Showjumps and Shovels

It seems we have either showing days that go like a Dream or days that are Nightmares, like Sudeley where Clyde flattened the second jump of the course and PG executed a balletic five-foot mudskid on the point of her nose. Blade’s Hill on Sunday was one of the dream days, and our boy sped round the jumps in the 60cm class, whisking up a clean pair of heels at every one of 7 jumps and straight into the jumpoff, and then he cantered back looking triumphant. Smaller ponies than Clyde look faster with their short legs twinkling round at full flat-out mini-gallop: so when at the end of the class the placings were read out and PG and Darkest Braveheart were in 5th place out of 30 competitors we were so staggered it took me a moment to push PG forward to get her rosette – a lurid orange, but you can’t have everything – Clyde’s first showjumping place in the competitive world!

It was so hot and there was no shade for our poor little pony so we really, really wished we were going home before the 70cm class, quit when you’re ahead and all that, but off they went again He flew round just as nicely but PG mistimed the double in the jumpoff and he clipped down a pole, but, brave and resourceful pony that he is, gathered himself for the next and cleared it all by himself while she dithered, so four faults there, but she came out grinning and patting his neck, ecstatic at their performance. (I will not mention the moment where she whirled round a corner atop a thundering Clyde, yelling “the course! I’ve forgotten the course!”) We packed up ready to come home, keen to get our hot, tired pony sponged, stabled and comfy again, and we didn’t go back for the presentation.

”Let’s just go and see who won, shall we?” I said when all was tidy and Clyde ready to load.
“No, let’s just go home, we’ll see it online.” PG seemed hot and tired, though I can’t think why – she had the easy bit, it was pony-mum bore the brunt of the day as nervous chauffeur, hefty tack porter and doughty muck shoveller.
“Oh come on, it’ll only take a minute.”

Off we limped to the station and there was the organiser putting things out ready for the next class. No sign of a list of winners and times. In her hand, though, was a large pink silk rosette. “Someone didn’t wait around for their prize,” I laughed, marvelling that anyone could be so blasé!
“Yes,” she said, consulting her handwritten list, “Dorkiest Bravetart – 6th place,” and we gibbered and snatched it uttering incoherent thanks and rushed back to show it to Clyde who took a sniff and decided it wasn’t worth a nibble.
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So home we came with our little brown hero, and his two beautiful rosettes.