I remember - I wish

I remember when the body was not so battered, when it was younger, smaller, more muscular and more supple. It was toned by bike rides to and from the stables before and after school; it was trimmed by riding horses every single day; it was tempered by vigorous grooming of those same horses and it was strengthened by cleaning stables and tossing straw.

It was more flexible, relaxing into the ground as it landed after yet another disagreement between horse and rider about velocity, height and direction.

It managed to hang onto the reins every time and so avoid the long, ignominious trudge home following the trail of galloping hoof prints.

It even had the nerve to return for repeated doses day after day, the success of a few steps of “passage” or sailing over the jumps with ease being sufficient opiate to continue the addiction.

I wish the body had been treated with more compassion by time. Now the body creaks as it stiffly eases out of bed; now the arthritic joints are extracting payment for their misspent youth.

Once the decline started, it happened very quickly. It was retiring from competition, so the body was only riding for pleasure, that caused it. The body slowed, the mind was not quite so sharp, the reactions dulled. The falls became more frequent, they took greater toll, they were no longer ‘bounces’ they were ‘splats’, the recoveries took longer, days not hours, months not weeks.

The Medical Fund asked if the body had been in a car accident, the injuries were so bad; the Police asked if the battered face was the result of domestic violence; the children didn’t know how to handle a Mum lying in hospital who looked like a boxer at the end of ten rounds

Once horses had been the reason for living, now they’d been the reason for almost dying.

Once the day started and ended with horses being fed and rugged; now it starts and ends with a cuppa and a stretch.

Once the saddles and bridles were soaped and polished every day; now they reside on their racks untouched.

Once the farrier was a regular visitor; now there’s been no visit in years.

Once the weekend competitions were trained for and planned months in advance; now weekends barely register

Once “Hoofs and Horns’ was the magazine seen scattered over the living room; now it’s “Country Patchwork”.

Once the horse float had transported the family all over the state; now it stores the kid’s excess furniture.

Once I was going to sell all the gear as this battered body no longer needs it; now it’ll go to my son who wants to start the cycle again with his younger, fitter, more muscular and more supple body. The family  addiction to horses continues.               

by Caroline Gaden  ©  

To Float or not to Float, or How Carpet was Floored!

In many-times-Great Grandpa's day, it was said that "A good horse should have XV propyrtees and condycons, that is to wyte...

 Three of a manne,three of a womanne, three of a foxe, three of a hare and three of an asse:

Of a manne - bolde, proude and hardye

Of a womanne - fayre-breasted, fayre of haire and fayre of gait

Of a foxe - a fayre tayle, shorte ears and a goode trotte

Of a hare - a greate eye, a drye heade and a softe coate

Of an ass - a flatte chinne, a flatte legge and a goode hoofe ..... "  

Dame Julyana Berners, The Boke of St Albans  (14th Cent)

.... and in this day and age we can add another important propyrtee - the ability to walk willingly into a box .on wheels and remain quietly in the box while it travels along a road.

There is nothing more frustrating than loading car and float with all the paraphernalia associated with a weekend of competition and then to find that the major figure necessary for that competition flatly refuses even to set foot in his little mobile cage.

The horse that loads like a gentleman will get you to a competition on time when othe gremlins are all out to stop you. My offsider Anne and I discovered this en route to Oberon Horse Trials a few years ago. Those of you who have never travelled the road to Oberon from Goulburn should attempt the journey, so you have a tale of horror with which to frighten your grandchildren. It is lavishly furnished with signs telling the would-be journeyer that it is unsuitable for towed vehicles and it is so bad that the local Shire Council, not noted for its expenditure on roadworks, has been forced to put bitumen on the notorious river crossing. But Anne and I decided that if the guys who played polocrosse could sail up the hill towing their horses, so could the girls who evented.

We reached the brink of the descent to the river and wended around the bends down to the water. No worries. What was all the trauma, we wondered. We found out when we attacked the hill leading out of the valley. The first bend was a hairpin, tighter than tight, up a sheer cliff face. The V8 Kingswood said "No!" and shuddered to a halt. There came a muffled thudding from behind us. The horses had decided to say "No!" as well.

So out came Lurch and Jimbob, very pleased to feel firm ground under their feet and I hauled one and was dragged by the other to the top of the hill while Anne persuaded the car it could get up the incline. By the time she appeared I was badly in need of oxygen due to asthma, exertion and altitude. The horses loaded in two seconds flat and we proceeded, only to fall prey to a puncture a short time later. Well, it wasn't exactly a puncture. When we tried to remove the affected wheel, the tyre was just a strip of semi-molten black stuff stuck to the rim. So off came the horses again, while we struggled with jack and spare. Then back on again in two seconds flat and away we went once more. 

We missed the pencilled sign to Oberon and ended in a paddock trying to do a U-turn in mud. So off came the boys again, while we slithered and slid back to safety. Then on again - three seconds flat this time, the extra time being taken up by slight pauses and very expressive glances from Lurch and Jimbob as they marched up the ramp, Lurch with his huge ears flat, his eyes half-closed in his large head and towering to his full 17 hands to show his indignation. 

Still, we arrived in time for the dressage judges' lunch break and had just enough time to overcome our hysteria and prepare for the afternoon tests. Thank goodness for horses which loaded easily, we said to each other. 

I was to learn that a horse which loads easily can also in one sad incident become one which presents real problems. Our much-loved Lurch broke a bone in his hindleg and it was some time before I bought a replacement horse. When I did it was with the money I had been saving to buy a carpet for our lounge room, so grey Cosmic Crown rapidly became known as "Carpet". He was to teach me a few things about floating horses. 

