With a degree and many photographs of me in a silly hat under my belt I moved, as people do, to an entirely new area. I knew no-one and had no contacts. I promised myself then that I would accept every invitation I got, and invite myself along where possible. The result of this was me tagging along with some colleagues to a friend’s friend’s birthday night out.
The birthday girl in question is what I believe is called an Event Rider (or something of that nature), riding very expensive and very beautiful horses in very competitive events – and being paid for it. We arrived at her house, and as it opened the big wooden gate (a novelty in itself) revealed a variety of buildings looming up in the darkness: a house, a very big shed (this turned out to be the stables), and what looked like a giant’s food mixer set into the ground: a sort of wall or fence (the mixer’s blade) fixed to one side of a central post, making out the radius of the circular wall around it. Three statues of horses stood in the gravel drive. Looking at the buildings and machinery around us as we pulled up, I opened my mouth and declared: “I’ve never been on a farm before”.
This obviously isn’t true. We’ve had family holidays staying on farms, where we’d chased chickens (when I was little) and bottle feed lambs (when I was a little bit older), and primary school trips had given me great experience of orienteering through mazes made of small hay bales. But as a newly initiated adult, I’ve never been on a farm as a venue for a visit, party, occasion or any event other than visiting a farm.
The truth of the statement turned out to matter not a bit, as the three other occupants of the car burst out laughing. It wasn’t apparently a Farm at all, but a Horse Yard, where some of the aforementioned very expensive very beautiful horses ridden in the events lived, slept, were fed and watered, washed, brushed and sunbathed (there was actually a contraption to give the horse sufficient UV something rays. I’m sure there’s a legitimate explanation for why the horse needed a tanning salon but I can’t for the life of me remember it). To me it still sounds like type of farm – one for horses – but there you go. So with another faux pas and much hilarity enjoyed by my new friends, my country education progressed another step.
Meeting the horse later was a whole other experience in and of itself. The beast was huge. And we’d had a few drinks, making all the bigger. I made sure to stay near the head end of the animal, on the other side of the wall to talk to it through the little window. And I have to admit, though I’ve never cared much for horses, admired and petted from a safe distance, it was a stunningly beautiful, powerful-looking creature, glossy and silky silky smooth to touch – and its legs looked so muscular I felt fully justified in my decision to stay near the head end. But then, for £45,000 I should hope it would be a fit and healthy specimen.
The blasé nature of how the others waltzed into the stable showed me another entirely alien side to country folk. The hostess grabbed a large dustpan and brush quickly mucking out the horse before we set out for the night, despite her cream satin dress and matching heels, her devotion to the horse more important than her outfit (though she somehow managed to stay as clean and cream as she’d gone in) and her devotion to the animal was obvious. I think, one day, I’d like to learn to ride. Something to add to the list.
During the drive home the next day I provided yet more amusement for my friends when I mentioned someone I met at university who farms beef and peas. I explained that he was a meat farmer, thinking before I opened my mouth (for once) that a herd of cattle could be farmed for milk as well as meat – and I was quite proud of this forethought and the resulting distinction. Again, raucous laughter pervaded the car, as one of the boys, the nephew of a dairy farmer, kindly explained to me as one might to a small child the different genres of cattle farming: dairy vs. livestock (and peas are a type of arable farming). As with the yard/farm differentiation, I maintain that farming livestock is the same as farming meat, but as being laughed at every time I speak about it might get a little time consuming, I’ve tried to take it all on board. I started afresh, talking about someone I’d met at university who was a livestock farmer (and who also grew peas).