Hoofing it down
by Gerhard Heilig
I fi rst became consciously aware of horses in the summer of 1951, when attending the Royal Tournament at Earls Court. One of the events was a short display of show jumping and I was greatly taken by the dash and grace of this performance. Two years later, in 1953, I happened to see a poster showing a show jumper and I decided to go and see the event being advertised. It was at White City and none other than the International Horse Show.
I was captivated. There were show classes, parades of foxhounds, carriages and coaches and to my utter delight the great names of show jumping – Col. Llewellyn on Foxhunter, Wilf White on Nizefella and Pat Smythe on Tosca. I had always deplored those armchair sportsmen and here I was, a dedicated spectator who’d never even been within spitting distance of a stable! This simply would not do. I must live up to my own self-set principles and get astride one of these animals or shut my big mouth forever. But until I had established myself more fi rmly in my career as an airline pilot, my sporting ambitions would have to take second place.
In the spring of 1956 I studied the pages of Horse and Hound and soon found what I was seeking, a riding stable within easy reach at Hampstead. On 19 March I took myself off to this equestrian establishment, a modest two-horse affair, and declared my desire to be inducted into the art of horsemanship.
My mount was a grey called Gerry, matching me not only in name but also the already very strong streaks in my originally dark hair. I climbed aboard and the owner of the stable, also mounted, led me through the streets to the ride on Hampstead Heath. Here we did a couple of gentle rounds with me precariously perched in the saddle, trying to emulate the skills of my instructor and hoping to avoid unscheduled returns to mother earth. But all went well, and by the time we returned to the stable I was hopelessly but happily committed to the sport.
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The very next morning saw me emerging from Harry Hall’s clutching my newly acquired jodhpurs, and from now on few days passed
T H E L O N D O N P O L O C L U B
without seeing me high on Gerry’s broad back merrily doing the rounds on Hampstead Heath. I had not had more than half a dozen lessons when one fi ne day my instructor pleaded pressure of other business and sent me out on my own. My heart was in my mouth. I would have to negotiate the traffi c unaided by my mentor, then there was that sharp bend in the ride where Gerry was wont to cut corners, all but brushing me off on a projecting tree. But I was too much of a coward to admit that I was scared and so I set off with all the aplomb my trepidation was able to muster. I mastered the traffi c, I survived that bend which Gerry insisted in taking at what seemed like a headlong gallop, and in fact we both returned not only in one piece (or rather in two whole pieces) and without a single inadvertent departure from the saddle. I felt very proud indeed at this, my fi rst solo performance. But most important of all, from now on I would be able to indulge myself at horse shows without that guilty feeling of being an armchair sportsman.
I had been riding regularly at Hampstead, but by the spring of 1957 I felt that I needed better horses and facilities if I were to make any further progress at my chosen sport. Once again I consulted the pages of Horse and Hound and soon found what seemed to be just the place for my purpose - a hunting stable at Chilworth near Guildford, and a few days later I took myself off to take a look at the place.
The establishment boasted some eight or ten horses and was run by Peter Parker and his wife and Peter expressed his readiness to take me out right away. I was given Matilda, a liver chestnut mare who was to be my regular and trusty mount for quite some time to come, and off we went for a ride through the Surrey countryside. I had found the very place I had been looking for, and from that day onward I would spend a happy day at Lockner’s Farm whenever time permitted, which was in fact quite frequently.
Early in October I had my fi rst day of cubbing with Peter Parker and the Chiddingfold Farmers Hunt. I can’t remember whether we succeeded in putting up any foxes, but even if we did, I am sure that I was far more scared than any of these wily creatures ever would be. It was
MEMORY LANE
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