Initially, Carpet was a real gentleman about going onto the float and I could load him alone, as he stood quietly while the breeching chain was fastened and the tailgate somehow raised (why, oh why are float tailgates designed by men who have forgotten that women transport so many horses these days ... ). However, one day as I travelled home from a dressage school with Carpet loaded as usual on the right hand side of the float to take advantage of road camber and avoid having his weight over the less stable road edges, the breeching chain broke. At the next left-hand bend the divider gave way as Carpet leant on it and we had problems. He rapidly lost confidence and my usual fastener for everything from fencepost to riding jackets, binder twine, was not really suitable to hold the weight of a large, panicking Thoroughbred. We travelled home carefully, my husband Bob fixed the chain and we did a couple of practice drives round the paddocks, Carpet aboard and quiet. Then off to St Greg's ODE at Narellan. 

The idea was to go via the school where I teach, but due to Carpet's scrambles the chain gave way again en route and it was a wet and steamy horse I unloaded and carefully placed in the disused wire' gas cylinder cage (also used to detain stray dogs) outside my laboratory windows. A frantic phone call bought Bob to make further repairs while I tried to impart scientific knowledge to reluctant Friday afternooners. Come 3:30 Bob and my strapper, our son Philip arrived, Carpet was loaded and we set off. 

We had travelled just two metres when Bob shouted "Stop!" Feeling the motion, Carpet had ducked down as if about to hurtle out of the starting stalls, but when he came up he was trapped under the central divider. Out came the bolt-cutters and we freed him but I decided we would be non¬starters at this particular ODE while we made improvements to the float. I climbed on and rode the first half of the 25kms home at a spanking trot. Then we showed Carpet the float and he agreed to go the rest of the way on wheels - very slowly. 

Bob decided on major alterations to the float. First strengthen the steel sides .Carpet had spent quite a bit of effort trying to get his feet as far to the right as possible and would certainly have gone through anything but steel. Then the floor was replaced with thicker wood covered with conveyor belting (and I can assure you that the 40mm counter-sunk self-tapping screws needed for the job come only in lots of thousands - the manufacturer, accustomed to supply them direct to the trade, finally agreed to post us 200). The divider came in for special attention - there is no way any horse will ever get under that divider again and no way it will ever shift without due permission. All this necessitated much hammering, drilling, painting, wielding of screwdrivers, welding and bending of pipes by the male Gadens who appeared to obtain some mysterious enjoyment from the proceedings. 

Several weekends later, the unveiling took place and the horse, suitably attired in bandages and boots, walked straight on. The moment the float made a suggestion of turning left, the kicks and thumps began and the new paintwork was ruined. We drove miles round the house paddock until he settled to the right, then a reward of oats and repeat to the left. We left for a Queensland holiday feeling that the problem was solved. What unsuspecting fools we were! 

Return from Brisbane on Tuesday. On Wednesday, the first ride, where discretion dictated that if I didn't leave the saddle relatively gracefully at my own volition I would be unceremoniously dumped. I had never been game to bailout before and I wondered if turning 40 had left its mark. Thursday Carpet was clipped and told serious work was to begin at a dressage school on Saturday. Friday, a reminder trip in the float was called for - and it lasted just one metre this time. 

How a horse well over 16hh managed to get right down onto the floor of the float, hind legs neatly tucked underneath him and front legs straight out, I have no idea. Only the awkward position of the grey head as it rested uncomfortably on the chest rail gave any indication this position was not quite as Carpet had planned. 

I lost patience. He had walked on readily and it was not as if he could not balance while I tentatively eased my foot off the clutch and edged forward. He had just flung himself down at the mere thought of travelling. I remember thinking rude thoughts about his imported Royal sire and his Irish dam - had he perhaps heard the Irish jokes the boys brought home from school? I definitely remember thinking that I'd bought him instead of a carpet for the lounge room and that if things didn't change smartly I'd have a nice big glossy grey rug to place in the middle of the floor. 

So I swore and Bob acted and extracted Carpet from the float, then we stood back and thought while Carpet rested his head on my shoulder to show he was suitably subdued.The horse had panicked because the divider had given way while he leaned on it when the float turned left. We travelled the horse on the right hand side of the float for reasons we thought good and sufficient - but what if the horse preferred to travel on the left? On the left, he could lean on the solid wall when the float turned left (we refused to think about what would happen when it turned right.) 

So we loaded him back on the float, this time on the left side. And we made sure the divider was solid in the centre. Then we set off. And it worked. We went into Goulburn for the dressage school, Saturday and Sunday, and returned without a single scratch on the paintwork. Then we drove out to Crookwell - not even a hint of moisture on the neck. Not a stagger nor a bump. 

So for the moment the problem is solved. But so many things can cause a horse to be thrown around in a moving float - too much speed, often necessary to hold one's own with highway traffic, badly cambered roads that tilt the float, centrifugal force which causes a horse to shift balance just changing lanes .... 

For the present we are careful and take a companion for Carpet, Philip's pony Rosie, as a calming influence. With luck, we'll never hear the thud and blunder from the float again and I will be able to use my next lot of savings for that floor-covering as planned. 

This article first appeared in the Australian Horse World Magazine, January - March 1989, Volume 6, number 1, page 42-44. 

Oh Emily, the story of the pony who sprouted wings and disappeared!

'Did you find Emily?' asked the dentist as I arrived for my appointment. "I saw the advert in the local paper and wondered what happened to her."

