Post by gillybounce on Oct 16, 2009 11:18:16 GMT 1
Thought you might like to see my Cumberland News column written after the Championship Show. Just in case anyone thinks it's not a very factual report - it's not meant to be! I've submitted several 'proper' reports to various magazines and will keep my fingers crossed they get used - but this is the column I write every month for the Cumbria Horse supplement part of Cumberland News. Hope it makes you smile!
I know it really doesn’t do to be too self-congratulatory – and
frankly I rarely have any good excuse to do so – but this month you’ll
have to forgive a little trumpet-tooting on behalf of myself. When I
tell you that I took my two horses to a show, entered as many classes
as possible and still came away with nada – zilch – pas de rosettes –
(apart from some very pretty consolation 'specials')
you may well wonder how I can possibly justify bigging myself up.
Well the clue comes early in the sentence – I took my two horses to a
show. Just to clarify that – I drove my two horses to a show. And
not even a local show – this one was at Oatridge equestrian college
near Edinburgh – way, way out of my comfort zone. I know those hardy
souls who regularly chug round the countryside with strings of horses
in huge great pantechnicons will now be thinking ‘So what? That’s
hardly a big deal.’ Well it was to me!
I reckon I’m a decent driver. No passenger has ever emerged from my
car pale and shaking with their hair turned prematurely white. But
driving horses – that’s different. I’m conscious of every bump, every
pothole, every bend in the road. Traffic lights take a devious
delight in changing to red just as I approach, forcing me to decide
whether to just keep going, or to risk jerking the horses with an
abrupt halt. I live in dread of finding myself in the wrong lane and
as for hill starts – I almost said ‘don’t get me started on hill
starts’ – but that sounds a bit too much like tempting fate! So – for
me to drive all the way to Oatridge without so much as the security
blanket of Malcolm at my side muttering ‘Why on earth are you coming
down to second gear, the van can do this bend perfectly well in
fifth,’ was a veritable triumph on my part.
The reason for all this valour? The Scottish and Northern
ex-Racehorse Club Championship Show. Now it should swiftly be said
that Showing is not normally my thing – in fact it’s totally foreign
soil to me. I have the utmost admiration for those riders who turn
their horses out in bandbox perfection, with shiny coats, immaculate
plaits, beautifully stenciled quarter markings and all white bits
looking like something out of a Persil advert. How they achieve that –
and sustain it – heaven alone knows. Those same riders also
inevitably look as though they’ve just stepped from the pages of Vogue
(if it had an equestrian section) with pristine jodhs, perfectly
polished boots, snowy-white stocks and hair neatly secured in
hairnets. And by the end of the day – they’re still looking as good!
If I try really hard, my horse and I can start the day looking as
though we’ve only been dragged through one hedge backwards, having
paused along the way to jump in a few muddy puddles – but inevitably
by the close of play we’re like Pigpen from the Snoopy cartoons –
grubby, dishevelled and carrying more than a faint aroma of the
stable. It must be me – in his racing heyday when he had a proper
stable lass to attend to his toilet, my boy Bounce won several Best
Turned Out prizes and could do suave and elegant with the best of
them. Since throwing in his lot with me however – he’s turned into a
muck magnet.
Don’t go thinking I don’t try – honest I do! The day before the show a
friend of ours walked into our yard and looked around in astonishment
at the sight of newly washed numnahs drying on the washing line,
bridles and saddles in varying stages of being stripped down for
cleaning, and horses covered in soapy suds, looking as if they’d just
come out of a bubble bath.
‘Is the Queen going to the show then?’ he asked.
Just as well she wasn’t – because when we eventually got to Oatridge,
Bounce took one gleeful look at the deliciously deep shavings bed in
the stable I’d booked for him and promptly hunkered down for a roll,
oblivious to my agonised yells of horror. Irritating stuff shavings –
gets everywhere. Especially deep into plaited manes. Irretrievably
deep in fact. I’ve seriously begun to wonder if I’ll ever see the end
of it. The plaits have long since disappeared but bits of sawdust
still keep working their way up from the depths of my boy’s barnet.
