The Galway Connemara | The Autobiography of an Irish Connemara Pony. If horses could talk

Chapter 1

Istared out over the wild, rugged Atlantic coastline, the wind whipping my long, steel grey mane.  I could see the blackthorn trees sway in the gentle breeze in the field that sloped away from my own down to the shore.  The dancing waves were cast in pink hues as the dipping sun lapped lazily against the sand.  For me, Galway was the centre of the world. Or at least my world.  Behind me I heard a munching sound and turned to see Quinn making his way slowly up the hill towards me, snuffling at the lush summer grass as he went.

What are you looking at? he asked.

The most beautiful place I could ever see, I sighed contentedly.

It looks like sand to me, he replied.

I snorted a little at him.  I suppose it’s both, but to me, it is one of the most beautiful things I have seen.  Wild and free and home.

You were born near here, weren’t you? he asked coming to stand beside me.  In Galway I mean.

I was, I replied rather proudly.  Yes, indeed I was.

My first memory is of sweet-smelling dry grass.  It smells, I’m told, like fine tea, although I always think it smelled more like good hay.  Meadow hay, with no dust in it.  I remember lying in it, the grass feeling warm and dry under me as I dozed in the sunshine, my mother grazing at my side.

That’s my first real memory, but my mother told me that I was born in much different circumstances.  In fact I was born in one of the greatest storms she had ever witnessed.  Lightning lit the sky as I took my first breath and the only sound louder than the clashing thunder was the roaring sound of the waves, crashing on the shoreline below our paddock.

It’s no wonder then that I was named after a great warrior, the god of the sea and the dramatic weather I was born during.  My name is Oisin Lir’s Storm, or Lir for short and I am a pure bred Irish Connemara pony.

I spent my early days playing with the other foals, running around, bucking and playfully nipping at each other.  There were five of us; myself, Erin, Malley, Shem and Delaney.

Often one of us would lift our head for no reason and run, just for the fun of it, just to feel the wind rush past our ears and pull at our fluffy tails.  Then the rest of us would join in then and our mothers would sigh and trot after us, often complaining that we should slow down.

Sometimes we’d run for a good reason.  I remember once spying a flapping bag caught in the hedge, twirling in a gust of wind.  It sent my heart racing and I spun away from it, snorting and charging across the field as fast as I could, calling for the others to follow me away from the clear danger we were in.  I remember stopping at the furthest point of the field, making myself look as big as possible as I stood and snorted at the bag, my tail held high and quivering.

It’s only a bag, my mother reassured me when she nudged me with her soft muzzle.  Just some of the human’s rubbish caught in the wind.

I wasn’t convinced.  I watched that bag warily for hours as I nibbled at the grass, convinced it was going to try and eat one of us.

As we grew bigger we began to feel comfortable leaving our mother’s sides for longer and longer periods of time.  I explored the field and played with Erin, Malley, Shem and Delaney in the summer sunshine, always knowing I could run back to my mother if I felt worried or took one of my games too far.

I often found myself up on the ridge watching the sea and sand stretch out below me.  I wondered what the yellow soil would feel like under my hooves.  Would it be fun to canter on?  What would the waves feel like?  When it was hot and the sun was shining down, I’d dream of cooling off in the lapping waves and splashing in the water.

I didn’t really like the rain. Especially when it was cold and the wind was strong too.  During a storm we all huddled together by the blackthorn bushes with our haunches facing the wind and rain.

Every morning, Jack, the human who took care of us, would visit us to check our water was full and that we had enough grass.

One day later that summer, an older mare called Blackthorn Bay Fiona arrived into our field. She was a twenty year old, 14.2 hands in height and a full Connemara mare, who had delivered many prize-winning foals. She had grey hairs growing around her bay muzzle and a wise look in her eyes.  Soon she became known as just Nana, and Erin, Malley, Shem, Delaney and I loved her. She was kind to us all and she felt like a second mother.  A story teller, a teacher.  I often felt like there was nothing in the whole world Nana didn’t know.

The field we lived in was large and open, a gentle sloping carpet of lush, green grass.  From the top of the field, we could see the beach and the sea.  At the bottom, the blackthorn bushes and wild briars would shelter us from the wind and rain. It was a perfect home. Beside it was another slightly smaller field with the same little slope.  I never thought much of that field as we all ran around together, that was until we came to be weaned and separated from our mothers.

We noticed one morning that some white, furry animals had been put in the field next door.  They were small with fluffy bodies and black faces.  When we crept over to the fence to investigate them, they made an odd ‘BAA’ sound sending us scattering towards our mothers in fright.

What are they? I asked, hiding behind my mother.

Sheep, she explained.  They won’t hurt you. They’re there to stop the grass growing too tall.

Why? I asked, peeking around her legs at the white sheep.

Well, I expect they want to have less lush grass on the field before we are put in there.

We’re going in there? I asked, still watching the sheep warily.

Something like that, she said, nuzzling me.

