So what do I know about horses?

My first experience of a horse was at a farm sale. I am unsure why we were there as a family other than to feed my Fathers magpie hoarding tendencies (something which to the despair of my wife, I seem to have inherited).

There it was, amongst the rusting disc plough, harrows, wool pressess and other bits and pieces of farming life up for sale, forlornly tied to a post, a lovely (in my four year old eyes) majestic, beautiful bay coloured pony. This mighty steed was everything that I, two minutes before hand, had not been looking for. Every old black and white western movie that I watched at my grandparents place when on holiday in Invercargill were brought to the fore. there I would be, astride my faithful companion galloping across the High Sierras of Alexandra. jumping five wire fences as I chased my brothers with my lasso. I had it all planned out in an instant.

I just needed to convince my father of the merits of my plan. It was so obvious why I needed to purchase a horse. I mean to say, given the strongly grounded, practical reasons that there were, the very fact that I was not already in possession of one was highly indicative that a major part of my life had been denied and needed rectifying quick smart.

Despite my pleas to my father of looking after it forever and it would never become a burden on my parents to care for it, and when that failed to tug on the heartstrings, the direct action of trying to pull my fathers hand out of his pocket so that the auctioneer could see that there was some serious bids from that corner of the crowd, my first pony was passed in with no interest from the crowd and we all moved on, leaving the bored pony standing there not knowing just how close its life could have been irreversibly changed for the better.

You can imagine the absolute disgust that I as a four year old could muster when it turns out that my brothers had manage to secure, several lots down, an old 90cc vespa that blew out a constant stream of blue smoke. 

My pony would not have blown out a constant stream of blue smoke.

I do have to say, looking around now at the piles of tack, potions and medicated products, containers of feed and the odd vet and equine insurance bill currently sitting on the table, I am drawn to the conclusion that my father, despite heartlessly crushing the five minute old dream of a four year old (almost) pony owner, was a smart and wise man.

The next brush with the highly addictive drug that is Equine was when I was at Primary school. my brother and I attended the illustrious Lauder Railway School. Located in the sprawling metropolis that was Lauder, population 12.

The single teacher school itself could have been described as bijou. The roll fluctuated during my time there from the low of four students to the giddying heights of 14. This mean that all the teachers that turned up there always seemed to be on their way some place else, as if them receiving the position had been the consequence of a very ill informed bet with the Ministry of Education.

There was only one classroom to contain all the different aged students. when we had them, the older Form one and two students were at one end of the classroom and the younger Primers at the other, with the Standards 3-6 in the middle. When there was only four of us, we were just clustered together, near the single pot belly stove which was the only form of heating during the winter months.

We use to have great fun with that pot belly stove, banking it up with as much coal as we could, then waiting for the combustible gases to be cooked out of the coal, suddenly igniting causing the lid of the pot belly to fly open with a large BOOM and thick black smoke rolling up into the air before colliding with the vaulted high ceiling and spreading out like a cloud from a low yield nuclear device. through these activities I probably smoked the equivalent of 40 packs of cigarettes during my primary school years.

During the procession of teachers that we had, a Mr Charteris arrived into Lauder. I have this memory of him riding into town on a black horse, leading a second smaller pack horse with canvas bags affixed to a wooden frame. he sat there wearing a khaki cockies hat, tall and thin, mustached with a laid back look in his eyes. Eyes with wrinkles in the corners from years of squinting into bright sunshine whilst surveying the high country lands, trying at the same time to keep the wind blown dust from the hills out.

Yeah, I think this is a false memory, from an over active child's mind. 

Mr Charteris did look like like the description above and we can add to that a little limp when he walked from a less than successful repair of a broken leg when a horse rolled onto him but as to his actual arrival into Lauder, it more than likely would have been him driving his old beaten up 1960's Land Rover (which just needed the zebra stripes paintwork to have looked like it was straight out of the TV show Daktari), pulling an equally beaten up horse float which contained his two horses. The smaller one was his pack horse and did have the canvas and wood pack bags.

Mr Charteris soon put his stamp onto the Ministry of Education approved curriculum for Lauder railway School. Horse related activities soon started to appear. Along with the standard reading, writing and arithmetic, additions of basic horse care and riding were added. we took time out to brush horses, watch Mr Charteris perform farrier work, how to properly mount a horse and during lunch and after school, we rode his two horses.