Ah well – as the old saying would have it - handsome is as handsome
does. I’m happy to say my horses’ behaviour was immaculate even if
their appearance was less so, and it was a real pleasure and privilege
to be at the show with them. It was also truly heartening to see all
the other gorgeous ex-racers who have gone on to find happy new lives
away from the track. Ex-racers rock!
I know it really doesn’t do to be too self-congratulatory – and
frankly I rarely have any good excuse to do so – but this month you’ll
have to forgive a little trumpet-tooting on behalf of myself. When I
tell you that I took my two horses to a show, entered as many classes
as possible and still came away with nada – zilch – pas de rosettes –
(apart from some very pretty consolation 'specials')
you may well wonder how I can possibly justify bigging myself up.
Well the clue comes early in the sentence – I took my two horses to a
show. Just to clarify that – I drove my two horses to a show. And
not even a local show – this one was at Oatridge equestrian college
near Edinburgh – way, way out of my comfort zone. I know those hardy
souls who regularly chug round the countryside with strings of horses
in huge great pantechnicons will now be thinking ‘So what? That’s
hardly a big deal.’ Well it was to me!
I reckon I’m a decent driver. No passenger has ever emerged from my
car pale and shaking with their hair turned prematurely white. But
driving horses – that’s different. I’m conscious of every bump, every
pothole, every bend in the road. Traffic lights take a devious
delight in changing to red just as I approach, forcing me to decide
whether to just keep going, or to risk jerking the horses with an
abrupt halt. I live in dread of finding myself in the wrong lane and
as for hill starts – I almost said ‘don’t get me started on hill
starts’ – but that sounds a bit too much like tempting fate! So – for
me to drive all the way to Oatridge without so much as the security
blanket of Malcolm at my side muttering ‘Why on earth are you coming
down to second gear, the van can do this bend perfectly well in
fifth,’ was a veritable triumph on my part.
The reason for all this valour? The Scottish and Northern
ex-Racehorse Club Championship Show. Now it should swiftly be said
that Showing is not normally my thing – in fact it’s totally foreign
soil to me. I have the utmost admiration for those riders who turn
their horses out in bandbox perfection, with shiny coats, immaculate
plaits, beautifully stenciled quarter markings and all white bits
looking like something out of a Persil advert. How they achieve that –
and sustain it – heaven alone knows. Those same riders also
inevitably look as though they’ve just stepped from the pages of Vogue
(if it had an equestrian section) with pristine jodhs, perfectly
polished boots, snowy-white stocks and hair neatly secured in
hairnets. And by the end of the day – they’re still looking as good!
If I try really hard, my horse and I can start the day looking as
though we’ve only been dragged through one hedge backwards, having
paused along the way to jump in a few muddy puddles – but inevitably
by the close of play we’re like Pigpen from the Snoopy cartoons –
grubby, dishevelled and carrying more than a faint aroma of the
stable. It must be me – in his racing heyday when he had a proper
stable lass to attend to his toilet, my boy Bounce won several Best
Turned Out prizes and could do suave and elegant with the best of
them. Since throwing in his lot with me however – he’s turned into a
muck magnet.
Don’t go thinking I don’t try – honest I do! The day before the show a
friend of ours walked into our yard and looked around in astonishment
at the sight of newly washed numnahs drying on the washing line,
bridles and saddles in varying stages of being stripped down for
cleaning, and horses covered in soapy suds, looking as if they’d just
come out of a bubble bath.
‘Is the Queen going to the show then?’ he asked.
Just as well she wasn’t – because when we eventually got to Oatridge,
Bounce took one gleeful look at the deliciously deep shavings bed in
the stable I’d booked for him and promptly hunkered down for a roll,
oblivious to my agonised yells of horror. Irritating stuff shavings –
gets everywhere. Especially deep into plaited manes. Irretrievably
deep in fact. I’ve seriously begun to wonder if I’ll ever see the end
of it. The plaits have long since disappeared but bits of sawdust
still keep working their way up from the depths of my boy’s barnet.
Ah well – as the old saying would have it - handsome is as handsome
does. I’m happy to say my horses’ behaviour was immaculate even if
their appearance was less so, and it was a real pleasure and privilege
to be at the show with them. It was also truly heartening to see all
the other gorgeous ex-racers who have gone on to find happy new lives
away from the track. Ex-racers rock!
