Open Writing

I have never been a horse fancier, and I wouldn’t dream of donning puffy breeches and attempting to climb one of these formidables, even if my legs did reach the other side.

I usually leave this form of excitement to the double-barrel sports that get a kick out of a regular bounce in the saddle.

The only way I can watch the aptly-named horse trials with any pleasure is to imagine the scene in reverse. That is the riders performing acrobatics over the sticks with the horses saddled to their backs.

Yes, it requires a lot of imagination, especially when there is a fall. Who can visualise a horseless rider carrying on or being shot because of a broken limb?

I think the horse trials would be a lot more interesting without the overworked horses. Look how much fun it would be watching the ladies toss their manes as they dive head first over the sticks.

Imagine the mounting tension as they scramble through the mud trying to get a foothold on the slimy bank as someone lends a few posterial whip-lashes for encouragement. Then I would really feel like applauding the winner.

Surely a sad death during the Badminton horse trials raises a few questions?

Isn’t it time we treated this noble breed with a little more respect? Is it necessary to inflict such merciless and undignified endurance tests?

Once, at a Honley Show, I tried to be brave and watch a few rounds of the pony jumping. I sat there cringing, not just because I was painfully placed between two jerky seats, but the nauseating sound of snorting, perspiring horseflesh cracking continuously against the unrelenting fences brought tears to my eyes. But my patience was rewarded when one intelligent animal threw its owner and went on to perform its only clear jump of the round. ‘Well done,’ I cried, with no help from my friends, who seemed more concerned with the prostrate rider.

Cruelty crusaders whine enough about the terrors of fox-hunting, but no-one seems to care about the poor old horses who are forced to spend their weekends clattering over precarious country walls, or wading through icy ditches, whether they fancy it or not.

Let’s be more down to earth about it. Why not come down off the tall horse and hunt on foot? This should make everyone happy and give an equal sporting chance. I’d like to drop a hint imperial and ask one to consider the advantages of a jaunt on one’s shank’s pony. One and one’s friend might find gambolling together giving merry chase quite topping fun. What! Pip Pip, Tallyho! Might even curb the predatory instincts.

Actually it was a horse that came between me and the Girl Guides. I know I promised to do my duty to God and the Queen, but that before someone had put a horse in the field I had to walk through to the meetings.

My one and only horseback thrill took place on Blackpool sands. I was too young to realise that big does not always mean beautiful and demanded a ride on ‘the tall donkey,’ which was really a wild horse in disguise, probably a great relative of Red Rum.

My dad was just showing me which strap to hold when the beastly Pegasus suddenly had an overwhelming desire to reach the pier - and back – before the Woolworth’s clock moved its minute hand. I was nearly turned inside out in the rush, and never found the correct rein, his tatty mane was all that stood between me and a broken neck. Naturally it’s been terra firma for me ever since.

Last year I was playing beach cricket with ‘our gang’ in my usual position of silly mid off, when I inadvertently got mixed up with a muddle of donkeys. I had no choice but to run with the pack. I try not to upset anything bigger than myself – except my husband. Thank goodness we don’t play bowls on horseback. I can cope with the cats that show their claws occasionally, but horses – never.