Five people on five horses won a silver medal for Great Britain at the Olympics this week. Twenty years ago five people on four horses and a dragon went hacking in Windsor Great Park. Names have been changed to preserve the dignity of the innocent (horses).
“Let’s go riding,” suggested Barbie.
Black Beauty
“Great idea,” replied Dave, my (soon to be ex) partner. He’d ridden before and thought he looked good on a horse.
Enjoying an expensive weekend at a smart hotel in Windsor Great Park, we were searching for something to do. Crispin, Barbie’s obedient husband, nodded. But I don’t trust horses. Give me a thousand CCs of two-wheeled engineering any day; motorbikes don’t have a mind of their own.
“How about a long walk?” I suggested.
Three blank faces looked at me. Dave started to smirk.
“OK,” I said.
“Shergar”
Two hours later my partner and Barbie looked all superior on Shergar and Black Beauty, while Crispin trailed behind on Dobbin. After hearing I was a novice, Annabel – the sneering stable-girl-cum-guide – had paired me with the equine equivalent of Vlad the Impaler. As I climbed into the saddle the ear-twitching Vlad appeared calm, and I was just starting to relax when he reared up. Terrified of falling, I clung to the reins and gripped with my legs.
“DON’T SQUEEZE, YOU IDIOT!” shrieked Annabel. Apparently squeezing a horse makes them go.
“STAND UP!” commanded Barbie.
Standing makes them stop.
“Dobbin”
We left through a gate and Vlad carefully scraped himself against the post, leaving a bruise the size of Barbie’s tight little bottom on my thigh. He got me into more trouble by ignoring my braking position and pushing his way in front of Annabel. Each time we stopped he yanked his head up and down.
“He broke someone’s finger doing that last week,” said Annabel helpfully. Eventually we reached the end of the tortuous trail.
“We’re going to gallop back. You wait till we’ve gone, then follow at your own pace,” said my new friend Annabel.Vlad didn’t understand this logic. Despite me standing up and cursing, he went hell for leather as soon as the others took off. I stuck to him like a decal. The others stopped to wait for us at the edge of the wood, but we shot past them. We were the first back to the stables.
Annabel’s thunderous expression made me smile for the first time that day. Good old Vlad.
Vlad in his usual position
I sympathise with your experience. Were your companions really such fools? You were lcuky and brave to stay on.
I used to ‘ride’ a family friend’s old polo pony in India. The saddle was so uncomfortable in shorts (I owned no trousers) that I rode bareback. Then I found the pony was so thin and his spine so prominent that my mum had to dress my behind with a bandage.
My eldest daughter has always been crazy about horses and ponies. We live by the New Forest and when she was seven we foolishly bought an old pony with a long face and barrel chest from a local stables that was closing. She really got the bug. She now owns a beautiful horse called, ‘Zeus’, and a naughty pony called ‘Stella’. She would not put anyone else on Zeus – he is a sensitive fellow and sometimes thinks that all 16 hands of him is still only a 10 hand baby (hilariously undignified when he tries to take a quick turn in a muddy field) – but I have ridden Stella.
Stella thinks that I like to go fast and she’s so little that there is not much in front of me to hold on to. Imagine near 40 mph with only heather below and sky above, blurring past! I don’t ride now.
A few years ago I came off a friend’s pony twice. She liked to jump when out in the forest and used to follow Michelle on her Welsh pony ‘Seren’ (now deceased). Trouble was my friend’s pony thought a jump was complete as soon as her front feet landed. She used to come to a complete halt at that point, and of course I didn’t. I managed to leap frog over her head the first time, ending up with her bemused head looking up between my legs. We laughed so much I couldn’t get back on. The next time I landed on my forehead. Luckily my hat took the impact and I was only bruised, but it made me think of all the things that I would not be able to do if I came a cropper again.
There must be something in our blood. As a young officer I was posted in 1946 to a Royal Horse Artillery regiment in northern Italy. Our CO decided that all the subalterns should learn to ride (very helpful when your guns are mounted on tank chassis, of course). He discovered some horses, which he promptly commandeered, and also a German cavalry sergeant-major (Feldwebel) and some other SEPs (Surrendered Enemy Personnel) who knew all about horses and installed them in the stables of our decrepit Italian barracks. Horses were assigned to each grumbling subaltern, who were required to take part in riding lessons pretty well every afternoon. My animal was a little grey mare, who took an instant dislike to me and spent all her time trying to get me off her back. She succeeded most of the time, and I regularly came off over her neck, her rump, and both flanks. After about three weeks of this comedy it was decided by all concerned (the Colonel, the Feldwebel, and 2nd Lieutenant Cleere) that I would never make a horseman – and I am sure that the bloody animal smirked when she heard the news. Thereafter I spend most of my spare time touring the foothills of the Apennines on a 500 c.c. motor-bike that never demonstrated any reluctance to have me on its saddle.
Hahahaha! I didn’t know that story (put it in the memoirs!). Sounds like your mare may have been Vlad’s ancestor, from where the gene to make all Cleeres uncomfortable in the saddle was passed down. Love the idea of horses (well, I love animals so I would) but they don’t “get” me.