My Kingdom is a Horse...

...You'll perhaps have noticed that neither H nor myself make much reference to our dear [precious and expensive] daughter Ericka. This is official policy as we both feel a certain hesitancy and reticence in bringing E too much into the mad world of cyberspace.

Nevertheless one could not reasonably present a full and balanced view from the Wolds if we did not at least acknowledge that our lives are utterly dominated by E's passion for horses. That we have become sucked into this wonderful if all-consuming world of Equus is entirely our faults of course. We took her for a riding lesson aged nine, as one does. Her first remark was that the stable yard reeked of horse pee - perceptive infant, though she'd be the last to acknowledge that the entire house is now redolent of that faint yet pungent air! - but once on a horse she has never looked back or down. (Fallen down a fair few times of course, and the danger of her chosen line is never far from our thoughts. I have tried proposing extreme knitting as a cheaper, safer alternative hobby only to be met of course with withering glances and scornful silences.)

My own knowledge of horses is severely limited: the front end bites, the rear end kicks and - as I now know - all the bits in between cost me an arm, a leg, my entire pension pot and every coin I earn then some. E actually prefers my ignorance as I am, unlike other parents at the inevitable weekly shows, precluded from offering reams of arcane and always spurned advice. I can just about muster a 'leg on' comment - when in doubt always urge a rider to keep their leg on; not much idea what it actually means but it never fails to hit the mark - or speak in general terms about position and balance.

This, and my ability to drive a horse box (pastor and truck driver it says on my CV now) is all that is required of me. Oh, and my ever ready cheque book of course - livery fees, feed and endless supplements, saddles and tack for every occasion, vet and farrier bills, rugs enough to keep a Napoleonic army warm stuck in a Russian winter, entry fees for shows, diesel by the oil field [for truck not horse of course!] etc., etc., etc.

She has her own horse - an Irish Sports mare all of 16.2, with a good disposition thank the Lord though also a tendency to be utterly 'mareish' on occasions. (The world of horse is irredeemably sexist!) When in a strop, rearing and plunging at every passing dandelion I call her 'Norma Bates', though mostly we are on good terms and we spend many a quality moment together me chatting to her over the stable door. (I am even becoming known locally as 'the horse chatterer', as I always like to have a little word with each of the nags in the yard when we visit daily.)

Two national and one regional final in her first year - with a cherished rosette on each occasion - is the accomplishment to date. Not bad for a starter. The horse is big and E is not, but together they seem to work well enough. An international rider and instructor tried the horse the other day and pronounced that she had never encountered so strong-willed a mare and that anyone who rode her deserved a medal.

That pleased as scared me in equal measure. Extreme knitting really would be so much fun!

I wonder if the Archdeacon rides. Offer him a little canter on Ms Bates? Watch him bolt off into Featherdown Woods never to return? Hmmm! See how conniving I have become!