Glare reduction

Kalara took advantage of two things last night, the downpour after the thunderstorm and the fact that it was too warm to rug the pony trio. Using her decisive horse sense (horses are only sensible when they decide to be) she knew today would be clear and sunny so she attempted a glare-reducing mudpack just like Bear Grylls'.

Quietly gleaming

The horses love to go halfway up the valley to a flat spot among our current crop of thistles and just mooch about. The weather gods have been playing with their yo-yos this spring but today was one of the sunny, warm days. Gem and Princess got in a spot of show practice, standing perfectly square and side by side for well over half an hour. It's highly unlikely these two retirees will ever be shown again, but they like us to know that they've still got it. Kalara, the oldest and most show-experienced was playing judge and scrutinising them from all angles.

Princess demonstrated how to be pretty and golden, but Gem showed everyone how to just ooze gloss. Kalara was clearly impressed when it came time to call the numbers.

There were no rosettes as this was only practice. Although they could have used the purple thistle heads.

Old winter coat

In patches all over the hills lately there are drifts of white stuff.

At first glance it looks as though there has been some sort of animal fight, they're tufts of white hair.
It just means it's now full spring and Kalara the grey mare is shedding again. Those are her rolling patches. She's mostly Arabian, but that tiny bit of Welsh Mountain Pony in her make up means she has a coat deep, dense and thick enough to stuff a horsehair sofa on her own. It starts as a lot of hairs sticking to the brush in late winter, and builds up to a crescendo where you can get handfuls off her by just by rubbing her with your fingers. Or even just looking at her. We spend hours grooming her and the hair just keeps coming. Sometimes I think that if we just kept on brushing her without stopping she'd be hair all the way to the middle and we'd end up with no horse at all. We get buckets of it, and we really do fill bags because I collect it for people with aviary birds. They love it for nesting material. Wild birds here also covet it as the essential luxury furnishing for their new homes.
On hot days the sheep wish they could shed their fleece the same way.

Mud pack for the beautiful

Gem got a new rug recently, and as it was the only rug ever bought specifically for him and not a hand-me-down from all our other rescue horses over the years, he was determined to keep it in good nick. After two weeks of wearing it in the winter landscape, he's doing remarkably well to keep it as clean as it is.

Princess, on the other hoof, just loves to roll and roll and roll. Preferrably in the muddiest place she can find. Perhaps she thinks it's good for her skin?

She also knows, being a Princess, that her 24/7 entourage of carers (all two of us) will brush her off when it's necessary that her golden colour be admired by all. Or when they don't want to be too embarassed by the state of their animals. That rug is actually green, by the way, although ultimately horses don't care what colour clothes they wear. In this weather, Kalara's just happy to be warm and dry at all.

Good for another 100,000 km

The horses got a good farriering today, their feet have been in muddy conditions for some time - just like the rest of them - and need constant care. It seems like only yesterday Farrier Mike was out here trimming their feet and fending off the dogs as this happens roughly every 6 weeks. Kalara had pointedly removed one of her front shoes on a fence so he came a bit earlier this time. They were also wormed because then I don't have to remember two 6-weekly repeat dates. Fully serviced. Ready to go.


I had to hose their lower legs off so he could work, also checking for greasy heel, rain scald and other nasties with nasty names. None were found and they were stored in the waiting room that is the yard. Princess killed time by doing a bit of gardening.


The conversation this time turned to how many lounge suites Farrier Mike had ended up with (five) and how many microwave ovens I had ended up with (also five) after combining our respective households with others. Most of the excesses had been given away or sold, but we still had enough horse gear of all vintages between us to open a tack shop.


The whole time Farrier Mike talked through a mouth full of nails, but was still understandable albeit a bit mumbly. He said the Occupational Health & Safety folk would have a fit. Farriery is a bit like firefighting in that to make something safe you have to face a bit of danger and there's simply no avoiding it - that part is the job. OH&S folk don't much like either.

One keen young OH&S fellow followed Farrier Mike on his rounds one day, making notes. For just one day. That was enough. He didn't come back. Farrier Mike sees to in excess of 200 horses and donkeys on his rounds, give or take, and he's been doing this for at least 15 years that I know of, probably quite a bit longer. He reckons having nails stuck to a magnetic wrist band or some other part of him would be much more dangerous. He would know. At least when he moves his head to avoid an annoyed horse he takes the nails away with it!

Clothes horses

With the recent days being sunny and mild but the nights clear and frosty, the horses have been changing their clothes like... well... clothes. Actually we have been changing their rugs for them. Sometimes this means fiddling about with acres of canvas and muddy buckles in the dark, but it has to be done. They are adept at getting out of their rugs when they wish, not so good at putting them on. Sometimes horses shedding rugs of their own accord results in buckles getting bent, straps broken or snaps snapped.

