Well, not so much a new member as a dormant one whose woken up!
My name is Jack, retired last month after doing my 50 years hard graft, and planned on chilling out for a few weeks, then going down south to visit family and friends, then coming back and mulling over "Do I really want to have my own horse?" for a few weeks before coming to a rational decision. Hem.
As to what sort of horse - well, a tough and tough-minded little mountain horse. Maybe a TB or Arab cross native, around 14.2 to 15.2 - the size always chosen by the Army for campaign work (British Army as well as US Army). The sort who you could hop on and ride from here to Inverness. And who would get you there, and back. A younger horse, not too messed up by other people - maybe not even yet backed. Definitely not a TB, DEFINITELY not an ex-racer. And a grey would be nice.
But the best laid plans of mice and men . . .
I'd been going to a riding school near Glossop (Derbyshire) for several years. Really first rate instructors, who taught me stuff in my first lesson with them which had never even been
mentioned in the school I went to in Sussex, two or three times a week, for the best part of ten years. I wandered in there, the day after my 65th birthday, just for a natter, and saw a horse I'd not seen before being led into the stable. And I looked at him and thought "Coo! Nice horse." I said something to that effect, and the woman leading him said "He's up for sale, if you're interested!", and I laughed - and said that my current bank balance would barely pay for his bridle. But it turned out that he was going for just enough money to pay off an outstanding livery debt, so I went along for a closer look . . .
He was stood right at the back of his box when I looked over the door, and we eyeballed each other for about 5 seconds. Then he walked up to the door, had a good ol' sniff of me, and did that flemen thing . . . and then nuzzled my face, and we eyeballed each other some more. And that was that. Clicked. Totally. Both ways. Seems to me like we can talk to each other just by looking, and nobody else except us knows what we're saying. And I knew straight off, if he ever hurt me, it would be by accident.
Would you believe, he'd been on a private section of that yard for
four years - and I'd never seen him once? But the very day I qualified for my pension and lump sum, he was moved down to the main section of the yard.
So, a few days later, I tried him out in the school. He's got a walk on him like riding a python in a Parker Knoll armchair. He doesn't so much stride as
flow. And the way he covers the ground! You could ride for miles and miles and miles on this horse, without any real effort at all. So then I gave him a nudge with my heels to see his trot. Well, I
thought it was a nudge. A bit like nudging the throttle in a Ferrari. And I found out what a
really extended trot is all about!
But he eased back to a walk as soon as I asked. I can see he's the perfect horse for me to do what I want - refine my aids more and more till they're invisible - and maybe even get to the point that I've only experienced twice; riding with no aids but the
thought of what you want (and if I can't do it with him, I'll never manage it at all).
They said I came back with a grin on my face like a slice of watermelon . . .
SOLD to the grumpy old git!!
So how does he match up to my checklist? Well . . . he's a rising 15, Thoroughbred, ex-steeple chaser.
And an only just bay, almost a brown. But as kind and gentle as you could wish for, and nothing scatty or loopy about him at all. Though he's apparently inherited his family trait of a mulishly stubborn streak when the mood takes him - as I found out yesterday, bringing him in. The immovable object came up against the irresistible force. Twice. And decided, after due checking, that the irresistible force was just as mule-like as he was himself - maybe even more so! After which he came in as gentle as a lamb.
He has a lot of issues to be sorted out, with his badly out of balance feet, and a lot of stiff spots and knots in his back - but the feet are being sorted with the help of Yvonne Thomas (who's made a heck of a difference already), and his back by a McTimoney practitioner, Zoe Sherlock. You can see how much his body is changing shape from her efforts, too.
I've horrified a few people, though, by refusing to call him by his official name of Carndale - which sounds like a range of log-burning stoves, to me. So I call him by the name which seems to fit - Brown Bob.
I've said he's only just a bay. The black on his legs only starts at about fetlock level, and his mane is actually a very dark brown, not black - and the forelock is bleached by the sun into quite a light brown. And he's got as mealy a muzzle as any Exmoor could wish for!
So may I introduce Brown Bob to you all; first picture taken on 16th February, 2012:
second picture, taken the day I bought him, 18th February:
and another, taken on 23rd February:
Another livery at the yard, who's known him for several years, said only yesterday how much his attitude has changed since I bought him. Not just my imagination, then.
Oh, and I've lost nearly a stone in the last four weeks, so he's not doing me any harm, either! So here we are, all set to move to a much closer to home yard, all of 100 yards away from the Pennine Bridleway. What more could a classical / hacker ask for? We can grow old disgracefully together!
