Dating : My ‘Horsey’ Adventures.

My Horsey Adventures Begin.

My horsey adventures began at the age of about eleven years when Younger Sister and I decided to expand our life experiences to include horse riding. We found a suitable riding school, and our Mum, responding to our enthusiasm, had khaki jodphurs sewn up for us by a local tailor, while riding boots and helmets completed the required dress. Looking like accomplished riders, we excitedly started our weekly riding lessons.

At the time, we were living in Broken Hill, a large mining town in the colony of Northern Rhodesia, today known as Kabwe in Zambia. We travelled a few miles out of town to a farm, where Jo, the riding instructor, had her stables.

In hindsight, I am sure Younger Sister was the driving force behind the horse riding idea. I was drawn to the thought of riding and forming a relationship with a horse, and had read several pony books popular among young girls at the time. However, reading about horses and riding them are two different things. Somehow, I had a certain reservation about horses, and did not feel completely at ease about the coming lessons.

Within a couple of weeks, Younger Sister showed her aptitude for riding. She was the boss of her horse; my horse was the boss of me! I was given a mature horse for my riding lessons. He was beautiful, with a strong and sturdy stature, and a gleaming chocolate-brown colour coat. Let me call him Alfonso because I cannot recall his name.

He was mature in that he was accustomed to learners, so accustomed to them, he immediately recognised a novice, and went into dominance mode. Alfonso was the perfect example of impeccable horsey-behaviour when Jo was around, but a wilful creature when she was out of sight.

Meanwhile, I was aware he was getting the better of me. Quite frankly, he terrified me, but I went cheerfully to lessons and enjoyed trotting and cantering around in a ring and doing those sorts of ‘safe’ exercises in a secure place; but to think of jumping over a pile of logs or doing anything out of the ordinary was not on my agenda; I was good at the basics of riding and capable of handling Alfonso in a controlled situation, and I was happy with that.

Our Instructor.

Jo was a strict instructor. She took no nonsense from her horses or her pupils. One afternoon, Younger Sister took a tumble and landed on her head; she looked somewhat dazed. “Get up and get back on your horse!” came Jo’s authoritarian voice. The little rider duly picked herself up and remounted, the lesson continued, and Younger Sister survived to tell the tale.

In fact, Younger Sister rapidly progressed, and was soon show jumping in gymkhanas; she left Big Sister far behind in the horse riding stakes, but I was far from envious, being content to keep cantering around in circles.

The Fateful Afternoon.

One day, Jo introduced a walk on the paths crisscrossing the farm, and the short hack after a lesson was eagerly anticipated by all. She accompanied us and it was most enjoyable. One afternoon she sent us out on our own. “You know the paths by now, and you will be quite safe,” she said, “See you in about half an hour!”

The Gravel Road That Leads Nowhere.

As usual, it was a sunny day, birds were chirping in the bushes around us, and all was going well as we walked sedately in single file along a narrow path carved through the low shrubs forming the surrounding bush. The horses swished their tails and shook their manes to get rid of the annoying flies. It was pleasant and serene, and the group of ten girls were quietly chatting and watching the scenes go by.

Unexpectedly, we found ourselves on a gravel road that opened out from the path we were on; this road was unknown to us, but, aha, not to our sturdy mounts. The road stretched ahead of us, and lead to who knew where?

Alfonso was one of the lead horses, and there were three of us ahead of the others. Gradually, by a signal known only to themselves, the horses broke into a steady canter that suddenly became a gallop, and soon we were in full flight. I felt Alfonso power up those muscles and surge forward, taking third place in the race, close behind the two leading horses. Younger Sister was way behind me.

A girl, her blonde hair streaming out behind her overtook me; I distinctly recall thinking maybe Joan-of-Arc looked like that, her hair a symbol of “Follow me into battle!” Her horse, a lightweight, black-and-white bundle of muscle and energy strained to overtake Alfonso and succeeded.

It was all rather exhilarating, the pounding of the hooves, the horses behind racing to keep up with us, the wind in our faces and our signals to one another, that were all in vain. No one had any idea where this road was leading.

The End Of The Road.

Looking ahead, I could see a tall ‘rubber’ hedge that contained a sticky white fluid, (a species of Euphorbia common to the country), veered up like a wall at the road’s end. All around was scrub and bush.

Alfonso and I were fourth in the line of horses that had become a single file as we approached the hedge; the horses knew that on the right-hand side, a path veered off at right angles to the road, and disappeared as it wound between the bushes; as the first horse slowed down and took the sudden turn to the right, his rider was thrown off. The second rider simply let go the reins and joined her companion on the ground; next came Joan-of-Arc, who literally took a dive into the rubber hedge.

My turn! Taking the path of least resistance, I let go of the reins, and Alfonso’s momentum as he took the turn threw me off into the bushes.

There we sat, brushing twigs and grasses out of our hair and our faces, picking thorns off the back of our pants, and watching as with one thud after another, all ten of the group landed beside us in bushy shrubs or half-submerged under the rubber hedge.

The Horses Were Home By Now.

The horses were long gone and at home by now. We looked at one another and compared our scratches, wounds and bumps. Fortunately, no one appeared to be injured or had suffered from the poisonous latex getting into their eyes. There was only one outcome, and that was to follow the path the horses had taken and walk back to the stables.

Fortunately, the path lead us directly there, where we appeared like phantoms out of nowhere, dusty and tired, with bits of grass sticking to our hair and clothing. Our mounts were back in their stables waiting for us with looks of disdain. Jo too, was waiting, almost doubled up with laughter; she could barely contain herself; but she did, to command: “Get back on your horses and get into the arena!’ The last thing I wanted to do; I found Alfonso and wearily pulled myself into the saddle.

After this episode, we rubbed our horses down, dried their sweat and whispered endearments in their ears; I am sure the words were short and not-so-sweet.

The Aftermath.

What an afternoon. We talked of nothing else for a day or two and laughed ourselves silly at the thought of riders flying through the air to land in a rubber hedge amongst beds of thorns. That night my right wrist began to throb; the following day, Xrays revealed a Greenstick fracture; a plaster slab was applied for six weeks.

I can assure you I was jubilant, for it meant no riding for six weeks; I was off the hook, I mean, off the horse; but it caused me a lot of grief, for I could not swim either, for I had discovered I had a talent for swimming, and was on the brink of making plans to join the mine baths swimming club; I knew instinctively there was a chance to excel at something I loved. It was not to be, and I was angry with horses for a long time!

Copyright: Lynette Clements, 2020. All rights reserved. No part of my story may be copied, reprinted, or published without the written consent of the writer. Would you like to write for Illumination? Please read the following article, by Dr Mehmet Yildiz