If it's Kalara however she can wriggle out of a fully surcingled winter rug and leave it lying unharmed in the paddock, buckles and straps all still done up complete and intact. We never see her disrobing and she always looks all innocence, blankly gazing about, kicking stones and whistling idly so we don't really know how she does it. She has learned this trick over the years because she couldn't always get clear of her clothes without being detected. Before we lived here I agisted her near a main road and several times kindly motorists called in to the house concerned about the little white horse with something tangled round her legs. To her credit she never panicked when she couldn't kick the rug clear. It was always intact and she was always found standing quietly, uninjured, patiently waiting for someone to release her.

Not so Princess, however, who can shred a rug to ribbons at 50 paces just by glaring at it. Part of the problem with horses trying to get their gear off is due to them getting too hot and/or itchy. Understandable then that they'd try to shed the source of the discomfort so we try to avoid this by dressing them appropriately for the weather. This is why they have accumulated waterproof canvas rugs for wet or rainy weather (light and heavy weights to cater for fog, damp, mist, rain and storms) quilted stable or under-rugs for cold weather (several of each for each horse, different weights), cotton sheets for sunny days when the ground is still wet and muddy (keeps the mud off their hair when they roll) and fly veils to attach to to their headstalls on hot, fly-ridden days. More clothes, in fact, than I have.

During the sunny days the rugs in use are hung on the gate, not the best practice due to the UV light breaking down the synthetic materials, but easier than constantly carting them all back and forth to the shed. Unfortunately this also facilitates their horsey use as serviettes for chaffy lips.

Morning ritual

Every morning lately the horses, who have about 20 acres of grassed and treed hills to roam on, stand in the muddy raceway instead waiting for breakfast to be served. Usually with the odd sheep or two who fancy their chances.

Kalara, the proverbial old grey mare, can be seen here inspecting the buffet laid out in the paddock next door.

The morning's routine includes throwing out hay for the dry ewes and wethers first, simply because they'll mob me for the horses' hay if I don't. The next step is to sneak through the garden hoping I'll get to the yards ahead of them in order to distribute rations without a riot. This usually fails because (before coffee hour), I invariably forget that the pet lambs will see me and protest - in rising harmonies - my walking past without dolling out the grub to them first.

Everyone else joins in and lodges their complaints in a series of neighs, whinnies, bleats, baas, grunts and cackles that has to be silenced in stages as I get to each yard or paddock.

At this stage Jelly, the tortoiseshell cat, will join me as overseer, trotting along behind me on my rounds, supervising proceedings from her chosen fence post. Then it's back up to the horse shed to replenish supplies for feeding out. Distribution is a bit like an obstacle course.

The pet lambs lay in wait behind the gum tree in their yard then jostle me from either side in a race to the shed, always hoping they'll dislodge my cargo before I get there. The breeding ewes wait for me to step over the fence with a bucket of sheep nuts in each hand, held high out of their reach like lanterns. Should they get their noses in the bucket too early the combined force of three or four sheep heads will mean I cannot raise the bucket again and it's game over. So instead they wait until I'm teetering over the fence and as many as possible get under my airborne foot, rendering me unable to put it down, and the rest push against the grounded foot to capsize me. For a few long moments I have to hold this one legged karate pose with the heavy buckets and if I'm lucky I'll get through the woolly mass upright. It's only occasionally they win. Usually when it's wet. The alpacas thankfully take a more subtle tack, waiting until I'm actually through the gate before descending, necks outstretched, on the hay. I simply have to keep out of the way. It's a good policy to keep out of the way of alpaca spit.

Then it's down to the chicken pen. Jelly waits discretely outside for this part. They are mostly benign, except for their protector and leader, Silver Boy the rooster. He's convinced I mean deadly harm and the mixed grain and hot bran mash is just a ruse for an enemy wanting admittance on false pretences and he isn't having any of that. If I'm quick I can feed them and get out again unscathed, but I use an old saucepan for the feed because it doubles as a self-defence mechanism. To be fair, I admire his courage and attacking ability. He's left a few dents in the saucepan.

Whilst the breeding ewes are staying in home paddock hotel they get extra service with hay as well, and the other animals want a piece of it. Including Jelly, apparently.

New shoes!

Kalara, Princess and Gem were visited by the farrier today - finally. They were a bit overdue for a foot trim and reshoe due to the lovely Mike deciding to have a life outside horses, getting himself married and going off on a long honeymoon. He's married a horsey girl, though, so that's alright. I mean she's horsey in that she has horses too, not that she looks like one.

All the horses are good to shoe although they jolly well should be as they're all what would be deemed as "very elderly". Each would have been shod about 250 times so far if they've always been looked after as we look after them. They get at least a trim every 6 weeks and new shoes if necessary. Gem is very laid back and knows how to take advantage of the ungrazed yard at the same time

The big bay doesn't have shoes on now as he liked to tell us we were slow to feed him by pawing at the fences until he got stuck, then hooking off his shoe by trying to pull his foot out. Due to the wire being caught between his foot and the shoe he often did damage - to himself as well as the fence. So he's one of the bare foot brigade now.

Here he is relaxing through the trauma of being filed by standing on just two feet.

Princess, however, just dozed through it all, hardly noticing.

Kalara, the true Grand Dame of being farriered, demonstrates the correct tripod-stance of a long-shoeing-experienced horse: