As readers of a certain vintage will see, I am indebted to Marx for the title. As a noted trade unionist began at an 80's labour conference: "Comrades, as Marx once said: we started with nothing and worked our way up to extreme poverty. That was Groucho, not Karl." And I allude to this movie because I got on a horse for the first time in 50 years yesterday.
It is all too fashionable these days to talk about "trauma" and its long-term effects. Well yes, ladies and gentlemen, as a fine cook's apron has it: "Shitake Happens". So the fact that I first got on a horse at the age of eight, promptly fell off and decided that this was a mug's game has nothing whatsoever to do with trauma. (Neither has the fact that in the intervening fifty years I have also been orphaned, bullied, shot at, divorced and assaulted by visigoths on a rugby field.) It happened - end of story.
Now one of the vicarious bonusses of having been a teacher in a vocational school is that many of your ex-pupils have gone into a wonderful range of businesses, matters equine being but one of them. And I am deeply indebted to Michelle Smith and her husband Stephen who run a fine stables in deepest county Tyrone. Michelle was in my second ever class and had to suffer my eccentricites whilst I learnt the business of teaching. I am surprised - and deeply grateful - that she does not hold it against me.
Nonetheless, it was with a smidgeon of trepidation that I remounted, though the passing years have diminished my ability to swing my weary bones over anybody or anything. Indeed, "mounting" is a fine way of saying that Stephen threw me up on the horse and I'm very indebted to all parties - and particularly the horse - that I didn't fly straight over and measure my length on the concrete.
Now those of you who are regular riders will think nothing of the following - it will be as old hat to you as an NFL helmet. But what strikes the newcomer is the tremendous feeling of altered perception from horseback. No longer are you the footsoldier but the cavalry; you are the aristocracy when your eyes are suddenly an extra six feet from the ground. And secondly, you are immediately and intensely aware that whatever control you may exercise over any machine with hand and foot and eye, you are most certainly now working with and utterly dependent upon another creature - and woe betide you if he or she decides on a policy of non-cooperation. At best, you will be motionless; at worst, you'll be collecting air miles with surprising speed.
I am reliably informed by my horse-riding spouse that I looked nervous. So would you, sunshine, if you realised that half a ton of animal could throw you further than a well-tossed six pack. Not that I had any cause to be nervous, as Michelle led the horse from start to finish. But the whole experience was a wonderful insight into the miracle of man and animal working together. And a gentle reminder of the therapy with which animals unwittingly anoint stressed-out humans. As a complete novice, I caught only a glimmer of why people like horses. Whether the feeling is mutual is a moot point. I can only imagine the yard conversation last night: "How was today, kid?" "You wouldn't believe it - I had this complete idiot who couldn't have turned a table mat."
Either way, it was a wonderful morning. Unlike matters mechanical, I did not feel divorced from the workings of my transport of delight. You knew instantly that you would feel the horse's moves - and vice-versa. It was like a two part harmony, even if one of us was seriously off-key. It was a terrific reminder of how much we miss by ignoring our oldest friends and of how much we gain by working with them.
And how many of us can genuinely say that our cars have distinct personalities, whether for better or worse? I know that horses are expensive to maintain; I know that "dude ranching" is a joke to many but, believe me, this was fun.
Comments