There is a sweet spot just under the forelock and between the ears where Billy loved to be scratched. When the kitchen light would go on just after the 6am alarm each morning, his head would pop over the stable door and he’d watch me as I put on the kettle and cut a carrot or apple or a heel of the loaf to bring out for him and his buddy AJ to munch on before their morning haylage.
After taking the treat from your hand, a scratch under the forelock and a pat of the neck was expected or you might get a derisory snort. There is no space for disinterest or preoccupation with a horse. They demand your time and attention and failure to give either usually results in an injury or a big bill - both for the owner.
No matter how low the mood or how challenging the day, when it came time for evening stabling and feeding, the routine and need for care and attention had the effect of calming any troubles and worries, even if only for those brief few moments.
In harder times, like after my mother died, I’d find myself gravitating to the stable with a glass of whiskey, just to have a chat. And if Billy had already bedded down for the night, he wasn’t averse to a cuddle in the straw.
Billy came into our lives when he was 14 years old. He was a 15.2hh Irish Cob, built like a tank with short, strong legs and muscular withers, which came from his Connemara Pony ancestors. His well-defined features with small ears, round eyes and an elongated head came from the Irish Draught horse side of the family. A workhorse.
Perhaps that’s why our uncle Patsy Devine, who grew up on a Donegal farm working horses all his childhood before emigrating to America, loved him so much. When he came home on his regular visits in his 70s, he’d swing the leg over the saddle and head off through the forest.
There’s an affinity with horses in Ireland that is nowhere near as prevalent in other countries. They’re just part of our DNA, whether that was Patsy ploughing a field, or racing and jumping and breeding the best in the world.
I grew up spending my summers with my mother’s twin sister, Marie Colgan, in Castlewellan. She and her husband Alphy always had horses. My first memory of being in the saddle was when Alphy saddled up a giant thoroughbred stallion racehorse called Drumkeeragh and walked him into the forest park, set me on his back, adjusted the stirrups and said: “Keep your heels and hands down and your head up. He knows where to stop.”
He then slapped the horse on the backside with a “hup, ye boy ye” and Drumkeeragh took off down the main avenue with nine-year-old Patricia clinging on for dear life. I was smitten.
Billy was just such a kind and beautiful soul, and so relaxed and relaxing. He loved gentle hacks in the forest. He loved the heel of a batch loaf. He loved the snow and would almost cry to be let out in it to make horsey snow angels
It took quite a few years before I was in a position to have the space to have a horse of my own. My first was an abandoned thoroughbred racehorse who’d been left in a friend’s field, severely malnourished and with other health issues. We got her back to full health and she was adopted by a much more experienced family.
Two more strays followed her. During the time she was with us came the call from a friend of a friend who knew I was looking for my perfect match. He said he had a horse in the riding school where he worked that was basically fed up with novice riders kicking him or hauling on his reins and was refusing to move when they brought him into the arena. Might I be interested in adopting?
There was no doubt the moment my daughter and I met Billy that he was coming home with us. He was just such a kind and beautiful soul and so relaxed and relaxing. He loved gentle hacks in the forest. He loved the heel of a batch loaf. He loved the snow and would almost cry to be let out in it to make horsey snow angels.
St Stephen’s Day was our day to disappear for hours through the trails and fields. When he had a stroke last week and we had to let him go, it was the hardest and yet easiest of decisions to make. In the 15 years he was in my life, he carried four generations of my family.
The farrier said a few years ago that his arthritis meant he shouldn’t carry anything heavier than a two-year-old on grass. So when my grandson turned two earlier this year, we saddled up Billy and took him on a lead rein around the field. An excited, giggling little boy and an old horse with his head high, delighted with himself being under saddle one more time. He was the best of the good boys.
