No, the labourers are not miscreants at a women’s prison. They are fee-paying students at Porlock Vale Equitation Centre, at that time one of the top riding establishments in England, dedicated to producing utterly correct and competent riding instructors of whom the British Horse Society could be proud. The Principal (the Colonel) was no less than the chairman of the BHS examination committee. We (yes, I was one of them) had gathered from Canada, USA, New Zealand and the United Kingdom to undergo three months of rigorous training to prepare for and take the BHS Assistant Instructor examination. We were paying to pick up rocks.
While on the subject of food, there was the appalling Day of the Faggots. Faggots, for those unfamiliar with English cuisine, are over-sized meatballs. We had them for dinner one night and the subsequent food poisoning brought to light the insufficiency of toilets available to cope with severe diarrhoea and vomiting on the part of the entire community. The staff, who must have developed immunity to such things, were quite annoyed that, as a group, the students declined to eat lunch – leftover faggots.
Although most of the students had been riding and competing for several years, on the first day we learned how to mount correctly. By the end of three months we were jumping stadium and cross-country and riding basic-level dressage tests. By starting from scratch we all learned how to teach the correct methods as well as apply them ourselves. Every Friday there was a mock dressage or jumping competition for which we had to braid the horses’ manes and tails, using needle and thread, in 30 minutes. Weekdays included daily stable management demonstrations and teaching practice. Most of us had one opportunity, before breakfast, to ride to the farrier in Porlock. Huddled in our spy-coat riding macs, we clattered through the drizzle and early morning mist, along the quiet street of the tiny village, then held our horses for the farrier, busy in his open-fronted smithy. For weekends the students were divided into two groups, alternating between working Saturday one weekend and Sunday the next.
On one occasion, our group caused a major traffic disruption by riding up the infamously steep, narrow and winding road of Porlock Hill. At the bottom of the Hill is a sign "Caution – Cars Out Of Control". At one or two locations on the way up the hill are emergency escape routes for cars that can’t make it to the top or cars making it down altogether too fast. Although we rode in single file, the road was too narrow to overtake safely and traffic queued up behind. Cars stalled. Cars started rolling backwards. At the first opportunity we fled into the woods to avoid vengeful motorists. Saturday afternoons and Sundays were devoted to cleaning. Removing droppings from the fields was my preferred occupation. It was so peaceful, alone with the wind, the sea, my shovel and wheelbarrow. Rock picking was not as bad as bare-handed nettle removal. I discovered that one can black out from nettle stings. At least I was not sent down into the labyrinth of sewers under the main yard, the task of some other unfortunate soul. The hierarchy and dress code were rigid beyond belief. Our yard work clothes consisted of blue jeans, pale blue shirt, dark blue tie, navy-blue V-neck sweater and white polka-dot navy-blue headscarf. I am sure there was some subliminal message in the headscarf, because The Colonel had a handkerchief of exactly the same pattern and material. We rarely saw The Colonel, since he never came closer to the stable yards than the mounting block, where a student held his horse.
One evening, in a frenzy of officiousness, the lower and middle staff raided our bedrooms and removed all clothes not actually hanging up in the wardrobes. Since I am definitely not an early riser, I have mastered the art of efficient getting up, including laying out my clothes ready for the morning. Now they were gone. I rebelled. Next morning I arrived on the yard promptly at six o’clock dressed in red jeans and a yellow sweater (this was the 70’s remember). I was told to leave the yard. I replied that my clothes had been stolen and threatened to call the police. A girl from New Zealand, whose clothes were also missing, joined me. The unity of the Commonwealth was at stake. Our clothes were returned, but not before the New Zealander received a lecture on the slovenly habits of colonials and I was told off for "letting the side down". After all, I am English, so had no excuse. Just what was Porlock Vale Equitation Centre? A large old house was set in a well-maintained garden. The bedrooms, each shared by two or three students, over-looked the cross-country course to the Atlantic Ocean and across the bay to the moors. The riding facilities included two large indoor arenas, two outdoor sand arenas, a stadium-jumping field, a jumping lane (wherein lies a tale) and a cross-country course. There were four stable yards inhabited by well-schooled, very clean but very crotchety horses. I think they suffered from too much attention. They were groomed and tidied to show condition daily. Droppings were removed from the stalls almost before they hit the ground, although, as a concession to the nature of horses, one pile of droppings was acceptable. The place was immaculate! All the brass doorknobs were polished daily. The cobbled yards were swept by a line of students preceded by the water thrower. Buckets of water had to be thrown in front of the sweepers, to clean between the cobbles. The straw muck-heap was a work of art: square, with absolutely vertical sides higher than the centre. The finishing touch was to comb the straw into parallel lines. The instruction was excellent. We learned correct classical riding technique on a wide variety of horses and learned to teach clearly, thoroughly and safely.
