Some people standing around thought that it was only a half-hearted kick, but I was knocked for six. I had to be helped to the barn where I lay among the hay waiting for the effects to wear off. Two of the stable girls came to where I was resting to ask me how I was and if I was thinking of attending the evening musical festival to be held in Alnwick. I replied that I desperately needed a lift home because, far from being able to dance, I couldn’t even walk. One of the older hands at the stables had a van and kindly gave me a lift home to my grandmother’s house. I spent the next two days recuperating. I was left with a massive black and purple bruise on my leg but I was most thankful that the kick had not been any higher.
I soon returned to limp around the stables to see if I could be of any use on days that I was free. I found that my attention was increasingly drawn to a quiet, solitary horse in one of the small side paddocks.
When I asked Vera, who jointly owned the stables, about the horse, she rapidly fired off some details: ‘She’s a mare belonging to local lad called Anthony who dabbles in horse breeding. He has a chestnut stallion he keeps down in a field adjoining the Duke’s Park. She’s called “Wildfire” with the accent on the “Wild”. We’ve tried to use her here on our escorted rides but she’s awkward and difficult to control. I think she’s just stupid and lazy.’
‘Is she rideable?’ I asked tentatively.
‘We’ve tried her a few times but she’s too much for our novices,’ declared Vera. ‘She wouldn’t fit in here.’
In her eyes, it seemed that Wildfire was unfit-for-purpose and this explained why the multicoloured horse was in solitary confinement in the far paddock. I stumbled and limped my way up to Wildfire’s paddock to introduce myself. As I approached, she was busy grazing but lifted and shook her magnificent head, which was adorned by a long white mane that looked like silk as it billowed in the air. She observed me with careful scrutiny. We studied each other in silence for a while but I was at a loss for what to say. Eventually I ventured an opening: ‘You’re not stupid, are you?’
Upon hearing my voice she nodded her head and gave a soft, throaty whinny. I think we both sensed a coming together of soulmates.
Anthony, her owner, worked as a milkman as well as horse breeder and proved difficult to track down. He was something of an entrepreneur and had many jobs, sometimes working in the timber yards at the sawmill and at one time he owned a small fishing boat. A tall, well-built man, he could be very genial. Anthony, I gathered from people’s comments about him, had also experienced a difficult childhood since his parents were strict Plymouth Brethren. He had left home in his early teens and from then on had become estranged from his family. Eventually I managed to contact him and talked about Wildfire. The outcome of our discussion was that I could ride the horse whenever I had time enough. He appreciated that it would be good if the horse could get more regular exercise.
‘Get one of the stable girls to help you to harness and bridle her and there’s a saddle in the shed in the corner of the paddock,’ he said as he fished a grubby key out of his similarly grubby jeans. He handed the key to me. ‘She’s a fine horse but not easy to control. Don’t ever hit her. There are other ways to win her confidence and she’s been whipped too much in the past.’
And with that he was off – he had proved to be courteous but not a charmer, rather like his horse.
I went to see Wildfire as often as I could and regularly took her carrots and apples that the green grocers put out as waste in the lane behind the Co-operative store. I recall the day I first touched her. I wouldn’t call her a nervous horse – she was just wary. Whenever I got what she considered to be too close she moved away and faced me head-on; the look in her eyes was apprehensive and vigilant. This action brought to my mind Anthony’s comment, ‘Don’t ever hit her.’ Anthony had also mentioned that at an early age Wildfire had been trained as a steeplechase horse but that he knew nothing further. This gave me cause for concern because I’d once heard my Uncle Chris, one of my father’s older brothers, say that when he’d been training as a stable lad some of the jockeys would give an obstinate and unresponsive horse a real ‘going over’, which entailed punching and slapping them. If this had happened to Wildfire then it would explain her awkward behaviour and her extreme wariness whenever people came too near to her. This horse had been badly hurt in the past and I gave a little shiver as I empathized with her.
