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On
the last night of our Irish riding holiday, we lay in our
warm beds in the house by the sea and listened to the wind
bowling and the ram spattering at the window. Our clothes
and boots were drying on the radiators and the room smelt
nicely of horse.
"What was your favourite bit?" my 25-year-old daughter
asked dreamily from her bed in the corner.
it was a tricky question, requiring thought and there was
silence as four days' worth of intensive riding action unspoiled
in my head. "The first gallop," I said eventually.
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"Me
too." I could sense her smiling in the dark. "And my
second favourite was riding in the dunes."
I turned over and snuggled deeper under the bedclothes. In the
first days our bodies had protested at the unaccustomed hours
in the saddle; now my limbs felt seasoned and luxuriously comfortable.
At the edge of sleep I heard Amy's voice again "It was maybe
the best holiday of my life."
It started in a gale at Sligo airport. There were white horses
on the sea when the little plane flew in low to the runway at
the edge of the water, and the wind tore at our clothes as we
trudged across the wet tarmac towards the terminal building, bit
like a beacon in the dark.
Half an hour in a hired car brought us to Horse Holiday Farm (such
a dreadful name) and an hour after that we were sitting in a pub
drinking Jameson whiskey with three Germans who had come to hunt
with the Sligo foxhounds. It was snug in the beery convivial warmth,
but outside the gale was still blowing and we wondered, not for
the first time, what had possessed us to come to the West Coast
of Ire-Land, surely one of the wettest places on Earth, for a
riding holiday in November.
But if the climate is wet, it is also famously changeable. When
we woke the next morning and drew back the curtains, all was serene
and lovely. Under a milky blue sky, paddocks hedged with hawthorn
and blackberry sloped down to an inlet of ca1m water. Opposite
was a little Island of turf and bracken, crisscrossed with stone
walls and scattered with cottages, roofless and abandoned. To
the right was a great sweep of yellow beach, a castle and, beyond,
the waters of Donegal Bay.
Down at the yard (four rows of looseboxes, a barn full of hay
and a tack room lined with 120 numbered saddles on racks), we
were introduced to our horses (part thoroughbred Irish hunters:
a dark bay and a chestnut, trace clipped, soft mouthed and sinewy
fit), and to Tilman, a big, amused bear of a man, owner, with
his wife, Colette, of Horse Holiday Farm, and our guide for the
day. His horse, called Trooper and built like a medieval charger,
led the way down the cinder path to the water's edge where the
horses picked their way among the stony, mossy, seaweedy foreshore.
We would be crossing to the other side of the inlet, explained
Tilman, and thence to the island, which was accessible only for
an hour or so at low tide. The water was thrillingly deep, lapping
at the horses' bellies as they highstepped their way across. A
gap in the dunes on the other side led to a long stretch of firm
sand. The horses were raring to go, noses tucked to their chests,
prancing and sidestepping beside the waves.
"Ready?" asked Tilman, glancing behind him. We nodded,
our pulses racing, and eased the pressure on the reins. The horses
plunged forward, accelerating into a gallop, necks stretched,
manes whipping, hooves thundering on the sand.
1 couldn't remember the last time I'd galloped with such freedom.
Maybe never. Because here, unlike anywhere we ride in the South
East of England, there were no dangers: no road, no cars, no wire,
no enclosed spaces - just the rising dunes at the end of the beach
offering a natural stopping place.
We drew up behind Trooper and slowed to a trot, speechless with
delight. More wading brought us to another stretch of beach and
a pod of seals basking on the sand. At our approach they hauled
themselves into the water where they bobbed up and down with their
heads and tails showing above the surface. We crossed to the island,
trotted around the turf, jumped a few little walls and ditches,
then retraced our steps down the strand and through the deep water,
confident like old hands now.
Each day brought fresh delights: riding through surf and up along
the top of the high dunes with the pale green, blond and ochre
seagrass billowing and rippling like a Van Gogh painting; wandering
through peat bog, along avenues of wild rhododendron, beside wide
lakes full of swans; fording a river where a heron flapped away.
One day, Tilman's son Donacha, a former member of the Irish national
showjumping squad, took us to the crosscountry course.
It was not our finest hour. Approaching fences in a polite English
way, rather than the cracking hunting pace the horses were used
to, we got into all sorts of trouble. At one point, Amy's horse
tried to refuse and ended up straddling the jump, depositing her
on the wall beside him. It was funny, in retrospect, once we were
ensconced in the pub nursing hot toddies (whiskey, hot water,
sugar and lemon studded with cloves), and warming our chilled
feet by the open fire. Donachr was consoling: "At least you
got back on straight away," he said. "Most people when
they fall off, lie moaning like footballers in agony when it's
only their pride which is hurt."
After another hot toddy, we put on our jackets, collected the
horses from the barn and set off for home. We were still a mile
or two off when the storm blew up and our last gallop back along
the beach was wild:
sand and spray whipping up around us, scouring our faces. I shut
my eyes and buried my face in the horse's mane as he ploughed
on gamely in the teeth of the gale. Back in the warm stable, I
rubbed his damp coat down with straw, tucked the rug snugly around
him and brought him his dinner of mashed beet, carrots and oats.
As I tipped the food into the manger I experienced that sudden
spurt of love you feel for a horse that's carried you safely through
a big adventure.
Tilman and Colette have been running their riding holidays for
30 years and theirs is still one of the few places where you can
ride independently. They are practised at
matching horses and riders - Tilman claims he needs only a minute
or two with someone to pick them the right horse - and attentive
without being fussy. After a huge breakfast, you are free to tide
as much or as little as you like (we averaged five hours a day)
and return for fruit cake and tea in late afternoon. In the evening
a minibus comes to take you to the pub for supper and back again
later. Perfect really.
We'll go back to Ireland in summer when the bog iris and rhododendrons
are in flower, and do the Donegal Trail - your own horse, a map,
a saddlebag, beaches, moor and mountain and a welcome in a different
farmhouse at the end of each day.
Tilman and
Colette Anhold
Horse Holiday Farm Ltd.
Grange County Sligo Ireland
Telephone : (071) 9166152
Fax : (071) 9166400
From Europe Telephone : 00 353 71 9166152
Fax : 00 353 71 9166400
Formular: Anfrage und Reservierung
Anreisemöglichkeiten zur Horse
Holiday Farm
The Horse Holiday Farm is Bord Fáilte (Irish Tourist Board)
approved and
a member of A.I.R.E., the Association of Irish Riding Establishments.
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