Winter is here in earnest now, the rain constant, pools of water collecting on the frozen surface of the outdoor school, and in the cracks and dents in the unlevel concrete yard, periodically freezing over to create sheets of ice on which we slip and slide, swearing as we hurry to complete the morning chores.
Morning yards are tough with 23 stables in use, their equine occupants bedded down on thick layers straw. In the back yard, the beds are deep-littered, carefully managed they are relatively quick and economical to maintain. A six inch layer of packed down dirty straw provides a soft, warm base for the ponies to lie on, this is skipped out each day to remove droppings and clean straw shaken out over the top to create a deep, thick cosy bed, the heat of the deep litter layer providing a natural ‘under floor heating’ for its lucky occupant.
The horses on the top yard are not so fortunate. Their beds are managed on a more traditional ‘full muck out’ system over rubber mats. These horses are the ‘dirty’ ones, those too restless or messy to manage on deep litter, their beds are taken up each morning and pulled down at night – time consuming, labour intensive, back breaking work for the staff and a colder, less comfy, though still adequate, bed for the horse.
Often in the morning, the tap in the back yard freezes, requiring us to take the by big, metal trough buckets which serve the stables without drinkers round to the front yard, or even occasionally, all the way up to the Point-to-Point barn, to refill. Once full, these buckets must then be dragged back round to their stable, slopping icy water over unwary legs and boots, freezing fingers and creating more damp areas of the yard to freeze over into lethal skating rink patches. We argue quietly amongst ourselves as to who will have this unwelcome chore, thankful that the majority of stables have automatic drinkers.
In their stables, the horses and ponies doze; bored in their confinement, they wait only for the arrival of the twice daily allocation of sweet, damp, cidery haylage. In the fields, however, the lucky few still living out do not appear to be relishing their good fortune. Even under heavy winter coats, they stand huddled in the shelter of the high hedgerows, tails tucked in, backs to the icy north-easterly wind, picking hopelessly at what is left of the grass and waiting anxiously for the arrival of the daily hay allocation. Even the tough, intelligent Hafflinger pony, Charlie, looks miserable, and the lightweight New Forest pony, Prince, under a thick rug, bears the sort of expression usually only seen on the front of RSPCA donation flyers. If it weren’t for the fact that after just two days of living in, Prince had bucked three clients off and taken-off with a member of staff, we might be tempted to feel some sympathy for his plight, but following this display, he was immediately relegated to ‘living out’ status and the staffs’ hearts hardened against him.
Only Bramble, the Exmoor pony, his coat so thick now he has had to have a new saddle fit, seems unperturbed. Born and raised on the barren, windswept Devonshire moor, designed over generations to survive on a diet of bracken, marsh grasses and (more recently) tourist sandwiches, he is supremely content in his environment. His mane and tail thick with burrs from foraging in the hedgerows, he ambles contentedly around the field, ignoring the rest of the herd as they huddle by the gate. He is, even now, almost impossible to catch; whilst the rest of the ponies shove their heads desperately into the arms of anyone who even approaches the field, begging to be bought in, Bramble turns away in horror, his small intelligent head held high as he trots away determinately to return to his grazing.
Back on the yard, the mucking out completed, it is time to start exercising the horses not likely to be used in lessons. No longer is this a task to be anticipated joyfully as a break from tedious yard work. Once reasonably sensible, if sharp horses, too lively for the majority of clients but fun and entertaining for the more experienced staff, are now hyped up on sweet, good quality haylage, bored by lack of exercise and rapidly increasing in fitness due to be ridden everyday. They have begun behaving like half broken four year olds, spooking at leaves, throwing their heads around and leaping and prancing round the area like huge, four legged ballerinas. My arms, already aching from mucking out, feel as if they are being pulled out of their sockets and my lower back is permanently sore from sitting repeated cheeky bucks and plunges.
Still, there are some successes. A little Fjord pony arrives in the yard, history largely unknown but we are told he was backed then turned away for six months. It is about a week before we find time to do anything with him and it is with some trepidation that I lead a 4 yr old Fjord, built like a tank, semi-broken and having been stuck in a stable for 7 days, up to the school to ride. Sarah comes up to help me and hold onto the end of the lunge but, after a few excited ‘freedom’ bucks we work out before I attempt to mount; the little pony behaves like an angel. He is very green, has a good look at everything and only canters on a straight line but he is sweet, soft mouthed, willing and obedient. When I gush over him, my boss rolls his eyes.
“Don’t fall in love with another one for heaven’s sake’ he says.
Another new one arrives, Polish thoroughbred, a very pretty dark bay but rather underweight with a big grass belly and no top line.
“The third fastest flat racer in Chepstow” my boss tells me proudly. This does not inspire me with confidence. However I am pleased to find, as I take “Arvo” round the school and put him through his paces, that whoever reschooled him did a bang up job. The slightest squeeze from my outside leg pops him up into canter and although he mouth is still a bit “racehorse” – as I shorten my reins to jump, he speeds up rapidly until I drop the contact again – he is willing and obedient. For once, my boss praises my riding, saying the horse suits me and together we test Arvo over doubles, fillers and small verticals. Flushed with success I agree to jump him in the show on Sunday in the 2’3 class. It is only later that I begin to suspect the unusual compliment was perhaps a clever (and successful) tactic by my boss to encourage me to agree to give up my day off to ride his horse for him!
Riding lessons in the school have become an exercise in herd management and carefully constructed ‘safety procedures’. I focus a lot on trot work, practicing changes of rein with different horses in front, moving around the arena over poles and around buckets, always watching each horse carefully for signs of excitement or naughtiness. The better children have a canter towards the end of the lesson, one by one, up the long side of the school with a sensible pony at the end to act as ‘brakes’. Even with these precautions, the ponies still cause the odd problem. Fairly regularly one or two will be banished from the school for a week to be ridden by the staff until their manners improve again! The children learn to sit up and hold on tight and the nervous ones are allowed a ‘walker’ at their side for extra security. Winter is like this at the Riding School, the regulars and long timers have come to expect it. As the wind whistles round the indoor school and I struggle to make my voice heard over the lashing rain, many of the riders automatically bring their horses back to a walk until the worst squalls are over before picking the exercise back up without being told.
I don’t enjoy teaching in these conditions but I try to use it to my advantage, pouring over my ‘teaching children to ride’ handbook for new exercises to keep the kids interested and improve their learning without the risk of exciting the ponies. I experiment with different games to see to which the children respond best. We play cowboys and cowgirls, prince and princesses, even mermaids and sea monsters, and the better riders have a go at cops and robbers, chasing each other round the school in walk and trot, everybody laughing and cheering each other on.
At the end of the day, I lock up in the dark, closing gates, turning off lights and performing final checks on each horse to ensure they are hayed, watered and (if appropriate) rugged. The cold weather has driven all the DIY liveries back to their centrally heated houses and I have the yard to myself, silent except for the soft sounds of the horses, and lit by the 1000s of bright, winter stars.
