A horse called Rocky

Or Champion Rockefeller the Third, if you want to give him his full name. Horse in a million.

You see, I'm reminiscing a bit today. I found this photo:



...while I was doing a bit of clearing up. It's a photo of my Mum and her horse, Crackerbarrel - he was a gift from her parents on her 21st birthday. Rather beautiful, I think you'll agree! (and not just the horse).

We've always been a bit of a horsey family. Except Dad, who is not horsey at all. Not one jot. When he returned from one of his business trips to the states when we were children, we gathered around to hear him tell the tale of When I Was Put On A Horse. Fresh from gymkhana-ing, and festooned with rosettes, I bounced on his knee. "Did you canter? Did you gallop? Did you jump anything?"

"Well," he said. "It went fast. And my foot came out of one of the little loopy things." Needless to say, we never got him on a horse again.

But for Mum and me, my having been put on a horse for the first time when I was two, her having trained as an eventer and a riding instructress, there was nothing more wonderful than swinging up into the saddle, shortening the stirrups (the loopy things), gathering up and heading out into cold morning mist, the snorts from our horses speckling the air with hot crystals. As we came round our favourite bend, knowing that there was a jolly good gallop right ahead of us across an unploughed field, she'd look at me with a grin. "Ready?" And off we'd go. Streaking across the field like a pair of lightning bolts, the horses with their heads stretched, racing each other, and us laughing like a pair of whirling dervishes. Utter bliss.

I kept that love all through my life and even now, one of my favourite smells is the earthy, musky, oily scent of a horse's neck. When Wonderful Man and I were in Iceland, I was entranced by the Icelandic ponies, great shaggy shapes with cascading manes who lived out in the fields in all weathers. I pocketed sugar cubes from our breakfast table and took them to feed these little hermits - little larger than ponies, but they were feisty! At one stage I was surrounded by about twenty of them, all pushing and shoving to get to my hands. I think I may have fallen in love then and there.

But this is about a horse called Rocky. We shortened his name from the ridiculous Champion Rockefeller the Third, a moniker given to him due to his breeding. For this was not just any old horse. Standing a good 15 and a half hands high, labrador-black and shiny, with sparkly eyes and a nose that could scent a sugar cube from fifteen metres, he was the love of my life when I was a teenager. I still remember weekends spent at my local riding stable where he was kept, mucking out in all weathers, taking beginners on the lead rein, erecting and knocking down jumps, raking the exercise yard, sweeping the stables, you name it, I did it - and all for the chance of taking Rocky out for a swish along the moors. He was Rocky the excitable...never before had I met a horse who would get so excited that he would canter on the spot, much like a child stamping its feet, when we were about to go over the cross country course. Or one that I had to turn backwards before we went off for a gallop, afraid that he would barge past the others in the queue. He would turn his head full circle and nibble gently at my feet as we waited. He was, as we'd say in horsey circles, a goer. Light on his feet, he would appear to float over the fields we traversed, shaking his head and prancing like a trick pony. And his dressage! I won't bore my non-horsey readers but suffice it to say he could half-pass to the left like a pro. Never a beat missed, never a stumble, never even a flick betrayed him. Poetry in motion, and I was simply there to enjoy the ride.

So why am I writing about Rocky? Well, because three years ago, at the grand old age of twenty-eight (Methuselah in horse terms), my beloved Rocky lay down in a grassy spot underneath a huge oak tree and floated away. A little older, a little sway-backed, even a little dip-backed, and with fingers of grey reaching up from his muzzle, and a slightly wobbly mane, but still with those eyes and that everlasting thirst for sugar lumps. I still remember the enormous bite shaped bruise he gave me when he lunged for the sugar lumps I had in my jodhpur pocket.



I've been thinking about taking to the saddle again. I've missed it over the last few years, not had much time, work's always got in the way. But I yearn for the feel of an English saddle, for the snort of the horse, the scent of his mane, the feel of him gathering himself before the final push. I've really missed it. And now it's time to start again. I have dreams one day of owning - outright - my own horse. He would be a magnificent grey, but pure white. Arab, and swan-necked, with a glimmer of dark around his eyes. A big horse, maybe seventeen hands, one that could jump a five bar without even noticing. And a mane that I could bury my head into. I have no idea what his name would be. I've toyed with some - Akkanar, Tresellian, Shadowfax, Hasufel. But none seem quite right. I'm sure that when I find him, he'll tell me his name. For now he exists in my daydreams until the day I can set him free, swing myself into the saddle, gather him up and head out onto the moors. I can hardly wait.