During the next few weeks I was amazed how many people were interested in Emily's welfare after seeing the advertisement.

'LOST from Pomeroy, dark brown pony mare, 11-12 hands, 30 years old, white star and graying on face, Caroline Gaden's 'Emily". Reward offered. Phone ...'

The sedate walks progressed to brave jumps

So just who was Emily, how did she come to be lost and, most important, was she found?

Emily is one of those delightful kids ponies truly worth her weight in gold. Her early history is lost in the mists of time. About ten years ago she was bought by a neighbour "Farmer Fred' to pull "The Chariot', which has been driven all over the property by his sons. The youngest one had now moved onto a bigger pony, so Emily, (with a tendency to founder, like so many ponies), was left idle and was eating her way to a painful end when we acquired her on permanent loan

Emily's cresty neck, a sure sign of a pony prone to founder, would do a stallion proud, and her feet show the telltale rings and ridges. She tended to stand with her front feet well forward in an attempt to ease the discomfort of inflamed hoof laminae (hence the other name for founder, laminitis).

Emily joined Philip's pony Rosie on very low rations in the "starvation paddock' as we attempted to get rid of her excess weight. The horse dentist came to rasp all the horses teeth. When it came to do what was left of Emily's, he said that she was a lot closer to 30 years old than 20, and he wouldn't charge me for doing "the poor old girl".

We trimmed her feet regularly, reshaping only a little bit at a time. It was a full 6 months before we felt that her hooves became horse shaped again and the tendons and ligaments returned to normal angles.

During this time Paul. then aged 7, started to ride her. First round the garden on the lead rein, then without the lead, then out in the paddock being led by me riding 'Carpet' and eventually off on his own.

As Paul's confidence increased so did the pony's ability to move more freely. The quiet, sedate walks became bold trots and unreserved canters, and even a few brave jumps.

Emily and Paul progressed to their first Pony Club One Day Event. Paul was thrilled that he remembered the dressage test. They trotted all round the E grade cross country course, even cantered in places. Alas the show jumping took its toll - Emily wanted a second look at the wall and Paul went out the front door with an anguished "Oh! Emily". However Emily was satisfied there were no gremlins hidden on the other side and popped over at the second attempt. It was a very proud Paul (and even prouder Mum) who received a ribbon at the presentation.

However much Emily is loved by the human Gadens, the equine ones are less accepting, and this has caused a few problems. One day we were practising for the Parent and Child class at the local show. Phillip rode Rosie on the left, I rode Carpet on the right and Paul and Emily were in the middle. We tried to keep close together. but Emily obviously had painful memories of Rosie's hooves and Carpet's teeth. She stopped dead as Rosie and Carpet moved in and Paul got a face full of mane. 'Oh! Emily".

We also enjoy dressage to music. Trying to find music with a beat suitable for a Pas de Deux with Carpet at 16.2 hands and Rosie or Emily at 11 hands is next to impossible (not quite impossible. but that is another story). However the two ponies can use the same beat if we can find something suitable. One day I was in the house paddock with the cassette player and a selection of tunes. Emily rapidly became sick of trotting in circles around me and she took off for the garden gate. After all that is where she is usually unsaddled and always manages to pinch a mouthful of prized green grass from the lawn which she thinks we keep irrigated just for her benefit.

After two sorties to the gate, accompanied as usual by "Oh! Emily". I suggested that Philip, being a bit older and wiser than Paul, should ride her. Emily had definite thoughts on this and set off at a brisk trot towards the gate. Philip tried to turn her and he did manage at the very last moment to pull her nose around. Emily didn't alter rhythm but at an equally smart trot came straight back to where I was laughing and waiting with Paul sitting on Rosie. Only Emily didn't stop. She trotted straight into Rosie's side and deposited Philip out the front door. "Oh! Emily".

We headed north for Queensland sunshine during the July school holidays, leaving friend Bridget and neighbour Peg to keep an eye on the assorted animals. We arrived in Noosa on a rainy Saturday. The last time I was in Noosa 17 years before it was raining too, but at least there was sand on the beach then!

Tuesday we had a frantic phone call from Bridget that Emily was missing. and could she have an accurate description for the police and a lost advertisement. There was no sign of broken fences or open gates. None of the locals she had managed to contact had seen the pony. There was no evidence that she was upside down in one of the dams or at the bottom of a gully. Bridget. her husband Brian and Peg had searched all over the place half a dozen times during the three days and Emily had completely disappeared. "Oh! Emily".

A couple of days later we braved the rain and went to Expo. Definitely not the place for a surreptitious weekend away without the spouse. Among the 121,953 visitors at Expo we ran into many people we knew. There were former workmates of Bob's, current workmates of mine and other people from our local area including none other than "Farmer Fred" himself.

After making comments about having to travel such a long way to catch up with neighbours. we were just about to break the news of Emily's disappearance when Fred said "I hope you don't mind, we borrowed Emily back for a few days for some friends to ride. We knew you would be away and wouldn't mind. We put her back at your place yesterday before flying north."

All Bob, Philip, Paul and I could do was heave a collective sigh of relief and chorus "OH! EMILY!"

This story first appeared in Australian Horse World and Rider Magazine, January 1990, Volume 7, Number 1, page 52-53.

Some Christmas memories

I lived in Yorkshire for my first twenty or so years. Christmas there was very different from Christmas in Australia, or even Christmas now, some forty and more years on. In Yorkshire Christmas happens in winter so daylight hours are very short, round about seven whereas Australia has a summer Christmas with long hot days. In Yorkshire there was usually frost and snow, more frost and snow.

