Book 3 – Jill Goes Pony Trekking

Chapter One – Craigie Show

Back in the dim and distant years of childhood, I went on a pony trek and oddly enough – true to every pony book tradition – it concluded with an impromptu gymkhana. This is more than a little unlikely, but as you know, I am subject to strange adventures and rather bizarre things do happen to me. Now, it had been planned for some time that I go down to the most marvellous Merrivales on Dartmoor and go pony trekking with them. My best friend Ann-Marie was going to take time off from her social whirl and was coming too.

In order to avoid a pony book cliché, I changed the order of events and got the gymkhana over and done with before the pony trek. In any case, although the Merrivales did go to some local gymkhanas in Dartmoor, they were far more interested in exploring the wonderful moorland that surrounded their remote farm. Their ponies didn’t exactly have that dusty, shabby look of the neglected and ungroomed, but nor did the estimable Merrivales spend hours toiling away cleaning tack and brushing and polishing. In fact, their ponies were shining and glowing just because they were bursting with health and happiness.

We could have concluded our trek by going to the famous Widdicombe Fair and even met the more famous Uncle Tom Cobbley, but, unfortunately, this takes place in September by which time I would be back in the Scottish Highlands helping with the last of the guests who come to our castle for the grouse shooting.  

However, I will begin this story with a gymkhana because indubitably it was that gymkhana that led to a series of events that greatly influenced the course of the narrative recounted in this book. It was the place where I met the mysterious Mungo, a rather good-looking and personable young man, and without Mungo, this story would not be complete. 

I had been training Balius, my big grey gelding, (quarter – Highland pony and three-quarters -Thoroughbred) for at least a year. Now was an opportunity for his debut into the competition world. I had high hopes for him as he was a magnificent horse, a wonderful gift from my step-father, Richard, and I was, hopefully, almost an accomplished horse trainer. Although I have to add, the more I learnt, the more I discovered there was to learn. I have the huge good fortune of having a smashing riding instructor, just two miles down the road, a stupendous woman and a friend, Linda, who owns the McNally Riding School. She has taught me loads about dressage, and I feel like I’ve moved up several levels in ‘real equitation’.

I had discussed Balius’s next step in his training programme, as she is my appointed ‘mentor’ and she agreed that Balius was ready for his first 

showjumping event. I was planning to three-day event him in a few years. Although we’re not quite ready for even the most novice of dressage events, we could begin with showjumping, which I’d been doing on my ponies, Black Boy and Rapide, all through my teenage years.

The show was in a small town, Craigie, about forty miles away and I had been hoping that John, my favourite groom, who worked at our stables, might be able to accompany me. Unfortunately, Mark had demanded that all the stable staff, except Hugh, should be going with him down south with a team of horses to enter a series of high-level three-day events. I had tossed my head haughtily at this point and declared that I was perfectly able to look after my own horses. 

Mark Lansdowne is my own personal bête noire, my step-father’s nephew, and he resented my mother’s marriage to Richard and our arrival at the castle and has been an absolute stinker to us ever since. He thinks that my mother is a gold-digger and that I am an annoying little girl who is threatening his dreams of inheriting Blainstock Castle, as his elder brother, Horatio will inherit his own family’s fortune on the adjoining estate. 

As far as Craigie Show went, I was determined that I was perfectly capable of looking after my own two horses as I hadn’t been born with a silver spoon, and I had always done everything for my ponies during my childhood. Only last year, I had driven all the way down to Cornwall to undertake an honest job of work and had managed just fine. I deliberately put out of my mind the time when Balius had got away from me in a lay-by and danced off, and it was only with the help of four enterprising young local boys that I had managed to recapture him.

Everything was organised for Craigie Show. My tack was cleaned to perfection, my best riding clothes hanging on a hanger, my riding boots polished within an inch of their life in a plastic bag, the horses in the trailer, and I found myself gliding down the twisting Highland roads to the show. I felt a little superstitious as if everything was going far too well. Some disaster must be lurking around the corner. The jumping classes began at eleven, and we just fitted into the ‘local category’ as the castle was within thirty miles as the crow flies, and I had entered both Copperplate and Balius. I would have plenty of time to tack up, make my entries, walk the course and get changed. There was an open class after lunch, and I had thought I would enter on Copperplate. She was my divine part-Arab chestnut mare, an experienced jumper that I had recently purchased. 

I had brought one of Richard’s Scottish deerhounds, the sweetest and loveliest of creatures, Sherpa. He was sitting up in the passenger seat beside me, watching the scenery go past in an intelligent and interested manner. 

Mummy and I had never had a dog and our only other species, besides my ponies, had been her collection of soulless hens. I had always believed that it was best to focus on just one species of animal to give them one’s all but having Richard’s dogs around was great fun, and I began to appreciate all their doggie virtues.

Balius and Copperplate were the best of friends and travelled happily together in the trailer, with no nipping or pecking at each other. We arrived at the tiny village of Craigie and bowled along past the sharply-spired local church with twisted yews and leaning tombstones. The hillsides that ringed the village were criss-crossed with drystone walls, and just for a moment I was distracted with mentally plotting a jumping course across the countryside, jumping wall after wall, but then I set my mind on the task at hand. 

