When I was 5 and I completed a course of swimming lessons, my parents made a fatal mistake of asking what hobby I would like to pursue next.
Horses. My dad wasn't keen. Too expensive, too dangerous, the riding school was too far away. But my mum agreed. She found a riding school which was cheaper; it wasn't accredited and after learning how to rise to the trot in a field, you were let loose out hacking, progressively put on ponies trickier and trickier.
I ended up spending seven happy years there. Saturdays became Riding School day where my sister and I were turfed out the car at 8am and picked up again at 5.30pm. We poo picked and mucked out and hayed and fed and rode ponies bareback down to the fields.
Then my sister bought a horse, and my mum decided to get me a pony; Willow, on loan. My mum was terrified of horses. She could just about (and not without shaking) hold the end of a leadrope whilst my gentle pony nibbled on some grass. The moment I set foot in the show ring I caught the bug, and instantly our lives transformed.
We started competing every weekend. If I hadn't arranged something, my mum would ask where we were going. I simply left entry forms on the kitchen table with a postcode, and each Sunday my mum would pack the car and off we went.
I had horrendous nerves. I used to stress, snap and bitch most of the time before entering the ring and if it went wrong; woe betide anyone who crossed my path. I grew up (in time!) with more patience and my mum learnt that if I bit her head off within 15 minutes of warming up not to take it personally.
When Willow went lame, she happily bought me another pony. When that pony had problems, she threw time and money into it, determined to find out what was wrong. When I planned to go to university, she was more devastated at the loss of competitions than at me moving five hours away.
When I decided to get a horse on loan that summer to compete before I moved, she was thrilled to once again take on the role of driver, supporter, biscuit feeder, cameraman and financer. When I decided to not go to university and pursue horses instead, she couldn't of been happier for me.
When I moved to work on a professional yard, she thought nothing of driving the lorry an hour to that yard the night before an event, treat us to a takeaway, camp in the lorry then get up at the crack of dawn to take me to an event.
An event 200 miles away? No problem. A £500 entry for a three day I had no hope of winning? No problem. Camping in the lorry in sub zero temperatures the first weekend of March? No problem. Twelve hours in the pouring rain and howling wind for a 3 minute cross country round? No problem. The horse needed physio/chiro/new saddle/vet treatment/more equipment (delete as applicable). No problem.
Nothing was too much effort or too expensive when it came to horses and my dreams. She spent hours preparing for events, helping me jump the horses, and gradually even plucked up the courage for the odd ride.
When I fell off, she kept her distance until I wasn't angry at myself anymore, then smiled and said nevermind and feed me cookies. When I won, she would embarrass me by cheering. If I wanted to buy a professional photo, she would get carried away and buy three.
It was a way of life for her, and one she wouldn't swap for the world.
In the middle of August 2014, she was diagnosed with aggressive lung cancer. On the 21st October, my amazing mum passed away.
It's been a tough time. I had to have my two retired ponies put to sleep as financially and timewise I couldn't cope. We've picked up the pieces, and both horses are on great form, and Squirrel is entered for Aston-le-Walls on the 7th March.
I will update on our comings and goings soon, but this is a well deserved tribute to the most amazing groom, chauffer, financer, photographer and supporter any young rider could wish to have.
Thank you mum, thanks for everything.