Each evening in the weeks leading up to Christmas in post war Britain there would be a steady stream of youngsters knocking on everyone's front door, singing a couple of short Carols especially for you, collecting their reward of a threepenny piece, sixpence if they were really good, and that was used to buy presents for their family. A large group like the Salvation Army would also go round ‘caroling’, collecting money for charity. They would stay in the middle of the street whilst several members went door knocking to collect the money.

There were lots of paper streamers around the house, often hand made by making strips of coloured paper into linking circles to make chains. The Christmas tree was always a fresh tree, not artificial. We had some pretty Christmas Crackers and coloured crepe paper to decorate the bucket and we had a small set of lights which often blew a bulb so the whole lot went dark. At the top of the tree was always the Christmas fairy, dressed in white, with wings like an angel.

One year I was given a set of Angel Chimes, a brass 'ornament' which had three small angels set under a fan shaped piece. In the bottom tray were holders for four small candles. When lit the hot air rising above the flames caused the fan to rotate taking with it the angles and their wire strikers which hit two tiny bells. A sweet tinkling sound was the result, just the sound you'd expect from Tinkerbell! I still have those Angel chimes, they have been used every Christmas. It used to give me great pleasure to help my children  put them together every year and now, in their turn, my young grandchildren enjoy assembling the pieces some sixty years on.

We lived in a typical semi-detached house with living rooms downstairs and  bedrooms upstairs. Stairs went up to the left of the wooden floored hallway. One Christmas my parents had thrown a party on Christmas Eve and on Christmas morning I was very excited to report that Santa had been, but “what a mess he left with his muddy boots on the floor.” But at least he had eaten his mince pie, he left crumbs to prove it, and drunk his glass of sherry, and the handful of sugar lumps for Rudolf and Co had disappeared!

A couple of years later, on Christmas Eve, I was found with hammer and six inch nails, ready to fasten my pillowcase to the piano in expectation of Santa’s visit. My usual Christmas presents were pony books, especially those written by Pat Smythe (The Three Jays series) or the three Pullein-Thompson sisters, Christine, Diane and Josephine. Or there were headscarves with horse pictures, or brushes for grooming the ponies. I don’t recall any toys but I do remember one year receiving four copies of the latest Pat Smythe book and a horsey headscarf from each of my cousins.

We used to have a turkey roast with all the trimming, turkey being far more ‘meaty’ than goose, and the special stuffing was always the favourite. There was always Christmas crackers with their paper hats and silly jokes. And Christmas Day was the one and only day of the year when my father and grandfather washed up the pots!

When I was about ten I was given a pony of my own. So Christmas Day then meant biking down to the stables, spending time mucking out, grooming, exercising, feeding the pony and cleaning all the saddlery and then the long pull home again on the bike. Thus Christmas morning was spent with the pony, home for lunch and presents and an hour or so later it was back to the stables for the evening "feed and clean", all ready for the Boxing Day meet of the local hunt, an exciting, colourful, noisy English tradition for country folk.

And the decorations had to come down on January 6th which was the Twelveth Night... if a piece of paper was missed it had to stay up all year until the next January... in our superstitious family it was bad luck to remove decorations on any day other than the sixth day of the first month!

Popcorn, the strawberry roan pony who would not be passed

One day the Saltersgate hounds were in full cry running up Newton Dale. Popcorn and I were galloping along the valley floor and one or other of us, I forget which, decided to take a short cut as we veered to the right. Not a good move; we were galloping over a rabbit warren at top speed when we fell. I hit the ground hard and rolled and rolled, over and over, the pony also rolling behind me, flying hooves coming dangerously close to my head. Luckily I rolled faster than him and we didn’t entangle a hoof with my face. We were both a bit pale and shaky when we eventually stopped. The adults quickly checked us over, there were no bones broken, so I was tossed back on board and away we went again, hurrying after hounds. Despite the scare, the fall didn’t dampen my enthusiasm for cross country riding. Many years later and many kilometres away on the other side of the world the enjoyment of galloping across country remained. But this was the start. 

My earliest memory is of fox hunting. We were following hounds in the car, Mum and Aunty Jessie were there, it was down Westgate Carr Lane and a fox had gone to ground in a drain. It must have been the Sinnington pack as the terrier man was Caffeline. He had put a terrier down the drain but the men also had to dig out some of the dirt. I was standing so close that my Wellington boots were filling up with soil. I would have been about three years old. 

It was inevitable that I would want to learn to ride. So when I was four I went along to The Hall Hotel Riding stables in Thornton-le-Dale. Joe Thompson owned the horses. My first ride was on Popcorn, a 12 hand high strawberry-roan pony. Joe led me on foot but lesson number two saw him ride Patience and lead me from her. I can’t remember how many lessons I had before I was allowed to ‘go solo’.

By this time Mum and Pop both decided that they would join me, so for a number of years each Sunday morning saw us all go along to Joe’s stables for a couple of hours ride and it wasn’t long before Uncle Bob was coming too. After the ride we’d adjourn to the adjacent hotel for some food and refreshments before going back home to Pickering. 

Of course several friends were subject to the tales of sore legs, unbalanced seats and the inevitable falls. We reckoned Mum has seen a horse, particularly the grey Smokey, from every possible angle.

One day Pop received a poem anonymously in the mail.

The tale of Ronald Ford

This is the tale of Ronald Ford, of driving haulage trucks got bored;

Likewise the spreading of the lime binds the best of folks in time.

This daily driving through the snow gets you down in time you know.

So he thought he’d try a change and be a ‘Rider of the Range’.

