Mithril Welsh Stud - a passion for ponies

STORIES

MITHRIL WELSH PONIES

Mithril Welsh Stud -

a passion for ponies

This story, a history of the stud, was written for the Welsh Pony & Cob Society of Australia Journal, 2003. Some of the information contained in it is no longer current.

HOW WOULD YOU COPE with a kid who rode a phantom horse from morning to night and who trotted and cantered everywhere instead of running and skipping? I was a horse nut from an early age and it must have driven my parents potty. I neighed or nickered in response to questions. I held on to imaginary reins even while eating and I learned to eat with one hand to stop the ‘horse’ bolting off during dinner. Funny thing, ‘she’ (it was always a mare - learned to take off when pumpkin was on the plate and took so much controlling that two hands were necessary (who can eat pumpkin when both hands are full of reins?). And for some reason she just walked along quietly through dessert.

My mum had always been keen on horses, had ridden for pleasure and used a horse and sulky for transport up until about 1950, but it still got up her nose that I constantly moved in the ‘saddle’ whenever I sat down - but what sort of a rider just sits there like a bag of spuds?

I kept trying and pestering, but as suburbia crept closer to our home at Rosanna, the likelihood of my parents giving in to pressure and buying me a horse of my own faded.

When I was about nine, a fellow rented a big paddock just up the road, filled it with horses and began to hire them out by the hour. This drew me like a magnet attracts pins and I spent every minute I could up there. For several years I walked to school to save the bus fare and spent the money on hiring horses.

After my ‘paid for’ time, I hung around all weekend, looking for the chance to ride some more. I got plenty of riding - plenty of falls, too, because as my skills improved the owner came to use me as a test pilot on the newest acquisitions. Most of the horses and ponies were very green and some had barely been ridden, but somehow I survived with my nerve intact - maybe developing a mental image of yourself doing stuff actually works the way sports psychologists say it does!

Although I was always extra keen to try out the ‘off the track’ Thoroughbreds and trotters which came along, my favourites were the bigger ponies. I loved their keenness, sure footedness and the ‘go all day’ quality which made them a more practical mount than their larger chaff-burner cousins. One especially stands out in my memory - Rusty was about 14 hands and showed evidence of some Arabian blood. I realised in later years that he looked rather like a large Section B pony. He was my chosen mount when there was an errand to run as there wasn’t a fence in the district he wouldn’t jump, which saved many miles of riding. It took no time at all to loosen the saddle, draw out the saddle blanket, lay it over the wire then replace it once we were on the other side of the fence.

On my rides around the district I often passed View Bank and was enchanted by a group of beautiful chestnut ponies with flaxen manes and tails. Twenty or so years on in 1974, I was married and had two small children. Encouraged by my husband Ian, I made the decision to begin breeding ponies, and the image of the pretty ponies on the hill at Heidelberg remained fresh in my mind. When the late Faye Smith offered me a similarly coloured Mountain Pony colt, I purchased him, the first registered pony I ever owned, although my primary interest then and now was in Section B ponies. Over the years I have bred all sections of the stud book, but the Bs have always been the mainstay.

Back in 1974, it was next to impossible to buy Section B ponies, male or female. To acquire Section A mares, short of getting lucky and being able to import from New Zealand or the UK, the only way was to put your name down on the long list at Fairway or Nattai stud and wait for your filly to be born - you didn’t have the luxury of choosing which filly, as if you didn’t want the one you were offered, there were several other people waiting to taker her. However, Mr Bill Bull, President of the newly formed WPCSA, made me aware that it was possible to use a registered Welsh A or B stallion over suitable unregistered mares to produce Foundation Stock Section B females, so I decided that if I couldn’t buy Welsh mares, I would breed my own. I recognised back then that a stud is only as strong as its mares - but looking back at our ad in the 1978 Journal, onlookers could have been forgiven for thinking I had a different idea! The ad featured three stallions.