As we drove through the entrance to the showground, the sun peeped out from behind the wispy grey clouds, which I took to be a good omen. All went smoothly and according to plan, as I unloaded the horses and tied them to the side of the trailer with a hay net each. I made my entries and then came back and got changed and saddled each of the horses. I decided to warm up Balius first. He was looking around with great interest at the brightly-coloured bunting that flapped in the gentle spring breeze, and the merry-go-round that was grinding in circles quite near the edge of the ringside. We trotted and cantered in circles until he settled down. Then, I rode him back to the trailer, loosened his girth, took off his bridle, and tied him up with his headcollar. 

Before I rode Copperplate, I had time to walk the showjumping course. It all seemed perfectly straight forward; the jumps were good distances apart, nothing tricky or just plain impossible. I paused for a moment before I dashed back to the trailer again and squinting my eyes, I mentally went through the course and made certain I knew the order of jumps.

I cantered Copperplate around the collecting ring while the first rider jumped. It was a well-known local professional showjumper called James Battleigh, and he went clear up until the last obstacle, a rather flimsy post-and-rails, which fell without him even seeming to knock it. He turned around and stared at it in astonishment but shrugged his shoulders in a sportsmanlike way and grinned at the crowd who cheered him. He was a favourite, the local boy made good.

Copperplate was an absolute star. We cantered in, and I got that feeling that nothing can go wrong, and we just flew around, clearing everything with several inches to spare. The loudspeaker announced a clear round, and the crowd clapped. I wasn’t unknown in this neck of the woods as gossip spins 

fast around this quiet neighbourhood, and most of the locals would know that I was the step-daughter of Richard Micheldever. 

“Well done!” said James Battleigh, which made me feel I was almost one of the inner circle!

However, I had no time to bathe in this small tub of glory, and I dashed back to the trailer, tied up Copperplate and mounted Balius. I should have been more cautious. He just didn’t feel quite right but still surfing the wave of glory from Copperplate’s clear round. I blithely assumed that everything would go well.

The best-laid plans – and all that! Balius trotted around the collecting ring, and he seemed to have settled down. He always felt big and a little clumsy compared to the lithe and experienced Copperplate, but, still, I don’t know how it happened. We jumped the first three jumps well, perhaps he leapt a little too high, but this was due to his inexperience, and he was trying desperately to do the right thing. We cantered around the far side of the ring and turned to face the double, and suddenly he went down on his knees, and I was catapulted like a javelin, head-first into the ground. I felt a tremendous jolt in my neck. I was vaguely aware of Balius scrambling untidily to his feet, and then I remembered nothing else until I felt myself being carried on a stretcher.

“Balius, where is Balius?” I asked, trying to think through the fog.

“Your horse is fine,” said a very Scottish voice. I felt weird, being carried across the ground, totally disorientated as I looked up at the sky. I felt like crying out for my mother, but I had just enough awareness to know that she wasn’t there. I tried to force myself awake, suddenly desperately scared that I had been paralysed. Then blackness flooded through my brain.

“Just lie down, lassie,” said the Scottish voice that I connected with a burly man in some sort of uniform.

I felt like giggling helplessly, thinking that I must have been transformed into a Collie dog. Perhaps I had suffered brain damage.

“What about my horse?” I asked again. But I couldn’t remember its name.

“The horse is fine, wee lassie,” he said to me.

Eventually, I began to feel more normal and tried to put the pieces of events together. I vaguely remembered jumping around with Copperplate but not a single thing about Balius’s round. A doctor arrived and shone a little light into my eyes and asked me how I felt. He told me that I probably had concussion. I explained that I was there on my own and I had to drive back to Blainstock Castle. They offered to ring someone to come and fetch me, but I couldn’t remember the phone number. I tried to recall it, but all I could 

remember was the number of Pool Cottage where I had lived with Mummy before we had come to the Scottish Highlands.

“Perhaps I might be of assistance.” I heard a peculiarly lilting male voice floating across the air. “Perhaps I could drive you and your horses home?” I looked and saw a young man who I didn’t recognise. Well, I thought I didn’t know him, but there was something strangely familiar about him. Then I began to wonder if I was brain-damaged and wouldn’t recognise anyone at all. He was tall and rather slender, wearing thick glasses which made his eyes look very small and hard, like sea-washed pebbles. His wavy blond hair was brushed forward in an unbecoming fringe, but his mouth was curved upwards in what appeared to be a perpetual smile as if he found the world always amusing. He was wearing neat grey slacks and a jumper with a green and blue harlequin pattern on it. In fact, he was dressed as if he were middle-aged. He was holding a blue rosette and seemed to be trying to present it to me. I wondered if I’d won ‘most spectacular fall of the day’ and giggled weakly. Apparently, my sense of humour was still intact!

“You won jumping the best round of the day!” he announced.

“Thank you, sir,” I said solemnly, thinking that perhaps I should put the rosette in my hair. My wits must have been returning, so I corrected him, “actually she’s chestnut, not golden.”

