The great outdoors

HAMISH

Hamish is a gorgeous chestnut horse, of medium size and about sixteen years old, officially a Welsh Cob, he is not cob-like to look at, but really elegant. He has a flaxen mane and tail. On a superb day last spring, I went on Highdown Hill, near Worthing, with him. I remember how bright green the grass was then.

From Woodlands Stable we case down from the clump to a wierd and lovely tunnel under trees near to the reservoir. Out into the bright sunlight again, and toward the chalk pit on the south west side of the National Trust land. Several people we met admired Hamish and said so. Up another path toward the clump again at only a slow canter, to a ridge that is about half way up - and it was just above here that disaster nearly struck!

A small Jack Russell dog, wearing a leather coat came at us, snapping at Hamish's heels. He gave a mighty shy that nearly had me off, and I lost a stirrup. I should have had the sense to let myself fall onto the soft turf then, and have worried about catching Hamish later, but I hung on and tried to regain the stirrup and called to the dog owner's to summon his pet. He tried, but it took little notice of him and kept circling and coming back at us. Unfortunately, just then we were surrounded by a group of children walking across the hill. This was too much, and Hamish panicked. He set off down toward the famous Miller's Tomb, south east of us then, where Miller Olliver of Highdown lies buried.

Hamish is a wonderful jumper, and I had the horrifying fear that he would try to leap the high stone wall there. I would not have been with him that time, as I was barely hanging on, and had lost both stirrups by then. However, I "crossed the reins". You cross your hands to pull them tight across the back of the horse's neck, which should prevent him from getting his head down for a gallop. Thus I could keep him down to a canter that still threw me from side to side, and threatened any moment to have me off.

More perhaps by leaning than steering, I managed to get Hamish round the corner of the "fort", an ancient earthwork that crowns the hill. Just then four girls on other horses came out of Pot Lane, which leads north and down to the stable. Due to our speed, Hamish and myself flew wide and entered the lane on their wrong side, passing in the opposite direction, and still out of control. It was then, when I thought I was slowing him, and all might be well, that I finally could not hold on any longer and fell off...

I landed in mud and gravel, but did not feel the fall. Then, doubtless by accident, Hamish stepped on my hand! No bones were broken, but my little finger was split like a sausage. The four girls stopped to help, some dismounting and one found my stick about thirty yards away. This must have been where I abandoned hope, but plainly Hamish stopped the moment he knew that I was actally off. I picked myself up.

The girls wanted to try to catch Hamish, but I was against this, in case he ran away and had an accident. Strangely then, having stood patiently a few yards away, waiting for me to get on - if I felt up to it - he started walking away down the lane. I said either I would catch up with him, or he would go back to the stable. Then he went faster and faster and we last saw his ginger head bobbing above bushes in a bend in the lane. Apparently he galloped into the yard!

My hand was covered in blood, and my back with mud, and in the lane I soon met a lady who asked if it was my horse that had just gone by. Two stable girls came out to look for me, and when the blood was washed off it seemed that little harm was done. I lived to ride another day, and honestly believe that Hamish dashed back to get help for me.

by Richard Halfpenny

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