I had a mid-life Crisis and bought a Horse

And I should have known better.

Growing up as I did, in the belching smoke of Sheffield Steel’s heartland, there wasn’t much call for Horse and Hound magazine, so I had to order it. Each month, my eight-year-old self would totter down to Mrs Pilkington’s newsagents to collect it. She would sit behind the counter, her ginormous, gelatinous breasts, resting on the Women’s Weekly magazines, and eye me with the same level of suspicion as a cat might give a visiting Rottweiler.

“Can I please have my Horse and Hound, Mrs Pilkington?” I’d ask politely.

She would grunt and attempt to retrieve it from some ‘speciality’ pile she had behind her. The blancmange breasts would burst into life as she moved, rolling along the countertop, like mounds of bread dough doing a Wembley wave. It was quite a spectacle.

“Bloody Horse and bloody Hound,” she would sniff, as she handed it to me. I’d go to leave and - under her breath, but loud enough to hear - she would mutter, “thinks she’s bleedin’ Princess Anne, that one.” The ritual never varied.

I could see why Mrs Pilkington was bemused by my horseless, horse hobby. After all, I lived in an area that hadn’t seen grass since the feudal system had been in operation. But what she didn’t know is that the year before, I had been on a family holiday to the Isle of Man. An island off the coast of Britain, where horses still pulled trams up and down the sea front. It was the first time I’d ever seen a horse in real life and, like Juliette with her Romeo, I was smitten.

Probably because I was still bleating on about horses two years later, my parents caved in and bought me some riding lessons for my birthday. After they ran out, I got myself a job there, mucking out in exchange for rides, and I pretty much lived there every hour I wasn’t in school. I never owned my own. My parents couldn’t afford it and we lived in a huge city. But I was obsessive. Then, three years later we moved to a house that was even further away than the two buses I was already catching to get to the stables. I had to say goodbye. I was bereft for months, possibly years, but eventually teen life, then work life, then family life took over and the dream was shelved.

I never forgot my first love. Owning my own horse was a childhood dream that was so all consuming, for so much of my young life that it stayed with me. I always watched equestrian sports on TV and kept all my horse books, which I often picked up and flicked through in quiet moments. It was always there, in the background.

So, with that in mind, let’s fast-forward to March 2018. I’m now 50ish, Mrs Pilkington is in the jelly mould in the sky, and my darling dad has just passed away. He didn’t have much, but he left us a little bit of money. I had a reasonably well paid job and my daughter had left home. So, what did I do? Well, obviously I bought a fucking horse. And that’s where the dream ended.

For those who don’t know about the horse-world let me explain. Horse people are not normal. Most of them, no fuck it, all of them, much prefer horses to people, and it shows. They inhabit some mystical realm from which they happily segregate themselves from the rest of humanity. They have their own language, customs and culture, all of which are impenetrable to outsiders. They even have their own odour: A pungent concoction, encompassing ‘top notes’ of fresh hay and grass, ‘mid notes’ of ripe manure and sweat and a ‘base note’ of well-oiled saddle leather. It has all the complexity of a fine French perfume and is instantly recognisable to equestrians the world over. It’s more than just a scent; it exemplifies the very essence of who they are. They wear it like Dior. They rarely, if ever, take any bullshit from anyone, don’t tolerate fools and every last one of them believes they are an expert equestrian. Every single one. Even when they’re not.

Like all ‘worlds’, it had moved on in the intervening 35 years. And, if my aching bones and creaky back were anything to go on, so had I. But this did not deter me. I was a kid again, only this time my dream was coming true. Thank you universe, thank you for making it happen at long last, I thought, as I unloaded half a ton of Dutch Warmblood out of a horsebox. Welcome Honey. My love, my life. I settled her into her new stable and just looked at her, adoringly, like a mother holding her baby for the first time. She was all mine. Then she bit me, and it went down hill from there.

Before I bought Honey, I’d invested in a few riding lessons, to brush up my skills, on an old Irish cob called Guinness. I’d been a fearless rider as a kid and a teen so hey, surely it was like riding a bike, right? I shall save you the pain of a lengthy explanation on riding skills and just say that, no, it absolutely is fucking not. It looked like I would have to start from scratch and learn how to ride my horse.

