Winston: A Horse's Tale

By Rita Lee Chapman

One for horse lovers! Winston is a good-looking palomino horse whose life involves several different owners and many adventures. As you read his story, told by Winston himself, you will appreciate horse ownership from the horse’s point of view. Born on a country property in Australia, Winston tells of his breaking-in and education and the different people he encounters – good, bad and ignorant. As well as his own story, Winston includes the experiences of other horses he meets along life’s way.

Whether it’s jumping, eventing, hunting or just hacking, Winston tries hard to please his rider. Follow his successes and his failures from his breaking-in to his show jumping win. It is an eventful life – the story of one Australian horse out of thousands, but one that you will remember.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rita Lee Chapman
• Release date: Oct 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310531507

Rita Lee Chapman

Rita Lee Chapman was born in the UK and migrated to Australia in her early twenties. It was only when she retired to the Sunshine Coast in Queensland that she wrote her first novel “Missing in Egypt” Book 1 in the Anna Davies Mystery Series.“This fulfilled a lifelong ambition for me. In primary school I wrote long stories but since then my writing had been restricted to business correspondence, press releases and letters home to my family!Missing at Sea, is Book 2 in the Anna Davies Mystery Series and Book 3 is Missing in London.Winston - A Horse's Tale is the story of an Australian horse, Winston, told by himself. It tells of his adventures and experiences as well as those of other horses he meets along life's way. It was the book I had to write and is for all horse lovers from teenagers upwards.Dangerous Associations and The Poinciana Tree are crime mysteries."For more information on Rita and her books visit her website at www.ritaleechapman.com

Book preview

Winston -

A Horse’s Tale

Rita Lee Chapman

Winston – A Horse’s Tale © Copyright Rita Chapman 2012

Published by R. Chapman 2013

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental

Also by Rita Lee Chapman

MISSING IN EGYPT

Dedicated to my mother, whose support and encouragement has

meant so much and to my husband, who is always there for me.

Contents

Chapter 1 Early Memories

Chapter 2 The Long Drive

Chapter 3 My Early Education

Chapter 4 Metal Monsters

Chapter 5 Flat Out

Chapter 6 Kirsty

Chapter 7 Boots

Chapter 8 The Gymkhana

Chapter 9 Beauty

Chapter 10 Beauty's First Gymkhana

Chapter 11 Bush Encounters

Chapter 12 Changes

Chapter 13 Life with Sylvia

Chapter 14 Eventing

Chapter 15 Lucy

Chapter 16 Change of Fortunes

Chapter 17 Babies and Children

Chapter 18 The Hunt

Chapter 19 Floods

Chapter 20 Happy Days

Chapter 1 - Early Memories

My earliest memories are of galloping across green meadows with the wind in my mane and tail as they streamed out behind me, kicking up my heels in pure excitement at being alive and at peace with the world. At the back of my mind was the sure knowledge that Mum was there watching me, waiting for me to come trotting back to her, exhausted and hungry after playing with the other foals or trying out my still wobbly legs on some new and fanciful manoeuvre.

I was born on a farm near Forbes in the central west of New South Wales, Australia in early Spring. Forbes is a country town and the area is known for hot dry summers and its cool winters. It is a large sheep-growing area, with cattle and cereal crops also found in abundance. The property I was born on produced foals. There were lots of brood mares – around forty at the time I was there - plus occasionally they would buy a mare in foal and turn her out to give birth. It was an idyllic birthplace with lots of mares and foals to mix with, large paddocks with plenty of feed and very little human intervention.

