I have always loved horses. On my twelfth birthday, I walked to a local grocery store, my birthday money jingling in my pocket. We didn’t have a phone at home, and the nearest public phone was situated at the little shop down the road. I had the contact number for the lady that owned the local stable yard, and I was going to make a booking for a lesson. That’s how it started. My addiction to horses started at 12, and at 59, it has become a full-blown terminal illness. The truth is my husband is hoping it is going to be replaced by the urge to travel and keeps reminding me that Disney is calling me. But my preoccupation with all things equine just persists.
This is the reason why we bought a ‘farm’. Not actually a farm, but I love calling it that. I am the Meryl Streep of my own version of Out of Africa. “I have a farm in Africa…”
Lessons were the highlight of a very tumultuous youth. Once a week, I walked 4 kilometers in my black school shoes and jeans to wait at the instructor’s house until she left for the stables. The yard was situated approximately 10 kilometers out of town, and she gave me a lift on my lesson days. I rode in the back of her utility vehicle, keeping her Jack Russells company. Things were rather cash-strapped at home, and we couldn’t afford boots and jodhpurs, but I couldn’t care less. Once at the stables, I joined a group of very young children, aged between 4 and 8, all dressed in proper riding apparel, boots, and hats. I was very tall for my age, so I didn’t just stand out for my age and height but also stood out for my clothing, but to me, it felt like I had come home. The smell of horse, leather, grain, and grass all added to my euphoria. We all gathered in the tack room, and everybody got to choose their steed for the lesson. Luna, Pippen, Formality, Kroon are just a few of the school ponies’ names that I can remember. Kroon was my ultimate favorite. He would be as good as gold during the lesson, but suddenly, without any provocation, he would do a 360-degree turn and run like hell. The unfortunate rider would disrupt the lesson by screaming with wild fear, clutching mane and saddle, legs akimbo, and usually landing in an undignified mess somewhere in the paddock. Our teacher was a no-nonsense British lady with a very straight back and a stern look on her face. Sometimes she would humor me and allow Kroon to be my steed for the day, other days she allowed any other victim that willingly put their hand up when asked.
Being the tallest, oldest, and by far the poorest in the class did not stop me. I was determined. This determination carried me for the next 5 years as, come rain or shine, I showed up at her house. The only thing that stopped me from having a lesson was an illness or when there really wasn’t any money to pay for the lesson. I have to admit that sometimes these lessons did not end well for me. Our instructor would ask once, tell once, and then you would get a whack with the riding crop… then we would all outperform ourselves, making sure that crop would come near our stinging hineys to make it sting even more. These lessons not only provided tuition and time with animals that seemed to absorb all the turmoil and anguish a teenager was going through, but they also added stability to my life. My instructor was a pillar of steadfast surety in a very rough sea. I was scared of her, but I loved her nearly as much as I loved Kroon, as she was dependable—nothing ever changed, her hair, her clothes, her no-shit attitude, and this was so different from my home where everything hung by the mood my mother was in or how much alcohol my dad had consumed. Things were very hard in those days, and Windrush Stables just put a plaster on the pain.
I don’t think I would ever be star quality on a horse, but I enjoy it and that’s all that counts. Horses sense the heart of the rider; they know what they are dealing with even if you are not on their back. Now don’t let me paint a picture of a halo around a horse’s head… Lord knows, I stopped counting how many times I had fallen off when my prized riding crop ran out of space to make a mark on it. Fall off, get back on. Lesson in life: don’t quit. There were days when my instructor would ask me to come and exercise a horse, and it would be free of charge. These days were my Christmas come-early days.
Once again, flying things were the catalyst for many tumbles taken from galloping horses. Mouth open, laughing with wild abandon, enjoying the freedom of the ride, I would swallow a fly. Without hesitation, I would let go of the horse and fall myself into the next century, breaking two ribs. Thanks, fly.
