Getting on, and off, the horses

I HAVE spent a few bob over the years in TABs and racetracks in both country and city.

Thoroughbreds and trotters have received my patronage and I have had my fair share of luck, but like most punters, if I was true to myself  I would have to admit the ledger probably doesn’t  balance in my favour. There is value, however, in a good day out. Win or lose, a visit to the races, be it at a small provincial track in the country or a large carnival day in the city, always provides just that. A good day out.

Until we moved to our country block, the only real attention I had given to the racing breed of horse was their previous form, starting price and the occasional visit to the mounting yard to cast an inexperienced eye over the contenders of the next race.

Things are a little different now.

Our neighbours own and operate a thoroughbred stud and agistment business so the paddocks on two sides of our property contain numerous thoroughbred broodmares.

We have come to appreciate the obvious good breeding of these horses and each September/October we are privileged to see first hand the birth of their foals. Lollypop legs and uncertain steps give way to the natural instinct to run and the foals race each other from one end of the paddock to the other. It’s a joy to watch.

It makes you want to own a horse, but we are not horsey types and we have limited experience. I have only ridden a horse a couple of times in my life.

The very first time was when I was about 13 and I participated in a supervised trail ride put on by a riding school. Declaring my previous riding experience as nil was not a good idea because this fact, coupled with my small stature, resulted in the allocation of a very small pony.

At least they called it a pony. I have my suspicions that it was in fact a donkey or a mule, because it had a gait just like those animals you see on SBS documentaries carrying overweight patrons through mountainous villages. It had no interest in following the trail, concentrating instead on dragging me alongside paddock fences and doing its best to dislodge its inexperienced rider.

The rest of the group, mostly teenage girls, dressed in polished boots , riding breeches and crisp white shirts, would wait impatiently every 20 minutes or so for me to catch up. They would look down the track from the lofty heights of their real horses until this junior version of Don Quixote would come bouncing into view, hired riding helmet askew and future chances of fatherhood in jeopardy.

The second and last time I rode a horse was in company with my brother, an experienced rider. My mount was a giant retired racehorse who was obviously bred to stay, because from the time I gingerly climbed into the saddle and my brother opened the gate he didn’t  stop galloping until he had dumped me in the Blackwood River a half day’s walk  away.

My wife’s horsey experiences are more recent. She spent a long weekend in a country retreat when we were living in New Zealand .The tariff included the opportunity to ride a horse. She and some overseas students also staying at the lodge decided to ride the horses to church on the Sunday morning.

My wife chose a gentle-natured horse that turned out to be the leader of the mob, but unbeknown to her, this horse had an absolute fear of goats. Just about every small block owner in New Zealand had a tethered goat on the verge out the front and there were many goats between lodge and church.

The first encounter between horse and goat resulted in her horse propping and then slowly backing up at an angle into the electric fence. It then took off at a rate of knots to the next goat and repeated the performance. This went on until both horse and rider were exhausted. She hasn’t ridden since.

So you can see from the above it’s probably wise for us to stay well clear of horses and concentrate on breeding up our herd of cattle. I will ignore the occasional request from the grandchildren to buy a cheeky pony, and I sympathise with all those parents who have inherited ponies, hacks and horses that their children have left behind as they leave home and move on to other interests.

There will, however, be very few days in the year that I won’t be encouraged to look over the fence and admire the beauty and fine lines of a potential champion.                    

Next week: A cow by any other name

This is the seventh instalment in a series of articles on the experiences of becoming a farmer by Peter Seeney. You can share your experiences with SuperLiving readers by posting a blog on the website. Just click here to go to the blogs section, select the section that corresponds to your story (Travel, Finance, etc.), upload a picture if you'd like to and tell us your tale under the “blogs” tag. Your article will then be posted on the site.