Silver Blue

Happy New Year everyone!

I haven't posted anything on here for a while- partly because I've been trying to pitch ideas to paid platforms, partly because time seems to become tighter with every passing week, but mostly because I haven't been hunting this season.

On the 3rd of November last year (2019) Bluey (Silver Blue) very sadly died. 2019 was not a particularly good year for him. In the spring he started to exhibit riggish behaviour with the mare in his field- prowling close to her, chasing off the other gelding, and displaying aggressive tendencies when I tried to catch him. Out riding he was constantly a jogging, sweating mess. That yard had just three horses on a tight grazing scheme, and there was no opportunity to keep him apart. By the summer the mare's owner (who also owned the yard) was too scared to walk in the field, and Bluey had reared up and struck out at the gelding's owner when she tried to catch him. He had started to charge at me when I walked to him, and then turn around and try to kick. I tried a rig supplement, which did nothing, so moved him to a new stables.

His behaviour seemed to improve- while recovering from a kick injury he allowed me to catch and bathe his leg daily- and then swiftly deteriorated. We tried him with geldings, on his own, with sheep, and with a mixed group. Wherever he was he was aggressive and violent, and by the end he wouldn't even follow the other horses out of the field. The few times I tricked him into being caught he was excellent to ride, but in all honesty I could count on two hands the number of times he was ridden from May to October.

By the end of October he tried to chase me from his field (charging, kicking, striking out) whether I had a head collar, no head collar, or even food. While the owner of the new yard was tolerant of him, I knew that I couldn't risk having him attack someone else who walked in his field, or hurt the resident dogs and livestock.

So on the 3rd November our huntsman and his wife came to the yard and managed to catch him (surprise of new people) although he tried to strike out at them too.

I owned Bluey for just shy of a decade, and in that time he had a number of near death experiences- the spindle cell tumour, the check ligament injury, the chipped bone, the Christmas Eve colic- which meant that I had had the opportunity to think about what I wanted for him at the end. This may sound morbid, but the truth of owning animals is that you have to be prepared to take responsibility for them for their whole lives- not just the fun parts.

Therefore I knew that Bluey would have a traditional hunter's end, which is held as the final mark of respect for a seasoned follower of hounds. At kennels I walked him round to see the Tivyside pack, who came to their gate and spoke to him. He watched them with pricked ears and wide eyes, and I could pull up memories of sitting astride him, feeling how his whole body responded to the sight and smell of hounds. While the huntsman got everything ready he had a quick graze, and then I held his rope as he died. Despite the fact that he must have smelt death in the air, he walked straight in to the room without any hesitation.

Bluey was the best horse I ever owned, and I suspect I ever will. He walked into every crowd as if they had come specifically to see him, he was contrary, had an opinion for everything, and was filled with all of the arrogance and pride of his Arab antecedents. He had a successful racing career, and in his retirement fulfilled every ambition I ever had growing up. Out hunting he was bold, clever, sharp, quick, and followed hounds with a sense of wonder. He took to side saddle as if he was born to it, nannied younger horses with a patience I never expected, and always, always ensured that he was the centre of attention. Despite the fact that he frequently bit me, he was also fiercely loyal, and once fought off a savage dog with an intensity that showed that he would have done it to the death. He was afraid of nothing, as independent as it's possible for an animal to be, and the finest example of what a thoroughbred can do. He charmed people from vets to farriers to onlookers at town centre meets, and he made me smile every day.

Bluey was both a perfect gentleman and a vicious devil; he was incredibly beautiful, but could pull the most frightful faces. He was as oxymoronic as his name and coat colour, but as reliable and trustworthy as an old pair of Ugg boots.

He was my perfect, fiery, Arabesque prince, who strutted through life as if he knew he was charmed. To paraphrase Marlowe, the stars that reigned at his nativity were configured in some way which saved him, time after time, and granted him a strange and sparkling power. Ultimately, no external factor could stop him.

Even after he died, he's kept up his disruption. I received countless kind messages recalling his exploits on and off the hunting field, reminding me that while he was my horse, through his stories and his presence a part of him was owned and loved by a wider community of readers and riders. When his passport was sent to Weatherby's for his death to be recorded, it went missing for seven days.

I was incredibly lucky to have found Bluey, and to have had him as part of my life for such a long time. He leaves a legacy of fun, endurance, grace, stamina, and pride. Wherever he is now he may be at peace, but his peace is one of restless energy, and contentment in action.

Hark, old horse!

The years reveal our fate,

If we should part before we wish,

Please meet me at the gate

For those reading this, I hope that you all have the opportunity, at least once in your lifetime, to be known by a horse like Bluey.

And for Bluey- I hope that you hunt the green fields of Elysium with all the courage and joy that you crossed hunting country from the Pembrokeshire coast to the middle of England. A foot follower once saw your prophet's thumbprint and told me that it was a mark of a blessing in the Islamic faith, a small connection to your ancestors, whose hooves marked the deep sands of the Middle East. You leave your mark in all the places that you went, and on all the people that you met.

Do not go gentle, into that dark night...

Rage, rage, against the dying of the light