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Blinkered

  • Neil Brosnan
  • 12 minutes ago
  • 8 min read

by Neil Brosnan



Life has been good to me; I could name many less fortunate, starting with my own mother. It was she who’d had to work while carrying us all. She bore at least three before me, and two after – that I know of – and not one father to be seen between us. Yes, my mother had been through it all. But on that last day when we had to say goodbye, even though I knew that she’d seen it all before, I still thought that my leaving might be different. I hadn’t really known the older ones; except for poor Clyde, my nearest elder sibling, who had died right there before my eyes… on his very first day helping my mother plough the beet field.


When the strangers came into the yard, I felt my mother’s quiver of anticipation. They called to her; they cooed and clicked to her; they caressed and prodded her gleaming chestnut coat—sometimes in the wrong places. They made her parade up and down the passage and studied her every joint, sinew and tendon. Then it was my turn to go through the routine. I could see the pride in her moist eyes; her noble head held high over the stable half-door, her pricked ears alert for their every comment.


I could sense her relief as the pick-up truck turned east, towards the flat fertile land, away from the tiny rocky fields from whence she had originally come. She knew the drudgery and hardship of life on the peninsula and, ever since, her only wish was that her offspring would be spared the trials of her youth.


I kept calling even after I could no longer hear her replies. I remembered how devastated she had been after the previous two had left; I knew she was still calling and that she would continue calling long after darkness on the following night.


She would have approved of my new home. It was a well-established farm with a great big old stone dwelling house and an array of neat outbuildings. The land stretched green and even on every side, criss-crossed by trimmed hawthorn hedges and dotted with shady oak trees. It was milking time, and a herd of about forty shorthorn cows waited patiently at the sturdy wooden gate to the left of the largest of the red-roofed cattle-stalls.


I heard them undo the tailboard of the pick-up, again quivering at the harsh see-saw rasping of the rusting iron bolts, and then braced myself for the impact of the lowering wooden ramp against stone. A moment later the boss’s son stroked my neck before gripping my head-collar and hooshing me backwards onto the cobbled yard. My unshod hooves landed with a series of hollow clacks against the hard surface. My instinct was to rear, to plunge, to kick, to break free but the boy’s gentle shushing made me want to respond to his every whim.


My arrival hadn’t gone unnoticed, I found myself being led towards the little gathering of people that had assembled outside the front door of the farmhouse. Sensing my renewed nervousness at the sight of more strangers, the boy coaxed me forward, using strange gentle words and repeating one in particular, Toby, I didn’t realise it then but this was to be my name for the rest of my time on the farm.


Although my stable was clean and comfortable, I slept very little on that first night. I missed the reassuring scent of my mother, I missed the familiar sounds of home: the rustling of mice in the loft above the stable, the distant bleating of a lamb separated from its mother, the incessant demands of voracious baby swallows in the beams above my head and, most of all, the contented chomping of hay by my siblings in the neighbouring stalls.


This place had different sounds; throughout the dark of the small hours I could hear the distant yelping of dogs above the breathless whooping love calls of rival bulls. Towards dawn, a rooster crowed, setting off a succession of strange shrill whimpers from across the yard. I knew that these came from horses, I could smell horses, but whenever I whinnied a greeting it invariably went unanswered.


It was only after a couple of hours of activity in the yard that a response eventually came. By now it had been bright for some time and I detected the metallic jingle of traces being undone. Suddenly, my door opened and the boss’s son slipped a lead rope onto my head collar. With his free hand patting my withers, he led me—prancing sideways—towards the dwelling house where the faces from yesterday had again assembled to assess me. The boss, I remembered from the previous day, the old woman sitting on a chair by the doorstep was his mother, while the younger woman was his wife and the mother of the boy. Still whispering soothingly, the boy eased me towards the old lady. I felt a trembling hand on my nose and heard the faltering words, ‘He’s a fine animal; may God bless him and keep him fit and strong.’ I would hear that blessing again but not for many a long year.


During the first week in my new home, the boy took total charge of my preparation for my working life. It was he who introduced me to bit and britchen, to rein and trace and to collar and hames. Once I’d been shod, we spent many hours tramping the country lanes, learning to trust each other in the presence of noisy fuming vehicles and yapping snapping dogs. By then, for a few hours each evening, I was allowed the freedom of the small paddock beside the yard, where I could run or roll or champ mouthfuls of sweet green grass.


