Parenting the Pony-mad Child

‘Pamela was only a little girl, but she had out-grown dolls and even Teddy Bears. She was her father’s pet, and so she usually got what she wanted.

One Sunday, as he was finishing his breakfast and looking forward to a round of golf, she said:

“Daddy, please give me a pony.”

“Certainly, darling; later on.”

Now, Daddy.”

In a good humour, he said that she was too young; ordinarily he would have been angry. Pamela, however, remarked (oh, very sweetly!):

“But I’m eight years old now, and I heard that wonderful Mr. Rider, who is so good with horses, say that children should begin to learn when they are six!”

The car was at the door. Father was in a hurry, but, when he saw Pamela looking hurt, he chucked her under the chin, smiled, and whispered:

“Daddy is not so rich any longer; he’ll buy you that pony when times are better. I hope that times soon will be better.”

Pamela told him how sorry she was to hear of his bad luck, and said that he was not to worry about the pony until he became rich again, and that she loved him very dearly.

***

Three hours later, at the golf clubhouse, Pamela’s father told his friends how thoughtful and kind she had been when he mentioned he was poor. He admitted tht he was not really poor at all. Other fathers smiled. But a bachelor spoke up for her and, like a knight of old, acted as her champion.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” he said, rather angrily. “If I had a lovely little girl like yours, I ‘d do everything I could to give her that pony, for she has behaved like a brick. I fail to see the joke.”

Some of the men clapped at this.

***

A week passed. Father and daughter were again sitting at Sunday breakfast. He was imagining some wonderful drives to be made in an hour’s time. Pamela was thinking sadly about that pony – not to be hers for a long, long while, she feared.

Suddenly Father leaned across the table and asked:

“Are you sure, quite sure, Pam, that you would rather learn to ride than play golf?”

Naturally, there was only one answer. It was settled straight away that if she promised to learn how to ride properly, she would have a pony. Pamela promised, and then she ran to the other side of the table and kissed her father gratefully. He, too, was glad.’

From Pamela and her Pony ‘Flash’ by Antonio P Fachiri (1936).

Nina’s Filly

Last summer I was lucky enough to be introduced to one of the Norfolk Wildlife Trust’s herds of Konik ponies, who are busy doing conservation work by stuffing themselves silly on grass, rushes, and tree leaves. The material wasn’t right for If Wishes Were Ponies, but I hope to use it in future work. Meantimes, here’s one of the fillies, who snuck up on me to sniff my elbow. I like the way she’s posed here on a tussock like a miniature “Wild Stallion on the Outcrop”.

Konik youngster at Thompson's Common

Strange Girls and Fairytale Horses

Please click through to see these wonderfully sinister horse-headed girls and a horse called White Wings with a trailing, Rapunzel mane and tail, which led me on to this page of long-haired Oregon horses of the nineteenth century:

“In the early history of Oregon traditions of a herd of magnificent wild horses that roamed at will over her mountains and valleys were told the settlers, and, like many other tales of like character, seemed beyond belief. It was said this herd was led by an enormous chestnut stallion, whose mane and tail were so abundant and of such length as to almost envelop the entire animal in a wealth of flowing hair. For years this ‘Wild King of Oregon Wonder Horses’ roamed over the country, ever alert to stampede his followers and flee with almost the rapidity of the wind at the approach of a human being.”

Thank you to William13 for the link.

Continental Fancies

Some suggestions of names for horses from A New Method  and Extraordinary Invention to dress Horses, And work them according to Nature; As also, to perfect NATURE by the Subtilty of ART; Which was never found out, but by the Thrice Noble, High and puissant PRINCE William Cavendishe (1657):

Bonissimo

Grandissimo

La Petite Barbe

L’Amour

Mala Testa

Gatto

(Cavendish was perhaps the most influential of the Brits who tried to import the Continental Haut Ecole style, although it was never very popular with a nation who preferred to hunt and race than passage and piaffe.)

Horses and the Credit Crunch

The horse world’s reaction to the recession has not been monolithic. On the one hand, much of the industry has held firm as people go on spending money on their horses. On the other, the number of horses abandoned or turned over to welfare organisations has increased, and people are, for once, facing up to the problem of what to do with so-called “surplus horses”. Probably no surprise to horsekind, who’ve long known that their fate depends entirely on the human hands that hold their halter rope.