So to the Country Club he hied, determined now to learn to ride.

Heaven help his tutor Joe to have to teach this ‘So and So’.

Each Sunday morn he goes to ride with his daughter by his side.

He, adorned in splendid dress, the like of which you’d never guess.

In Wellington boots and trousers long this daring horseman canters on.

The folks all stare and slyly snigger “There’s that Rogers guy and Trigger.”

When on this splendid scene they gazed the Pickering people were amazed.

“Who is this cavalier?” they asked, with thoughts of their historic past.

Old men said “Ah tell thee Ben, t’awd Castle’s occupied again.”

When at last he got to Joe, Joe said let’s see you ‘have a go’

But his antics had Joe tickled, in fact they had him ‘Wilfred Pickled.’

He mounted on his fiery horse, complete with Wellingtons of course.

T’was then he realised that slacks are not the thing to wear on hacks.

For when he mounted on the horse and trotted gaily down the course

He found the going rather tough, when the Gee-Gee cried “Enough!”

And stopping with a sudden jerk nearly drove our friend berserk.

To counteract this sudden check he put his arms around its neck,

And searching vainly for the gears, realised a horse has ears.

These he held with all his might to help to put himself aright,

For you see the poor sap was caught up in his saddle flap.

So now this guy who used to fly and do his antics in the sky

Will find he needs a tighter girth to do his antics on the earth.

And now I trust this piece of prose will prove a warning folks, to those

Who would be on a horse admired, to see they’re suitably attired.

Then you’ll improve in leaps and bounds and one day you may ride to hounds.

But should you fail dear sir, well then get back to spreading lime again

At this at least you’ll prove your worth and be the whitest man on earth.

Eventually Bob and Pop decided that their riding had improved in enough leaps and bounds to think of going hunting, so we had to find appropriate bowlers, boots and breeches for them to wear. Pop’s boots were so tight round the calf that he couldn’t wear socks but he found ladies nylon stocking provided him some bit of warmth for his feet. 

Uncle Bob on Lulu, me on Popcorn and Mum on Smokey

First day of hunting at Newton on Rawcliffe, with Mr Hesling and hounds

By this time I had also been hunting a while on Popcorn; my first day was with the Saltersgate hounds when they met on Rawcliffe Bank Top near Newton. Mr Hesling was the Master of Fox Hounds and Angela the whipper-in who rode a black horse called Paddy. If she had to go up a steep bank or hillside, very common in Saltersgate country, Angela would dismount and hang onto Paddy’s tail so he could haul her up the hills.                                                                                                                                          

Popcorn was a cheeky pony who hated to be overtaken and I had to be very careful not to allow him to duck immediately in front of the bigger horses, especially if we were cantering or galloping. I had to be vigilant to keep him well mannered!

The day Popcorn and I decided to take the short cut through a rabbit warren, and had the nasty fall, it was several minutes after remounting that I realised I’d left my riding crop behind and Pop had to go back to retrieve it. Beth was most upset about leaving the other horses and, after Pop eventually found the offending article, he then had to remount the excited mare. Beth set off as soon as his belly landed across the saddle; if only we’d had a camera to see the scramble it must have been to regain the seat and stirrups in one piece and some semblance of dignity! 

Uncle Bob on Beth and Pop riding Duchess


Pop enjoyed his hunting, usually on either Beth or Duchess from Joe’s. However he decided he’d like to get a horse of his own. Mr Hesling had one for sale; Zampa, a big brown hunter over 16 hands high, had been replaced by a younger horse. 

Mum with me and Zampa


 At this time we had no land or stables. We leased a field up Whitby Road behind the cemetery.  This was Zampa’s home in summer. It was here that we cut our first lot of hay, and haymaking became a special time for me in ensuing years, I loved the scent of new mown hay. We also leased stables from the Forest and Vale Hotel which had been Pickering Low Hall, home of the Kitching family. 

Zampa was a horse used to being up at the front of the field; I’m not sure how Pop coped with this enthusiasm. Mum only rode him once and decided never again. I also think Zampa may have been fed considerably more oats than with Mr Hesling. Whatever the reason he didn’t last too long, the convenient excuse being that we could only afford one horse and I had grown longer legs now I was ten, so needed to move from Popcorn onto something bigger. By this time it was also obvious that a pony of my own was going to be better than a once a week ride at Joe’s, so we started to look for a suitable pony to buy.

Our Pony Club diary had a verse from one of WH Ogilvie's poem for every week. Here is the full poem about The Huntsman's Horse

The Huntsman's Horse by Will H Ogilvie

The galloping seasons have slackened his pace,
And stone wall and timber have battered his knees
It is many a year since he gave up his place
To live out his life in comparative ease.
No more does he stand with his scarlet and white
Like a statue of marble girth deep in the gorse;
No more does he carry the Horn of Delight
That called us to follow the huntsman's old horse.
How many will pass him and not understand,
As he trots down the road going cramped in his stride,
That he once set the pace to the best in the land
Ere they tightened his curb for a lady to ride!
When the music begins and a right one's away,
When hoof-strokes are thudding like drums on the ground,
The old spirit wakes in the worn-looking grey
And the pride of his youth comes to life at a bound.
He leans on the bit and he lays to his speed,
To the winds of the open his stiffness he throws,
And if spirit were all he'd be up with the lead
Where the horse that supplants him so easily goes.
No double can daunt him, no ditch can deceive,
No bank can beguile him to set a foot wrong,
But the years that have passed him no power can retrieve—
To the swift is their swiftness, their strength to the strong!
To the best of us all comes a day and a day
When the pace of the leaders shall leave us forlorn,
So we'll give him a cheer - the old galloping grey -
As he labours along to the lure of the Horn.