The stud was registered in 1974 and the name ‘Mithril’ as a prefix seemed apt to me - I had just finished reading Tolkien’s classic ‘Lord of the Rings’. I’m really chuffed with the publicity the recent film has given the stud name! Mithril of course is the beautiful and durable metal prized by all the folk of Middle Earth and wrought by the dwarves into a chain-mail shirt which saves Frodo’s life when he is attacked by the cave-troll. My aim back then and ever since has been to breed ponies which are beautiful, durable and functional, like the metal described by Tolkien.

During 1974 I managed to buy a number of nice but unregistered pony mares, and due to the lack of access to any Section B stallion, sent them off to visit a good Mountain Pony, Nattai Sundial. Next spring four foals arrived, three colts and a filly. In our quest for stud females, we were off to a poor start!

Meantime we had purchased the weanling colt Cefil Bach Angwyn mentioned above; I though he would be suitable to breed Bs because his pedigree led me to believe he would be a big pony, and this proved to be right - he had to be ‘carefully’ measured to qualify for Section A classes later in his life. We used him for one season when he was two, then he was sold on and became the foundation sire for Trevor Brand’s Yarrandale Stud. This sale also led to an enduring friendship with the Brand family; the circle of friendship based on mutual interest in the Welsh breeds has continued to expand through the years.

Angwyn (who had left us four colts and filly - we were still not getting very far with the FS mares!) was sold to finance the purchase of Owendale Warwick, a black Section B colt, one of the first Australian born foals of Sir Percy of Paxhall (Imp UK). Warwick was out of the wonderful old mare Nattai Windflower (Nattai Moonlight x Nattai Sunflower by Ceulan Comet Imp UK) and so was very closely related to the successful show mare Owendale Brandy (Sir Percy of Paxhall Imp UK x Nattai Evening Star by Nattai Moonlight x Nattai Lady Starlight by Ceulan Comet Imp UK) - Brandy of course went on to be a super producer at Owendale, as Warwick was for Mithril.

Warwick brought a change of fortunes for us in the filly stakes. In his first season at stud as a two year old, he sired six fillies out of the unregistered mares, two of which we retained - they both went on to be good show mares and also produced a number of successful progeny including the Victorian All Welsh Champion Gelding and later Runner Up Queensland Pony of the Year Mithril Music Man. At last we felt we were getting somewhere. Over the years the ‘Warwick’ mares were very popular and they were gradually sold, but just recently I have bought back Mithril Winsome x Cefn-on Parc Ceinwen) ‘for old time’s sake’ - one of the few purebred daughters we had by him.

We were offered Twyford Skylight (Imp UK) (Coed Coch Pedestr x Rhyd-y-Felin Seren Wyb by Tan-y-Blwch Berwyn) and after some adventures, eventually bought him. My parents, helping us out, bought Kinlieth Falcon (iid) (Downland Kestrel x Cennen Partridge by Coed Coch Dinorben). Later on we also bought a good son of Skylight’s, Fairway Skyline (x Fairway Miranda by Coed Coch Senig Imp UK). Most of the mares in the stud today are descended from Twyford Skylight, either directly or via Skyline.

When I began to breed ponies, the last thing on my mind was the show ring; I aimed to breed good sound ponies for the children and myself to ride. However, I came to realise that showing is a necessary part of marketing the ponies and can also provide a measure of how close you are breeding to the standard of excellence.

The trap in showing, of course, is that from time to time the fashion changes, even within a breed with a well-defined standard like the Welsh. During the 70s and 80s this was particularly noticeable in the Section B ring. At one time it was very difficult to tell whether you were watching Section Bs or Riding Ponies and it seemed that my ponies were distinctly ‘old fashioned’. I was sure that what I was producing was ‘Welsh’ - but many judges seemed to disagree. However, I stuck to my guns and the wheel has come full circle - bone and substance are once more appreciated in the Section B ring and my ponies are often at or near the top of the line at the big shows.

We have had our share of showing success in both Welsh and open classes with the ponies, both bought in and home-bred. Kinlieth Falcon (iid) proved to be a wonderful show pony both in hand and under saddle. With Caroline-Ann Hewat as trainer and jockey he won the Mountain and Moorland Ridden Stallion class at Melbourne Royal for the first three years it was run; he also won his section of the Welsh One Day Event three years in a row as well as winning many championships in hand and under saddle.