Occasionally I caught glimpses of my fellow equines, they were a strange skinny skittish lot, far too haughty to bid me the time of day. As time went on, I realised that none of these creatures lasted more than a year or two on the farm. Each would arrive amid much excitement, in the pick-up that had brought me but, while a very rare one would depart in a fancy dome-roofed horsebox, it was a big green truck that ferried most of them from our yard.


Within a month of my arrival I was given the opportunity to display my versatility in the meadow. Whether mowing, turning, tossing or gathering, the boy and I continued to show both family and neighbours how it should be done. Once the hay was finally drawn home, it was time to start on the oats. This I found particularly rewarding: not only was I guaranteeing my own winter fodder but, whenever the boss was out of sight, the boy would hold a handful of fresh sweet grains to my muzzle.


Once the harvest was in, it was as if the world went into a snooze mode. The boy went back to his boarding school and I was turned loose with the cows to grow fat on the rich meadow after-grass. When the first frosts hit, the boss would stable me before nightfall, allowing me back into the pasture after morning milking.


One day, just before Christmas, I gave a neigh of delight at hearing the boy’s voice in the yard. Moments later, the voice called my name from outside my stable. I snorted my surprise when his head appeared above my half-door: how he had grown; he was no longer a boy; now he was a young man. I was maturing too: I could now sense the power in the hardening muscles that rippled beneath my heavy winter coat. It wasn’t long before my strength was put to the test: spring meant ploughing and though the work was hard, the opportunity to meet my colleagues from the neighbouring farms was ample compensation. Ploughing is all about teamwork and, as in any other walk of life; there were good team players and bad. I’ve been paired with many partners over the years and, while I can’t recall them all, there are a few that stand out for vastly different reasons.


Jet, my first partner was well named. He was a huge part-Clydesdale, with the bone and girth of his Scottish ancestors beneath an incongruously dark shiny coat. Ploughing with Jet was a real roller coaster: while there was no denying his willingness and strength, he was undeniably stupid and I would frequently find myself being dragged off-line while my ears burned to streams of human profanity. Equally memorable was Missy, a handsome chestnut mare who would try the patience of St. Francis himself. While Missy was as bright as Jet was dim, as a partner I found her worse than useless. Not pulling her weight was bad enough but her dexterity at biting and kicking would force me to concentrate on self-preservation rather than the task at hand on any given day.


Luckily for me, the boss—and later the young boss—would pair me with Dolly whenever possible. Dolly was a grey-roan mare with huge soup-plate hooves and mild trusting eyes; from the very moment we were yoked together, telepathy seemed to take over. While Dolly wasn’t the most powerful partner I’ve ever had, through her willingness, intelligence and dexterity, she made light of the most inhospitable of terrain and the most resisting of soil.


It wasn’t until I found myself paired with a raw young bay gelding from Dolly's lineage that I began to become aware of the passing of time. After the first year, it had seemed that life was measured by seasons; ploughing, scuffling, harrowing and sowing, followed by cutting, tossing, raking and drawing the hay before the reaping, binding and threshing of the corn. Unearthing potatoes was traditionally the last chore before the ploughing started all over again. Even the never-ending cycles of the land weren’t immune to the highs and lows of the farmhouse. The greatest sadness I experienced was when the old lady passed away between the twin joys of the young boss’s marriage and the birth of a son. Soon, the little boy was clambering onto my back as his father had done, and the old boss had become a rare sight around the farmyard. I was finding the pinch too: each ploughing seemed more difficult than the one before and the other tasks appeared to have merged into one long continuous grind.


It was after the threshing that the colt arrived. With mixed feelings I watched the boy lead him, prancing from the horsebox, to the door of the farmhouse, where the household awaited. The young boss helped his mother to her feet and steadied her while she ran her hands over the quarters of the newcomer. The familiar words sounded strange in her voice. ‘He’s a fine animal; may God bless him and keep him fit and strong.’ The colt whistled amiable response to my greeting as he was led past my stable towards the paddock. Suddenly my misgivings evaporated: the youngster seemed genuinely pleasant; I could visualise him taking the strain of the plough beside me while we swapped stories and I relayed to him the standards expected on our farm.


My thoughts glowing with future hope, my heart sank on seeing the tears in the young boss’s eyes as he opened my stable door. Wordlessly, he replaced my head collar with a rope hackamore and led me towards the big red lorry that had just entered the yard. I could smell horses; as I climbed the ramp, I could see horses. Then I heard her; even after all those years there was no mistaking my mother’s whinny. Even as the tailboard was secured, my heart continued to soar. I couldn’t see her, but she was there and, regardless of where this journey would end, I knew that we would soon be reunited, at last.

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