All Ogilvie's poems can be found at the excellent AllPoetry website

<http://allpoetry.com/William_Henry_Ogilvie>

Gay Girl, the piebald pony that pulled a cart

The swarthy looking gypsy man grabbed the pony’s bridle and started to drag her along. Sitting in the saddle, I was mute with terror. Mum had always told me that gypsies put a curse on you if you didn’t buy their wooden dolly pegs and here I was being dragged into the gypsy encampment.

A few miles down in Haygate Lane near Pickering the gypsies often camped next to Ings Bridge, the
mediaeval stone packhorse bridge, parking their caravans close to the beck with its abundant water supply and plenty of grass for their many ponies. A large campfire was always burning and bossy, barking dogs were everywhere. Hens and geese wandered around clucking and squawking and cats eyed me from a distance. The women were usually sitting round the campfire cooking the meals and carving small branches into wooden clothes pegs, dolly pegs, which they used to sell in town. 

My new pony Gay had “turned her hog out” and refused to go past the busy, bustling camp. When the man took hold of the bridle I had visions of him tossing me in the beck and stealing Gay who would have merged well into their herd of piebald and skewbald coloured ponies.

Of course the man was kindness itself and made sure we were safe and sound. He gave me a couple of tips to make sure I was boss, not the recalcitrant pony.

Gay Girl was the first pony that I actually owned. It was 1957 and I was ten. The pony was 13.2 hands high and an unfashionable piebald in colour, with plenty of feathers on her heels betraying her workmanlike origins. She was used by Dick Wood to pull his flat cart. Dick was what my Dad called a ‘long-whipped-un” and I remember he always held his head on one side and had a continual smile on his face.

Dick lived in a small gypsy caravan in his yard located where the back of Eastgate joined Malton Road, but every itinerant who passed through Pickering stayed in Dick Wood’s yard which they shared with a myriad of mongrel dogs, hens, bantams, cockerels and spitting cats who ruled the street as well as the yard

He made a living by delivering goods on his horse-drawn flat cart. When Mum bought the grand-father clock, made by Malton clockmaker Robert Skelton, at a sale on Roxby Terrace in Thornton-le-Dale she put the brass clock-face and works in her small Fiat car but it was Dick who transported the long-case wooden body of the clock back home to Pickering. We think it may have been Gay he used then.

My Dad knew Gay was good in traffic but no one knew if she’d been broken to saddle. Dick refused to sell her to us unless it was checked.  A quick trip to Joe Thompson, owner of the The Hall Riding School in Thornton-le-Dale, proved that she had, so Gay became my very first pony.

At this time we leased stables from the Forest and Vale Hotel, former home of the Kitching family. It was here my Dad had stabled his hunter Zampa, now retired. There was a high stone wall round the vegetable gardens down Malton Road and for some reason Gay didn’t like to go past the end and then down into Mill Lane. She “turned her hog out” and refused to go. Horace Milner decided to fix the problem. Horace was groom for the Ellerby family so he was used to horses in general and fractious ponies in particular. “Hang on really tight” he instructed “and trot down Malton Road as if you’re going down Mill Lane.”

As we approached the end of the high wall I felt Gay start to slow down, her ears came back and the stride lessened. Just as we reached the corner Horace jumped out bellowing loudly and brandishing a large broom and he chased us down Mill Lane. I’m not sure who was the most scared, Gay or me, but I managed to stay on board and never again did she baulk at the end of that wall.

Horace was a good source of knowledge and a great encourager of young riders. One day he was clipping one of the big hunters which was getting quite twitchy… it suddenly dropped down dead and Horace realised the clippers were ‘live’; luckily he’d not touched any of the metal parts or he also would have been electrocuted.

The Pickering to Malton railway line crossed Mill Lane at the gatehouse. The last passenger train to leave Pickering station was 31 January 1953 but the line remained open for some goods traffic and special excursions for another few years, the final closure being 8 March 1965. One day the gates were closed as a train was due and I wasn’t sure how the pony would respond to the steam locomotive as it chuffed out of town. Gay rested her nose on the top of the white gates and was totally unconcerned by the snuffling snorting monster steaming past.

Mill Lane was one of my favourite rides as it followed Pickering Beck past two 17th Century mills and their weirs.  After the rail crossing you went over the bridge at the Vivers Mill millpond then on through the water splash at the mill itself. If the mill was working the water splash was too deep and fast so you stuck to the road and continued over the disused Pickering-to-Helmsley railway line to join the Goslipgate Road.

From here you rode down Lendales Lane to Low Mill (also known as Lendales Mill) where the mill race was concreted higher than the adjacent lane. I was always worried that the wall would break and I’d be swept away in the resulting flood. I never ventured down here after really heavy rain and the whole area flooded during wet times.

On past Low Mill was Leas Farm, home of George Leydecker a Polish pilot who had stayed in Britain after the war. Here the beck was easy to enter, a place where you could enjoy a paddle in the clear, shallow water. Nearby it opened into the sheep wash where, in earlier times, sheep had the dirt washed from their fleece prior to shearing. From there we re-crossed Pickering Beck at Ings Bridge, a mediaeval pack horse bridge, into Haygate Lane, where the folk we knew as gypsies in those days made their camp.

