Friday, 5 March 2010
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.
Wednesday, 10 February 2010
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.
Tuesday, 12 January 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, 29 October 2009
early years, hazy summers
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!
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!
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.
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