What I used to do as a child, and have taken up again 40 years on

On discovering the bliss of riding a pony once more

Hi folks

I was invited to write a guest post for the wonderful Advantages of Age, after I posted in their thriving Facebook group about taking up a hobby that I hadn’t done for 40 years.

It’s true! I was totally mad about ponies from age 7-16 (when I found boys instead!)

So today’s post is the (true) story I wrote for Advantages of Age. If you’re on Facebook, I highly recommend joining that group, it’s lively, vibrant and engaging; and they are also here on Substack, one of the ones I recommend.

Meanwhile, I hope you enjoy this story.

PS this newsletter usually comes out on a Sunday. But I just discovered I forgot to click ‘send’. So here it is on a Tuesday instead…

---

Riding again after 40 years

Bones settled in, as if they’d never been away from the saddle. Feet found the stirrups easily, hands holding the reins as if they were an extension of myself.

Soul sighed with relief; joy bubbled up to say hallo, and my whole being felt like it was smiling. I was home.

I was sitting on a pony for the first time in at least 40 years.

RIding lessons

Aged 7, I’d had my first cautious riding lesson and was captivated from then. I loved everything about horses. Too shy to become one of the regular helpers at the nearest riding school, I nevertheless religiously attended a lesson every Saturday morning, along with my best friend. Just an hour, but an hour spent in heaven.

Outside of that time, I read pony stories.

I saved my weekly pocket money until I had 2/6d (15p in current money) to spend on yet another paperback, my favourite being the ‘Jill’ series by Ruby Ferguson.

I collected china ponies; drew horses in all shapes and sizes; dreamt of galloping across fields, jumping complex fences and having my own pony.

All through childhood, this was my rhythm. Looking back, I’m so happy my parents were able to pay for an hour’s lesson, and take me there and back, every Saturday.

Aged 12, we moved out of Belfast to a small village ten miles away – very far from the riding school. But joy of joys, there was a field in front of our new house, and it had two ponies in it.

A pony ‘of my own’

Despite debilitating shyness, I introduced myself to a young girl I saw clambering over the gate one day. We became firm friends, and started combining pony/bicycle rides, taking it in turns to ride her pony, Teddy. I felt so grateful.

The following year, during the summer holidays, I had the opportunity to look after a friend’s horse for a couple of years. Romeo was 16hh, a bit too high for me really.

Rangy, nervous and not the best looking animal you’d ever seen, it was nonetheless wonderful to have a horse ‘of my own’ to look after, even if he wouldn’t have been my first choice.

He was too gangly and nervous to take to any gymkhanas, or Pony Club events (which we only attended sporadically, as we needed a horsebox to travel, and didn’t have one).

But if my pal entered any jumping classes, I’d be there with her, being given an opportunity to ride Teddy, with the only thing a problem being how I was dressed.

I used to ride in stretch tartan trews with stirrups under the arch of my foot. (Remember them?) They worked well – but I couldn’t go to gymkhanas like that.

Jodphurs and shame

My friend’s Dad unearthed a pair of jodphurs from his days in India, long ago. Stretch riding trousers were just becoming popular, but these were the old-fashioned baggy kind.

However, I was delighted just to have a pair at all – until we went to the gymkhana. People giggled as I walked past; watching them snigger, I cringed inside and wished I was invisible. It totally took away from my pleasure in being there.

I kept the tears in until I got home, when I raced upstairs, flung myself on the bed where the sobs burst out. I knew there was no point in asking for a pony of my own, there was no extra money available. My sorrow had to be kept to myself, and I just wouldn’t go to gymkhanas any more.

A knock at the door interrupted my tears. Mum asked me to come downstairs as she and Dad wanted to talk to me. Entering into the sitting room, by now the tears had dried on my cheeks and I was curious what they wanted to talk about.

“We’ve been saving up for your wedding (who knew!) but we’ve decided we want to buy you a pony right now instead.”

The tears welled up again, but this time happy ones. This really was a miracle!

From teenage to now

We negotiated that I would receive a half cut in pocket money so I’d be contributing towards the expenses of a pony, and I set about finding one.

A few weeks later, Sixpenny Bree arrived into the field my friend and I were renting. A dark brown 14.2hh pony, she was a good-looker, if, as it turned out, a bit nervous.

We spent a happy 18 months together before my interest in her began to wane in the face of a growing attraction to boys, and pressures of preparing for exams. Eventually, at 16, I went away to college in Wales, and Bree was sold.

Until two years ago, the only other horsey-ness in my life had been attending a couple of riding camps in my twenties. But on holiday in Mallorca a couple of years ago, I was inspired by a 68 year-old woman (2 years older than me) who was riding still.

I’d assumed my creaky knees wouldn’t let me ride any more, but she motivated me to visit the local riding school when I returned, to take a half hour ride and see how my body managed.

That never happened because the day after returning home, I met someone who in the course of our conversation asked words that encouraged the flame that had just been lit inside me.

“Do you know anyone who would like to help me exercise my pony?”

‘Me!’ popped out of my mouth.

I walked and trotted round her field later that day, so she could see I knew what I was doing. After that I built up very slowly, from half an hour walking to eventually riding out (usually on my own) for 1-2 hours, once a week, including trotting and cantering.

Challenges of riding after such a long time

I fell off within the first few weeks, thus discovering the hard way that I needed a protective jacket. I didn’t hurt myself, I was just very lucky; at this age it could easily have meant broken bones. As I was, it was only my ego bruised and shaken.

I was totally out of control the day Socks galloped off down the lane towards home. A stocky build, she is much stronger than me and I just prayed I would stay on, and that the upcoming narrowing path further on would slow her down (it did).

It was a while before I plucked up courage to go on that route again.

Dismounting, something that used to be an easy flying leap, is now a slithering, somewhat uncomfortable and ungainly, slide. Even though she’s not tall, the ground seems very far away when it comes to dismounting!

My body reflects the fact I haven’t ridden for so long. It does get achey. But riding has also helped me physically – my knees have improved, the shape of my legs has changed, I’m much more supple.

And my body does indeed remember exactly what to do, so it’s really been just a matter of practice. And keeping the fear stories in my head under control. Not difficult, because the overarching feeling is one of loving it, and as I said at the beginning, coming home.

I ride about once a week now, sometimes more, sometimes less. Giving gratitude regularly for this unusual way my childhood love has come back into my life.

What about you - any childhood passions you have re-ignited? Or are still doing?