26/ DECEMBER 2013 THE RIDER


A Christmas Carrot


waving to the adoring crowd at Aachen having taken the World’s by a 15% margin, I was rudely brought back to the present as my front door slammed open admitting a frigid gale to the sitting room. I was halfway out of my chair to remedy the situation when my knees gave way and dropped me unceremoniously back into my chair. There before me, glowing with a pale green light was an apparition. It was my Old Instructor from years ago. His waist and neck were festooned with curb chains, draw-reins, huge curb bits and long necked vicious looking spurs. He was shackled at wrist and ankle by hobbles and knotted grave wrappings bound up his jaw. He moaned in sepulchral tones, “I have been sent to warn you, Coach, you


from you – the ribbons are less important than their well being.” By now I had recovered somewhat from


they love competing and the horses are only animals


the shock of his appearance and was prepared to stick up for myself. “I don’t do anything to harm my students –


wrong with my ways!” I stammered, teeth chattering partly from the freezing wind and partly from the grim horror before me. “Your horses and students deserve better


must change your ways.” “W-w-what do you mean, there’s nothing


ing a glass (or was it two?) of Scottish cheer and contemplated the past year. It had been a good one. Two of my students had placed in the top five at 3rd Level in the Championships. Three others had done very well in the local shows and one had made it onto the short list for the Juniors Team with the St. Georges horse her parents had bought her from Germland even tho’ his left hock was a bit dicey. Our vet was managing that quite nicely. My own 6 year old Holsteiner was coming along very well with his two tempis and the passage was quite reli- able; we’ll deal with the Piaff later, after all, we weren’t going to risk messing up his impulsion by doing short steps too soon! I must have dozed off for a moment because just as I was


(with apologies to Charles Dickens) By C.J. Todd. On Christmas Eve I sat in my favourite armchair enjoy-


popularity are less often the marks of real achievement than they are of simply being loud.” “P’shaw,” I countered, beginning to feel a bit cocky, “I


after all; so what if they have to move out of their comfort zones sometimes; besides, I don’t do anything that isn’t done by the Big Names and look how successful they are!” The response came instantly. “Success is not measured by winnings and visibility and


– take heed and you might yet be saved. This night you will be visited by three Spirits. On the stroke of twelve will come the Ghost of Dressage Past; at one, the Ghost of Dressage Present and lastly at two the Ghost of Dressage Yet To Come.” So saying, he began to shrink as if withdrawing at great


jaw dropped open as the grave bindings unraveled and fell away. The mouth was a black opening into Hell and it grew until I could see nothing else. And it screamed! A lost and ghastly wailing of a soul in endless torment. Shrinking back in my chair I became aware of the distinct possibility of having to do extra laundry very soon. He withdrew and spoke again, “It’s too late for me, Coach, but there is still hope for you


don’t believe in ghosts anyway, and you are probably no more than a touch of indigestion brought on by a piece of under- cooked potato.” Tactical error! The monstrosity leaned forward and its


enveloped in a whirling maelstrom of sparkling lights. As my head cleared I became aware that we were standing in a corner of a large, airy indoor riding arena. My guide released my hand, pointed and said, “Watch, listen and take note” Out in the arena a slim young woman rode a gray thor-


oughbred. (Now everyone knows that thoroughbreds are no good for Dressage- you have to have a warmblood with built in impulsion and cadence or the judges won’t look at you!). Her seat barely brushed the saddle as she posted fluently with his trot (The saddle looked hugely wide and what was with all that weird padding under it?). As the pair passed me I heard her say, “Good morning my friend and how are you feeling


smooth, balanced changes or direction. The horse never looked hurried or worried (although to my eye he didn’t look fully “on the bit”) and I was somewhat puzzled to see that the rider was not doing a number of things that I had been taught to regard as essential. I could not see her preparing the horse with half-halts for the turns or circles and when she changed into walk, she kept rising to all of the trot steps and didn’t sit. Strange. And yet the horse did the transitions very promptly and smoothly. Hmmm, what was going on here? The circles began to get smaller and I heard,


Rider – “Could you give a bit more ‘jump’ on this 10m circle?” Horse - “Ooh, that’s really difficult at present, I think I’d have to fall on my inside shoulder if I tried it” Rider – “O.K. then, how about on a 15m circle?” Horse – “Aah, I think I can manage that if you give me a moment to get my hind legs a bit more forward first” Rider – “No problem, take the time you need.” Horse – “There we are, how’s this now?” Rider – “That’s lovely, thank you.” Rider – “Shall we try the smaller circle now?’ Horse – “O.K. I think I could handle it now…. Yes, I’ve got it; hey, this feels kinda neat! In fact I feel well enough organized that I can go a bit sideways without staggering – how about that then?” Rider – “That’s very clever of you, well done. Many rid-


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trot and we’ll see what we feel like next,” she suggested. “Sounds fine to me, let’s go” And away they went doing 20m circles and surprisingly


shall we do today?” “Let’s start with some easy figures in your best working


while keeping his mouth closed with his tongue under the bit! (I know, I know, but it was MY hallucination, all right?) He said, “I’m feeling fine, thank you for asking and what


today?” To my astonishment the horse replied! And he did it


speed. The frigid air followed him out of the door, which crashed closed as it had opened. I reached for my glass and took a healthy swig (or was it two?). Now I’m not the sort of person given to flights of fancy or imagination, so I figured that I must have dozed off and had, what? A Seasonal Dream? It was pretty much time to head for bed and so, with only a small qualm, I made my way upstairs. The downstairs clock was tolling the last notes of twelve when I awoke to find a fig- ure standing by my bed. He wore a bi-corn hat, brown tailcoat and glistening black boots with high knee guards. With an Austrian lilt and a quiet chuckle he said, “Pull on your breeches and come with me.” I took his deerskin-gloved hand and was instantly


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