Of their very own
And if you win their respect
As the great treasure it is
*My father was a great horseman – he broke them in, used them for mustering, played polo from their backs and had a great respect for his four legged companions.
My Grandfather’s life was if anything, even deeper entwined with that of the equine. He also had a great reputation as a horseman and his polo sticks are displayed in the Eulo pub – or they were at one time. I haven’t been back in years.
Horses were indispensable as work and play mates for a very long period in our history.
By the time I came along we used motor bikes to muster and any horses left on the property were brumbies, shy and rarely seen.
I wanted a horse as a child and would nag for one (no pun intended) whenever the passion arose again – usually after reading some book or other where the young person had a special horse of their own.
My father’s answer was always a firm no.
He said horses were dangerous unless your lived and breathed horse and rode them every day. Stick to the bikes he said – they haven’t got a brain of their own.
He was probably right and although I had plenty of tank slappers off the motor bike, I was never seriously hurt.
Perhaps because of his advice, I have always had the greatest respect for the horse.
I no longer have any desire to ride one and am quite happy on my bike but they are such gorgeous animals.
This morning rising out of the mist they looked like works of art.
I snapped them on my iPhone but it was below freezing and it wasn’t behaving very well – or perhaps my cold lumpy fingers and lack of glasses were also to blame.
The results – these beauties are Arabians – a fellow round the corner from us has a stud and I run past most mornings admiring them all.
The brown one with the creamy fringe and tail is my favourite.
There are a few more pictures on Instagram – I’m stalking these horses and will keep snapping until I get the shot I’m super happy with, then it can go on the wall.