round and went as fast as you could for a loooooooong way, before having to pull up in front of the drainage ditch across the bottom. We made our way uneventfully up the track, cut over into the first field and headed to the top.

Ollie knew full well what was coming and jinked, jogged and snorted his way up. The other two seemed calmer. I knew my pony would finish first. He was darned fast, and could even beat Luke, mum's Thoroughbred. I was beginning to feel better. We all hit the top of the field, spaced out far enough, and set off. I was on the far left, Frankie in the middle, and Tizer, Kate's horse on the right. The first few seconds were fine. The rush, the adrenaline, then out of the corner of my eye, I saw Frankie spook, jump sideways, dump Jasmin off the side, and then carry on running left, towards the track and the dual carriageway that ran along the side of the next field over.
Crap!
Barely checking to see she was alright, I told Kate to stay with Jasmin, and headed Ollie off after a rapidly disappearing Frankie. All sorts of horrific scenarios played through my head: What if he gets on the road? Falls off the unfinished concrete bridge? Trips over his reins? He disappeared through a cut in the hedge ahead of us as we crashed through the first line of bushes. I urged Ollie on, thankful for Frankie's seemingly carefree trot and our speed advantage. I didn't want to startle Frankie into running away from us as there would be no way to cut him off then.

We quickly passed the cut and headed down the dirt track, not being able to see Frankie around the curve, but at least he hadn't crossed the barrier to the road. Now it was just the bridge to worry about, and as we turned the curve, I breathed a giant sigh of relief to see him trotting for home, stirrups and long mane flying, back along the straight track. He would meet a road in a couple of hundred metres though, so there wasn't long to act. I pushed Ollie on again, with only one way I could think of to successfully catch him. There were a series of cuts and ditches that ran parallel to the dirt track and led to another field. If I could jump in, gallop along next to Frankie and cut back across ahead of him, he'd have nowhere to go. This was not a time for Ollie to refuse again! I headed on for the first turn, up and down a shallow hollow and turned left into the field pushing on again. Shortly, I could see Frankie through the trees and was going to be perfectly placed to cut him off. I asked Ollie for a sharp left turn and a leap over our bugbear- a ditch - which he responded to! I could hear Frankie heading towards us, and we pulled to a halt in front of the hedge alongside the path. We startled Frankie, who leapt over the hedge, into the ploughed field. I had no choice but to follow him, so from a standstill, we too jumped the hedge, and finally, in the heavy going, Frankie's weight slowed him down, and I was able to draw level, leap off, and grab him, holding both plunging beasts until the others caught up, and we headed home, a little astounded at the dramatic turn the ride had taken. I couldn't praise Ollie enough, and made sure to tell everyone how amazing he'd been. Frankie was none the worse for his experience, but I could tell he was going to be some character.

Moving on

After curing Ollie's stubborn-ness about trailers, we soon solved the issue with water, me riding, and my trainer and a helper - my mum - coaxing him through the newly dug out water jump at our yard with bristly brooms. I rode him forward firmly, and as he dithered on the edge of the half foot step in, he got bristled on the buttocks. It didn't take too long, and once he'd taken the plunge a couple of times, he became a fairly reliable water jumper. We did the same with a ditch, and again, he learnt they could be fun to jump and were not scary. This meant I could finally go away and do small cross country competitions, without the embarrassment. We were doing quite well on Pony Club teams, as Ollie's jumping over about 2'6" was very accurate, and months of schooling had led to a passable communication between us that allowed nice dressage tests to be produced. We once even won a Prelim 14 with 70%, beating many older combinations. I was thrilled!

I grew fairly quickly, and it was clear that Ollie could not be my pony forever, sturdy though he was. I was getting better as a rider, Ian, the yard manager would put me up on anything under 14.2 that arrived in the selling section of the stables. This was anything from 10.2 kids' ponies to ex JA jumpers with serious speed, to helping to back a Connemara stallion - gorgeous. It was a brilliant experience, between the ages of 8 and 10, and meant I was happy to get on anything, very little fear. The rich owners of the yard even got me to show off their ponies when they were trying to sell them. Didn't make me popular with the other kids, but I didn't care. I just wanted to ride as many ponies and horses as possible.

In the spring of 1997, I was riding Ollie in the indoor school, watched by one of my mum's friends when the lorry of a well known mass horse buyer/owner for the yard turned up. We went to the door to peer out and watched the ramp let down, wondering what would appear.

After a bit of banging, a stunning jet black welsh cob appeared at the top of the ramp, looking all around him. A long mane and forelock lent him a film star air, and we both agreed he was hot stuff.

Little did I know that Ian had got in this hot stuff from the buyer for ME to try. He was about 14.2, black, 4 white socks, 5, lightly ridden. His name was Frankie, and he had one brown and one blue eye. My older, taller friend rode him in the beginning and without anyone knowing, she let me ride him once. He was lovely. Plenty of energy, super soft mouth, very willing. Completely unspoilt, a pony to do anything with, and to take as far as possible.

After a month or so, my mum took him on loan for me. I was pretty tiny on him at this point, but he was very easygoing and learnt so quickly that he was honestly very little trouble for me at all. That's not too say a little while down the line we were still as harmonious! but I was happy with my boys, and Frankie's willingness to tackle new challenges, such as jumping upward of 2'6", medium and extended trot, a comfy canter and happily splashing through water and mud were a revelation. Everybody loved him, even the grooms who had to cope with his destroying of every automatic water dispenser in any stable he was put in. He was friendly, charismatic, happy and full of himself.

I still preferred Ollie though. Frankie was almost too good; too perfect. Everyone loved him, but not so many people loved Ollie, a more circumspect, difficult pony. But I did, and I resented Frankie's popularity. Even though he was mine!! At 10, that didn't seem to matter to me. We took him to a jumping competition at a local show after he hadn't been jumping long. Ollie was in the smallest class, Frankie in a bit bigger. He was so overawed that he barely cleared anything. Gawking, looking around, showboating. In retrospect, it was far too soon to have taken him out, and any lesser horse may have been traumatised by the experience, but he wasn't. However, I had finally found something imperfect about him, which made me relent a little on my view of him. He was still hugely arrogant, but he would need my guidance for something.

I could work with that.

Not a horse but

So cute!

So, I'm watching HOYS

and as usual, although not so much as in the past, it gets me all emotional. Seeing all the top horses and riders, seeing people I used to know doing well, makes me very happy, but there's always a big sense of regret. I'm hoping it's lessening over time. Frankie's 16 now, but I still remember competing like it was last year, when in reality it was 6 years ago. At the time, I lost the enjoyment and I know I couldn't have carried on with school and lack of money and keeping the others at the time, but I do always wonder!

Ode to the Horse

Where in this wide world can man find nobility without pride, friendship without envy or beauty without vanity?
Here, where grace is laced with muscle, and strength by gentleness confined.
He serves without servility; he has fought without enmity.
There is nothing so powerful, nothing less violent, there is nothing so quick, nothing more patient.
England’s past has been borne on his back.
All our history is his industry; we are his heirs, he our inheritance.
The Horse!

Ronald Duncan