Whenever I could steal the time away from homework and running errands I would go and talk to her when no one else was around. Horses are extremely sensitive animals; they are certainly not stupid. In the short time I had spent with Wildfire I had become impressed with her as a fine horse capable of much more than spending her time in lonely isolation. I determined that, at the weekend, I would saddle her up and ride her if I could.
That Friday heralded the beginning of the summer holidays. On Saturday morning I got up good and early. After making myself a hearty, uplifting mug of tea, mixed with local raw honey, and a jam sandwich I set off to keep an appointment with Wildfire. Arriving at her paddock I was astonished to find it strewn with clumps of soil, pieces of wood and stones. I discovered Wildfire standing behind the shed in which her tackle was stored. She was bleeding from several small gashes to her rump and flanks.
Just then Amanda, who co-owned the stables with Vera, arrived and parked her vehicle at the back of the stables. She looked over the fence and exclaimed, ‘So they’ve been at it again have they? Is she hurt?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Who are “they”?’
In the meantime, other members of the stables’ staff arrived and amongst the general natter and clatter my question seemed to have got lost, so I repeated it again. It was Vera who answered.
‘“They” refers to the rabble of youngsters who amuse themselves by hurling missiles, whatever they can find, at dumb animals.’
Then Vera began instructing another girl to phone the vet and the police, in that order.
‘It’s a good job we can lock the stables,’ somebody else said.
There was a general air of commotion around the place, which was quite unusual for the weekend. The horses needed watering and feeding, and there were several rides booked that morning. My plan of work with Wildfire obviously had to be aborted as my services were required elsewhere. As we all busied ourselves with the work that needed to be done, there was still much concern about what seemed to be the perennial problem of attacks on the animals that were left outside in fields with inadequate fencing. Horses in particular seemed to be most at risk from the thugs and there were examples of the most diabolical cruelty perpetrated against them.
It transpired that the injuries to Wildfire were only superficial, which did not rule out the emotional damage that had been done to a horse that had already suffered hardship. It was all very upsetting to contemplate and now extra care would have to be taken to defend the animals from such attacks in the future. Whatever the security measures, it seems that there are always people who are prepared to go to great lengths to inflict pain on defenceless animals. In any case, repair men were called in to make the fences higher and more impregnable, and life at the stables settled down once more.
As the holidays progressed, I had the time to really get to know and befriend Wildfire, whom I was still hoping to ride. The next time I went to the stables, I picked up a bridle, blanket and saddle and found her grazing in the top corner of her newly reinforced paddock. I put the riding gear down behind me to make sure that I didn’t alarm her. She saw me and, recognizing me as the boy with the carrots, she trotted over and whickered a hello. I have always, since I was a young child, believed that animals should be talked to, despite how odd this might seem to some people. The interesting outcome of this is that they appear to understand and respond to the attention they gain from such conversing. I started to chat to Wildfire.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about you and I’m so sorry about what happened to you the other night. We’re all going to s
ee that it doesn’t happen again. Anyway I didn’t like some of the things people have been saying about you, didn’t like them at all.’
Having eaten her way through a small pile of carrots I’d given her, Wildfire started nodding her head and making affectionate horse noises in her throat.
‘Well,’ I continued, looking straight at her, ‘I don’t think that you are stupid at all and further, I don’t think that you are obstinate and lazy and I’m going to give you the chance to get together with me to prove it.’
With that said I picked up the bridle from the ground where I’d placed it behind me. While offering her a small carrot near the tongue piece of the bridle, I fitted her with it, which she accepted quite placidly. For the present I let the reins dangle down and, picking up the blanket, I placed it over her back. She never really moved at this manoeuvre but simply readied her back by straightening up a little. I guessed she was already anticipating the saddle. Soon I was tightening her saddle strap, especially around her stomach. She tried to fool me, as horses do, by bloating her stomach out but she did not object when I pulled the strap secure. Looping the reins over her head I was now ready to mount her. Springing up into the saddle I felt comfortable and just right.