Quarter of the paddock that we used as a rough sports field was turned over to the planting of carrots for the horses.

Story time consisted of being read to about life on high country farms revolving around the life of riding horses. it was from these autobiographies that we learnt about the importance of Epsom salts and the dangers of colic in horses.

I still remember, during one of these reading sessions, we were listening with bated breath as Mr Charteris was reading about a particularly harrowing account being faced by the books protagonist of a floundering horse. the book was written in the first person style and we had been following the trials and tribulations of the author for the past several months with Mr Charteris reading so many pages a day to us. The author related as to how, while running back from the paddock where this horse was writhing in agony on the ground, her skirts flapped out behind her as she ran to get help.

My friend an I immediately  turned to each other and in unison, exclaimed in total disbelief "Skirts?!"

For the previous several months we did not have the slightest inkling that the author was a girl. it took us a little while to recover from that particular bombshell. oh, and the horse in the book survived.

I fell in love with that little pack horse, Flick. For the life of me I cannot remember the name of the larger black horse, there was only Flick in my eyes. When I think of Flick, I remember the horse smell. That heady gorgeous smell that is just so intoxicating. 

I stayed after school to care for Flick and when the opportunity arose, joining Mr Charteris for rides together along the dirt roads that surrounded Lauder. 

Flick was such a docile horse, he put up with all us kids without putting a hoof out of place. deep down, despite my feeling of total control over Flick through my fantastic horsemanship, I think that he just ignored the commands coming from whoever happened to be on his back at the time and he just plodded along after his paddock mate. Mr Charteris had one rule, no faster than a walk while riding on his horses. That was probably about the only nod towards Health and Safety that ever occurred in those days.

I still remember the thrill of illicit joy when, during one of our plods out on the back roads, I slowed Flick down a bit until Mr Charteris was about 30 metres in front, and then with a little dig of the heels put Flick into a trot using the pretense of closing the gap as an excuse for a bit more speed. 

So what do I know about Horses?

The next time i was on a horse was with my wife Sarah, on our belated honeymoon in Rarotonga, 32 years later. after discovering that actually I can absolutely sit on a beach all day doing nothing (my first non-working trip to the pacific islands, always thought resort holidays would find me bored senseless) Sarah came across a pamphlet advertising horse riding treks.

A moment here to talk about Sarah. she is English and comes from a serious background of equestrian activities. from owning a horse at a young age (obviously a far better manipulator of fathers than I was) to riding with some of the major equestrian families in Europe in her late teens early twenties. There are pictures of her on horses she rode in three day eventing where the horses are about the height of your typical suburban dwelling.

So before I have time to finish my cocktail with the little umbrella in it, I was off the sun lounger and standing in front of this horse receiving instructions from our trek guide (who spent most of his time when not being a guide, running his other business, T-shirt screen printing, a natural fit).

I have given up trying to keep pace with Sarah when she gets an idea in her head. I remark to people that the only reason why the English ruled quarter of the world instead of all of it is because they did not have Sarah as the project manager.

So back to standing in front of this horse. a horse who gave the air of having seen it all, done it all and got the t-shirt (probably printed by its owner). Standing there, in the cook island heat, with fields of pineapple bushes around (who knew that Pineapples grew that way! it was truly an informative day) trying to recall instructions from Mr Charteris well over quarter of a century ago. 

Things I do not recall once I got in the saddle, from earlier days riding was the sense of a total lack of security. I immediately wished that I had a safety rail in front of me. Every time the horse put its head down to scoff, i felt like I was about to be pitched forward. 

Of course, Sarah is up and away, like a fish back in its natural environment.

We plodded along the back roads (well, it is Rarotonga, so really the one and only back road) until we reached the beach. then it was out into the sea. what an amazing experience.  Cocooned  by the water, with the horse partially swimming, partially walking on the seabed, i could relax to enjoy the moment. I was transported back to the days on Flick (albeit not with so much seawater around). I was IN the moment, nothing impinging on my mind. no worries, no cares. I was at peace.

What do i know about horses? 

Nothing. 

Apart from the fact that I now really wanted one.