What if all you trusted was to crumble about you?
When a new pony arrives at Valley Riding School, volunteer Abby has no idea of the integral role that he has to play in the unfolding of her life. She goes from riding once per week to preparing for...
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The trees grow thinner the further I follow the track towards the stables. I know I'm in the right place, because the sweet smell of hay and horse already assaults my senses- even though I still haven't seen a single equine. Pine mingles with the horsey scent, evergreen and constant needles soft beneath my feet.
Soon, the trees completely give way to green fields, fenced with wooden post and rail rimmed with a buzzing line of electric. They are empty, and connect together on either side of the track before finishing when they reach the back wall of what I assume is the stable block. It's painted white, with a tiled roof, and grills line the wall at regular intervals revealing the rumps of several horses: bays and blacks and greys.
The end of the track is punctuated by a wooden five bar gate, matching the post and rail of the paddocks exactly. It's rimmed by a flower basket on either side, and decorated by a swinging sign reading Seasons Stable. It is picturesque, to the point where I wonder if it is real, or just an image I have painted while daydreaming.
Nervous, I pull the sleeves of my too small baselayer back over my wrists, take a breath, and undo the latch.
Almost as soon as I step further into the yard, I am attacked. Teeth and fur and claws assault me with malice, snapping and growling and jumping at me until I can smell their putrid breath and feel their wiry fur. I back towards the gate, resisting every instinct which tells me to turn around and run, battling with myself.
"Mollie! Jasper!" The dogs, jack russels, I am ashamed to notice, leave me alone at once, and leap to the attention of the woman who called them. She is small, with delicate features and a slender frame, somehow looking completely natural in her muck boots and breeches.
Suddenly I feel overdressed, and long for my usual hoodie.
"I'm so sorry about the dogs," she says, "They're just excited to see a new person."
They stand by the woman's ankle, tails wagging ferociously like whips. That means they're happy. I gulp and nod.
"You must be Abby? I'm Sara." Either she ignores my fear, or doesn't notice, but her kind tone and dark eyes, frequently flicking towards the dogs, indicate the former.
"Yes," my voice quivers a little, "Nice to meet you."
"And you, thanks for coming up today." She says with a smile. "I'll just introduce you to everyone and give you a tour today, and if you're happy you could start next week? It'd be £7 an hour, and I'd just ask you to muck out, groom, that sort of thing. Hours are flexible of course..." She keeps talking as my silence fills the air, until I realise I am meant to respond, and she stops with apparent relief.
"Yes, that's sounds great- thank you."
---
We stand in a square block of stables, with curious faces poking out of wooden doors. They are all groomed to perfection, and quality oozes from each horse. Sara leads me to a room next to the gate, closed wooden door labelled office. It is well organised, with a desk in the corner and shelves stacked with files and books with various titles, some on horse care, showjumping, thoroughbred bloodlines and, interestingly, a book on breeding methods. I wonder why it is here, when the stables doesn't breed. Just training, said Sara on the phone.
