There is no more an idyllic scene in the English countryside than a grassy meadow, fringed with mature broadleaved trees, a low ground hugging early morning mist just starting to disperse in the warming morning air, the sound of a cuckoo, a speckling of baby rabbits taking their fill of the glistening dew from the vegetation, a fresh mole hill still erupting in an annoyance to the landowner and the crowning feature of a horse stood proud and noble, born to the land and at ease in its natural environment..
So why do young girls and women insist on riding their horses into town, on the main road, at peak times and for no apparent or legitimate reason other than to show that they can cause absolute mayhem and inconvenience to the general public when they feel like it.?
I have due cause to adopt this point of view.
Just yesterday I was driving through a very busy and congested market town in the area. My work took me through a large housing estate and up to a 'T' junction with the main road which led out to the by-pass.
I was in position and signalling to turn right but the flow of traffic was constant from both directions. Cars approaching from the left from the town centre had been restrained at a railway level crossing and the long, collective tailback was now making its way slowly along. I could see no break in the stream of vehicles and the good people were certainly not thinking about letting me out of the junction which I attribute to the migration of Southerners to the area and all the indifference and selfish, suspicious motives that come with that distinction.
It was no better from the right. Just 200 metres up the road was a roundabout which directed considerable amounts of traffic onto the bypass, out towards the coast road or back into town past me. Approaching motorists were either late for work, on flexi hours with the Council, just going shopping or distracted on prioritising in their minds that long list of jobs to be done for that day. The line of traffic, about 100 metres away momentarily slowed and bunched, then signalled and cautiously moved around what I then saw as my arch nemesis- a gal on a horse.
She was idling along on a large chestnut coloured beast enjoying waving at those considerate enough to give her a suitably wide berth. It was a bit like the Queen waving at the Trooping of the Colour. I could not imagine what the rider and horse were intending to do in town.
Certainly, 120 years plus ago, the horse was a major cog in the mechanism of society and the now converted stables and mews dotted around the central area of town were an indication of their importance. If I had been doing the same job as now in the late 19th Century I could envisage quite a regular need to hire a horse for a day if I was not privileged enough to own and house one myself. The streets will have been crowded with horsedrawn carts, wagons and carriages for every purpose and the roses in the Coronation Gardens never more fertilised as a consequence.
Cars and the avoidance of the horsewoman were the order of today. Motorists showed more respect and ultimate fear in their approach and passing than they ever would with a much more vulnerable cyclist which was another reason for my indignation on the subject.
Gradually the flourescent shape got closer. The rider was in her mid to late twenties, probably called Ginny. Typically attired in all the correct safety gear but with denims and trainers. In the far right distance I could see a noticeable lightening of the traffic. A large lorry was stuck on negotiating the roundabout and served as a dam to the flow up the road towards me. I had now been at the junction for at least 3 minutes, an unprecedented period in any motoring scenario and in the perception of a driver, representing about a week. I anticipated and adjudged both the break in the traffic and the slow, lolloping pace of the horse. Slowly I edged out to get a good both ways view and this would also show my intention to the Ginny character that my wait was over.
We were a good 20 metres apart as I pulled out, slowly and hesitantly in deference to a skitty animal at the best of times. I was not sure about the horse. The manouevre was text book in its action, excellent clutch control, no undue revving of the engine, smooth and seamless. I was perfectly placed paralell to the pony person as I passed.
I expected a grateful wave and perhaps a flirtatious approval of my driving skill, care and diligence. Instead I heard Ginny comment "Patience is a virtue". That was, to me, the epitomy of rudeness and sarcasm. I was immediately consumed with indignant rage. I was only a few metres away when all the accumulated wisdom, wit and knowledge of my 48 years welled up. In other situations requiring an immediate and decisive verbal response I had been let down although within any proceeding 24 hour period I was usually ready to deliver one of the utmost biting and telling quality.
I was pretty pleased with myself as with commensurate humour I shouted back down the road,
" Put the thing back in its field". Ginny's very sophisticated two fingered salute whilst maintaining control of her mount showed that my message had been received and understood.
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