Horsey

Inner Pickle, Wed 4 March 2026

This farm originally came with a horse. In January 1859 when my young Irish great great grandparents bought the lease from some guy called Shergold, apart from 33 mostly-cleared acres with a five-room house and some outbuildings, they bought two cows in full milk, dairy utensils, three working bullocks and one saddle mare. It was possibly this same saddle mare that great great grandpa William rode to Broughton (now called Berry) and back twice-weekly on the mail run that he was contracted for through the proceeding two years. They worked hard, those Irish kids who grew up in the potato famine and came to Australia as government assisted immigrants with nothing more than the clothes they wore. They bought the farm many years later when it eventually came up for sale, what a day that must have been. William and Mary’s youngest son inherited it, then his son, and then his son was my Dad. And here we are. Dad had horses. When I was really young there was an old white horse here on the farm that I hoped to ride every time we came over, but he belonged Dad’s brother and went in the division to the other family farm in Toolijoa.

I can’t date the beginning of my love of horses but I know I begged for one relentlessly for years. I desperately wanted a horse. Dad refused. He said they needed too much feed. Took too much work. Every year at the Berry Show I would save all my money and buy as many tickets in the horse raffle as I could. I’d go and meet the horse, revel in it’s horsey smell and declare that it was definitely coming home with me. I’d wait with bated breath for the raffle draw at the end of the night and every year I was completely crushed. My father was unmoved.

When I think about it as an adult I’m not sure that his disinclination wasn’t the safety factor. Dad might not have even known but there is a newspaper record of William on horseback meeting a “cart laden with poles” on the main road between Kiama and Gerringong one night and being thrown onto the road when his horse shied, receiving a deep flesh wound to his head. Medical aid was called, stitches were administered. It was April 1891 and William didn’t pass away for another twenty five years so obviously he was fairly repaired. Common horse travel lent itself to accidents in the same way car travel does now.

Forty years later one of William’s grandsons, Alan Weir, brother to my grandfather, 21 years old and well known to be an excellent horseman, died after being thrown from his horse on the road home to Toolijoa late one night. Old rural families are probably littered with horse related accidents. My mum’s grandfather lived for many years with an incredible dent right across his forehead after an unbroken horse ran into a fence railing that flew off and hit him in the head.

Dad never bought me a horse, but he encouraged me to ride. I had some lessons. He’d take me on occasional trail rides. Riding with my dad was an extraordinary thing for me, because when I saw him ride I understood what it meant to grow up in the saddle. When he was in his sixties he and mum met Adam and I and my sister Naomi, all living in London at the time, and together we took a trip to Scotland. We decided to do a horse ride on the scenic Scottish Island of Mull. I got a grumpy horse who perhaps had had enough of Australian tourists that day, and after a while, in the middle of nowhere, put her head down and absolutely bolted out over the heather. Like, completely out of my control. I can ride, but that day I was literally hanging on for dear life. Quickly leaving the others behind I remember Dad on his horse casually drawing alongside my careening animal and at full gallop saying, “where are going, Fonie?” while expertly pulling in front of me and slowing me down. We went back to town and drank whisky.

Ivy is the youngest of our three children, and has had a love affair with horses since she was tiny. Trail rides were all she wanted for every birthday. Riding lessons. Riding boots. While we were getting the farm established there was no talk or possibility of a horse, we never had the right fences, or the time. She begged and begged. Later she prepared powerpoint presentations. We wondered if we could make it happen. Then with a bit of help from our friends there was one Christmas day three years ago on which a horse float drove up the drive, a horse with tinsel around his neck was led out, and Bobby arrived at Buena Vista in what felt like a cloud of magic fairy dust. He’s an older gentleman, 24 now, a little arthritic but well loved and carefully ridden. Our Ivy has had a challenging time lately, and by the end of last year needed a project. That came in the form of a young unbroken stockhorse, beautifully bred (so Ivy can’t fail), and currently working towards being under saddle, under the supervision of another clever horse friend who is experienced in breaking in young horses.

And so now there are two horses here and I can hear my Dad guffawing in heaven. Like this wasn’t all your idea, Fonie?! Actually, I can say hand on heart, this is all Ivy. They are really her horses, she’s totally responsible. I love them being here, horses belong on this old farm, with it’s shadows of other beloved mares down the lanes and against the old sheds. One day we’ll all be gone too, just part of the long and wispy history of this farm, and I’ll be a shadow in the back paddock on an old white horse galloping out at full speed with my dad. Giddyup.

Whisky and Bobby