Back in England where I grew up, temperatures were admittedly more temperate. Given that, the grey (English spelling on purpose) and dreary winter days, damp weather, perpetual rain and continual mud season never bothered me. There were horses to ride and every spare moment was spent outside doing just that. You can tell I'm British, talking endlessly about the weather right?
Frosty mornings were the perfect time for riding the bridle-paths. My kid brother Curtis and I, would hack up to the village on this very narrow road.
 | ||||
| You'd look and listen for traffic and then trot boldly on if all clear. |
 | ||||
| This gentleman takes his older hunt horse out for a morning hack. | Photo credit: James A. Smith |
Often the ride would include a stop off at the village shop, while I usually held the horses Curtis would pop inside and pick up some sweets ( candies ), including a few polos ( mints) for the horses, and we would split a bottle of milk or maybe pick up some supplies for mum. If we were on ponies we'd tie them by the reins ( what!) and go inside to visit the two elderly ladies who were sisters, who were as ancient as the woodlands around us, and pick and choose our dining delights. We'd stuff our big riding mac pockets with whatever possible and the rest would bang about in a netted back we'd bought for the purpose ( a bit like a tiny haynet), all the way home.
You always planned your route to hit the shop either first or last, depending on how much you might have to carry home. If mom needed eggs we stopped off at a farm along route too, though at that particular farm their rowdy and aggressive Winston Churchill bulldogs were always a bit of an issue for the horses. That was a real quick hop on and off. Looking back I can't believe my 5'4" ( probably smaller then), self, could so deftly mount these big fit show-jumpers that averaged 16.3hh.
The neighbors show-jumpers were a fancy lot of horses. Another neighbor had fancy hunters and foxhunters. We would boot the hocks, knees and legs in case a horse slipped on the road. But all the horses were made fit for Spring by road work and some gallops in the forests. If you didn't go out because it was raining and cold, then you would hardly ever ride. So you pulled on your bulky canvas riding mac and got on with it. Riding in one of the high tech riding macs available today would have been a dream in comparison. Back then you just shivered as rain dripped off your hat, down your neck, ran down the back of the cantle and under your seat and crept under your cuffs.
 |
| A riding mac like this trench coat would have been a dream. |
The horses sometimes had waterproof quarter sheets, but normally not. You learned how to warm up and cool down your horse using his gaits and always brought him home at a brisk trot so he didn't chill. Rugs (blankets) weren't as fancy as "The Horse of the Year Show" horses were - they were often hessian feed sacks sewn together and we padded them out with wheat straw beneath while the horse dried off. There was a lot of brushing off mud, cleaning muddy tack and barn boots of the wellington variety were essential around the yard. Though the boot and your foot often parted company at most inopportune moments. For example as you were catching a feisty horse from a field of twenty and they all wanted to come in for breakfast and shelve their heavy New Zealand rugs and get out for some exercise. Mind you, I don't suppose there is ever an opportune moment to lose your boots in a mudfest.
While the horses basked in warmth in their deep straw littered stalls we'd be off to muck more stalls with some defunct ex concrete mixing wheelbarrow that weighed a ton empty, ride more horses, clean more tack and repeat. All day long on the weekends. We were blessed to have some very ancient ( over 600 years or something) woodlands all around with marvelous bridleways, soil was sandy so the footing was always good. The sand was also good for the naughty horse or pony to plonk himself down and try and roll. Needless to say you hopped off fairly quickly and wrestled him back up before the saddle was damaged and there was a tidy smack with the crop which sometimes preserved the tack ( I would exercise all the neighbors kids mounts too, not sure where the kids were but my job was to school the ponies and young horses and keep them straight). And of course I say my job, but naturally it was one I was never, ever paid for - you did it because you loved it and it never occurred to me to ask for payment. Daft really. we worked really, really hard. But we learned so much.
Sadly these memories are all I have left of my kid brother, who lost his battle with cancer five years or so ago. I choose not to remember the year. We shared so many good times with horses, competing, riding all day rides between villages far and wide in all sorts of weathers.
So this Monday morning as I sit at my desk working diligently (huh? think I'm writing and avoiding work), I am channeling this energy from my youth and remembering that while my passion for horses is undiminished, my over 50's physical self is not trotting forward down the road at a brisk pace. I am rather slugging along at a slow walk and I am definitely 'behind the leg.' It really wouldn't take that much effort to get outside, harrow and water the indoor, tack up my charming Charrington lad, and get riding. In fact, the barn could not be closer and there is no mud. Yet.
 |
| Charrington, my 16.3 huggable hands high DWBx |
See ya!
