Benney Makes a New Friend

This morning a misty drizzle was blowing across the New Forest. It never seemed to land anywhere as it swept relentlessly and horizontally across the countryside.

Not a morning for fair weather riders.

Gail was fresh back from a recent riding holiday in Spain with her husband Angus and two other ladies from the yard. There she rode a six year old Andalusian Breton cross that she had bonded with instantly as the trekked along the narrowest and steepest of paths in central Spain. In some ways this mare reminded her of Benney. Young, enthusiastic, characterful, and a horse that needs to be kept engaged. And that is why Gail asked us if she could start riding Benney, whom she had only ridden in the arena several months ago.

Back then it was for just a few minutes in the school and not enough time to really get to know each other. Today was very different. From catching, bringing him in from the field. Grooming, tacking up, and then going out for a hack. A chance to really get to know each other, in the company of me riding Bryn, and hopefully bond.

Gail and Benney left the yard almost as strangers. His head was up, and his ears were pinned back. Gail kept chatting to him, urging him to relax and settle. Through the gate into the forest at Ak Ak Corner his head had dropped and the tension in his ears had gone. A friendship was beginning to blossom.

Once out of the shelter of the woods we were on the sandy track which had been softened by the relentless rain. Past Stag Gully, Dead Tree Gully and other gullies yet to be named.

In every herd of horses there is a “watcher." The one who looks out for the dangers. The one who is always alert who is conscious there might be a predator lurking in the ferns or behind trees. We have decided that Bryn is the “watcher” whenever he is out with Benney. His ears are slightly forward but react independently when I speak to him. His eyes are bright, and from the saddle you can see he is scanning the landscape. While he is carrying out his duties, Benney goes into what we call “Benney Land." His head is so low his muzzle is only one or two inches from the ground, as he impersonates a bloodhound while he listens to the riders voice and responds to aids other than hands.

Even when gusts of that misty drizzle blustered down the hills on our left or from behind us Benney plodded on with his head down.

This equine teamwork was going well until about one hundred metres before the Turning Trees. We could both see a pile of fresh white silver birch logs that had been piled up on Benney’s side of the path. Bryn saw them about the same time as both of us. Benney was the last to see them when he was beside them. This made him jink sharply to his right, body slamming Bryn. If they could talk, the conversation might have been something along these lines:

“Careful Benney. Why’d you do that?” Bryn asked.

“Didn’t see those white branches until I was on top of them. You know, you’re meant to be watching out for things like that and giving me a bit of a heads up. Scared the wits out of me,” Benney replied.

“I saw them ages ago Benney. They’re only dead branches you big whooose,” said Bryn.

Through the Turning Trees, which is a group of a dozen pine trees marking where four paths meet, and to the left is a steep hill up to the open heathland between Lion King Trees and Newlands Enclosure. To the right is a path down to Dockens Water. And ahead was the route we chose heading towards the Red Shoot Inn. That destination can wait for another day.

Between the Turning Trees and Lion King Gully, four New Forest ponies suddenly came over the ridge trotting towards us. As they were up the slope from us they looked big and majestic with their flowing manes and free movement. Bryn and Benney must have heard them coming before we did, as they barely reacted when they came trotting into view. And neither Gail or myself reacted very much, which helped our two keep calm.

After the fleeting encounter with the wild ponies, Bryn had his one and only “startling” moment. To the right of the path is a log. It is about two meters long and a metre in diameter. Despite its arboreal qualities, Bryn still looked on this singular log as a potential predator and gently shied away from it taking me off the path into the heather and bracken overlooking the fact that there could have been even more dangerous predators lurking in the undergrowth.

“Who’s being a whooose now?” is what Benney would be saying.

Lion King Gully invited us with its gentle half mile uphill pull ending in a sweeping right hand bend taking us directly to Lion King Trees.

We declined the invitation and rode on to where the hills on our left ended at Bench Point. The route up the side of this hill is straight and covered in loose gravel. Not one for trotting or cantering up, so we let our horses pick their own route, allowing their instincts to takeover.

From the top of Bench Hill, where there is a simple bench, we headed north back towards Lion King Trees directly into wind, mist, and drizzle. Neither of the horses changed pace, even though they knew we were homeward bound. Coming towards us on the path was a family of four—that is, three people and a dog bouncing on the end of its lead like a kite in a high wind.

From between Lion King Trees and the white trigonometry marker, we could see Somerley House nestling in the woods of Ringwood Forest, a faint outline of the high-rise buildings in Bournemouth, and beyond the even fainter grey outline of the Purbeck Hills. Probably one of the best views from the forest?

Just beyond Lion King Trees, a lurcher type dog came bounding up from Lion King Gully. Both horses saw it, and so did we but it was not a problem as it only came within 20 yards of us before a breathless owner reached the top of the gully and called it back.

The path between Lion King Trees and Newlands Enclosure was strewn with puddles, some small while others were long and covered the width of the path. Bryn would avoid going through them whenever he could. No amount of leg yield would get him to enter the water. To him there was quite obviously hidden depths to these waters or some carnivorous predator, and as he is the “watcher”—he had to look out for Benney.

Benney, however, was happy splashing through them like a child in Wellington boots and oblivious to any perceived dangers, even stopping in the middle of one to kick the water with his front feet, have a short drink and then look like he was ready to have a good roll, but he didn’t. All Gail could do was tell him what a good boy he was and how she had never seen a horse so keen on water. Bryn looked on as an elder brother would on to a playful and slightly annoying sibling.

Newlands Enclosure provided some protection from the continuing wind and drizzle. We chose the path to our left which took us down past Spooky Pond and to the gate at Ak Ak Corner. From there it was just a few hundred meters back on to the main yard, where there was a breakfast for the horses and hot coffee for us.

All back, a bit wet and a bit cold—but neither of those matter when you get back in one and happy.

In the stalls where we were untacking the horses you could see the bond that had grown between Gail and Benney. He muzzled into her lapping up the cuddles and savouring every mint he got from her sealing the bond between them; that is until the mints run out.

We rugged them and walked them along the lane to their paddock. Both were tired and ambled along. Even Bryn had surrendered his role of “watcher.” At the gate there were more mints and cuddles and then the final parting of the day. We walked away and they waited at the gate. They watched us until we disappeared from their sight. Our last sight of them was both of them galloping the length of the paddock to join their herd for the night.

“How was he in the end?” I asked.

“As good as gold,” was Gail's emphatic reply.