I'll own the boots, the jeans and the hat and, of course, the undergarments.
The rest of the ensemble will be pieced together from my sisters' inventory of Western wear.
A belt buckle Laurie won at the Idaho State 4-H Horse Judging contest back in 1978 has been polished. It will go on my belt.
Laurie bought the shirt to ride on Lily a few years ago. Barbara says it looks too baggy on Laurie.
So, Laurie says I can wear it, and it is a nice fit.
Mighty pretty too.
Barbara dug out her dark blue chaps for me to use.
I do have my own saddle, too, but Laurie's loaning me a blanket that goes with the shirt.
If all goes right, this outfit will see a brief workout this Sunday at the Bonner County Fair Horse Show.
Just one day this year, and the Western events are in the afternoon.
My brother, his wife and granddaughters will be here, and they'll take Mother to the show.
My sisters and I are all planning to ride.
Laurie will be riding her adorable 3-year-old pinto Arabian named Scout in his first ever performance class.
Scout is so cute he could be a Breyer horse model.
I'll be riding Lily in the same class.
It's called walk-trot, and I'm entering cuz there's no loping/cantering/galloping.
Laurie's entering just cuz that's a good class for a young horse to get his start in arena competition.
I don't do gallops/lopes/canters these days, although I sure enjoyed that gait a lot more than walking back in the good ol' days.
Nowadays, I prefer a good, brisk, ground-covering walk. Some might call that attitude "survival instinct" of someone about to go into extinction.
Anyway, I don't gallop by choice, but I had no choice back in March on Annie's and my trip to Ireland.
Now that it has appeared in a two-part segment in the Appaloosa Journal, I'll leave you today with the travelogue, which includes a segment about my unplanned galloping adventure along an Atlantic coast beach.
Enjoy, and Happy Friday.
Irish Travelogue
By Marianne Love
For the Appaloosa Journal
Whenever I travel to new places with my daughter Annie, I’m happy to go along with her chosen itinerary, except for a few suggestions.
On my New Zealand visit in 2003, where Annie was studying abroad, I asked if we could bed down a few nights at Rae and Peter Mutch’s farm-stay near Hamilton.
After all, the Mutch’s Appaloosas have Toby I blood.
My dad Harold Tibbs owned Toby I, so it was neat to stay at such a faraway place where his Foundation stallion’s blood ran through the veins of Kiwi Appaloosas.
Annie and I most recently returned from Ireland. Prior to going, I offered two simple requests.
“I want to ride horses in Ireland,” I told her, “and visit the Irish National Stud.” After all, my sisters Barbara and Laurie Tibbs, both accomplished horse women who for years have worked with many young riders, including Annie, would highly approve.
“They use English saddles,” my sister Laurie warned me when I told her our plans for a horseback outing.
For this old gal who’s ridden most of her life in a stock saddle and who vividly recalls audience catcalls about “bringing in the ambulance” those few times I actually competed in hunter classes, Laurie’s reminder was a bit intimidating.
Still, I figured I was up to the experience.
Annie did some meticulous research, selecting Tralee Equestrian Centre http://www.traleeequestriancentre.com/school.htm on the foothills of the Slieve Mish Mountains near Killarney as the place where we’d get our first horse fix.
Owned by Padraig and Nicola Hayes, the facility offers schooling (through the British Horse Society), trekking and beach rides.
The proprietors sent Annie a note explaining the 3-hour beach ride, adding it was for experienced riders.
When Annie forwarded me the email, I immediately wrote them, asking, “What do you consider ‘experienced’?”
The response noted that riders must be able to walk, trot and gallop along the beach.
Sounded okay until I saw the word “gallop.”
Oh, I’ve galloped on horses enough, but that was many decades ago when my mount Largo would take on any racing contender---anywhere, any time. Only time we didn’t win (as a team) occurred when she turned a corner too fast, and I fell off, landing on my head.
Largo, without a rider, still crossed the finish line first that time.
Nowadays, I’m 63, and a ‘fraidy cat----afraid to race horses, afraid to even think “gallop.”
Knowing I wanted to celebrate a 64th birthday, I balked at the beach-ride idea. Once we arrived at Tralee, however, my guides and Annie would have none of that.
They reassured me that my mount Legolas, a big, gray sport horse, was the barn babysitter. He’d take care of me, they promised.
I think it was about the time we were climbing on and heading down the Atlantic Ocean beach that someone casually informed us that Legolas and Annie’s mount Monster were good friends. Joined at the hip almost, they suggested.
I’ve been around horses long enough to know what dire possibilities that suggests.
