The love people have for horses baffles me.
Goats? Yes. Giraffes? Definitely. Owls? You’re damn right.
But horses? They terrify me.
This all stems back ten years, to when Eleanor and I stayed the night with a friend near Penzance. Chris was lodging on a former farm owned by an old lady, who was up-country visiting her daughter when we popped round for an impromptu barbecue.
It was a beautiful evening. The clear blue sky blended into the sea a mile east. Ancient Cornish hedgerows broke up any puffs of wind, leaving the sound of a city of grasshoppers to carry unhindered.
‘We’re gonna need some eggs for in the morning,’ Chris said after polishing off a cheeseburger. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
It was 7pm, and the closest shop — a steep descent down in Mousehole — would’ve been long shut.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
‘Oh, just over that field. There’s an honesty box that’s usually got a load of them.’
There was a problem, though. ‘That field’ had two horses in it. Either of them could kill me.
‘It’ll be alright, Ginge,’ Eleanor said, knowing that we’ve taken two-mile diversions to avoid walking through a herd of cows before. ‘Chris knows where she’s going. We’ll be fine.’
So, with deep trepidation on my part, and a spring to the steps of the other two, we set off across a paddock the same length as a football field. Humouring my concerns, Chris took us on a course that skirted the edge of the field, just outside the field of vision of the horses. As we reached the far side, there was a commotion. The larger of the pair spotted what we were up to, and no doubt irritated by our sneaky behaviour, let out an enormous neigh.
A warning neigh. It reverberated across the field. He watched us for a few seconds as we made our way towards the stile, before erupting into a second shout so loud that his neck convulsed.
‘Yeah, I think we’ll go back a different way.’ Chris said.
Eggs stowed for breakfast, we picked our way through a path in the woods — an animal track, really — until we reached a field clear of equine menace. We passed through one gate and another before arriving at an adjacent pasture to where we started. The gate between them was wide open, the two horses in sight, gorging on lush summer grass.
‘I don’t like this, Chris,’ I said.
‘Me neither. We might have to make a run for it.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yeah. We just need to get past that opening. On three. One-two-three!’
With that, we dashed the thirty yards to safety, out of sight of the murderous nags. As we checked our eggy cargo (all safe and unbroken), a rumble pulsed through the soil. An earthquake, perhaps?
No. Our skittering had alerted the horses. It was hooves of thunder.
‘NEEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!’
The tallest horse ever measured stood at 21.25 hands in height. Well over seven feet tall. The shire horse now towering over us was bigger. A goliath unmeasured. Its hairy feet came up to our waists.
Our only escape was over another locked gate. Chris went into rescue mode.
‘Shoo! Shoo! Hissssss!’
This just enraged the beast. Not only did it let out another foghorn of a neigh, but it followed up with what I assume to be a whinny. A horse’s way of mocking puny humans.
‘Right then, you two,’ Chris shouted to us, and as she was staring right into its face, the horse. ‘I’ll hold it off, and you two climb over the gate.’
‘Are you going to hit it?’ I asked.
‘It depends if it tries anything. Hurry up.’
Hands trembling, feet treacle, we ragdolled our bodies over the four bars, leaving Chris exposed, howling vitriol at her would-be assassin.
Out of harm’s way, I did what I had to do and threw a rare breed egg at it. My shot missed. Not by much, but enough to distract the horse for a couple of vital seconds, and our host bounced back over the gate. Alive, but shaken. An egg short of a full breakfast.
And that, dear reader, is why I’m frightened of horses.