Looking back, I think she knew what was coming, but she didn’t say anything then.  I had no idea that we were beginning the process of weaning, that we would be learning to leave our mothers. However that was what was happening.

Once every few days, Jack would bring me, my mother and some of the other mares and foals up to the yard. Jack put a headcollar on me and asked me to walk around beside him. It was confusing at the start, but after a few sessions, I started to figure it out. I could walk and stop, and turn left and right, echoing how Jack moved his feet. I could see Jack was proud of me. I was proud of myself too. I felt suddenly bigger and wiser, as if I was starting to understand the world.

One morning, we were taken back to our usual field, but instead of being turned loose together, my mother was put in the adjoining field.

At first, I panicked and called to her over the fence, but I quickly realised we could still touch noses over the fence and even groom each other.  Erin, Malley, Shem and Delaney were still in with me and thankfully so was Nana.  It seemed very strange, but I felt safe  at the same time.

That first night, I stuck close to the fence and to Nana.  She seemed to instinctively know I felt nervous and often gave me a reassuring nuzzle.

It’s not so bad, she said.  Your mother is just there.

I know, I replied with a sigh.

Did I ever tell you I knew your grandfather? Nana asked, suddenly changing the subject.

I looked at her with wide eyes.  No.

Oh, I did, he was the top Connemara show horse in Ireland; really handsome, kind, smart and brave.  Why, he won the 2004 All Ireland Championship in Dublin.

I stared at her.  Really?

Yes, really.  Do you know how I know all of that? she asked.  I shook my head.  Because we moved to a new field beside our mothers on the same day, just like you are now, she looked at me kindly.

Once we had grown used to being on our own we were sold together to Jack, who owns this farm, by Julie, who bred us. Julie taught Jack the gentlest way to show young foals how to be independent and no longer need their mothers to mind them. She said that kind weaning builds brave horses.  Horses who don’t learn fear from the start.

Do you think Julie was right?  I asked Nana.

What do you think? she stood up tall.  Do you think I’m scared?

No, I replied.

Then it worked, she added giving me a nudge.

Over the next few days, we settled into our new world.  I still went to the fence to greet my mother and to nuzzle her, but I began to feel confident being away from her.  Soon the fence visits became less and my time with my friends more and more.  We had weaned ourselves and did it with no stress and no fear.  Nana was right, it was a good way to create brave horses.

Chapter 2

Our field had a post and rail fence between us and our mothers, but the rest of the field boundary was a large drystone wall.  We would occasionally go to the wall and look out over it, but it was our woolly sheep friends who led us on our exciting adventure beyond the wall.

The sheep were moved back into our field soon after we were weaned from our mothers.  I discovered they were quite friendly, if a little skittish.  At first, we tried to play with them, but they would run away from us and bleat.

One thing they did like to do though was huddle by the wall at the top of the field.  Some of them even took to scrubbing themselves on the stone.  This was fine until one morning, when they dislodged several of the stones causing the wall to tumble a little.  We quickly jumped away snorting, but the sheep promptly hopped over the little wall and disappeared.

Seeing them go, we decided to follow and find out what was on the other side of the wall.  Nana was running around shouting at us, but we didn’t listen, each of us following the next over the wall with a little hop.

Beyond the wall was a trail that wound down the steep slope towards the beach.  We followed it and each other, weaving our way through dunes of rough, scrubby grass that was not nearly so nice to eat as the lush green blades that grew in our field.

The little beach we found ourselves on seemed enormous at the time, although when I think back to it, it was more a quiet cove than an expansive beach.

Curved, with soft sand and calm lapping waves, it was the perfect place to play. We cantered around on the sand, rolled in it, tossing the soft grains over our backs.  We even waded into the water, snorting at the little waves, and digging in the surf, causing it to splash around.  I stuck my mouth in it to drink but found it salty and raised my head up, shaking it, the water dropping from my lips back to the sea.

Erin started to run, racing around on the sand and soon we were all doing it, darting about and bucking.  We were free, really and truly free.  We could go anywhere, do anything.  I finally felt the yellow soil, or sand as I now know it is, under my hooves, sinking and soft.

I lay down and rolled in it, feeling the sand sink into my coat and massage my muscles as I rolled on my back from side to side. I felt the warm water on my body as I splashed in the sea. It was as wonderful a feeling as I thought it would be. It felt like we were there for days, the lazy afternoon hours stretching on and on, but in reality, I think we were out only for a few hours at most.

As the sun started to set Jack  arrived, laughing, and shaking his head once he had assured himself that we were all there and safe.

This is not your field, he called to us.  Come on, it’s supper time.

Jack held up a large bucket and rattled it, the sound of food grabbing our attention.  The beach was fun, but it wasn’t a very good place to find food.  My tummy rumbled and I eyed the bucket, thinking of feed and the lush grass of our field.  I’m not sure who moved first, but as soon as one of us did we all went, like one of the waves we had played in that afternoon.

