THE HORSE LISTENER

THE HORSE LISTENER

Stop the snow, I want to get off

CANDIDA BAKER reminisces on some hot and cold horsey Christmas memories.

So there we were, two of my sisters and me, and my father. It was Christmas Eve morning, and we were out for a ride in Richmond Park, about an hour from the centre of London, at a stables that my Dad had ridden at a lot over the years, and where all of us had ridden with him from time to time, enjoying the occasional gallop through the ancient parklands, catching a glimpse of deer, and generally having a jolly good British time of it.

But this, my friends, was different. It was snowing, you see. It was a beautiful day, in a way, the sky was blue – in between snow-falls – and there was no wind, thank goodness, because it was actually freezing, and by freezing, I mean freezing.

When I was a little girl my uncle, who ran a riding school in Singapore, used to come and visit us in the winter, and I always found it mystifying that he found the weather so cold. He would sit shivering in front of our roaring fire, wearing about sixteen jumpers, and saying he could never live in the UK again. (Although, in fact, in the long run, he did but that’s another story.) Anyway, the point of this digression, is that I’d moved to Australia two years before, and I missed my family so much, that I’d decided to go back for a Christmas, fondly indulging in happy imaginings of the delicious hot food in the cold weather, carol singing at our local country church, the convivial gatherings, and the general feeling that Christmas was as it should be rather than my first two Christmases in Australia sweltering in the heat at the beach.

But in two years, my blood had obviously decided to become Australian, and I was spending every single day frozen to the marrow, despite every attempt – including jogging every morning – to stay warm. But when my Dad had suggested he’d like to take the three of us riding, it had seemed like a lovely idea, and it was, and it would have been if it hadn’t been actually snowing on us.

My younger sister and I had fallen behind, while the youngest of us, Sarah, and our Dad, made their way slowly up a hill in the pine trees, the horses heads stretched down into the vile weather. Neither Tessa nor I had come equipped on our holidays for a ride in the freezing cold. At least I’d bought riding boots with me, but she was wearing thin sneakers. I was losing all feeling in my fingers and toes, and Tessa was in danger of actually losing her fingers and toes all together or so it seemed.

“This is awful,” I said to her.

“Isn’t it?” she said. “I’m so cold.”

She took a breath and called to our father. “George,” she shouted out into the freezing air. “If you’ll just let us stop, I’ll tell you all my secrets.”

I started laughing so hard, my horse shied at the sudden sound, and as I leant forward to pat her neck, and reassure her, I actually BROKE one of her mane hairs, and it was then that I noticed that the hairs inside her ears were frozen!

Even still, I think my father would have kept going if it wasn’t for the fact that snow was building up inside the horse’s shoes, and despite their best attempts to keep walking in a straight line, we were all in danger of skidding off into a kind of horse ice-skating routine at any moment.

Even while we were riding though, it bought back so many memories of riding as a teenager on my pony in the snow, and watching her one day from my bedroom window while she galloped up and down in the snow, looking over her shoulder at the sprays of snow she was making with

Riding through the snow – not always what it’s cracked up to be!

as much delight as a kid making mud-pies. Cold rides also meant chilblains, those pesky inflammations of the small blood vessels in your skin that happen after you’re exposed to cold but not freezing air for a long period of time. I can remember to this day the feeling every winter of those itchy, swollen, red patches, which would then blister, on my hands and feet. What you felt like doing was plunging your hands and feet into hot water, to stop the incredible sense of freezing cold, but the best way was to gradually thaw out in luke-warm water.

Snow and horses. Not always the best mix. Another Christmas, when I was about 18, our neighbours up the road had asked if I would exercise their son’s pony, who had been a bit ‘fresh’ recently. Since I was riding fit, and the pony was all of about 13hh, I said I’d be delighted. We started off in fine style, and soon we were cantering along the snowcovered verge, jumping little ditches as we came to them, when suddenly, without any warning, just as we were about to launch ourselves over the next ditch, the little rotter chucked in a massive buck, so massive that the saddle ended up near his ears, and I did a less than graceful somersault over his back, landing in the snow on my chin with full force. It split open, and blood gushed out on to the white snow, while I sat there, not sure whether it was my pride or my body that was most bruised. I had to walk back to the farmhouse, naughty pony by my side. Six stitches later, I looked like a member of the Hapsburg royal family, with a chin that almost stretched to my chest. No Christmas dinner that year. My mother (who was remarkably unsympathetic now I come to think about it) mashed up all my food in the Kenwood and gave it to me with a straw.

Back in Richmond Park, my father finally gave in, and we were allowed to get off our horses and walk them back to the stables, which at least started our circulation again.

But later that evening, when we gathered for a Christmas meal at my Dad’s, the family sitting at the long wooden table, laden with Christmas food and drink, my fingers and toes having finally thawed out, regaling those who were lucky enough not to have been riding with us, with the stories, just for a moment I thought to myself, “I won’t forget this day,” and I never have.

I’ve also never been back to England for another Christmas.

Back in the Antipodes, I was once mad enough to ride on a Christmas Day out at Hill End, at a property I once owned. Surrounded by our very own one billion flies, we rode in 43° heat down to the river, where we tried to eat a picnic lunch, dramatically waving flies off every mouthful, while the horses dozed in the shade of a She-Oak. As we sweated our way back up the three-kilometre steep hill I thought to myself that whichever hemisphere I was in, riding at Christmas seemed a bit like an over-rated activity, and in a rare moment of good sense, I decided that I’d rather do almost anything than ride at Christmas.

But if your Christmas does include riding, I hope you don’t boil or freeze, and that Santa brings you and your horses many, welldeserved presents.

Murray Postscript

In a wonderful Christmas present – with my other hat on as President of Equus Alliance, I’m so thrilled to tell all of you who followed my story ‘A little life is worth a lot’, that Murray has been adopted by his foster carer. He’s turned into a wonderful therapy pony, and he will be safe and happy in his forever home. It’s a great outcome and means that Equus will be in a position to take on another rescue.

Happy Christmas Murray!

Candida Baker runs a Facebook page, The Horse Listener. She is also the President of Equus Alliance.