When I came over from Ireland all those years ago, I was rather baffled by the constant talk about the weather that the Brits are so fond of, but it’s amazing how quickly you find yourself adapting and picking up their habits.
So let me start by reviewing the past week’s weather: we enjoyed some mild but rather wet days early on, but we have ended the week once again with light snow (more like little balls of hail) and a biting wind– what is it about snowy Sundays this year?
On Friday, however, as a very welcome change, the sun shone, it was pleasantly mild and the Old Bird and I enjoyed our morning rides out, first accompanied by She Who Must Be Obeyed (on Handsome – and doesn’t he think so – Jack) and Crumpet, who braved the muddy conditions, despite being unable to see where best to place her little paws. Our second ride was with Ella, Auntie Caroline’s daughter, riding Rocky, who claims to be everyone’s favourite part-timer – although, of course, they haven’t had the pleasure of riding me. Of all the scavenger hounds, Crumpet is definitely my favourite, largely because she never bothers me, whereas Frodo (Zimbo’s familiar) has been known to try to steal carrots out of my lunch, a rather unnecessary effort since the Old Bird supplies all the dogs with treats in a ridiculously generous manner (surely she should be saving her pennies to meet my needs).
All the horses may be back in Wimbledon, but only liveries and the carers are allowed to ride them (I think Boris and his herd should take some advice from those on the equine front line so he can understand how much better it would be for everyone if riding schools were allowed to reopen fully). The carers are, however, making good use of their time out riding, ensuring all my mates are properly schooled – as an example, one of Oliver’s owners, Anna, has noticed how much difference a few sessions with Mojca have made (I know how poor Olly must feel, albeit only at second hand, as I am not allowed to be schooled by anybody except the Old Bird – she’s understandably possessive about me). In case you haven’t seen it, I have heard a rumour that She Who Must Be Obeyed and the rest of the carers featured in an article in last week’s Horse & Hound about team spirit, although surely it’s the equine spirit that makes the real difference…
BTW, when I use the words “livery” or “owner”, I am only reflecting what they call themselves; we horses prefer to think of them as “the bank of mum & dad” for obvious reasons and they are generally a pretty soft touch. If you think you deserve a new saddle, you just have to wince a bit when your back is touched; if you fancy something different in the bridle line, try putting your tongue over the bit to attract attention and raise concerns (this doesn’t always work – I have ended up just having my teeth rasped); and if you feel the need for a break, limp for a couple of days and the chances are, assuming the vet can’t diagnose anything specific, you’ll be turned out for a week or two. Simples!
I don’t know if I told you, but when I arrived in Wimbledon all those years ago, the Old Bird already had a retired horse: Spooky, a hoity-toity Thoroughbred cross Irish Draught (but much more of the former), who behaved like an ageing Hollywood star. He considered himself above everybody else and treated me like some sort of second-class citizen, never letting me have any of the Old Bird’s treats when she came down to visit. Which she did – extraordinarily – every weekend while Spooky was enjoying his dotage down at Manor Farm (I think she felt some guilt for nearly having given up on him when he wasn’t responding to treatment for a sinus infection and she didn’t want to put him through an operation at his age (21) so, in revenge, he lived on for another six happy years, very satisfyingly reducing her pension pot). I had the last laugh, though, as his inseparable chum Vulcan, a former police horse, became MY BFF once Spooky was no longer with us, proving how little class matters; sadly, Vulcan – RIP – is no doubt now reunited with Spooky but, although I still miss him (Vulcan not Spooky), I have had to move on.
I can’t wait for Spring and the warmer weather to arrive which will encourage the grass to grow again and put an end to the current slim pickings that we have to forage for when we are out hacking and snacking (the odd bramble leaf and a mouthful of tasty gorse). Off to Manor Farm now to see if there’s been any progress on the grass growing front there. More next week,
Rory x