This series of stories will be titled 'I'm surprised I turned out as well as I did, given my childhood ...' 25

You’ve probably got that I loved ponies as a child. I did… I still do like them but back then, the passion was all-encompassing – I would do just about anything to get close to the beautiful creatures.

I lived on Charnwood Cres on the map and every day, rain or shine, I made my way to the arrow on the pic. That’s the field where the ponies lived. The arrow is the gap in the hedge where they would wait for me.

Early in the morning I’d run across the fields, not worrying about footpaths or stiles where I was supposed to go. I made a bee-line straight from one point to the next. I didn’t take Bruce because I didn’t want them chasing him.

All summer, I went to see those ponies. I continued to visit through term-time into the autumn and winter. I made friends with them and they whickered (you know, that wonderful sound a horse makes in greeting).

The herd was a miss-matched lot and I didn’t find out their names for a long time.

The biggest pony was ‘Nibbler’, a chestnut and white pony. I don’t know how high he stood but his back was probably about my chin-height.

He was the first to come to me. I sat waiting on the other side of the fence for days before the ponies started to come.

In the beginning, I was wary of them. I didn’t know the ponies; I’d only seen them as we walked across the fields when we visited my mother’s mother. That’s when I first saw them, and that was when I decided to visit every single day.

Of course, the ponies couldn’t have been dangerous. The farmer wouldn’t have put them in a field where there was a public footpath if they were dangerous.

I got to know the ponies and eventually, I plucked up the courage to actually ride one or two.

Nibbler, as I said, was the biggest and he trusted me the most too. I took my time and made sure he was comfortable with me close to him. We’d stand together, his head over my shoulder and I’d just talk to him.

I’d lean against him and he’d try leaning against me, but he’d end up shoving me.

Eventually, I lay across his back and he allowed me to stay there for a little while. As soon as he moved or tensed up, I slipped off and spoke quietly to him. I can’t remember ever being anything but calm while I was around the animals and back then, that in itself was a massive accomplishment.

Finally, I sat on Nibbler’s back and he seemed happy enough to let me sit there, talking to him.

The other pony that would let me sit on her was a little fat pony, a dark-beige colour, with dark mane and tail.

One day, when I went to see the ponies, the farmer was in the middle of the field and the ponies weren’t at the usual place where they waited for me.

I was a precocious kid and I went to talk to the farmer about his ponies.

“Oh you’ve got to be careful around these animals,” he said.

“They’re wild. We got them because no one else wanted them. They’ve never been broken, they don’t come to people as a rule.”

“That one’s ‘Nibbler’,” he said, pointing to the biggest one (so now I had a name for the ponies). “And that one’s Lady Jane.” He pointed out the little fat pony.

“Be careful of her, though, she’s a handful. If she’s in a mood, she’ll kick and bite.”

Oops! I’d been riding wild ponies… and Lady Jane had never tried to kick or bite me.

On very rare occasions, other kids would come with me to the ponies. I remember three of us girls sitting at the gap in the hedge. The ponies didn’t always come when others were there. Cathy wanted to see the ponies and our other friend wasn’t bothered either way. She didn’t like them and wouldn’t have gone into the field, which was why we sat on the other side of the fence.

Cathy got up and went off a little way. She came back with a stick in her hand. Balancing on the other end of the stick was a sloppy glob of cow shit – almost liquid, green and very smelly.

She waved the stick at us and the cow shit flew off the stick and landed on our other friend.

The friend went MAD! She was usually a quiet kid, but that cow shit landing on her just flicked a switch and she became psycho.

She chased Cathy and for a change, Cathy ran. She’d usually stand and fight but this time, she had the chance to run away, laughing and that’s what she did.

Cathy dropped the shitty stick and ran like the clappers.

Our friend picked up the stick, and waving it before her as she ran, she tried to pay Cathy back for the shitty mess on her clothes.

Cathy ducked low to scramble under barbed wire strung across the field to keep the cows from one half, but she stood up too early.

I remember the scream as she stood up. Her back arched and she stopped dead in an attempt to minimise the damage.

Cathy had got caught by one barb on the fencing. Her forward momentum as she stood up had not only forced the barb into her skin, but it had ripped through as she moved.

The damage limitation that instinctively kicked in and made her stop had prevented further damage, but as it was, the shitty stick was dropped and forgotten and we ran to our friend’s aid.

I managed to get the barbed wire from her t-shirt because it had ripped the fabric and was still too close to her skin. We looked at the cut and Cathy said, “I’m ok, it doesn’t hurt, I must have just scratched myself.”

Yeah, she’d scratched herself all right.

Our other friend and I looked at each other and decided not to say anything apart from, “Yeah, but let’s get you home anyway…”

Part-way across the last field (the one closest to my house), Cathy said it had started stinging. She put her fingers to the wound and they came back covered in blood. That’s when I knew the decision to not tell her how bad she’d been cut was a good idea.

We had to help her back home (not too far) where her mum cleaned her up and sorted out the wound. Fortunately she didn’t need stitches, but she did need a tetanus shot.

Cathy didn’t come to the ponies again, and neither did our other friend.

Pictures from Google Images

(So sorry... I keep forgetting to include that)