Life in a small town.

My wife and daughter are fully paid up members of the cult of the Horse. So last weekend I was dragged along to the Thoroughbred Rehabilitation Centre open day, in North Lancashire. The TRC is a small charity
that does exactly what you'd expect from the title, it takes in thoroughbreds, mainly from the racing industry and sorts them out, enabling them to lead a useful life off the track.

To be honest there was not a lot going on, a few stalls, a tombola, a guess the name of the teddy , that type of thing. They had a large barn with about 30 loose boxes in it, at every box door there was a gaggle of girls, young and old, patting, stroking and admiring the occupant. (The Cult of the Horse being mostly a sisterhood.) Thoroughbred s are irrisistably tactile, stroking one is like running your hand over warm liquid silk, with that trembling hint of the power beneath.

Most of the attendees were “friends” of the centre, or volenteers and their families, they knew the horses and had their favourites. We learned that there was to be a “display” in the indoor menage, and that it should be good because a grey gelding called Piano was to be in it, and Piano had “character”. We made our way down there .

The horses were lead into the arena, there were three bays and Piano a striking fleabitten grey, he took everybody's eye, he was up for it, you could tell, he was up on his toes, tossing his head, rolling his eyes. The girl leading him nodded calmly to a couple of helpers, who came and held his head and styrup as she mounted up. The term, 'coiled spring' is a bit of a cliché, but that is what this horse was. He danced to the side threw up his head and swished his tale. The rider, who had looked almost ungainly walking earthbound through the deep sand, was now in her element. As the horse pranced and bucked and tossed , she began to warm him up, (exactly the wrong phrase, but that's what its called,) letting the coiled spring unwind slowly, gentle but firm, relaxed though alert, putting him through his paces, asking him to concentrate, until they gained that lovely, pounding, horsey rhythm where the drum of hooves and the snort of breath are in harmony.

The compere, Caroline, one of those indominable horsey women, who had set up and ran the operation, called the riders forward. “These are our senior riding staff” she announced, “ they are going to introduce themselves, and tell you something about their horse.” And so they did. Each animal had a story, not fast enough, behavioral problems, injuries, that sort of thing. Last to go was
the girl sat on Piano. “Hi there I'm Roz and this is Piano, he came to us with many faults and vices, bucking, rearing, biting, napping, agrophobia...” the list went on, while speaking Roz looked relaxed and confident, we who knew her, could see that the horse (who was almost standing still) had most of her attention, she was giving him imperceptable checks and nudges and assurances all the time.
As the young woman spoke, I felt my eyes watering, I could feel her tiny hand clutching mine, the day I dropped her off for her first day at school.