I miss being around horses.

The smell of them. Their amazing gentle natures.

There is something about them, about them and ME, that goes way back.

It is something which trickles through my veins, and back through generations of my family (though bizarrely skipped my parents) to a time when people and horses lived together in much closer company than now.

It goes beyond way beyond just this lifetime.

I can feel that when I’m around them.

Even now that I’m no longer riding everyday, I miss them. It’s like a piece of me is missing.

The difficulty with this is that there is no such thing as half-way with horses.  You’re either ALL in, or it’s not worth it.

For me that means that I can’t simply go and take a riding lesson now and then to scratch the itch.

I have to have a relationship with the horse, know that he’s a ‘morning’ horse, or that he likes afternoon naps, and gentle walks in light drizzle.

That he’s terrified of crossing the tiniest of streams, but will tackle a water jump twice the size of me.

That he’s ticklish on his tummy, but loves neck rubs and a good long uphill gallop.

I miss Jimmy.

He who used to regularly break out of his stable, and come and scare the crap out of me by sticking his head in the kitchen window.

The down side, of course are the inevitable vets bills (routine flu shots/AHS shots etc), the stabling costs, the endless need (desire) for the cutest, snuggest, sassiest equestrian apparel.

Because there was always something new to get.

Leather oil to top up.

Imported German saddle balsam (which now my Blundstones get treated to, while I OD on the awesome smell of beeswax, leather, luxury, money and memory).

Lincoln Leg Cooling Gel to apply after a hard ride.

The cutest bling diamante encrusted browbands to put on your MALE horse. Because as if being castrated weren’t enough, you have to really go all Priscilla on him, and put him in matching medicine boots and saddle cloth.

Don’t get me wrong, I love all of it.

I had all of my horses blankets, saddle cloths and other stuff colour coded, and embroidered with his fancy name, back from his days a successful racehorse.

Royal blue, with yellow trim were our colours.

Yeah. I miss Jimmy. A lot.

Jimboy, there’s a new fella in your name of the woods, he’s called Patrick Swayze. He was a pretty good dancer in his time. Maybe you could take him for a walk in your green meadow and tell him I say hi. He seemed like a kind soul.

Just like you.

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