The days were filled racing around with the other foals in my paddock as we grew bigger and stronger. One of us would suddenly prick up our ears, give a little buck and race up to the top of the paddock and any foals close by would kick up their heels and follow. Invariably there would be some squealing when we reached the fence and a couple of the colts might have a mock fight. This would be followed by a lie down near mum or a long drink of milk. When winter arrived the crisp morning air would stir us up and as we cantered around our breath came out of our nostrils like steam. On a few days there was frost overnight and the dawn would reveal a silvery cover across the paddock and the grass would crackle under our hooves. If you lay down away from the protection of the trees you would be covered with icy crystals. We soon learnt that frost was slippery so there would be no bucks or pig-roots until the sun came up to melt it. On the days when the sun didn’t shine at all or the icy rain came pelting down we would gather under the largest tree and huddle in tightly together to keep warm through our shared body heat. Apart from these few days of unpleasant weather we continued to enjoy our natural existence. During the coldest days of winter, when the grass was short and sparse, two men would appear at the top fence in a truck from which they would scatter bales of hay. I learned the pleasure of eating this dried form of grass but it was nowhere near as nice as sweet green grass. We would all mill around the hay and there would be some jostling and laid-back ears with implied threats but there was enough for everyone and only a couple of the mares delivered on their threat to kick. so we soon learned which ones to steer away from at feeding time.

I named you Winston for greatness my mother told me when I was old enough to understand There was a very famous Englishman during the war named Winston Churchill who was a brave and inspiring leader. Winston was also the name of the Queen of England’s most famous horse, whom she rode to the Trooping of the Colour for many years. He was a very fine looking horse with impeccable manners. I named my other foals Monty and Nelson after other famous leaders so I’m continuing the tradition with you. Over your life you will probably have several names and that can be quite confusing. Just remember, to me you will always be Winston. Make sure you conduct yourself as a gentleman and if you face adversity, be brave. Even if I am not with you I will always expect you to be well mannered and to try your best to please. At the time I didn’t take much notice of Mum’s little speech but during my life I had many occasions on which to reflect on these wise words.

My mother, Sundance, wasn’t always a brood mare. She was a fine looking Anglo-Arab and her coat was a rich palomino colour, which I had inherited. She had large eyes, an intelligent head and when she trotted or cantered she held her tail high and pranced in a way that depicted her Arab breeding. My father, she told me, was a handsome red chestnut stallion with two white stockings and a white blaze. My mother had been owned by a young woman, Daphne, ever since she was broken in and she had trained her in dressage and jumping. Together they had attended all the local shows and been quite successful. When Daphne fell in love and married she had little spare time to spend on a horse, but she couldn’t bear to part with Sundance, so she sent her to a neighbouring farm where she was put to their stallion to breed a foal. Daphne didn’t have the money to pay for a paddock and the breeder agreed to let Sundance stay whilst there was plenty of feed, in return for which he would keep the foals. Being good types and either palomino or chestnut in colour they were easy to sell. When the breeder sold up and moved interstate Daphne reluctantly decided the time had come to let Sundance go. She now had two young children to look after and so the breeder sold her along with the rest of the stock and they went from Parkes to a property at Forbes. It was too soon for anyone to know that my mother was in foal again and I was born some eight months later. I have my mother’s deep palomino colouring, with a pure white mane and tail. A wide blaze, courtesy of my father, runs the full length of my head and I was, I have to say, a pretty good looking foal.

I was not to know that these early joys of life were to be short-lived. Very little rain fell over winter and spring and when summer came again it was very hot and dry. We spent a lot of time down near the dam, standing head to tail, swishing the flies from each other’s eyes under a stand of old trees. By the middle of summer the dam was only a puddle and we went up to the top of the paddock to drink out of an old bath tub. As the summer wore on and the rain still refused to come, the green meadows turned in to dry, brown fields with very little feed. Because of the drought the owners of this property, who were not very experienced in breeding horses and for whom it was more of a hobby than a business, had not weaned us nor put the mares back into foal. It was as if they had lost interest in horse breeding as the rain failed to come. At seven months my mother had decided it was time to wean me and every time I went to suckle she moved away from me and if I persisted she threatened to give me a kick. Soon her milk dried up but the drought persisted. The owners did not bring us hay in summer – their supply had run out and as we lost weight we found ourselves hungry and weak, with little energy for playing or racing around.

