C
Charlotte and Me - My Fiir B
By Jo Monck
rst Pony
I
remember a time when I was eleven and the Bloxham Grove Show entry forms had arrived at Mrs Parker’s Farm in Hempton, I can recall racing round excitedly on my bike, probably with the saddle slung over the handlebars with my pocket money in hand to place my entries, I entered the jumping as always and a few gymkhana games, I remember Mrs Parker’s face as I asked to put down for best turned out, I think I caught the ‘best’ and I think the rest just went over my head.
My pony, Charlotte, was a 13.2 field kept coloured gypsy pony and I worshipped the ground she napped on, I loved her above everything, (in fact when my parents spilt up I was asked who I wanted to stay with and I answered ‘my horse’) I’m not entirely sure, with the amount of time I spent hitting the deck, that the feeling was mutual but that didn’t deter me, she would rear bolt upright, I would slide off the back and get back on again or occasionally we varied this and I would go out the front door, my hat must have been in rat order but we didn’t replace them after falls in those days so we wore our bashed velvet hats like medals.
On the day of the event I groomed Charlotte and then rode the 5 miles to the show. My jumping ended swiftly as always with a refusal at the first fence, if we ever did make it over the first fence as a rule I then forgot where I was going and got eliminated, did that put me off? No, not a hope, I was always an eternal optimistic trier, and obviously some foresighted mythical person from the Olympics would be there and spot our potential despite my ponies reluctance to comply.
My very non-horsey mother used to come along to witness my displays with sandwiches and kind words.
On this particular day Charlotte had managed to roll in something unspeakable and as I had no idea how to plait, her mane fell in every direction possible, I had sponged off a majority of the green bits but that still left her looking like a skew/pie/green coloured pony, she had also developed warbles, a lumpy thing caused by fly bites. All this bypassed my eleven year old head as I waited to go into the ring for best turned out. I looked at the row of gleaming bays and chestnuts with the sun reflecting off them, almost blinding me with their shininess. And then there was me and my beloved scruffy Charlotte, a coloured pony when coloured ponies were intensely unfashionable, in my second hand riding clothes, think Thelwell and you’ve got the picture. My impenetrable nerve wavered ‘I can’t go in’ I said to Mum ‘you can’ she said and in I went. Needless to say it looked like a poor relation had joined the line up, it was the one thing my mother said she always regretted making me do. But despite our dire appearance I was still as proud as punch of my little pony but needless to say we came last. I consoled myself with the Clear Round jumping, this always guaranteed a rosette so my pony didn’t come home naked.
My mother gave me cuddle later that night and said ‘well done, to you she was the best pony, it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks’ As I recall on that day we were the best we could be and there’s got to be a moral in there somewhere.
Please mention Central Horse News What’s On when responding to advertisements NOVEMBER/DECEMBER 2019 67
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