Centrist Dad

My daughter’s horsey hobby makes her happy, but our home now hums

Keen to keep his children active, Will Gore finds himself paying an unexpected price

Saturday 18 November 2023 10:53 GMT
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Her interest in horses began a couple of years ago, with origins unknown
Her interest in horses began a couple of years ago, with origins unknown (Getty)

We’ve probably all had a crap hobby at some point. I collected small figurines of frogs and other assorted animals as a child. And I merrily left my mother to dust them.

I also went through a phase of writing down the registration number of every car that stopped at the junction outside our house. Just in case I ever needed to help the police with their enquiries.

One boy in our village bred stick insects. Their virility was so impressive that most people of his acquaintance ended up being gifted a baby bug or two. Ours didn’t last long, after my toddler brother tried to feed it a carrot.

Swimming is also a dud hobby, I’m sorry to say. It’s boring, and although you might get fit from doing it, if you take it even half-seriously, everyone will quietly think you’re a prat. Let’s not even get started on the wild variety.

Anyhow, at least none of these crap hobbies actually smell of crap. The same cannot be said of my daughter’s current Saturday pastime.

Her interest in horses began a couple of years ago, with origins unknown. We are not a horsey family. I lost a few quid on races at Newmarket a couple of times in my twenties, and as a child I had the odd donkey ride at our annual village fete. We also inadvertently bought and barbecued some gee-gee fillets on a family holiday to France when I was in my teens. Delicious. Other than that, I’d avoided all things equine, and my wife had no particular interest either.

Still, after much nagging, we agreed to book some lessons for our daughter, assuming it would be a fleeting fascination. Instead, it has become one of the primary drains on our bank balance and our time, not only because the now weekly lessons themselves are expensive, but because the riding school she goes to is miles from our house.

And yet the joy that horse riding has brought to our child has been unbridled; worth the money, the endless weekend shuttling and even the discussions over the dinner table about jodhpurs and hats.

Therefore, when she told us that her stables were looking for volunteer help on Saturdays, it seemed like a perfect opportunity. In pursuit of some sort of Pony Club certificate, she would spend four hours a week mucking out, organising the tack room, clearing dung from paddocks, helping with younger riders’ lessons, and generally making herself useful. She’d learn a lot about equine care, make new friends and become more confident.

Sure enough, after three Saturdays, things are going terrifically. We drop our daughter off at 11am for a lesson, then pick her up at 5pm after her afternoon of work, by which time she is exhausted but very happy; full of tales about the horses she’s groomed or the tasks she’s completed. But she also reeks.

I first noticed it last weekend, as we drove home and I suddenly caught a strong farmyard pong. Only after five minutes did I realise that it was not coming from outside, but from my daughter and her bag of kit. And while there is a certain heartiness to the odour of horse sweat and manure, it’s not something you want festering in the back of a cramped Ford Fiesta.

At home, clothes were dumped in the dirty washing basket and yet the undeniable whiff of horse muck lingered in the kitchen, where riding boots had been deposited with a promise to clean them later. Much later, as it turned out.

Indeed, on Tuesday morning, as I arrived back at the house after dropping my son at school, I paused outside the front door to survey the state of our garden. Within seconds, my nostrils were filled with a familiar stench, and I realised that my daughter’s wellies, also yet to be cleaned, had been left on the doorstep, bringing a rural whiff to half the street, and presumably putting postal workers and delivery drivers into a state of alarm and confusion.

By the end of the week, the malodorous tang had begun to dissipate, just in time for the next visit to the stable dung pile. Not that I’ll bang on about it; I don’t want my daughter’s lovely horse hobby to become my crap hobby horse.

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