“She matches your golden hair,” he replied, unabashed. Actually, my hair is blonde, like wheat or corn, rather than golden like a chestnut horse.

I squirmed a little at that, I hate comments on my appearance, particularly from such a good-looking young man. Ann-Marie would probably have thought of a stunning quip, practised as she was in the arts of conversing socially with potential husbands. I hasten to assure you that I was not thinking about getting married or even acquiring a boyfriend at this point! 

“I’m sure I’m fine now, I have to get back to my horses,” I said, getting to my feet. Then I felt faint and began to sway.

“Not so fast young lassie,” said the First Aid man. “You’re certainly not driving in that condition.”

“Let me offer my assistance. I can drive, and I will escort you home,” said the young man.

“But I don’t even know you,” I protested.

“Let me introduce myself, Mungo McDonald.”

“Mungo?” I asked and felt the desire to laugh out loud. I don’t think I’d ever actually met anyone called Mungo, like a mung bean.

“Yes, it is an ancient name you know, Scottish or perhaps Gaelic, it is from 

the original ‘Munghu’, a name for an ancient saint from the seventh century, Saint Kentigern, he is the patron saint of Glasgow.”

“It must be rather cumbersome to have to carry around such a prestigious handle,” I said, tossing my head, trying to appear spirited.

“Yes, my people are the McDonalds on the Isle of Islay.”

“Well, it sounds like a very impressive pedigree,” I replied. “But I’m afraid I’m not Scottish.”

“But you live here?” he asked.

“Yes, my mother is married to Richard Micheldever of Blainstock Castle, that’s where I live.”

“Living in a castle must be terrific,” he enthused, sounding so boyish and genuine that I felt myself being won over by his charm. “Should I ring the castle and let them know what has happened?”

“No, no, it will frighten Mummy, and she’ll make a terrible fuss. If you really could drive me home, I’m sure Richard would give you a lift back. But do you live on an island?”

“No, I’m afraid the clan have spread out since then. I’m staying nearby with some relatives. I can ring them from the castle and get them to pick me up.”

“So that’s you fixed up,” said the First Aid man, packing his items into his bag. “Shall I escort you back to your vehicle, you do look a little shaky on your feet.”

I looked at the burly First Aid man and the elegant, almost foppish, young man and decided that I would cope much better leaning on the First Aid man’s arm, he looked very reliable and old and like an uncle.

“Where are my horses?” I asked.

“One of the other competitors led the big grey back to your trailer. I imagine they’re both there waiting anxiously for your return.”

I felt very silly and self-conscious leaning on the arm of the First Aid man. I was clutching my blue rosette. I saw Balius and Copperplate tied to the side of the trailer, looking around as if searching for me. Sherpa was sitting in the front seat looking out the window anxiously. Balius saw me and whinnied.

“Well, they know their mistress,” said Mungo.

“Have you ever towed a horse trailer before?” I asked doubtfully.

“I will have you know, I am experienced in all sorts of driving,” he said, smiling at me winningly.

“We have to load them, do you know anything about horses?” I asked.

“Well, there you have me, I’m afraid not.”

“We need to pack up the gear into the back of the Land Rover and then load the horses.”

“I’ve got to get back to my station,” said the First Aid man. “I can see that you’re in good hands.”

“You just sit down in the passenger seat while I pack up the equipment and then you can supervise the loading of the horses. I’m not sure that you’re totally recovered yet,” Mungo said to me solicitously.

I did feel rather weird, sort of fuzzy and floaty and I had to give in and surrender to his care. As soon as we got back to the castle, Richard and Mummy could thank him and see him on his way.

Everything went smoothly, and I found myself nodding off as we drove down the road. I was so muzzy that I couldn’t even enjoy the feeling of having won first prize with Copperplate. I just wanted to crawl into bed with the curtains drawn, and I can assure you that is not at all like me!

I managed to retain sufficient consciousness to give directions, and we arrived at Blainstock Castle. I do live in a Highland castle, however unlikely that might be, and it is a proper castle with round towers and pointed windows and a parapet. There are also dead animals’ heads with glassy eyes looking down on you when you are seated at the dining-room table. I gestured to Mungo to drive around to the stable yard. All of the staff, except Hugh, had been snaffled by Mark, and there was no one around.  

I fell out of the Land Rover and found myself tripping over my own feet. I sprawled on the ground most inelegantly. Felt like a total klutz. Mungo was the perfect gentleman and offered to help me up, but I was too embarrassed, and I struggled to my feet and stumbled over to the office. I rang through on the intercom and asked Richard to come and help. He hurried over with Mummy, who led me away to the castle. I was feeling very queasy and was happy to surrender. Mummy took me up to bed, and assured me that the doctor would be called, and I wasn’t to worry. She and Richard would manage everything. I sank into a soft black cloud of unconsciousness.

I don’t even remember the doctor coming in. Apparently, he advised Mummy that I was to stay in a darkened room for several days. On Wednesday, I woke up feeling more like my usual self and carefully walked downstairs, hanging on to the bannister rail, so I didn’t fall down our stone staircase.