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Horse Sense   By Peter Winnall

"Pony trekking on the Welsh mountains". These are words which conjure up thoughts of idyllic proximity to the noblest animal of them all, in some of the most beautiful outdoors that we have in the British Isles. For some that is. For me, who had not really understood horses, it was very different and most humbling. Not that I have ever belittled a horse, mind you - or any other animal for that matter - except chickens of course. (But nobody respects chickens - do they?)

Ever since my experience of being "put down" by a horse I have come to view equestrian events with considerable awe, for both rider and animal. I have also come to view the people who think that horses don't like running in the Grand National, as very misguided. Horses love it and really, they wouldn't do it if they didn't.

I first came on close terms with a horse at a Show Jumping event in Endcliffe Park in Sheffield around 1965 when my then sister -in- law was competing and we were there solely as a spectators. We visited Frankie in the exercise ring. She offered, from the saddle of the hunter she was due to ride in the next event, that is about twenty feet in the air, to let me sit on it!

Now when you look at the oneness of horse and rider going over fences on television, they are only about two inches high at the most. When you're standing right next to what appears to be two tons of horse, the impression is totally different and intimidating.

I declined the kind offer with phrases like "I'd look daft - I'm not wearing the right gear" and "I don't want to upset it" meaning all the time "I don't want it to upset me - mentally or physically".

At last, when finally persuaded to climb on to the animal, from which Frankie had dismounted, I did manage to swing myself into the saddle correctly from the port side - no! That's boats, isn't it? From the left. From my new elevation it looked about thirty feet to the ground. Quite unnerving. Then, just as I was about to say "Thanks for the experience," and climb down Frankie took hold of the rein and walked me round the paddock. I felt a right nana with no steering wheel, no brakes or owt. I do remember overcoming self consciousness to the extent of nervously patting the horse's neck. This was the only form of supplication I could think of at the time.

Some years and a divorce later, I was visiting our children, now resident with their mother, Beryl, in Llandudno, Gwynedd. They, Stephen, Judith and Margaret at the ages of 16, 14 and 10 were reasonably at home on horses I discovered. However this was not until after I'd asked them what they wanted to do on the Saturday morning of my weekend stay. "Oh let's go pony trekking they chorused". With such a unanimous response I could hardly deny them so obvious a pleasure. I was quietly confident that it would be sufficient for me to pay for such activity and then watch them disappear across some distant hills.

But upon arrival at the stables, Mervyn Jones asked, "Who's for the trip then?" "All of us" came the reply, from all but one of us. Mr Jones astutely detected the lack of unanimity. "Does your Da' not ride then?" he asked. Suspecting a set up, I quickly got my reply in first. "Never been on a horse in my life". This did not seem at all the time or place for the strict truth to be told.

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