Coming back to the present, my daughter gave me a gift of lessons to start riding again. This was at the tender age of 57. Our aim was bitless riding, with a local lad as an instructor. A very serious man, half my weight and half my size. We chose the largest and most dependable of our pot plants to be the steed of choice. Tadman, Mr. Unshakeable. Nothing fazed him. Then, all of 18 years young, a South African Warmblood/Thoroughbred mix, standing nearly 17hh.
My instructor had already swung himself into the saddle with one lithe movement when my horse was brought from the stable. I have had problems with my knees due to a tempestuous period in my thirties and forties when I decided to do things I shouldn’t (to be disclosed at a later stage), so I needed a ladder to mount my steed. My groom brought the horse to the area where I would be mounting, and my other groom came trotting up with my ladder. Immediately, the instructor got a rod stuck up his behind. The man’s face changed color, and he practically hissed: “We do not mount with a ladder, we mount from the ground.” The groom stepped back with the ladder, and with my free hand and very determinedly, I pushed him back into position.
“WE have bad knees, and if WE can’t use a ladder, then WE can’t ride,” I replied equally forcefully.
So, we climbed up the ladder while the instructor watched with an incredulous look in his eyes.
Lessons were once a week, and they were progressing well. I was gaining confidence, and the horses really responded very well to the new bitless method of riding. We started going for little walks all over the property, Mr. Instructor in front, and Tadman & I traipsing behind while chatting up a storm.
Tadman never put a foot wrong, and I was starting to believe in myself again. I even had visions of riding on my own when the fateful day came.
My confidence is rather shaky every time I mount my horse. I think too much, and it doesn’t help that my housekeeper and grooms stand around taking videos of me, sending proof of the lady riding a horse all over the African continent. Lennie always sagely shakes his head and says, “Please don’t do this. You are too old. Just get off the horse.” This just gives me the courage of my convictions, and I ride out of that yard like I know what I am doing. Fake it until you make it.
My instructor and I were happily chatting away when suddenly, a big yellow bug flew up to me. It hovered in front of my face, giving me the eye, measuring whether I would be tasty or not. In those seconds, time stood still. I was left mid-sentence, frozen in fear, and then… Yellow Bug flew off, away. I felt the tingle in my arse evaporating as my body told my sphincter to relax.
Mr. Instructor had noticed nothing, and he merrily led the way. Two strides further, and suddenly my right ear was under attack. The yellow bug had returned and brought a friend. They decided that my ear looked like a great start. I didn’t even think. My right hand came up with the intention to do grievous bodily harm, and with a resounding smack, I hit myself so hard that I knocked myself off my horse. I know I did a somersault and landed on my back. By the way, I am describing this in words that are too slow for the entire momentum of the operation that was carried out.
Tadman heard the smack, thought we were under siege and decided the stables would be a good place to hide. He galloped off, leaving a bemused instructor, mouth agape, hanging from the side of his saddle. His horse decided there is no safety in being the only horse standing, so he followed Tadman’s suit. Mr. Instructor was now torn between saving himself, saving his paying pupil, or catching the galloping steed making its way to the stables post haste.
The following was relayed to me via my grooms AFTER the commotion had died down. Apparently they were waiting for us to complete our outride when they heard galloping hooves.
“Wow!” said Lennie. “Madam, she’s going fast today!” With that, a riderless steed came galloping into the yard, followed by a fat Lipizzaner and a red-faced instructor. “No, Madam,” I said. Chaos ensued. I was still lying where I had landed, trying to catch my breath and laughing my head off. The grooms came running with the instructor in tow to help me back to my feet. The grooms were unamused by my antics, and I received a stern dressing down for attempting to master the art of riding at my age.
It has been two years since I have been in the saddle. I now have a horse that is much more sedate and smaller in height. I have started going to the gym to try to get some of my wasted muscles back in riding form. The new horse is a Percheron, and when we got him, he was in a very emaciated state. Slowly but surely, we are getting to the point where we will be able to take little walks around the property. When he arrived, Lennie’s first words were, “What are you going to do with this horse? If you are thinking of riding him, at least you won’t be falling so far…”
Only time will tell, Lennie. Only time will tell.
