My Fanatical Obsession With Horses

By Louise Couch (age 14)

Equestrianism is the proper name for my hobby, which takes up hours of my time, weeks of my dreams, and months of my mother's hard earned wages. It all started when, as a child of seven, I harassed my parents into booking that first riding lesson. My argument was enhanced by the gentle persuasion of a friend's mother who, realising that a shared riding lesson would be cheaper than a private one, suggested that Cassie and I should venture into the formidable territory of the 'half an hour riding lesson' together. My mother foolishly gave way and so ever second Saturday she drove me across London and paid an extortionate amount of money for me to sit on a pony and enjoy half an hour of bliss. From that very first day when I clambered aboard Billy the pony I was hooked. However, this severe disease (known to the outside world as 'horseyness') is unfortunately contagious and soon enough my brother and sister had joined me in this pastime.

'Breezy' - Mother's favourite

Presently we moved to Brighton, an altogether more horse-friendly place. It only took twenty minutes to get to the local riding establishment as opposed to the one hour that it had taken in London. However, the bug had struck again and, with my mother now learning to ride, we were paying for four separate riding lessons a week, not to mention the time that we spent gazing adoringly at an unimpressed Bess and Dolly.

Before long I was spending every day of each weekend and holiday mucking out and looking after other people's horses. But, why pay so much money to ride other people's horses, which you had mucked out anyway, when you could have your own?

So we invested in Breezy, a skewbald cob who resembled a barrel on legs, who would not dream about moving at a pace faster than a reluctant walk, and had a backside larger than that of my Auntie Maureen! Our first few years were eventful as we discovered that the reality was far more challenging than the dream. My brother and I found out that a horse is indeed many times stronger than an eleven and nine year old; we also discovered that not all horses will gallop into the sunset, model for your art homework, or turn you into John Whitaker overnight.

Despite my mother having to get up at five thirty on most mornings in order to muck out, it was soon decided that we needed another horse and many loan ponies materialised until a year ago when Amy, the pony from hell, arrived.

Continues........

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