We trotted through the sandy dunes towards Jack and that feed bucket.  Jack handed out a few handfuls of feed from the pail and then shook it again to keep our attention before walking away along the track, us following him like a train.

The wall was still down but there were some poles and tape laid beside it.  We hopped over into the field and followed our human down to the main gate where we were often fed.  A few other humans were there and while we were passed our feed, they hurried up to the gap, pushing the poles into the ground and stringing the tape between then to close it.

Nana scolded us all for our escapades and warned us not to touch the tape. It was, she said, an electric fence to keep us in and would give us a shock if we touched it.  I followed her advice, but Erin did touch the tape and confirmed that it ‘bit her’.

The sheep returned too, the following day, but they were placed in a different field.  Shortly after, a few humans stopped by our field too and put a post and wire fence up inside the stone wall boundary, just in case it fell again and we attempted another outing.

I think if we had had the chance we would have too.  The beach had been amazing fun, and I know I wasn’t the only one who would go up and stare at the cove longingly after that day. 

I wondered if I'd be able to return to the beach one day.  I hoped so.

Chapter 3

We spent two idyllic years of our lives in that field together, but none of us ever got back to the beach.  I’d often talk with Erin about it, remembering the sounds of the waves up close and how soft the sand was.  The others would join in.  I remember Shem saying about how good it felt to roll in the sand.

Nana would often take us to the ridge at the top of the field so we could look out at the Galway countryside all around us.  She would tell us stories of the beach and the waves that broke on the sand, gently when the weather was calm and thrashing and wild when it was stormy.

She said that some of our ancestors had come from the sea.  They had crossed it from a land far away called Spain, in a great fleet of ships the humans called an Armada.  Only the ships had been tossed around in one of the wild storms and broken apart in the turbulent waters of the coast.

Many of the humans and horses had drowned in that sea, but some, some lucky few, had washed up or swam to shore safely.  Nana said that these horses had been taken in by locals and bred with those already there, making us Connemaras the descendants of survivors.

Sometimes I’d stand there alone and stare out at the water imagining what it was like for those horses.  Picturing them in the churning water, finally making their way to the shoreline.  Their experience of the Atlantic ocean was much different from mine.

While most of our time was our own, free in our field, we did see some people who came to the yard from time to time.  We were all nervous of the strangers that would come to the fields to look at our mothers, Nana, and sometimes even us - but Nana would always explain who they were.

Malley was the most nervous. She was the smallest and youngest of us.  She would often hide behind me or Delaney, watching as the humans went about their business until she decided it was safe.

One of the humans came regularly. He often had a bunch of tools with him that almost sent us all into a meltdown the first time we saw him, especially when he started propping Nana’s hoof up on a metal stand and rubbing her hoof with a metal bar.

That is the farrier, Nana explained when she returned. You’ll see him, or a human like him often enough through your lives.  He’ll check your hooves for signs of trouble, trim them and put on shoes if you need them. Not all horses need shoes though.

What’s a shoe? I remember my friend Shem, a chestnut filly, asking.

It is a metal plate fitted to your hoof, Nana replied.

Does it hurt? she asked.

It shouldn’t if it is put on correctly, Nana replied.

That made me wonder.  She said it shouldn’t, not that it didn’t.

The vet was our next most frequent visitor.  He was a cheerful older man in a flat cap and a strange white coat.  The vets I came to meet later always seemed to be dressed differently than this first medical practitioner, but they were all equally invested in ensuring we were healthy and fit.

Nana was very fond of the old man.  She said he had saved her life, but never did tell us how. Though often when she said it, her eyes would go a little misty, especially when she looked at us all.

I was not so pleased with the man when he produced a little thing with a plunger on it that pricked my neck.  This, I learnt, was something called a vaccination.  It was given, so he said, to build up my immune system to fight some diseases that are dangerous to us horses.

I got these regularly from then on.  I have no doubt they do help to stop you getting sick. But I still dislike the feel of the needle and to this day will always nod my head when they are given. I got something called a microchip too.

But I did like it when he complimented me though.

Our young Lir here is a fine lad, isn’t he, he would say to Jack.  A perfect example of a Connemara pony. Well balanced, confident, great conformation, fabulous movement and a fantastic attitude, he went on, as he patted me.

Friendly and full of energy.

Yes, he’s a great pony, Jack agreed, giving my neck a gentle rub.  I almost wish he was the one we were keeping.

He glanced at Erin.  Erin was different from the rest of us. She belonged to Jack’s daughter Amy, a bright, smiling girl who loved all of us and frequently came to fuss over and love us.

Nana said Erin’s mother belonged to Amy, but that she would soon outgrow her and so Erin had been bred for her.  I didn’t understand this at first.  I asked Nana to explain and I remember her looking at me a little sadly.

She told me our time together would be short.  One day I would grow up and go off with one of the humans to start my life with them.

I was worried by what she said.  I didn’t want to leave Nana and my friends and be taken away.  Why, I asked, was Erin so lucky? Why would she get to stay here with Amy and not me?  It was the luck of the draw,