A wise old instructor once said that riders can be put into two categories, those who need to be in control and those who quite happily don’t.
This is never more apparent than with my Mum and Dad. The latter is very much a gung ho, 'what’s the worst that can happen' kind of chap. The former has already thought about every possible outcome of every scenario and has formulated at least twice as many responses. This is why Dad is very chilled regardless of the situation, and Mum gets herself in a tizzy before and after, when she really doesn’t need to.
Now some of you will have seen the Shamrock video. It does have some rude words in it, so be warned. Dad and I have a very similar video, but it has somehow mysteriously disappeared. (yeah right)
Dad and I were out on our lonesome. We had turned off the main road and were walking along quite a lengthy bridleway next to a wood. About halfway down there is a narrow gap between two large stones (about a foot high) then the landscape becomes open farmland with a hedge on one side. At the far end of the track is more woodland.
I was fine until we got to the stones, and then my equine senses started tingling. I stuck my head in the air, ears twitching like satellite dishes as I adopted the pose of high snortage. Dad urged me forward, so I would take a few steps and stop once again to assess the situation. This was repeated numerous times until we finally got to the gate at the other end, which leads out onto the quiet lane.
Dad was getting fed up with this stop-start malarkey so decided to turn back. (At this point I must insert a Mum ‘You did WHAT?’ exclamation because we can all hear her saying it.) This was all the confirmation I needed that in fact, I was correct about the danger, and Dad agreed.
He then decided that as I was suddenly very forward going (in the opposite direction) that perhaps we should try a bit of a trot. (At this point Mum is banging her head against the wall) I took two strides in trot before I realised it was up to me to save us both, so I broke out the whoo hoolie.
We charged back along the track with Dad yelling ‘whoa’ and squeezing the reins. We jumped the stones and continued along the side of the wood as if all the demons in hell were behind us. (they might have been for all I knew.)
I finally started to slow down as we approached the road.
Dad’s response. ‘I knew he’d run out of puff eventually.’
Then we have Mrs control freak. We were out with a couple of chums, and I was marching down the road at a rare old pace, so much so that Mum kept having to slow me down for the others to catch up.
On this particular hack, there is a horse width gap around a gate which leads onto a glorious downhill grass strip. This gives way to an uphill track which loops around a wood, back around a pond and then up a sharp hill very popular for whoo hoolies. At the end of the first strip, there are some huge bushes. This is important.
My mate went through the gap, followed by my frenemy. As Mum and I negotiated the narrow entry, Aunty H turned to Mum and said, ‘Shall we have a little tr… ‘ That was as far as she got.
The second my hooves hit grass I went from zero to full scale whoo hoolie. We shot down the hill with Mum yelling ‘I think we’re cantering’ over her shoulder. My plan was to whoo hoolie the whole track, but SHE was having none of it. As I attempted to turn up the slope, Mum turned me sharply the other way, and I suddenly found myself up to my shoulders in shrubbery. I had no choice but to stop.
Using my confusion to her advantage, she wrestled me into a contact and, despite my stamping and snorting in protest, absolutely maintained the headlock, and made me WALK the track until we got to the bottom of the hill.
This is where it got interesting. The other two horses were allowed to canter up the hill while I had to wait at the bottom. (Apparently barging and trying to go through other horses is a bit rude.)
Once they were safely at the top, Mum released the brakes, and I was allowed my whoo hoolie. I galloped up the hill, it was glorious. What Mum, unfortunately, had forgotten, however, was that there are quite a lot of low hanging branches over this particular track. As a result, she ended up dodging and weaving like she was in the ring with Mike Tyson. We got to the top, me puffing but extremely pleased with myself and her, now minus hat silk, allowing the shock to sink in.
She told my Aunties that she had been about sixty per cent certain that I would stop once I got to the top of the hill and reunited with the other horses, but, if I hadn’t we were going around the (extremely large) field until I eventually stopped!
Mum left the encounter with a severely sprained wrist and a new appreciation for being able to stop. She immediately decided to upgrade my bit to a sweet iron Tom Thumb with copper rings. (Which I love!) And that, dear friends, is how Archie got his new brakes.
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