A horse’s respect is a cherished thing

Horses

Life forces

Of their very own

Intelligent

Capable

And if you win their respect

Honour it

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.

12 thoughts on “A horse’s respect is a cherished thing

  1. Different kind of post, Kate, nice to hear some of your history. I agree horses are beautiful. My fourteen-year-old granddaughter, Brianna, has been riding since she was eight. I drove her to her lessons twice a week and enjoyed walking around the grounds while she rode. The owner had over a hundred horses. It was particularly interesting picking the horse up from the field before saddling. Especially in the spring when the field was a quagmire and we would invariably get stuck in the mud trying to wrench our boots free.

    Liked by 1 person

    • A whimsical image of two humans tromping through the mud to reach a horse who no doubt gauged their progress with great interest and a little internal snickering. We had an ex racehorse here at home for a few years – they are certainly individuals. I was so kind to her and yet she was as cool and snobby as a BMW saleswoman. I had to cut her fringe to get the mud tangled out of it once – it was not the best of haircuts and I don’t think she ever forgave me. Unless I also happened to be holding an armful if lucerne. Then she sold me the best car in the showroom 😊 My sons had a pony that their Grandfather (my husbands father) decided they must have …he was nothing but trouble and so smart that he opened the gates and let the cattle out at least three or four times. Chaos – we then had to muster cattle and grumpy, smug pony back in off the highway. My husband used to accompany his grandmother to help disabled kids ride horses when he was younger – those horses were like angels and the kids got so much out of it. Dad used to tell us many stories about different horses he had broken in or ridden – always by name, they were remembered as the individual characters they all were and there is a grave on our ancestral property for a horse that meant so much to a woman that I don’t think she ever got over its passing. Oh dear long reply. Have a lovely day Len.

      Like

  2. Wow. That just pulled at my heart. I had five horses. Well, two were mine. A buckskin quarterhorse, and a 3/4 Arab. I showed horses for 12 years and sometimes I miss them so much I ache. I sold them when I went out west to school. But whenever I need to meditate and smooth out, I visualize lying full length on my buckskin mare in her stall, eyes closed, while she shifted foot to foot, my ear on her lower neck where I could hear her chomping hay or grain. Or the mornings I got up just before dawn and rode her bareback through the lower pastures, just a lead line and a halter. I’d jump as high as I could, hook my elbow around her withers and haul myself up. But your dad was right. I got bit, kicked, drug, and bucked off in all that time. Not by my two horses, though. By others. They are expensive and a lot of trouble and I loved every minute of it.

    Liked by 1 person

    • They are wonderful animals – I regret not being able to form a friendship with one as I think it would be life changing however I have always had my dogs and they are the same huge hearted highly intelligent souls. It’s important for kids in particular to have a big hearted pet. Makes a difference growing up for sure but even now I am always grateful for the non judgemental company of my dogs.

      Like

  3. I like horses, never rode one, only sat long enough to be photographed as a tourist in Spain. I’ll never forget the struggle to astride it, due to the stiffness of my hips – for the horse was broader than I’d expected and no doubt older.
    P.S. Thanks for Likes. StaySafe. Happy Sunday!😊👍🏾

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s