About 150 million years ago (or possibly slightly less) when I worked for social services in an underprivileged area of Bristol, I lived in Radstock – a small town on the edge of the rural idyll that is the Mendip Hills in Somerset.
Every evening I would travel straight from Bristol to Radstock – except Fridays. On those evenings I would stop at Clutton Hill to ride at Hartleywood Equestrian Centre.
Every Friday evening at 19.30 I joined a small group of people of similar equestrian ability; we worked our little arses off for the instructor as we were put through an hour of theory as we progressed towards our BHS Exams, followed by an hour of practical as she put us through our paces.
Rosie Withey owned and ran Hartleywood in such an organised, methodical way that everything about the place was just right.
I liked riding for Rosie – we’d known each other for years and she understood what I needed (a metaphorical kick up the backside rather than soft, kind and gentle words of syrup and honey).
As well as being a good tutor Rosie also had a significant talent for choosing good staff – Sarah E, Sarah S, Lizzie K (her BHSAIs) – were as thorough and professional as she was; her full-time helpers were diligent and efficient.
Even her part-time, weekend-only staff met the same standards of care and professionalism as her full-time staff.
One of Rosie’s pool of part-time staff was Vicky; a tall, thin, slightly gawky schoolgirl Vicky worked at Hartleywood on weekends and school holidays and rode there during the week.
Apart from horses, Vicky and I had other bonds: a certain sense of humour, a fondness for Thoroughbreds in general and much admiration for one in particular. James was a handsome, very talented chestnut gelding. Vicky and I would try and ‘˜book’ James, we would squabble good-naturedly when one of us was allocated Chippy instead.
Not that the Chipster wasn’t a good boy, in some ways he was a better horse to ride than James. Chippy could sense when the rider let his/her attention wander and would make them pay for it.
Usually he’d drop a shoulder or jink sideways as soon as he felt there was less than 100% attention being directed his way – and he’d do it with a smirk on his face. Chippy was a nice little horse who taught his riders many good habits.
But to Chippy’s Mini Cooper the lovely James was a Ferrari.
A month ago Vicky dropped me a line out of the blue. She’d found a piece I’d recently written for The Times Online, recognised my name and googled me.
A massive catch-up by email followed – and continues.
Vicky is now married with 27,000 children (or none), has a very responsible career working for a national research centre and owns two equines of her own.
We’re already promising that we’ll try and schedule next season’s Eventing so that we compete on the same day at the same venue at least once, to enable us to meet up, exchange more stories and ogle each other’s equines.
The photos she’s sent me show the same girl, though grown now. Gone is the gawkiness but she’s still thin as a whip and retains the same very long legs that made her such a capable rider.
And the reason this retrospective line of thought came about? No, not Vicky and her most recent email.
The reason for this long look at the past is€¦ the time of year.
Last night I schooled Vin.
At 19.15 we were brightly illuminated under the arena floodlights; to us the rest of the universe was pitch black outside our 30x50m oblong-shaped world of brightness.
And the temperature was minus 2c.
Yep, -2 Celsius.
And that’s one thing in particular that I remember about those Friday evenings at Hartleywood: The cold.
Not the times of the year when the weather was warm and sunny and we rode in our jodhpurs and T-shirts in bright daylight until 21.30, instead I’m recalling the dark, bitterly cold evenings.
The nights when to ride in less than four layers of upper body-wear and less than two layers of lower body-wear would have been near suicidal; when the sand/rubber surface of the arena crunched as each metal-shod foot skipped across it, because the surface was freezing as we rode; when the breath of horses and riders alike emulated the steam in a Turkish bath; when – as we wound down each session to slower work at the close – our horses gave off clouds of steam in the bitterly cold night air.
We’d dismount and be surprised – as they touched the soft, crunchy arena surface – that our feet were so warm.
We’d run up our stirrup leathers, slide the barn door open and walk our horses to their boxes pausing only to pick out their feet.
Saddles and bridles would come off, our horses would stand still as they were groomed, then the first stable rug would go on.
Treats, tickles and scratches would be administered before the second stable rug was put on.
Tack would be cleaned and put in the correct places in the methodically tidy tack room then we would dive in to our cars, desperate to get some heat in to our rapidly cooling bodies.
I have almost 365-days of riding memories per year – all spanning many years in the saddle, yet the one type of experience sharpest in my mind right now is night-schooling in the depths of winter on an exposed hill in rural Somerset when the temperature is well in to the minus.
Bizarre!
Mind you… here’s James:
B.
p.s. Any similarity between James and Beech or Vin is purely accidental!
🙂