Dun Delight and Muddy Mayhem
"He’s a lovely little chap," said the nice woman at the stud farm, and indeed he did look very lovely, in the stable with the door shut and his choppers stuck in his haynet. Silver dun with a black mane and tail too, exactly as required. I felt a definite stirring in the loins, so out he came for J to try.
It is a requirement of every stud farm that it be situated at the top of a hill on a steep slippery road, churned up mud to a depth of 6 inches underfoot, 5 lively dogs running around at the pony’s heels, and a couple of large farm vehicles trundling noisily about. This one was no different, and Stroller picked his way slowly around the waterlogged paddock, breaking into a clumpy trot occasionally, and stopping often by the fence to gaze yearningly at his sniggering mates in the field beyond. When pointed at the small crosspole jump to show off his connemara jumping skills, he hobbled boggily up to it, veered to the left and carried on. Pony-girl repeated the approach and this time he was firmer about it. "Look mate, even if YOU’RE blind, there’s an obstacle here. This is what you do, you walk around it… see? "
We all agreed he was too green to be of immediate use to J (disappointing pony-mum, who is always seduced by stunning looks to set off a Weatherbeeta Raspberry-and-Sky cooler and bodywork just itching for a buffing with Canter CoatShine).
The next to be led out was a skewbald cob (I know, I know. But quite pretty, like a stuffed toy with white-and-gold velour patches). "You’ll really feel the difference, this one’s done so much more!" She was dead right there, Bolshy’d done so much more he knew that whisking up his heels, rolling his eyes, and tossing his head like a stallion meant he got to go back to the stable even before the saddle warmed up.
The last was led out to our rapidly sinking hopes: Muddylegs was not an outstanding horse in any sense though he was reputed to be a fine jumper, and in fact I remember nothing whatever about him except a vague impression of brownness and the sound of pole after pole clattering to the floor in his wake.
Pony-girl has the handicap of never having ridden outside Pat’s all-weather schooling arenas and cross-country field with its painted Toytown jumps. Trying out a pony in a bog is difficult for her where it would not be to a child Born to the Saddle, riding fearlessly to the hounds over ditch and stile from the age of 6. I have made an appointment to go back on Wednesday when an all-weather arena can be hired to give Stroller another chance. I have, after all, a whole bottle of Silvershine Showing Shampoo which would make him look divine for Sudeley Show.
It is a requirement of every stud farm that it be situated at the top of a hill on a steep slippery road, churned up mud to a depth of 6 inches underfoot, 5 lively dogs running around at the pony’s heels, and a couple of large farm vehicles trundling noisily about. This one was no different, and Stroller picked his way slowly around the waterlogged paddock, breaking into a clumpy trot occasionally, and stopping often by the fence to gaze yearningly at his sniggering mates in the field beyond. When pointed at the small crosspole jump to show off his connemara jumping skills, he hobbled boggily up to it, veered to the left and carried on. Pony-girl repeated the approach and this time he was firmer about it. "Look mate, even if YOU’RE blind, there’s an obstacle here. This is what you do, you walk around it… see? "
We all agreed he was too green to be of immediate use to J (disappointing pony-mum, who is always seduced by stunning looks to set off a Weatherbeeta Raspberry-and-Sky cooler and bodywork just itching for a buffing with Canter CoatShine).
The next to be led out was a skewbald cob (I know, I know. But quite pretty, like a stuffed toy with white-and-gold velour patches). "You’ll really feel the difference, this one’s done so much more!" She was dead right there, Bolshy’d done so much more he knew that whisking up his heels, rolling his eyes, and tossing his head like a stallion meant he got to go back to the stable even before the saddle warmed up.
The last was led out to our rapidly sinking hopes: Muddylegs was not an outstanding horse in any sense though he was reputed to be a fine jumper, and in fact I remember nothing whatever about him except a vague impression of brownness and the sound of pole after pole clattering to the floor in his wake.
Pony-girl has the handicap of never having ridden outside Pat’s all-weather schooling arenas and cross-country field with its painted Toytown jumps. Trying out a pony in a bog is difficult for her where it would not be to a child Born to the Saddle, riding fearlessly to the hounds over ditch and stile from the age of 6. I have made an appointment to go back on Wednesday when an all-weather arena can be hired to give Stroller another chance. I have, after all, a whole bottle of Silvershine Showing Shampoo which would make him look divine for Sudeley Show.
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