This series of stories will be titled ‘I’m surprised I turned out as well as I did, given my childhood…’ 3

My father used to work down the local mine and he’d tell me stories of his pit pony. There were two ponies, inseparable like brothers. Pip and Punch were their names.

Pit ponies were allowed up the pit once or maybe twice a year. Sometimes they had the summer off and I used to love going to visit them, just a short walk away from the pit rows where we lived. (Check out the map a little further down. The ponies were kept in a field between The Ridge and the next, untitled, road. The field ran alongside our route.)

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If I remember, (maybe I’m wrong on this… I was very young) Punch was a piebald and Pip was black.

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Punch was a bit of a rogue. He once backed up hard and fast, trapping a man between him and a trolley, breaking the man’s leg. As my father told the tale, it would appear that the man didn’t like horses and regularly abused the ponies. Seems like Punch had had enough and took his revenge. Punch got a bit of a reputation after that and only a select few men wanted to work with him

The ponies knew their way around underground – hardly surprising because that’s where they spent the vast majority of their lives. They usually had one handler and would sometimes be a little put-out if their routine changed (again, I could be mistaken, these are memories from a very long time ago).

It was a hard and harsh life for the pit ponies. No sunlight, no fresh grass, hard work day-in, day-out and only Christmas and sometimes summer to feel the fresh breeze on their faces.

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My grandad went to see the ponies once. He was no great animal lover I’m afraid. He tried his best to appear nonchalant while he was close to the ponies and he even got up the courage to lean against one.

Unfortunately, the pony sneezed and scared my grandad. He leaped out of his skin, almost. As a pure reaction, he grabbed a bucket of water and doused the pony. Poor pony!

Every Saturday, we’d walk up the hill to the next village where my mother’s mother lived. Because I was the eldest, I was expected to walk all the way up the hill. My little legs did not like it at all!

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I remember resenting my brother who was allowed to ride on the pram. He’d sit on a seat, much like this one:

One day, on the way home, I was complaining so much that my mother caught a frog and put it in a matchbox for me, in an attempt to stop the complaining. It got away a few times because I kept looking at it. She had to keep catching it and it must have extended our journey home by a good half-an-hour.

“It got away again!” I shouted and she caught it, put it back in the matchbox and told me not to open it again until we got home.

When I finally opened the matchbox, there were two little frogs inside it.

Well, they all look alike, don’t they?

*Pictures from Pixabay or Google Images unless stated.