Dark Horses and Black Beauties

Every fortnight in our village we get the Mobile Library, which is a pleasant little expedition which doesn’t involve muck or flying hooves for a change, and I picked up a book by Melissa Holbrook-Pierson about the enduring love of Woman for Horse. There are two kinds of women in the world, those who are prone to a consuming passion for the horse, seduced by his huge warm furriness, his nobility and willingness to please, his beauty in canter along a dawn skyline etc (pony-girl); and then there are those who don’t mind fondling the odd hairy nose or two if it’s had a muzzlewipe first (pony-mum). But this book is fascinating and lyrically told, and got me musing on the whole hippophilia thing.

I don’t believe it’s anything to do with sex, although that seems to be a wideheld belief given the number of sites pony-mum has come across in searches for exciting horse equipment – this blog gets referrals for +pony +girl +horsy joy, which I feel must end in disappointment. But personally I believe Melissa when she speaks instead of the intense but pure desire of girls to bond with their horse and to become one with him. I know this is true. Pony-girl was so desperate to own a four-cloppered friend that she actually became a horse. The jumping courses are still there in our garden, a broomhandle on two paintpots, over which pony-girl spent the summer whipping herself at a collected trot, muttering agitatedly ‘four faults!’ when it was caught by a clumsy hoof. She was also given to scrambling on all fours around her bedroom at manic speed and would readily explain this behaviour, “I need to do more work on left-leg canter, and my shoulders fall in on the corners.”

I found this behaviour rather sweet, but it was about this time that Reluctant-Pony-Dad retired to the study, from where he has not to date returned.