The Hack from Hell
My life’s been pretty much been rescheduled. There is not a pony-free day on the horizon for years. The reality of this is only just sinking in. Some people have asked me when I will be climbing aboard myself. "Merry," they say, "When will you be vaulting lightly into the saddle, twirling your whip and laughing gaily as you head for the hills at a gallop?" The answer to this is 'never'.
In May pony-girl was desperate to go on a hack, “with you, mummy,” so in a weak moment, knowing that never, never was I going to agree to owning a pony, I agreed and booked an hour-long session for the two of us at a local place. The omens were not good - the yard was awash with mud, the stablegirls were sitting around with the ash from their fags casually suspended over bales of hay. My horse was coaxed out of his stable looking even more reluctant than me, his head hanging low and his bony old body covered with splashes of what I hoped was dried mud. J, whom I had described as ‘not very experienced’, was put on their newest mare, who had only been with the stables a week. “It will be interesting to see how she goes,” said our Team Leader enigmatically. I had assumed we were having a private hack for the two of us plus escort since that was what I had arranged on the phone, so imagine our surprise when we set off with 8 children on ponies of various shapes and sizes for their regular Saturday morning lesson.
The countryside was beautiful as we climbed high onto the Cotswold escarpment with the views of the valley and villages below, but I was not able to enjoy it, gripping on in terror to Roscoe’s dirty mane as he lurched and staggered his way up narrow, muddy gullies overhanging sheer drops to the left. When we finally turned onto open fields my relief didn’t last long as the Team Leader seemed determined to improve my style and kept yelling at me to ‘sit up!’ ‘heels down!’ “STOP doing that! Look at these little kids, LOOK at their style!” This was a waste of time: I knew within one minute of mounting that once allowed off, they could threaten me with live snakes in a cage on my head but nothing was ever going to get me back on a horse again.
J’s nag was prancing skittishly beneath her, and TL would occasionally break off from her praise of the small children’s style to yell “Kick her on, kick her ON! She’s going to roll!” It was a pretty tense time, though my ride was over sooner than anyone else’s, for once Roscoe hit the return trail he spotted home and broke into a rollicking trot which I was powerless to prevent so I arrived back in the stable yard well ahead of the rest, teeth jiggering manically together, breathlessly bouncing up and down like a jellybag, and staggered everywhere with my legs bent into the exact shape of Roscoe’s barrel-shaped sides for a week.
Someone commented that Xmas shopping would be easy for me this year, and how right she is; I’ve done it all from my pc at various online saddleries. J is the sort of girl who swathes herself by choice in baggy, gloomy layers, a bit like a home-made burkah, so when she admired Clarissa’s saddlehugger jods in pink check I was at once on the net ordering a pair for a Christmas surprise. Having watched her pound up and down on Clyde’s broad back for an increasingly long time each day, I am wondering if her small bottom will soon start to spread like a pancake, so to be on the safe side I’ve ordered them in a slightly larger size.
In May pony-girl was desperate to go on a hack, “with you, mummy,” so in a weak moment, knowing that never, never was I going to agree to owning a pony, I agreed and booked an hour-long session for the two of us at a local place. The omens were not good - the yard was awash with mud, the stablegirls were sitting around with the ash from their fags casually suspended over bales of hay. My horse was coaxed out of his stable looking even more reluctant than me, his head hanging low and his bony old body covered with splashes of what I hoped was dried mud. J, whom I had described as ‘not very experienced’, was put on their newest mare, who had only been with the stables a week. “It will be interesting to see how she goes,” said our Team Leader enigmatically. I had assumed we were having a private hack for the two of us plus escort since that was what I had arranged on the phone, so imagine our surprise when we set off with 8 children on ponies of various shapes and sizes for their regular Saturday morning lesson.
The countryside was beautiful as we climbed high onto the Cotswold escarpment with the views of the valley and villages below, but I was not able to enjoy it, gripping on in terror to Roscoe’s dirty mane as he lurched and staggered his way up narrow, muddy gullies overhanging sheer drops to the left. When we finally turned onto open fields my relief didn’t last long as the Team Leader seemed determined to improve my style and kept yelling at me to ‘sit up!’ ‘heels down!’ “STOP doing that! Look at these little kids, LOOK at their style!” This was a waste of time: I knew within one minute of mounting that once allowed off, they could threaten me with live snakes in a cage on my head but nothing was ever going to get me back on a horse again.
J’s nag was prancing skittishly beneath her, and TL would occasionally break off from her praise of the small children’s style to yell “Kick her on, kick her ON! She’s going to roll!” It was a pretty tense time, though my ride was over sooner than anyone else’s, for once Roscoe hit the return trail he spotted home and broke into a rollicking trot which I was powerless to prevent so I arrived back in the stable yard well ahead of the rest, teeth jiggering manically together, breathlessly bouncing up and down like a jellybag, and staggered everywhere with my legs bent into the exact shape of Roscoe’s barrel-shaped sides for a week.
Someone commented that Xmas shopping would be easy for me this year, and how right she is; I’ve done it all from my pc at various online saddleries. J is the sort of girl who swathes herself by choice in baggy, gloomy layers, a bit like a home-made burkah, so when she admired Clarissa’s saddlehugger jods in pink check I was at once on the net ordering a pair for a Christmas surprise. Having watched her pound up and down on Clyde’s broad back for an increasingly long time each day, I am wondering if her small bottom will soon start to spread like a pancake, so to be on the safe side I’ve ordered them in a slightly larger size.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home