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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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