I later learned that about one third of us passed (that was the average pass rate for the BHS Assistant Instructor exam). On the day following the exam, as a treat, we were allowed to choose our riding activity. Three of us chose a side-saddle lesson. The long-suffering horses developed a hairless shoulder patch from our swinging right feet and we all had huge bruises on the left thigh. It is true that falling out of a side-saddle is almost impossible. Once the legs are in place, it is difficult to get them out again. We were all able to canter and sit the odd little buck in moderate style by the end of the lesson. The tale of the jumping lane? Just that I was obliged to tackle a line of low jumps (no reins, no stirrups) with a novice horse, couldn’t stop at the end and jumped (sort of) the enclosing (supposedly) five-foot fence. The horse fell to his knees after crashing through the top rail. So did I. As I crawled around retrieving my hat, hairnet, spectacles, whip and gloves (I still don’t know how those came off), I consoled myself with the thought that it is better to die infamous than unknown! NOTE: Porlock Vale changed hands many years ago and is now a luxurious riding holiday centre. I am sure the hospitality and food in no way resemble those I experienced for three strenuous, not very pleasant, but definitely valuable, months of my youth. The scenery is fabulous! Were
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and photographs © Jean Morris. Reproduction of either the text or photographs |
Summer 1975. The sun shines on close-cropped green fields, which slope to a deserted seashore. The
Atlantic waves lazily approach, curl under and recede, jostling the
rounded pebbles of the beach. Overhead, seagulls call, and in the fields
a dozen figures dressed in blue shirts, blue ties, blue jeans and white
polka-dotted blue headscarves are bent double picking up stones. The
stones are thrown into a wheelbarrow, which is then trundled laboriously
to the beach, tipped empty and hauled back for another load.
Our days started at six o’clock for feeding, mucking out, sweeping and grooming.
We then rushed to the
classroom for a 45-minute lecture on horse care, ailments and injuries.
Breakfast followed. Picture, if you are not too squeamish,
long wooden tables reminiscent of a Victorian workhouse. A large plate of fried eggs
glistening with grease is slapped on each table. It is eggs or nothing,
and since lunch is generally insect-infested lettuce leaves, we
reluctantly help ourselves to eggs. Carefully layered between the
quivering yellow globules surrounded by gelatinous white are the corpses
of flies – not just one, you realize, but several. Every morning.
Fortified by breakfast, we changed into clean long-sleeved shirts, matching ties, tweed hacking
jacket, breeches, leather boots, gloves, hat and whip. On hot days we
were allowed to remove the jacket and roll up the shirtsleeves. However,
short-sleeved shirts were forbidden because, when riding with a jacket,
one must show half an inch of shirt cuff at the end of the jacket
sleeve. Of course either we all wore jackets, or none of us did – any
hint of individuality as expressed by mode of dress was forbidden.
The Saturday workers went on a long, often
challenging hack through the incredibly beautiful countryside. Narrow
slippery paths through darkly wooded hillsides led to bare, windswept
moors. We rode through the ruins of a house hidden in the woods, with
vines and moss growing over its stone walls.
We fee-paying and
working pupils saddled our own horses. Students preparing for the
Intermediate Instructor exam collected their horses, already saddled by
one of us, from his stall. Vacationers were hand-delivered their mounts
in the shade of the trees near the mounting block and senior staff
members were assisted at the mounting block.
A team of external examiners arrived for Examination Day.
We each rode six horses on the flat and two over a jumping course. There was a written examination
(five essay
questions), a stable management oral test and a practical test. We were
questioned individually on emergency procedures, then taught a group
lesson.