Another of my favourite rides started off down Mill Lane but ended going up the old Pickering to Helmsley railway line, past the former Goslip Bridge junction which was closed in 1924. The track had been closed in the early 1950s and the rails and sleepers removed so it was a lovely cinder track, excellent underfoot for an exhilarating gallop. It was not quite eight furlongs long down to the gate house at Westgate Carr where there were some slip rails into a field, great for some jumping practice. There was often a white nanny goat tethered down here and she loved Polo mints… Polo, the mint with the hole as the TV ads would remind us. I always made sure I had a packet of Polo’s in my pocket as both Gay and the goat loved them, the goat gently butting me when she was ready for another one. We often shared a packet between the three of us.

The old railway line was also very pretty, the best catkins grew down here. These pussy willows had bright yellow male catkins and were used as the ‘palms’ to decorate churches on Palm Sunday. Later in spring and summer there were pink dog roses, yellow flag irises, white hemlock, hedge parsley and the poisonous berried cuckoo pint. Gay and I often spent time dreaming away and watching the birds and tortoise shell and peacock butterflies and collecting the beautiful wildflowers to take home and blackberries to make into delicious bramble pie.

We sometimes went to Thornton-le-Dale, back to The Hall stables and went out with Jane Thompson, daughter of Joe, and Mary Owen, daughter of Dr Llewellyn Owen. Jane was never as keen on horses as me and I used to envy her having so many to ride.

My beloved old pony nearly died one day when the vet drenched her but, according to my Dad,  put the medicine down into her lungs not into her stomach. I stayed with her for hours with a heavy heart, but luckily she recovered.  The vet would not have been very popular with me if she’d died.

We did have our moments of hatred though. One day I had a very painful ‘boil’ in my ear, very red and inflamed and just about ready to burst. Gay was startled by something outside the stable and swung her head round, catching the side of my head. In excruciating pain I was felled to the straw but at least the boil then burst and relieved that swelling and former agony.

During the time at the Forest and Vale I used to ride with Josie Bradbury. She was from the West Riding of Yorkshire and was the niece of Peter and Annette Room who owned the hotel. Peter got on well with my father as he was also a former pilot but he had the distinction of landing on an aircraft carrier and popping off over the front. They were a fun couple and I liked them.

Josie had a chestnut pony called Honey and we used to go off for a day’s trek with a packed lunch. Occasionally we braved the local Show circuit. We both enjoyed the Norman Thelwell cartoons of “Penelope” and her round, plump, bushy-maned pony and both Josie and I looked the part so it was good we were able to support each other among the elegant and immaculate show ponies and riders at the local Thornton, Rosedale and Ryedale Shows. I missed her school holiday visits when the Rooms left Pickering.

Initially we had leased stables at the Forest and Vale Hotel but those stables were knocked down to make way for the hotel car park and we moved down to the back stables in the walled garden before eventually moving to The Ranch when my parents bought Mickle Hills and built the stables there.

A friend from school, Liz Austin, liked riding too. She was a bit older than me, her mum Kath worked in Miss Blench’s shop selling haberdashery and they lived in a terraced cottage looking down Smiddy Hill. Liz used to love doing hair, I often thought she should become a hairdresser, and she would style mine into all sorts of weird and wonderful shapes and she would plait Gay’s mane whenever she could. One barmy summer day Liz came down to The Ranch for a chat. It was sunny and warm and we were wearing shorts and tee shirts but we decided on a quick bareback ride, both on board together. It was great fun cantering round and we even ventured over some logs in the orchard. It wasn’t too long before Gay decided she’d had enough of these annoying girls and, as we cantered round again, with exquisite placement and timing, she executed a buck small enough to be almost imperceptible but large enough to unbalance the pair. We were not given the choice of t'muck or t'nettles,  we were deposited in what must have been the largest patch of stinging nettles in Yorkshire.

My grandfather was a saddler and he decided I needed a new bridle. Mum took him to the Malton saddlery shop where he’d done his own apprenticeship all those years ago. Grandpa snorted with disgust at the scores of ready-made bridles, leather of London yellow, hanging on display. “Bring me some bridle leather to look at please” The apprentice brought out some shoulder leather. Grandpa scowled. “No bring me some real leather, a butt, not this rubbish.”  With renewed respect for the old man, a few hides of quality leather appeared, dark Warwick in colour.  Grandpa selected the best butt and gave his instructions. A flat, loose ring snaffle bit was his choice, with stitches, no buckles. A few days later he returned to collect his order and was obviously satisfied. I have no doubt he would have refused to collect anything other than top quality workmanship.

Hunting had always been a huge part of my life. Before I’d started school and before I started riding, we had usually been followers of hounds in the car. Aunty Jess was often with us. I have memories of climbing a hillside behind the Hartoft pub and seeing the fox break away below me. Another time Kim Barker was visiting from the West Riding and went out in the car with Mum. Hounds were close to the fox which climbed a tree onto the roof of a small cottage and then he popped down the chimney and no doubt made a huge mess inside the living room.

Once I had my own pony I could ride to hounds and Mum and Jess often followed in the car. Hounds met on Saturdays and I went most weekends during the season… it was a rare day when the Saltersgate or Derwent hounds were too far away for me to hack to the Meet. Sometimes I rode to Snainton on the Friday and stayed at The Coachman Inn, opposite the Derwent kennels. Charlie and Renee Nevatt ran the pub and their daughter Kay was about my age and also rode to hounds. We used to hack to the Meet with the Huntsmen Frank Turner and sometimes George Deighton. They were always long days but great fun.

I joined the Sinnington Hunt Pony Club and the first camp was at Major Dymock’s Beckhouse Farm at the bottom of Cropton Bank. They didn’t have enough horse accommodation so Gay stayed in the village in Mr Ford’s field… he was Horace Rushworth Ford and, from his familiar appearance, had to be a relative!