As time went by it became easier to buy Welsh mares, and I acquired some lovely purebred mares for the stud. One of particular note was Coxwold Puffin (Imp UK) (Coed Coch Pedestr x Coxwold Meadow Bunting by Solway Master Bronze), purchased from Pauline, Bob and Darrel Owen of Owendale. Unfortunately Puffin was great colt producer. Her only filly for us was a beauty, Mithril Pauline’ (x Kinlieth Falcon iid). Pauline, though a diminutive 11.3 hands despite her dam being 13.1 hands, was judged Best Youngstock Section B at the Victorian All Welsh Show by Cerdin Jones of Synod Stud, UK, and was later sold to Korea. Puffin’s most enduring legacy to me was via her Fairway Skyline son Mithril Pendragon, who produced my best ever show mare and all time favourite, Mithril Promise out of Ripple Brook Dame Pattie. I lost Promise in a paddock accident last year, but fortunately have two of her daughters to continue the line.

The Oldcastle family generously leased me some of their beautiful Rahane bred mares for breeding and Mithril Hobby (Fairway Skyline x Rahane Thalia) and Mithril Mary Kathleen (Owendale Brandyman x Rahane Pansy) are still in the stud.

Our children rode from an early age and mostly on ponies that I had bred. Like me, they enjoyed ‘doing things’ on horse back - I used the ponies on the farm as irrigator’s mount and also for stock work and the kids followed suit. They seemed to take to heart the advice of Old Harrison to Clancy, “Ride boldy, lad, and never fear the spills”. Many times my heart was in my mouth as I watched them on bush rides or at One Day Events - tearing around the red gum forest jumping logs and scrambling up and down the river bank (in and out of the water) on their ponies.

At the first ever Welsh One Day Event held at Suellen and Anthony Deane’s property at Tonimbuk, Lara won the section for A or B ponies, rider under 12 years, on Mithril Arwen - the first female to carry the Mithril prefix. Her younger brother Paul missed out on a ribbon in the 8 years and under to be led section when the leader (me!) dislodged the top rail of the last jump with a toe!

Lara and Paul both enjoyed Pony Club eventing, competing successfully on home-bred ponies up to Grade 2. The ponies by Skylight were particularly keen jumpers. You had to be be careful what you faced them to as they would always have a go as I realised one day when riding Lara’s Pony Club mount Mithril Guinea. I was cantering him down the road when we came to a a dump of blue metal screenings waiting to be used by the shire. I turned him towards the pile which was about three feet high. I suppose that I imagined he would jump up and stop on the top of the heap, but he treated it like an Irish bank - he leapt up, then bounded off the top and into the deep ditch full of water and cumbungi on the other side.

As a breeder, the real puzzle came when I had to find a suitable stallion to cover the mares by Warwick, Skylight and Skyline. Various stallions were tried but I couldn’t get the ‘click’ I wanted, until I purchased the two year old colt Owendale Brandyman’ Croston Cufflink Imp UK x Owendale Brandy) in 1989. Brandyman turned out to be just what I needed. He is a big pony, right up to height, and produced good sized progeny from the mares. When broken to saddle he proved to be a wonderful ride and his calm temperament is legendary.

At a show when he was a three year old, tied to the side of the truck and enjoying his hay net, a young child whose attention was concentrated on the show bag he carried in one hand, the fairy floss in the other and the whistle in his mouth crashed into Brandyman’s hind legs. I was standing too far away to have done anything to save the kid had the pony kicked and watched open-mouthed as the boy floundered around, hitting the pony first with the fairy floss then with the show bag then with the fairy floss again, all the while keeping the whistle going. Brandyman didn’t even shift his feet.

Four of my current brood mares are by Brandyman, three out them out of the Skylight/Skyline line. I sold Brandyman to Melanie May of Karideen Lodge Stud several seasons ago, but have plans to use him again in the future.

Over the last two seasons, thanks to the generosity of Jannys McDonald, I have been very fortunate to have the use of the wonderful old stallion Coed Coch Llabed (Imp UK) (Solway Master Bronze x Coed Coch Llawrig by Coed Coch Berwynfa). Llabed has crossed wonderfully well over my mares.

