RIP Horse & Hound

Even as I sit here writing this on my weathered laptop, the screen still possesses remnants of chaff and sugar beet; a 'gift' from Dyagilev as I sat on his stable floor catching up on work that was really more suited to an office environment, or at the very least, a desk. His way of checking up on me - his human - was to swing his big beautiful head over to where I was seated on the cold concrete every few mouthfuls, and playfully nudge my screen, prompting a playful reprimand and a kiss to his soft muzzle. I am smiling as I try to scrape the dried feed from my keyboard; he truly has weaved his way into every possible inch of my life....and I owe it all to one very special woman.

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It was very apparent that my love for horses was inherited; it coursed through my veins and infected every inch of my being from a very young age.

Horses had been in our family for generations, but always skipped a sibling; my mother had not adopted the special equestrian gene, but my Aunty had. My sister was the furthest from an equestrian you could possible envisage, but I; at 2 years old, had sat on a horse for the first time; cementing what would become the greatest love affair.

But it was my grandmother who had identified my affinity at a very early age, and it became her life's purpose to pass down all of her knowledge, experience and wisdom to me; her now (although never admitted) favorite grandchild.

My Mother - then newly divorced from my Father, and desperate for a reprieve from her two children who were permanently at war with one another - would ship me off to my Grandmothers at every possible opportunity. But I didn't care; going to Granny's meant exposure to horses, and if I was lucky enough, a ride on the neighbors little Welsh Section C named Minstrel.

Those Summers spent on my Grandparents farm were the happiest times of my short life. If I wasn't out in the pastures making daisy chains whilst watching the horses graze nearby, I would be in the hay barn, making plaits and wisps out of hay and straw. Ill never forget my Grandmother finding me napping, enveloped in hay having made a temporary 'nest' for myself and scolding me with "Toria! How would you like it if the horses took a nap in your supper?!" A reprimand that has stayed with me for over 30 years , and I can still hear when I concentrate hard enough.

Her tack room was also a favorite place to sneak off to with my most recent issue of Pony Club magazine; an excerpt from the much coveted Horse & Hound magazine that my Grandmother kept in chronological order in her study. The smell of the leather and feed was intoxicating, and I would drink it in with every breath. If I was lucky, my Grandmother would have left sugar lumps on the counter that I could steal one or two of to gift the horses when she wasn't looking. If no treats were left within easy reach (and I had neglected to pocket any sugar lumps at breakfast time) I could always sneak off to the vegetable garden and pull up a carrot or two; being careful to replace the earth so I wouldn't be found out.

Despite spending time on a farm, where you would imagine a child would never be without some form of stimulation or activity, there were periods during the day where I would find myself unsupervised and without a purpose.

One such day, I found myself in my Grandparents study (usually forbidden territory), fingering through the dozens of Horse and Hound magazines; staring with wide, glazed eyes at the horses and riders that I grew to idolize and would eventually plaster my bedroom walls with.

It was too much of a temptation, and even now, I have no regrets; despite the (mild - no supper) punishment the ensued.

My Grandmother was a seasoned seamstress, and lying not far from her antique Singer sewing machine, was a pair of dressmakers scissors. My little hands were barely big enough to be able to operate them, but I had remarkable patience at such a young age, and whilst my Grandparents took their daily afternoon nap, I set about creating a masterpiece that would be the foundation of my great equestrian journey.

"TORIA!"

The shrill address interrupted my 'tongue out the side of my mouth' concentration as I carefully navigated the scissors around the outline of Milton; the horse made famous by the Whittaker brothers.

I sat stock still whilst my grandmother surveyed the damage; scissors still poised mid snip around Milton's left ear.

I was surrounded by a graveyard of discarded magazine cuttings, torn pages, and completely irreparable special editions.

But in the midst of the carnage, there on the study desk, was my masterpiece; a collage of the most famous horses and their riders to ever grace the equestrian industry, crudely stuck together with sellotape and bottomless adoration.

Years later, I still believe that even as my Grandmother spun on her heel to head to the kitchen no doubt for a sherry and Silk Cut, there was the feintest of smiles on her face.

I may have defaced her collection of irreplaceable magazines, but she knew she had a protégé in me; one that she would nurture and shape to be the horsewoman I am today.

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I am now 37, and almost a decade has passed since my Grandmother left us. How I miss her. A life devoted to horses is never an easy one, and progress is never, ever linear. You never ever stop learning, and on so many occasions I speak to her out loud; as though she was sitting across the kitchen table from me, tutting at my shirt not being buttoned high enough.

My passion has taken me on so many adventures, and my love for horses has only grown with age. Had it not have been for my Grandmothers tutorage and guidance, I would not have had the courage or resolve to pursue my happiness.

I sign off writing this, once again on the stable floor of my beloved Dyagilev. Despite the discomfort of my seat, it is my new favorite place to harness my thoughts. He drifts over; seemingly interested as to why salt water appears to stream down my face. He nudges me; a token of comfort and affection. As I raise my hand to stroke the delicate area between his eyes, my gaze wanders over to the wall on the opposing side of the barn, where there - framed and sealed some 30 years ago, and surrounded by a mosaic of red and blue rosettes, medals and sashes - hangs my collage. My childhood masterpiece. The collective image I 'pray' to and a daily reminder to always pursue your passions and dreams; no matter how out of reach or impossible they may seem at the time.