Heroes and Good Hands
It must be the weather or the dark evenings but for sure I'm full of nostalgia. Sitting in front of the fire not doing much but cleaning tack or polishing boots as that's as exciting as my social life gets these days, the flicker of the fire does move me to a sort of meditative state, throwbacks to time past. It's excuse but a glad one to hesitate for a moment looking at a post that popped up on my YouTube feed of a grey show jumper. It's not often a show jumper will grab my attention but this one for me is special. Theres lots of famous grey horses but this one (named Spring Elegance) has a special place because of it's rider, Francis Connors.
Francis was and still is an important part of the showjumping scene in Ireland but when I was a teenager and first got the chance to go to horse shows Francis was always the rider to watch. His horses were consistently soft, round and relaxed. Hanging out at grass arenas eagerly observing, big eyed and in awe. I hung around till every horse-box had left and the last moment of wonderment could be soaked up. These shows were where I bought my first body brush, my first hoof pick, bright red and enticing, almost willing a pony into existence.
Not many years later my father, a talented carpenter and furniture maker was working at a house that kept horses and wrangled for me to come and ride. I was so earnest, so serious. Not much has changed on that front. I remember what felt like the longest walk from the house to the stables, arriving amongst what looked like the most beautiful horses I had ever seen. Leaning over tapered walls to greet me with gentle snorts. to stay in that moment would have been heaven. I don't remember much about saddling up and getting on board but I can still feel the amazement of riding a beautiful white pony with a wonderful young woman instructing. It was so well schooled and I don't think I did much but dance around the field as a happy passenger. I might have even jumped, before I knew better. In my state of delirious delight I bumped into a grey haired man on my way back to my father. He spoke so kindly to me, I was so painfully shy so I'm sure I muttered something incomprehensible, (the shyness is less now but not the muttering.)
What I do recall is him saying I had nice hands and a natural seat. That lifted my heart, I hadn't yet been to any shows, won any prizes and none of that seemed to matter. I felt like a real rider. I couldn't wait to tell my weekly instructor and we giggled when she said, "did you tell him, there's nothing natural about it, that's years of riding without stirrups." We both dined out on those comments for such a long time. That kind man was Francis Connors father Nick. My heroes father told me I had a natural seat, maybe everything was going to be okay.
It's somewhat silly but all these years later I caution myself, prove him right, forget about the show, forget about the test. Have good hands and a correct seat. Be better, always strive to do better. People say dance like there's no one watching but I try dance like my heroes dad is watching and I'm forever grateful to my non horse father for finding a way to indulge his horse mad youngest son.
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