Over The Stable Door: An eye for the girls tempts eager recruit to the pony club

Felix is keen to start joining his new pony club pals at a few rallies, but I am not yet prepared to make a purchase as his enthusiasm may wane when the weather turns colder. The only stipulations are it still has two gears and its own teeth – a friend’s rather aged beast has about three molars left and she spends hours liquefying its food. My son loves helping at feed time and confidently leads in the odd trusted hunter from the field behind me, despite being barely tall enough to unclip the lead rein. As a child, I was pony mad, but growing up on a farm was not quite the perfect opportunity it might appear. My father saw horses as the ruination of good farmland (quite rightly) and it took mum years to talk him round into parting with a disused pig shed and half-an-acre before he reluctantly agreed an equine was allowed on the place. Even then I had to prove myself responsible enough to care for it, come rain, hail or snow. I was 11 years old when the first in a long line of four- legged friends finally arrived in the yard. All those PMG (pony mad girls) take note – keep nattering, fathers relent eventually. Felix struck up a new friendship with the ‘pony club gang’ at our hunt Puppy Show last Sunday. Being the only boy, he proved something of a novelty to the group of girls who dragged him off to play hide and seek in the nearby wood. I found him some time later kissing three-year-old Lily in the barn. Apparently it was for a dare (he doesn’t even like kissing me). The outcome of this budding young friendship is he now wants to ride in the hunt gymkhana. It has been mentioned a number of times already this week: “Lily is taking Tango…” and I am feeling pressured in to relenting (PMG note – mothers obviously relent sooner). Lily’s parents, Matthew and Charlotte Walker, walked a couple of harrier hound pups this year. They live in the middle of the countryside behind an hotel, an ideal spot to keep them away from trouble…or so they hoped. All went well for the first few weeks when Startle and Sapling were full of innocent fun, but anyone who has walked hound pups will be aware of what they soon become. It wasn’t until the inquisitive pair were large enough to jump out of their run and venture in to the neighbouring hotel kitchens that problems began. The first time they were found queuing for the buffet with other luncheon guests, paws on the table, snouts in the Yorkshire pudding tray. Charlotte hastily retrieved the pair, apologising to a mildly amused hotel manager, and the kennel run was hastily strengthened to Alcatraz proportions. A few weeks later, the enterprising twosome found a way to dig their way out and, pushing up the wire, they bunked off to their favourite dinner. This time the kitchen held offerings in abundance for Startle and Sapling. The chef’s wedding party dishes, planned for months in advance, were laid out ready to serve. The pair got stuck in. By the time Charlotte noted the pair missing and dashed to the hotel, Gaelic expletives could be heard coming from the kitchen. She found food scattered across the floor, a blood-red consommé dripped from the metal work surface. Startle was choking on a large joint of sirloin, desperately attempting to swallow it as the panic-stricken manager tried to wrestle it from her grip. Sapling had polished off a full tray of chocolate profiteroles and, sensing she may well be in trouble, scuttled behind a cupboard. The chef was thrashing his hat on the worksurface. “This time we weren’t forgiven so easily,” Matt explained. The hounds were returned to kennels in disgrace. The Walker family finally finished washing-up at the hotel last week.