by Louise Couch
Equestrianism is the proper name for my hobby, which takes up hours of my time, weeks of my dreams and months of my mother's hard earned wages. It all started when as a child of seven, I harassed my parents into booking that first riding lesson. My argument was enhanced by the gentle persuasion of a friend's mother, who realising that a shared riding lesson would be cheaper than a private one, suggested that Cassie and I should venture into the formidable territory of the half an hour riding lesson together. My mother foolishly gave way, and so every second Saturday, she drove me across London and paid an extortionate amount of money for me to sit on a pony and enjoy half an hour of bliss. From that very first day, when I clambered aboard Billy the pony I was, hooked. However, this severe disease (known to the outside world as horsiness) is unfortunately contagious and soon enough my brother and sister had joined me in this pastime.
Presently we moved to Brighton, an altogether more horse friendly place. It only took twenty minutes to get to the local riding establishment opposed to the one hour that it had been in London. However, the bug had struck again and with my mother now learning to ride, we were paying for four separate riding lessons a week, not to mention the time that we spent gazing adoringly at an unimpressed 'Bess' and 'Dolly'. Before long, I was spending every day of every weekend and holiday, mucking out and looking after other people's horses.
Why pay so much money to ride other people's horses which you had mucked out anyway, when you could have your own? So we invested in 'Breezy', a skewbald cob who resembled a barrel on legs; who would not dream about moving at a pace faster than a reluctant walk; and who had a backside larger than that of my Auntie Maureen. Our first few years were eventful, as we discovered that the reality was far more challenging than the dream. My brother and I found out that a horse is indeed many times stronger that an eleven and nine year old; we also discovered that not all horses will gallop into the sunset, model for your art homework or turn you into John Whitaker overnight. Despite my mother having to get up at five thirty most mornings in order to muck out, it was soon decided that we needed another horse and so many loan ponies materialised.
Then, a year ago, 'Amy', the pony from hell, arrived. I will now answer the very difficult question of why I enjoy having horses. My honest answer is that I don't know. In fact if I truthfully said that I enjoy carrying heavy water buckets across frozen yards with the water level slowly rising in my boots, or if I enjoyed standing in the middle of a field desperately shouting, "B-R-E-E-Z-Y", I would need to be sent immediately to the nearest lunatic asylum. With horses the bad times are very bad but the good times are phenomenal. Here are a few examples: The new millennium came to a painful start with Amy demonstrating her many and varied acrobatic skills in the middle of Harlestone Firs. Unfortunately, I was on board at the time, but you need not worry, this situation was not to last for long. I promptly found myself face down in a large, damp patch of mud. Being a resilient and persevering child, I decided to catch the previously named rocked launcher (supposedly a member of the equine species), and clambered aboard but my voyage was to be a brief one and I found myself on the ground for the second time in five minutes. This time, deciding that the previously named supposed member of the equine species was in fact an unexploded bomb just waiting to detonate, I stayed with my feet firmly planted on the ground and my hands firmly planted on the previously named unexploded bomb's reins. For a little while at least. As you will not doubt, my face was destined to have close contact with the Northamptonshire soil for one last time. This, I feel, has made many people jealous as I was able to gain all the benefits of a mudpack for free, and on a Sunday morning! At this time it was decided that the experts/rescuers in the form of Jane and Ewan, who are the lucky people who look after the unexploded bomb during the week, should be called in so that operation 'Get unexploded bomb home without killing anybody' could be completed, almost successfully.
By now I will have put you off going anywhere near a horse for the rest of your life but I assure you there are many advantages. You did not seriously believe that I enjoy being frozen, terrified and bruised, do you? Actually, I am having difficulty thinking of the most satisfying aspect of being, as my uncle puts it, a 'horse nut', because there are so many. It's not winning rosettes and that's for sure because I have dreamed about winning that red rosette for half my life and never once achieved it, but I'm still enthusiastic. It's not about having people look up at you and say, "Wow, she's a brilliant rider" because that certainly has never happened to me. I think it is just being with this horse and getting to know it as a friend and a partner in crime. You rely on your horse like a racing driver relies on his car, without your horse you would be nowhere. It's about being part of a team and trying to do your best, and, yes, so what if you fail to jump the two foot fence? At least you've gone over the one foot one. I think that probably one of the best times I have had with a horse was my first show. Now for any horsey child this is the event of their life, the Barmisvah of their horse career. In my first show I was entered in the in-hand coloured class, this means that no riding is required. Ah, you say, less room for error, this is not the case. For me my main struggle was to get the ever reluctant Breezy to trot, a simple task for anyone except me. I seem to recall various adult friends saying that she was, 'looking after me'. Well, I wish that she could have done it a little faster, but I was still elated to receive a beautiful purple rosette for coming sixth out of six.
I think that for many people, including my mother, horses are like children. If you buy them young, you can watch them grow up and progress just like children, except that you do not have to go through labour and the associated pain. My mother treats Breezy better than us. The pictures of her children at various stages of our development have been removed in favour of - Breezy at a show, Breezy on a sponsored ride, Breezy in the field. The horse's every need is met within seconds and if she has a slight injury or ailment, however minor everything is done to make sure that she receives the best treatment possible. Several times my birthday present has been for the horse, (even now I can hear, 'look there's the cooler rug you want for your birthday.') And I'm waiting for the party to celebrate Breezy's eighth birthday, I'm sure that she'll be allowed champagne and chocolate cake, whilst my fifteenth birthday will be spent munching carrots.
From writing this piece I have deduced that you have to be absolutely mad to be associated with horses. For example, in all we have four saddles and in all their value could buy a holiday in the south of France. I have also come to realise that in the past four years, my mother has bought more clothes for her beloved equine companion than for herself. In all, I deem that lunacy is the main condition of owning a horse and, as for the people who dedicate their lives to them, they are incurable cases who deserve all of our sympathy.
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