Wildfire turned her head to look at me as if to say, ‘Whenever you are ready.’
And with that we were off on a walking tour of the stables and the nearby training field. We made a couple of circuits and at one point she broke into something of a joyous canter. I headed back to the paddock, unsaddled her, gave her a rub down and some horse nuts, and, after much stroking and patting, told her several times that she was a good horse.
My ride on Wildfire had been noted by other workers at the stables. It wasn’t long before a number of the girls, who showed love for every single one of the horses, were anxious to try her out for a ride and were delighted with the outcome. Wildfire was becoming popular and I was given the credit for her rehabilitation. Fortunately for me, there were days when she was still all mine and we rode with the freedom that humans and horses have shared for thousands of years.
I felt especially privileged as a boy of fourteen years to have what amounted to virtually my own horse to ride. Throughout my childhood I had developed an attachment to the myths and legends of the Wild West. I was able to play out my fantasies of riding through the land of the pioneering cowboys whilst venturing alone along woodland trails and over patches of moorland. I would act the role of a lone cowboy searching the landscape for stray cattle and rustlers whilst ever watchful for Comanche war parties.
With mature hindsight I realized that my experiences at the stables, particularly with Wildfire, helped me to counterbalance the distress I was still suffering at home. She gave me the chance to give and receive an uncomplicated love, free from the restrictions that tainted my home life. Animals had become my surrogate family. The love which I had received from my dog Monty, from big Bruno and from Wildfire was an antidote to the poisonous feelings extended to me from my father. Their presence made my life more palatable and enabled me to lay the foundations of self esteem that I would need to carry me through life’s enigmas.
WILDFIRE
The summer of 1948, which followed one of the harshest winters, was not especially warm but I wanted to enjoy being outdoors to the full, and in early August I had a clever idea. First, I needed the permission of Anthony, which he readily gave, and then I needed the support of the stables management as they were the caretakers for Anthony’s horse, and they granted me permission, too. Now I felt that I could go ahead and consult my grandmother. I was over the moon when she proved most supportive as well, but she cautioned me against the risks involved.
The idea was this. I would go camping on horseback for a few days in the Derwent Valley and perhaps on the moors over towards Stanhope. I lost no time in planning this adventure. Using my earnings at the stables, I was able to buy a small RAF tent and some of the other things I needed for the trip from the Army and Navy Store in Newcastle. My friends at Axwell Park, most of whom were classmates of mine at the grammar school, were most enthusiastic about my proposed adventure. They promised to visit my camp to bring me supplies and perhaps join me for a night around the campfire. I may have been young, but I realized that the trip was unlikely to turn out as romantically as I had first envisaged. Nevertheless, this in no way reduced my determination to complete all the practical preparations and to have a jolly good time with Wildfire, my four-legged friend.
To my mind, the Derwent Valley was the best possible place for such an adventure. The name Derwent may derive from the Celtic and means River of Shining or the Smiling River – either definition seemed right to me as I had already spent many happy summer hours with my friends enjoying its waters. The old word ‘Derwentian’ provides another definition: the river abounding in oaks. In 1892, W. J. Palmer wrote that the valley was so densely wooded that a red squirrel could travel from Axwell Park to Shotley Bridge, ten to twelve miles distant, without once touching the ground. Although the mass of woodland had receded since Palmer’s day, the area was still extensively forested.
I had made a swift reconnaissance by bicycle of where to make my initial camp and decided on a strip of land that protruded out into the river and was backed by a sheer rockface. I gathered twigs and dried moss as kindling and called over to the stables to collect the horse nuts and grain to feed Wildfire, who would also be able to graze along the way. I had decided to start off on Monday to avoid meeting up with too many walkers and hikers who tended to use the area mostly at weekends.
On the Saturday before I was due to set off, Anthony made a surprise call at my grandmother’s house to advise me on how best to manage the horse when I was out trekking.