When Pony Club camps moved to Duncombe Park in Helmsley there were plenty of stables but Gay always developed a dry cough there, more so than home, so we had to dampen her hay, oats and bran.

One year I remember visiting the King's Troop camp and watching a rehearsal of their performance. Their musical ride was very spectacular especially when they charged towards each other at full gallop whilst pulling the heavy gun carriages. They must have been in camp whilst performing at the Great Yorkshire Show. At that time most of our Pony Club instructors were British Army, Brigadiers and Colonels, so arrangements would have been quite easy.

One instructor was Polish. Dr Bronowski always used to tell us "Make much of your horse" and we were allowed a regulation two pats on the neck.

Brigadier Wilson was one of the instructors who lived in Middleton, next door to my godmother Jessie Harrison at Stonegarth. In summer Isobel Heap and I spent many Saturday mornings being given expert riding instruction. Stella Wilson was a little younger than me and was frightened of the ponies. She would burst into tears every so often and ask “Lift me off Daddy, please lift me off.” Stella’s love was ballet and she was much happier in her ballet shoes rather than her riding boots.

All the work meant Gay had to be shod frequently. My blacksmith Wilf Mc Neil was one of the ‘old school’, making the shoes to fit the hoof rather than file the hoof to fit the shoe, which meant he ‘hot’ shod the horses and ponies. His shop was up the Whitby Road, just past the old Police Station. The road was very narrow and there was no way of getting out of the way of passing lorries and cars. I didn’t like having to ride up here.

Wilf’s shop was very dark. There was a window near where you tied the horses, but it was so sooty that the only light to enter the place was through the open door and a red glow from the forge, I often wondered how he saw to shoe the front feet. The place was full of metal in all shapes and sizes, ploughs waiting to be repaired, new handles to add to this, new chains to be added to a harrow, a gate to be made for that, all sorts of archaeological masterpieces waiting to be re-discovered if they ever finally saw the light of day again, even through a sooty haze.

My ponies were shod every 6 weeks or so; sometimes they could have 'removes' if the shoe is not worn, otherwise a full set of new shoes was fitted. The old shoes were removed then the hooves were pared to trim off the growth. The hoof clippings had a characteristic smell beloved by dogs and sometimes I’d meet a dog owner waiting to collect the bits to hold in their hands to encourage their show dogs to race along with head high.

The shoe was made from a straight piece of metal; I often wondered how Mr McNeil knew exactly how much metal to cut as I don’t recall him ever using a ruler or tape to measure either the hoof or the steel. The metal was held by tongs in the forge which would suddenly surge into glowing orange life as the bellows added blasts of air. Soon the embryonic shoe was red hot and with a few hammer blows on the anvil they matured into shape. Holes had to be punched in for the nails and clips placed correctly for the specific hoof and the stud hole had to have the screw thread put in. The shoe was heated up and held onto the hoof.... I remember disappearing into a cloud of fairly pungent smoke! It didn't hurt the horse but it did burn the shoe outline onto the hoof so Mr McNeil could fine-tune his shaping. The shoe was not to be hit by the hammer too many times, so he had to know just what he was doing. The nails used to fasten on the shoe had a special shape to make the point come out as a ‘clench’, and not penetrate the inner, sensitive part of the hoof, and Mr McNeil used to hold them all in his mouth as he worked round each hoof… I was always worried he would swallow one if a horse pulled away from him and was mightily impressed by his ability to swear at an uncooperative pony even with a mouth full of nails.

The Police station and Mr McNeil’s house and shop were  demolished in the early 1960s to widen the road and improve access the RAF Fylingdales early warning station. A new Police Station  was built where Eastgate Backside joined the Malton Road.

When his old shop was demolished Mr McNeil moved to a new concrete block place on Eastgate Back… it was new, light, shiny, tidy, boring and characterless after the mysteries of the dark hole on the Whitby Road.

I loved this epitaph to a blacksmith spotted on a local tombstone

Anvil and hammer lie declined, my bellows too have lost their wind,
My fires extinguished, my furse decayed, and in the dust my vice is laid,
My coals are spent, my irons gone, last nail I've drove, my work is done.

By the time Wilf had moved from his Whitby Road dungeon to the bright new concrete block modernity, I’d outgrown Gay and had moved onto a larger pony. In September 1959 Gay went to the West Riding to give another young girl a taste of fun with her very own pony.

Our Pony Club diary for every year had a verse from an Ogilvie poem at the end of each week. I used to love them. Here is the full poem relating to gypsies, very appropriate when I think of Gay.


Gipsies' Horses by William Henry Ogilvie

 Many a time I've wondered where the gipsies horses go
When the caravans have faded from the lanes;
When all the world of Romany lies buried in the snow,
And not a rose of any fire remains.

Are there fairy-builded stables in the brown New Forest fern?
Are there elfin stalls in Epping where they stand?
Are they haltered in the heather by some haunted Highland burn,
Where the blue hares change to witches out of hand?

Are they feeding down the sunset in some opal land of dreams,
Where the meadows stretch by rivers running gold?
Is it there that we shall find them, all the piebalds and the creams.
All the collar-galled, the weary and the old?

Whatever roof may shelter them, whatever fields they tread,
God grant them rest forgetful of the chains,
Till once again through England all the roses blossom red
Of the Gipsy fires alight along the lanes!

http://allpoetry.com/poem/8488037-Gipsies_Horses_-by-William_Henry_Ogilvie