This week brought a series of stories from Ireland that illustrate it neatly – although I could easily have dug through my filing cabinet and found earlier articles that show the same thing happening in the UK. Here’s the Irish Independent saying that the Dublin Horse Show (which opens today and has been running since 1864) is holding its own, albeit with lower champagne sales, while the Irish Times writes up proposals for a one-off horse cull, with the government covering the costs of slaughter.

In Two-Four Time

On Sunday I went to the Trabrennbahn Mariendorf to watch the 2010 Deutsches Traber-Derby – my first harness racing meet. I saw a couple of exhibition trotting races at Hoppegarten last year and was fascinated – the horses so fast they seemed as low to the ground as the rocking horse racers in old paintings, legs flashing like scissors. Occasionally you see one curl its front legs once, twice, too many times and then break its trot for an irresistable gallop, only to be pulled out of the race.  Standardbreds are longer in the back than Thoroughbreds, with full-muscled chests and lengthy manes – pretty buff, as Sarah pointed out, and then we got sidetracked trying to work out a suitable German translation. There wasn’t much hope in me following the form or understanding the tactics required, so I just went for buff horses with nice names and didn’t win much at all. The sun shone, the buffet was heavy and Deutsch (bratkartoffeln and chocolate mousse), Mayor Wowi turned out and a good time was had by all, and I wondered why it had taken me so long to go harness racing.

In  Norfolk I grew up five minutes from the yard of a family who were prominent in the local trotting world, but the sport seems almost like an underground pursuit in the UK, linked to Traveller and Roma culture. As Standardbreds are descended from the old Norfolk Trotter breed (gone the way of the Quagga) it seems a shame that the mainstream overlooks the county’s contribution to a sport which is so prominent on the Continent, in Russia and in North America. Maybe K M Peyton’s Small Gains and Greater Gains novels about a nineteenth-century Norfolk girl and her trotter stallion, Rattler, will inspire children and teenagers to find out more. I hope so.

In the Gains books the trotters are ridden, not driven, but I had no idea that “le trot monté” still featured in European programmes until a ridden race began, and I noticed that most of the jocks were girls who must have had legs of steel to hover up in their stirrups for 1,900m of choppy trot – a gait where a horse moves in two-four time and not the rocking three-four of a canter – although the sheer speed and extension of the racing trot looked weirdly smooth. Hats off to ’em. I’d love to try…

Terrible cameraphone photo of race card

My family love racing, and whenever any of us goes to a meet we keep in touch by phone in case there’s a grey we can bet on, in memory of my grandmother, who thought no card game or horse race worth her while if she couldn’t have a little flutter. She owned a grey pony called Nonny (short for Anonymous), so I scoured the card for “Schimmeln” (the German for a grey horse is also the word for mould) and found nothing. The horses were almost uniformly bay, dark bay or chestnut and solid – I can’t remember seeing so much as a star or sock – a legacy, I presume, of the nineteenth century preference for plain coloured cavalry horses.

I liked the look of a filly called Finca because her name echoed that of Kincsem, a Hungarian mare who won more races than any other Thoroughbred in history, and retired unbeaten after 54 starts. Mum texted that we should have money on the derby and asked me to pick, so I asked her to choose a number between one and ten, and she chose seven – Finca – so it had to be. Two euros were duly invested.

The mare came with a late run which wasn’t quite enough, especially when Mum and I had recklessly bet to win.

A Trail of Hoofprints

 

Equine-graffiti in Berlin
Rosinante's trail in Berlin

 

Just under six years ago I left a job I loved because it was about to turn into a job I could no longer love, and a friend suggested that I wrote a book about girls and ponies. As a child I’d been one of the “pony mad but ponyless” masses, as Horse and Pony magazine put it, but it had been years since I’d ridden or really thought about horses. I set to with predictable naiveté, grubbed along for a while, ground to a halt in despair, and had to be prodded into action once more by friends who were both threatening and encouraging.

Over the last six years I’ve learned a lot both about horses and about writing books, and I hope that the finished product, which has the working title If Wishes Were Ponies, will be readable and odd and entertaining. Atlantic Books will publish it in the UK.

In the meantime, this blog is for curios and news I’ve found on the way. I also collect examples of equestrian-themed street art, including shots of these mysterious white hoofprints which appeared all over Berlin for several years, and were even spotted in Vienna and London.