The yard, that I’d hastily picked, as it was the only one that had a livery vacancy, was owned by a terrifying woman called Pam. Everything about Pam was concise, candid and unapologetic. She rarely engaged in lengthy conversation, but rather, spoke in short, snappy sentences; mainly on horse-related topics and usually littered with profanities. She was absolutely clear about the things that she would tolerate and those that she would not. Pam did not like: People who looked like hunt saboteurs (even if they weren’t hunt saboteurs); people who voted Labour and London. Pam did like: Horses, cigarettes and scotch. She owned two records, both by Barry Manilow. Apart from photographs of her horses, her house contained three ornamental items: One oil painting of the Amalfi coast, a lamp with a base in the shape of a pheasant and a statue of Red Rum.

Pam had already decided I was an idiot, and to be fair, she wasn’t wrong. She watched me bobbing around the arena, thighs screaming in pain as I worked through an never-ending rising trot.

“The problem here,” said Pam, bluntly, “is that you’ve bought a Ferrari when you are only used to driving around in milk floats.”

I persevered, and despite encouraging prompts from Pam like, “ride her, don’t just sit there like a bag of fucking washing,” I didn’t get much better. Inevitably, I fell off. I discovered that when you get over 50, you don’t bounce. And it takes you twice as long to heal. I also had to pluck from my delusional memory bank, the fact that when you have a horse, everything, and I mean absolutely everything else becomes secondary. Holidays, nights out, relationships. And if you think you get time off if you have injuries, think again. Horsey people have no time for wimps. Unless you are strapped to a hospital bed, covered head to foot in plaster casts or dead, you are fit to see to your horse. Mornings are spent mucking out and feeding, evenings and weekends are spent mucking out and exercising, and in between you have to slot in vets visits, dental checks, farriers, as well as work around other people in the yard who are also doing the same as you, but somehow seem to be doing it better, and with less swearing.

Then of course there is a cost. There is a very good reason I didn’t have a pony as a child. They are fucking expensive. Everything is at a premium in the horse world. From vitamin supplements to hoof oil to saddle soap, the Equestrian marketplace takes each item, thinks of a number, doubles it and adds fifty quid on. It’s eyewatering. If you have children, consider them a bargain.

As for Honey, she continued to hate me, despite my adoration for her. Having previously been owned by a ‘proper’ horse owner, she never lost the bitter resentment of finding herself stuck with me. A bit like if Lady Mary Crawley had been cast out of Downton Abbey to live in a Council flat with a two smack heads and a hoarder. The only time she was pleased to see me was when I had the feed bucket in my hand. After her belly was full, I was dismissed. Her back would turn; she would stick her face in her haynet and fart in my general direction. But, like many a disillusioned doormat before me, I laboured on, convinced that one day I would be the horsewoman she deserved.

The only problem with all the above was that unfortunately, I was getting older not younger. Menopause, joint pains and the needs of ageing family members became intensified. And while we are all familiar with the images of old ladies, like the Queen, bobbing around on horseback into their 90s, I can safely say that they are able to do so, probably, because they didn’t have a 30-year break.

Five years, 8 injuries, 2756 missed family events and enough money to buy a semi-detached bungalow later, and it was time to say goodbye to horse world. By chance I had met a lovely young woman who fell in love with Honey. Like the discarded wife, watching love blossom in a new marital home, I had to face the fact that they should be together. I don’t think I could have ever brought myself to sell her to anyone else, so the princely sum of £5 changed hands on the understanding that I could have photo updates to see how my beautiful girl was getting on. Leaving her that last day broke me. I cried as much as I had done on my single bed, forty years before, when my parents told me we were moving away and that I couldn’t go to my beloved stables again. But this time it was the right thing to do, for both of us.

Do I regret my little mid-life crisis horse? Yes and no. I did have some fun times, made some good friends, and more importantly, got to fulfil my childhood dream. I still love the ‘smell’. I still gravitate to every horse I see like I’m eight again. But the truth is, childhood dreams are nothing like reality. Owning a horse if a full-time job, a mammoth responsibility and a complete lifestyle, not a hobby. My head was telling me as much as I wrote the bloody cheque, but of course the pull of a memory is much stronger. Thankfully, I can’t see any other mid-life crises on the horizon, but if you do, and it involves horses, check your bank account, check your health, check your marriage and check your sanity. Only if they are all firmly intact, should you give it a shot! If not, get a cat.

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