Some of my fondest memories were dropping down through the countryside of Northamptonshire in Autumn, looking at the red, yellow, ochre and russet leaves as we drove. We passed pheasants standing proud in fields or verges with much to say if we would stay a little while and listen. Crows sat on stone walls or fences unalarmed, just patiently waiting for us to pass by as dad drove us to the stables.
Peter ran it. He was 40, small, a mop of darky curly hair and a wise face, with crows' feet that would draw together whenever he smiled. His polished brown boots were immaculate, his jacket always sitting perfectly and his stance one of quiet enjoyment of everything around him. When we arrived it was normally misty or, later in the season, a bit foggy. The car park was on a rise overlooking the quadrangle yard of that bright north Northamptonshire stone and to one side behind some holly bushes and bay trees a steaming muck heap would send a flame-like smoky vapour into the air. Pine trees and oaks framed the house and grooms' cottages and I knew this is where I wanted to be. I wanted to live here.
As I walked down from the car, the ad hoc clink of a door bar being kicked or the hollow drum sound of a bucket being dropped onto the floor climbed into the air letting us know this was really a quiet place. Sounds were quietly accepted, nothing more.
Into the stables office right by the tack room was a lady whose name I never remember, but she will remember my name now. They had that kind of way. On the desk next to a beautifully written leather booking ledger was a big red phone, the sort that when you dialled it up from home on a similar phone that was green, the dial would slowly perform giving you enough time to think about what to say, even though then there were only seven numbers to dial.
Saffron was my first pony. It cost my parents £2.50 for me to end up on my back on a tarmac road because a local driver from the quarry drove too fast. It ripped my duffel coat, but I got back on. That was the whispered gossip of the yard that morning "Qisk's first lesson and they got back on!" Peter was kind to us and the staff. He had several years in the Househould Cavalry and first and foremost the horses and ponies came first. But us kids were never far behind.
That Christmas I had my first pony. I went onto do other equine things. I tried to follow Peter's ways and when I outgrew my pony, she went to Peter's yard. I last saw her some 12 years' later under some apple trees in a meadow with some other retired ponies. She came home. On the fence was a pheasant and it was October and mellow again.