So Close ...

I drove down the tree lined driveway, the sandy, rocky road surface crackling and popping underneath the tires of my little black beetle car. The heat of the spring day filtering in through the open windows of my car. I looked in my rear view mirror and saw the excited expression of my daughter, now 5 years old and obsessed with ponies and horses, she was a little over excited to be going for a riding lesson.

We had moved to France a few months before and through friends I had heard about a cute little yard not far from our house, in fact, one of my friends daughters rode in the same class Phoebe was now joining.

She already had her helmet on, a pair of tiny and adorable purple jodhpurs and some jodhpur boots. She looked fit to burst. And I admit, I couldn't wait to breathe in some barn air.

Inside I yearned for it to be me that was riding that day. But with equal measure, I was thrilled my daughter was going to have a go. My son, though a wonderful animal person, held no interest in anything that didn’t have an engine. But, if taking my child to the barn once a week meant I could visit with horses and feel the barn air, then I would take it.

Now, in England, Phoebe had had some riding experience, a few pony rides and a couple of sporadic lessons, but nothing regular.

In France the way it worked, you couldn’t just pay per ride, you had to pay in bulk amounts for a pre-agreed time. This was the same for tennis lessons and any other coached sport.

This was her trial ride, selfishly I hoped she would love it, just so that I could be surrounded by horses for an hour a week. Sounds silly to anyone who doesn’t get the whole horse thing, but I believe any rider, equestrian, horsey person would understand. It’s probably the same for a footballer. Imagine not getting to see a football for five years, and then being handed one. I can bet that they have a smell you would miss, a feeling it gave you to hold it, kick it and ‘play’ with again.  

A soul deep connection.

The yard was beautiful, built in stone, parts of it i’m sure easily one hundred years old. The small courtyard style stables, formed a square ‘c’ around a concrete yard, connected to a modern indoor arena.

The ponies being readied to the lesson Phoebe was about to join were in the small stables, their little fluffy noses poking up and over the doors. One door was even small enough that my five year old could see over it, and so could the little white Shetland she was tasked with tacking up.

In true French style, not caring of the age of their students, demands and orders were called out in French and little children, some as young as three, were sent off to tack up their ponies.

I followed the other mums, some that had been before, into the small stone tack room and found the name plate and tack of the pony Phoebe was going to be riding. Though the ‘lack of care’ style of the coaches startled me at first, I actually felt happy that Phoebe was going to get to learn how to tack up and organize herself.

Growing up a barn rat, I truly believe that 99% of being a good horseman/woman is getting to handle them, being able to work with them - riding is the icing on the cake.

And it wasn’t like I was going to let Phoebe be at the barn without me, so she would always have help.

Phoebe and six other children lead their little ponies into the huge arena. My little girl and the tiny pony completely dwarfed by the high ceilings and sprawling riding space. In all the years I had ridden in England, I had never ridden in an arena that size. I had once been a groom for someone who went to a show ground in England, the arena that day was just the same size. It blew my mind that a small lesson barn in the middle of Lyon would use the same size arena.

My whole body itched to have a canter around it. To hop on a horse and ride.

I stood outside the arena watching the lesson from over the top of the barn door. Parents not allowed anywhere near the riding lesson - again, this is very French. Parents are to be seen and not to interrupt the lesson.

My son played in the barn yard while I watched over that door. Phoebe’s face was set in a serious concentration, her every effort going into riding. After she got off and put the tack away we walked back to the car. She didn’t say much, in fact she was very quiet. When I asked her if she enjoyed it, she didn’t say much more than ‘yeah.’ I have to admit I was a little deflated. But later, after more lessons, I realized Phoebe was very intimidated by the instructor and it worried her that she didn’t understand what was being said. When I asked her if she wanted me to book her in for more lessons - she declined.

It sounds silly, and a little selfish, but I was very disappointed. If I couldn’t be a rider, then surely I could live vicariously through my daughter. It had been so long since I had been in tack, I truly believed my riding days were over.

If I think about that now, and I wonder why at thirty, I thought I was done. Sad really.

Now I know, all of these disappointments led me to my life now.

I never would appreciate what I have without all of these near miss moments.