Then one day in late summer men appeared early in the morning with dogs and motorbikes. The property had been sold and all stock was being dispersed as the new owners were going into cattle. Suddenly we were all galloping blindly, trying to keep from being separated from our dams. We ran for our lives with the dogs chasing at our heels and loud, rough voices shouting and yelling and driving us on. The motorbikes terrified us and we were desperate to get away from them. The gate at the top of the paddock was open and we jostled and pushed our way through. One of the mares caught her hip badly on the gatepost and fell behind, unable to run any further. Her filly foal tried to drop back with her but one of the dogs nipped at her heels and she kept running with the rest of us. Then just as quickly as we had started galloping, we stopped dead as the horses in front of us came to a sudden halt. We had reached the top of the next paddock and as we settled down we were quietly let into a large round yard close to the house. Here we spent the rest of that day and night with nothing but a trough of water and not enough room to lie down. The mare with the displaced hip was put down in the paddock and buried where she fell with a large bulldozer. Her foal was beside herself, trying to run up and down the fence amongst all the horses, calling out in a high-pitched squeal for her dam.

Worse was yet to come. Next morning, at the break of day, the men and the dogs returned, laughing and joking and cursing in loud voices as they came from the kitchen, their stomachs full of home-made bread and butter, farm-fresh eggs and strong black coffee. Two large trucks were brought around from the other side of the house and backed up to the yard. Then confusion broke out again as we were herded into a narrow opening and run into the dark mouth of the waiting trucks. Mares and foals were whinnying frantically to one another as they became separated and frightened. Some of the foals were only three or four months old but mares were loaded on to one truck and their foals on to the other. Then my own mother was nowhere to be found and I called out to her, my own voice sounding high-pitched and shrill as I called again and again, desperately needing her warmth and protection, her familiarity. I was carried along with the mob, through the narrow opening and on to the truck, before I heard her answering whinny somewhere from the depth of the truck and I scrambled and leapt, pushed and kicked until, thankfully, we were together again and I felt her warm muzzle nudging my flanks and her warm breath down my neck. I snuggled up closely to her, exhausted and frightened and not knowing what was to come next. Be brave Winston she entreated me, although I could feel her own body shaking. My ears were echoing with the whinnies of the foals and the mares and the shouts of the men as they called out instructions to their dogs and cursed and swore at each other. My nostrils and eyes were full of the dust that swirled and blanketed around us and I was constantly jostled and shoved by other foals and mares still pushing on to the truck.

After what seemed an age the doors to the truck were closed with a bang that made us all jump and with a terrible noise that was completely foreign to us after months of peaceful grazing, the truck moved off with a jolt that sent us all scrambling for a foothold. We travelled a long way, packed in together so tightly that we did not have room to fall down as the truck swayed this way and that and the heat increased as the sun rose higher and higher in the Australian sky. When the sun was at its hottest and we should have been standing under the shade of one of the big old trees, tail to tail, the truck came to a sudden stop and all went quiet. We stood waiting, wondering what was to happen next, but there was only silence. I was thirstier than I can ever remember being, but my dam was dry and there was no water. After about an hour we heard voices as the two men returned and jumped up into the truck, their hunger and thirst now satisfied. With a roar and a jolt we were on the move again and we did not stop until the sun was low in the sky. The doors that had kept us packed in together were finally opened and there was a mad rush as we all made a dash for freedom. However, our flight was short-lived as we realised we had only exchanged one small yard for another, just as tiny, many miles away. Mercifully there was a trough in one corner with fresh, pure water and we took turns slaking our thirst; pushing, kicking and biting to get our share of that beautiful cool liquid. However, once our thirst was satisfied there was an empty ache in our stomachs as we milled around looking for something to eat. But there was nothing – nor was there room to lie down and rest our aching legs and bodies, weary from the travelling and standing. And so we spent another night, crowded in on top of each other – no rest, no food, no familiar sights or smells. Out of the darkness we could hear an occasional whinny which told us that, not far away, there were other horses in the same predicament, tired, frightened and confused, wanting only something to eat and somewhere to lie down.