‘Don’t overdo the first day,’ he told me, ‘as both the horse and yourself will be extra tired the next day. And remember to stop and water the horse at least every hour.’
He gave me some salt pellets in case Wildfire sweated a lot and a horse blanket in case the nights were very damp and cold. Then, in another surprise, Anthony drove me to the stables and showed me how to hobble Wildfire so that she couldn’t wander off during the night. He also warned me to be on the lookout for horse thieves who might see an opportunity in spotting a boy alone camping with a horse. He armed me with a thick leather whip to ward off any troublesome people. He also lent me a pair of saddlebags and a cigarette lighter in case my matches couldn’t get a fire going. He advised me to stay within five miles of my first camp and to prevent Wildfire eating certain plants that would be poisonous to her. He also told me to ask permission before crossing private farmland. Finally, he gave me a piece of paper with his name, address and house telephone number on it in case I needed help.
I was extremely grateful for Anthony’s help and advice not least of all for allowing me to ride Wildfire. He reiterated that I had been doing him a favour by keeping his horse exercised and fit.
He gave me a huge departing grin and said, by way of goodbye, ‘Enjoy your trip because by the time you get back I may well have sold Wildfire.’
I cursed my luck – every time I managed to befriend an animal, I seemed destined to in some way lose it from my life shortly afterwards. This made me even more determined to make the most of my time with Wildfire, who had become quite bonded to me.
On Monday afternoon when I saddled Wildfire for our trip there was a small group gathered at the stables to see me off. It was most unexpected but then people can be amazingly thoughtful at times. There were small gifts of fancy buns and an apple pie, and several contributors, knowing my taste in food, had pitched in to give me a paper bag containing about a dozen little pork pies. The stables had already given me a pair of second-hand riding boots. I was very touched by their kindness but was so embarrassed that I hurried with my preparations to leave as soon as I could. I was not accustomed to receiving presents of any worth from my parents and the kindness of my stable mates made me further realize how odd my upbringing had been.
Anth
ony’s saddlebags proved a boon and I doubt whether I could have managed without them. I had also managed to borrow a slicker, a kind of raincoat that fits over both the rider and the saddle, and so I tied this at the back of the saddle along with a long bag containing my tent, a sleeping bag and one or two cooking utensils. The food was stored in the saddlebags. I had already tried out putting all this baggage on Wildfire and, sweet horse that she was, she did not seem to mind at all. Even so, I could tell that she suspected that something different was about to happen. Waving farewell raised a cheer from the assembled group and for the first time I began to have real forebodings about the wisdom of making this trip. But I was committed now and there was no turning back.
Avoiding the steep bank of the roadway, I headed down the hill towards the river by following bridal paths used by the riding school on its accompanied rides. Wildfire behaved impeccably and seemed to be glad to be enjoying the new vistas. The countryside looked fresh and green after the heavy rainfall of the previous night and the fragrance from the grasses and the trees was born aloft by the gentlest summer breeze. I may have been a young, would-be cowboy, but as I moved on horseback through the trees towards the river in the late afternoon sunlight I was given a true taste of vintage England. I rode Wildfire at a fast trot through the river shallows, over the exposed gravel spits and continued past my choice of campsite just to enjoy the ride amongst the broad-leafed trees in full blossom. We neither saw nor heard another soul, as if the whole world was ours alone to possess and cherish.
I returned to make camp in the protective shadow of the rockface. Having the river to the front and sides lent a reassuring sense of security to my location. I dug a hole in the dry gravel and placed kindling and wood at its base to make the fire. I then raked a deep channel towards the fire-pit to keep it fed with air and I arranged a tripod of thick branches, tied at the apex, over the fire, using it to hang a pot of water. Having closely studied Baden-Powell’s Scouting for Boys I felt equipped for every contingency. My father would not let me join the Scouts due to some alarms that had been made public regarding incidents of sexual abuse by some scoutmasters, but my Uncle John had given me the book as a guide to camping and survival living outdoors.
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