“I don’t want to gallop,” I announced, figuring if I was paying for this, I could call a few shots.
So as we headed down the beach at a nice walk and I pulled out my camera to take a picture, Legolas suddenly switched into second gear. I hadn’t heard the guide say, “Let’s trot.”
Legolas had.
Since nobody was critiquing me for diagonals, I posted that big trot with no concerns. Soon, as the inside of my legs started rubbing against and getting pinched by the stirrup leathers, I realized how much more practical jodhpurs and high leather boots would be, compared to jeans and hiking boots.
Nonetheless, I managed.
We eventually turned from walking and trotting through the wet sand toward a hillside taking us to the lovely, serene village of Camp.
My romantic notions of riding in far-off Ireland were reaching fulfillment. We plodded past a centuries-old stone church and a village school established in the 1800s. Our route took us down a ravine where we crossed a babbling brook. We looked down over several green fields dotted with sheep.
This was the ultimate, I thought, occasionally patting Legolas on the rump, much like I do my big Appaloosa mare Lily (Easy Dream Design) on trail rides at home in Idaho.
I talked about Lily often and stressed to our guides that this low-key plodding was the kind of riding I prefer at my age.
Once we reached the beach, I realized those gentle hints apparently had no impression on my three companions nor on Legolas.
Our friendly, thoughtful guides, Mikey and Alice, had worked out a system whereby Annie could get the experience of galloping down the beach, and her mother could stay safe on Legolas.
One guide would go with me and trot down the beach straightaway. When we reached a certain point, the other two would take off full speed ahead.
This worked well. Annie was happy. The guides were happy, and three of four horses were happy.
Not Legolas.
He went along with the new routine for a while, but, as we all know, horses love their comfort zone as much as we humans.
Legolas’ comfort zone did not include trotting all the time while other horses galloped.
So, about the fourth straightaway, approximately halfway to our destination, without warning, Legolas switched into overdrive.
I panicked. Envisioning personal catastrophe, I implored Legolas to trot. I don’t know if the gelding is deaf, but he did not comply.
I tried putting extra pressure on the brakes, having already a good hold on Legolas’ mouth with collected reins.
The brakes had zero effect.
I tried turning Legolas off to one side.
His steering was obviously not power, nor even standard for that matter. He would not turn.
Suddenly, the vision of falling off Legolas, landing on the beach, breaking my body and dying there in far-off Ireland shifted my mind into survival mode.
“You’ve galloped before . . . you know how to ride . . . you can do this---or you may die,” a voice within told me.
So, I rode out the gallop. Legolas eventually decided where the finish line was and came down to a walk.
I survived my beach ride near Tralee with overall wonderful memories and some delightful new friends among the Tralee staff.
I also lived on to see the spectacular Cliffs of Moher. Annie and I took hundreds of pictures along other fabulous wave-whipped ocean beaches. We visited castles and ancient burial sites, located in sheep and cow pastures.
We listened to Gaelic-speaking radio stations. I marveled at the beautiful lyrical sound of the ancient language.
In Galway County, we drove past fields where Connemara ponies, known for their hardiness, dispositions and versatility, were grazing. This is the same rugged country where beautiful Kylemore Abbey, home to Benedictine nuns, sits beneath a hillside and reigns as one of Western Ireland’s most popular tourist spots.
We drove through Northern Ireland, spending time in downtown Belfast. While in the north, we enjoyed a hike, on a stormy, windy afternoon, to the spectacular geologic wonder on the Irish Sea called the Giant’s Causeway.
We drank a pint of Guinness with nearly every sumptuous meal in Irish pubs throughout the country and walked miles and miles through the streets of Dublin.
By the end of our journey, my other dream came true.
We visited the Irish National Stud in Kildare not far from Dublin, home to some of the country’s finest racing and steeplechase horses. The expansive grounds also include Japanese gardens and St. Fiachra’s Garden.
The horse museum is showcased by an impressive skeletal display of Arkle, the legendary Irish race horse. One source states that the formidable steeplechaser did not “just beat the competition; he ate it.”
Typical of Irish pride, word had it that Arkle’s success was due, in part, to his intake of two Guinnesses per day.
While strolling through the immaculate grounds at the Irish Stud, we again took pictures of the gardens and of the horses, spending most of our time getting acquainted with this year’s playful crop of young Thoroughbred foals.
Along our way, I spotted a warning sign with the simple message, “DANGER. Horses bite and kick.”
Thinking back on my perceived “near-death” experience aboard Legolas a few days before, all I could do was chuckle.
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