Morning finally dawned again and as the sun came up we realised we were in one of many yards, most of which were empty, with concrete floors and high fences. We had arrived at the saleyards at Windsor, just out of Sydney. We could have been taken to the saleyards at Dubbo, only a few minutes down the road, but the Dubbo market prices had been down for the last couple of weeks and it was decided that the Sydney market was a better proposition. After a couple of hours came the sound of more trucks and men suddenly appeared from everywhere, talking and shouting, cursing and swearing, as they unloaded horses by the truckload or from single horse-floats. Some were even ridden in, a few bareback. They all ended up in the same predicament however, loose in a small yard, either alone or with the rest of the horses from their truck.

Suddenly there was a terrible crashing and clanging overhead and we jumped on top of each other as we tried to cram into the furthest corner of the yard. We stood shaking and trembling as we looked around to see what had caused the terrible noise. High above us were faces peering down as men walked around on some sort of a ladder in the sky which enabled them to be over one corner of the yard one minute and right above us the next. As they walked along the steel catwalks from yard to yard, inspecting the poor, frightened animals beneath them, they talked and laughed loudly, making comments to one another on the condition of one yard of horses or the merits of one particular mare or foal, or laughing at the ugliness of one of the others. After a while we became used to the noise and the clanging and stood quietly as the sounds of their voices faded into the general hubbub of vehicles coming and going, horses whinnying and roaring as strange horses were crowded in together, showing their disapproval for their new mates in the only way they knew how – kicking and biting. Some of the older horses stood quietly from the moment they arrived as if they had been through this many times before and there was nothing new to them in the noise or the bustle or the smell of sweaty, frightened horses and hardworking men.

Just as we were beginning to become accustomed to it all there was a new fear for us as a man entered our small yard with a long stock whip which he twirled around in the air before bringing it down with a resounding crack behind us. We jumped forward and jostled one another for a place far away from this new terror and somewhere up ahead of me a horse found an opening and others followed him through and then we were all scrambling to be next through the gate and away from the cracking whip, not realising we were only exchanging one yard for another. Now we were that much closer to the covered sale ring where, unbeknown to us, we were to be sold to the highest bidder.

From our new position we were to discover another instrument of terror. The first time the tall steel crush gates were closed we all jumped high enough to have cleared a Grand Prix fence! Some of the foals ran blindly, trying to find a way of escape, but there was nowhere to go and no space to move and they only collided with one another or the fence or one of the less friendly mares. I stayed as close to my dam as was physically possible, shivering and shaking and not knowing what to make of all this noise and confusion. Slowly the yard we were in cleared as one by one the horses were let through into the steel crush, never to return. I pushed close to my mother, finding some comfort in her warmth, and even though she was trembling too I somehow felt safe with her huge frame close to mine. Then there were only a couple of other mares without foals left beside us and the man with the whip came up behind my mother and cracked it loudly. She jumped forward through the gate and I scrambled to keep up with her. As the gate closed behind us there were only the two of us in a tiny enclosure and then another gate opened in front of us and she moved forward, but as I went to follow her rough hands grabbed me and pulled me back, hitting me in the face to make me step backwards as the steel crush came crashing down in front of me. Then I was all alone – me on one side of this solid steel gate and my dam on the other. I squealed loudly and she answered me frantically. I could hear her trotting, one minute close to me, the next further away, then close again, as if she was going round and round in a circle. She was whinnying out to me and I answered her as loudly as I could, but I could not get to her and she could not get back to me. Then, miraculously, the steel crush gate between us opened up and I cantered into a ring of sawdust only to see my dam disappearing out through a gate on the other side. I called to her to come back to me and galloped after her at full speed, but just as I reached the gate a man appeared with a whip and hunted me away. As I moved towards the centre of the ring away from the whip I saw faces all around me – not level with my eyes but above me, in tiers,