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I like horses. The more I learn about them the more I
respect them and the more I get to like them. You only
have to think about the placid nature of these beautiful big
animals who baby sit three year old kiddies, or carry six year
olds to victory in shows and pony club competitions. Just
seeing them respond to an almost imperceptible direction from a
tiny hand, or a movement from a little leg, to weave perfectly
around pegs and barrels, or over jumps has to be enough to bring
a lump to the throat of even a confirmed horse hater (and I
guess such people do exist.)
Even horse lovers will have to admit there is an element of risk
in any horse activity. A rider is sitting almost two
metres in the air on a living, thinking animal. An
animal that believes in tigers and sees them often - even if
they turn out to be a stump or a plastic bag. An animal
that is capable of making rapid turns and prized for its ability
to leap in the air, and one that sometimes takes a positive
dislike to having another animal on its back. Then,
consider what we do with horses. The work we do and the
games we play: racing, show jumping, eventing, stock work, polo,
jousting. Put two people together with two horses and
sooner or later they have to have a race. No wonder horse
accident statistics are high. Human association with
horses over the last few thousand years has led to countless
stories of mishaps and disasters but then, you have to consider
that getting out of bed in the morning is fraught with danger
and the most dangerous thing you can do, if you let yourself be
motivated by fear, is to stay in bed. Statistically, more
people die in bed than any other place.
Anyone who has ever been associated with riding schools, or
horse treks, can tell you that a surprisingly high percentage of
riders will tell lies about their ability. Perhaps it’s
bravado, embarrassment, or simply a death wish. Some just
overestimate their riding skill. They’ve watched a Clint
Eastwood western, or an episode of the saddle club, and reckon
it looks easy. Matching people and horses takes some
experience, all of which leads up to the events which unfolded
on a typical Sunday afternoon at the horse farm.
By default I was appointed to take out the ride. The Boss
was out fixing something and his good wife, known to all of us
here as the Real Boss, works hard during the week and regards
Sundays as her stand down day when she can do as she likes.
One of the things she particularly likes is coaching her
bouncing babies. They are a team of precociously capable,
fearless, five to seven year old show jumpers, all girls, of
course. They look like tiny mushrooms in their big white
riding helmets, joddies and riding boots but none of them can
remember when they couldn’t ride a horse. Sunday was their
practice day and the Real Boss loves teaching them. So,
they take precedence over everything else for her.
When someone calls to book a ride and tells us that they are a
‘fantastic’ rider and that they want a horse that will ‘really
go, one that will run’, that is enough to set off the old alarm
bells. I will always choose a free going but also dead
quiet horse. One that will be responsive if they are
competent but won’t be too much for them if they aren’t quite as
good as they think. Fortunately, a lot of the old school
horses are like that. You could say kind and responsible,
natural babysitters, but in fact they are horses, experienced
judges of human character and masters of the art of conservation
of energy.
One of our regular customers had called to say they had a
visitor from overseas who was keen to ride in Australia. A
very experienced rider, lots of horse shows, heaps of show
jumping and years of trail riding all over Europe. He was
definitely a superior horseman and worthy of special
consideration. This particular regular customer had been
bringing his kids every weekend and was a fair bush rider
himself. He was keen to impress his guest with the quality
of Aussie horseflesh ‘Could we please give him one of our really
smart show horses?’
This group turned up to go for an afternoon ride. They
were rugged up against the cold, a little flushed and very keen.
The visitor was a very fit and athletic looking fair-haired man
in his middle thirties from Holland. He had a friendly
outgoing nature with that typically Dutch air of confidence.
Because horses were his specialty he seemed to have naturally
taken charge of the group. Our regulars were full of
praise for their visitor’s equestrian virtues. I have come
to know some experienced Dutch riders over the years and without
exception they are extremely competent, so I found it easy to
relax and take him at face value. The visitor filled out
the compulsory disclaimer form that insurance worries have made
part of our routine.
In the square designated for ‘experience,’ asking how many times
he had ridden in the last year, he added an extra
nought
to the 100 + and laughed. The Real Boss had selected a
nice mount for him, a big easy going grey horse called Bashful
with a nice nature but a low level of tolerance for fools.
I had some slight misgivings when the visitor muttered something
about being a little out of practice and produced an ancient
English hunting cap of the thin, velvet covered type. I
looked it over, then, less than tactfully, explained to him that
it might be handy as a feed dipper, or it could be a useful item
under the bed at night, otherwise the best place for it was on
top of a cupboard somewhere until it became a real antique.
I then fitted the visitor up with a modern, approved helmet and
put in a plug for the local saddler, telling him he should get a
helmet while he was out here, to take advantage of Australia’s
low exchange rate against the Euro.
It is the horse farm policy to always get each person mounted
individually, so we can help and supervise, but the visitor’s
next step took us all by surprise. While we were busy
getting the kids onto their ponies and adjusting their stirrups,
the visitor independently set about getting himself mounted.
With the reins still tied to the hitching rail, he placed his
right foot in the near side stirrup and sprung gracefully into
the saddle. In one swift movement, too fast to correct
himself, he landed with a bump, backward on the saddle, looking
out over the horse’s tail. Bashful, stood still with one
ear cocked back and a look of horsy amazement on his long
aristocratic face. He shook his head from side to side and
looked back over his shoulder. This was right outside his
experience but, to his credit, his only reaction was to wait and
see what would happen next. The visitor glanced around, to
see who had been watching then, red faced, slipped hurriedly off
the right hand side, forgetting in his haste to pull his foot
out of the stirrup and so dragging the leather and iron over the
saddle.
He made an awkward three-point landing, bum
down, head up in the air, on one foot and two hands backwards,
beside the horse with his right leg suspended in the air.
Remarkably the horse still just stood there and the
visitor, unhurt, shook his foot loose, stood up and started to
mount again, from the wrong side.
I covered the distance remarkably quickly, for a man of my size
and age, and was ready beside him to steady the horse.
This proved to be unnecessary, so I untied the reins and placed
them over Bashful’s head, then directed the visitor back to the
correct side and helped him to mount, physically placing his
left foot into the stirrup. As he was doing this I dryly
muttered a gentle, but audible, apology, ‘I am sorry, I should
have warned you, here in the southern hemisphere, horses have
their heads on the other end.’ ... |
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