My husband is really into horses.
Ok, let’s rephrase that. My husband is really into horse racing.
As for me, I
prefer the corporate hospitality side of things, and will happily scoff
champers and canapés if I get a chance.
If asked - who do you think will win the Derby, my
standard answer is usually -
A horse.
If really pressed –
A brown one.
Husband is part of a syndicate which means he owns a
small bit of a race horse, a hoof or something. So when he asked me -
Fancy
seeing the stud?
I replied,
What,
that old film with Joan Collins cavorting on a flowery swing?
Well,
there will be a riding crop or two and lots of sex involved. Horsey sex. I’m
talking about a stud farm – when you can see the baby horses.
Hmm.
I like baby animals. Is it far and do I have to dress up?
No.
It’s in Oxford and you can wear wellies.
So off we went.
It was quite a gathering of other syndicate members,
mostly middle – aged, retired people, some with walking sticks and portable
tripod chairs. We didn’t know anyone and as they chatted about Belle, Marsha, and Lexi I soon
realised they weren’t discussing unfortunately- named relatives, but the horses
themselves. They certainly knew their stuff. I didn’t have a clue.
We weren’t exactly a sprightly lot, unlike the
thoroughbreds we were about to see. Stars of the equine world, not to be
touched, fed or flash photographed by the common crowd.
The urbane, slightly balding manager of the stud
gave an interesting talk as the yearlings were being paraded in front of us. He reminded me of someone, an entertainer from
years past. He went through the horsey
equivalent of
Burke's Peerage. How he remembered all
those names, who gave birth to who and which races they won was quite amazing. No illegitimate issue here either, these horses
are definitely not allowed a bit on the side.
I learnt a lot.
Apparently Cotswold grass, with its
underlying limestone, feeds and produces the best racehorses. Bit like chalky
soil for the best champagne growing I suppose. The bluegrass region of Kentucky
has the same minerality. If you’re
stupid enough to start a stud farm in Kentucky on the one narrow belt of land
without the limestone soil, then you’re a sucker, pal.
And then there were all those euphemisms
for bonking. As a horse, one is covered
by another horse and if one takes to the cover, bingo, one is in foal! A racing stallion put out to stud can expect
to service 80 mares per season. Attaboy!
And, depending on the potential winning
offspring, at up to £250,000 a pop! No foal, no fee, so if he misses, the mare
has another go!
Gives a whole new meaning to being
shagged out.
Brexit was mentioned, if we left
they’d have to have loads of paperwork to transport horses between countries
etc etc. We’d been standing for a while.
I was contemplating nobbling the
pensioner next to me and nicking his tripod chair when suddenly the speaker
mentioned WORMS.
He had my attention.
The onlookers nodded sagely as I
listened aghast to tales of exorbitant vets’ fees, how often the horses are
wormed and how they sometimes put sheep in the pasture to, wait for it, eat the
horses’ worms excreted on the grass. Yuck, yuck, yuck. What about the poor
sheep?
Any questions?
I had plenty of inane ones but
after one stern glare from husband I decided to keep quiet. Then we were off to
another part of the farm to look at the mares and their darling foals. We walked,
but the older and infirm were hauled away in a long hay-lined cart pulled by a
tractor. As they passed, unbidden, and unwelcome, scenes from Schindler’s List
came to mind.
And now it was the beauty pageant
for the mares and foals.
The little ones were wonderful to behold, some more
high-spirited than others, their characters coming through even at an early
age. The speaker’s comments on the mares
were highly personal, and for the horses, if they’d understood, highly offensive.
And then I remembered who he reminded me
of – Bob Hope in the Miss World contest which he, on stage, referred to as this
cattle-market! I looked around, half expecting a rep from the Mares’ Liberation
Front to start chucking bags of flour around.
Goes over a bit on the knee, toeing
out a bit, needs a minor op to improve her forelimb conformation, she threw a splay- legged foal, had a fistula after her birthing, showing her
age, we’ll put her out to pasture... Affinity has had five foals on the bounce
and may be ready for a rest.
Ready for a rest? I bet she is poor
cow!
What if the mare doesn’t fancy the stallion
she’s been sent to? Is there such a
thing as equine rape? I read in the pamphlet - “She had already been covered
three times by Zoffany ..didn’t get in foal.. we felt that maybe a change of
stallion might suit her... she had a double ovulation.” Double ovulation?
That’s never happened to me!
So there we were looking at the
horses, looking at us.
Amongst the human herd was a fair sprinkling of
very powerful hind quarters, barrel chests, wobbly hocks, ribcages which
widened towards the flank, knock knees, or, termed correctly, knees with medial
carpal deviations. The females were mostly well past their breeding best.
Somebody mentioned inbreeding in
Kentucky.
What? Were we on politics again?
Didn’t’ Trump win that Primary? No, how
foolish of me, they were talking about horses of course, and in particular the over
breeding from Northern Dancer, a Canadian
thoroughbred that won many races and became the most successful sire of the 20th
century.
It was time to go. The tractor and cart with its human truckload
passed by as we walked along a paddock . Two mares looked up.
So one mare says to the other:-
Well, we’re better looking than
that lot!
Yep, they must be off to the
knackers’ yard.
And there you have it, I swear.
Straight from the horse’s mouth.