In recent years I have reduced the number of ponies bred each year due to the continuing drought, but this season’s foals - three fillies and a colt all by Llabed, are the best ever I think.

I have always tried to produce ponies which are well balanced and sound, ponies which will be able to live long, useful and happy lives. Fashions come and go, but the enduring qualities embodied in the best of the old Welsh bloodlines will continue to bring pleasure and pride to those lucky enough to be involved with this special breed.

Lara and Mithril Guinea.

Photo: Gary Jameson

“DIDN’T YOU HAVE a nice roll top desk?” asked mother as she surveyed a mess of papers, photos, drawings and files on our dining room table. Well yes, I did, until I saw Sir Percy of Paxhall (Imp) at Melbourne Show way back in 1975 and subsequently bought his first Australian born purebred son, Owendale Warwick, out of the veteran brood mare Nattai Windflower.

I also had a rather nice water colour painting, some jewellery, a 16 hand hack and Welsh Mountain Pony colt, but I sold them all to acquire Warwick. I snivelled to myself all the way to Gippsland, but when I saw him again with his gleaming black coat, flashing eyes, tiny shapely ears and dainty muzzle, I knew I had done the right thing.

He danced into the float to stand next to little Snowball, brought along to keep him company. By the time we were half a mile down the road, he was hoeing into the lucerne in the hay net. I had a tense trip wondering if he would continue to behave well and arrived home stiff and tired - Warwick waltzed off the float full of beans and fresh as a daisy. He settled in perfectly, made himself immediately at home and demanded room service. This lordly attitude we came to realise is typical of him - he expects attention and respect from everyone.

After two years of looking for a Section B stallion or colt, we had at last found personality, conformation and breeding combined in one beast. We’ve had some great times with ‘Rocky’ and our share of show successes with him and his progeny, but most of all we appreciate him for his great personality. He is often a step and a half ahead of us, one of those ponies who would be in his element as a trick horse, reading, counting, etc.

When it was time for him to be broken to saddle, he went as a matter of course to Colin Hicks, a breaker of 30 years experience with all types of horses, who has a special affection for ponies. Col fell under Rocky’s spell, and was full of praise for his beauty, brains and ability until the day he led him home to us for a visit. Col arrived with Warwick on one side of the lead horse and a hot-blooded Thoroughbred filly on the other. They looked like a droving camp on the move - legs bandaged heavily, big stock saddles, cruppers, breastbands, super bags and plastic streamers all over them, with bags full of tins clanking as they walked, all in the cause of bomb-proofing.

Rocky was pleased to be home. He called out to his mares and they rushed up to the fence to goggle in amazement at the apparition. They stared fascinated while we had a cuppa, then Col took off for home with his cavalcade, the mares calling after their youthful lord and master - they weren’t fooled by the fancy dress. Rocky was not pleased about leaving. We heard him calling out as they disappeared down the road.

Next day Col arrived riding Rocky and leading another youngster. Col asked in a rather pointed way what I considered Warwick’s worst fault. With a feeling of deja vu (I was sure we’d had the conversation before), I said I sometimes thought he could do with a slightly longer neck, though he had a good length of rein.

“Fixed that yesterday,” said Col, and went on to explain that just as he passed the end of our property on the previous day, Rocky planted his feet in the middle of the road, and refused to budge. He was sure he was home for good, and determined to stay there.

While Col was elongating Warwick’s neck for me, with the lead horse in four wheel drive and the Thoroughbred filly having fits because of the delay, a 60 car funeral arrived at the cemetery. Col’s little troika was effectively blocking most of the road in front of the gate.

“What did you do?” we gasped.

“Took off my hat,” drawled Colin. “At least the little bugger is black.”

Col and Warwick didn’t let this contretemps worry them. Rocky’s education progressed well, and he came home to us some weeks later going beautifully under saddle, always gay and keen to see what was going on around the roads and farms, and willing to go forward through or over anything.

He learned to work cattle it seemed in minutes - stallions have that inbuilt urge to gather up and send along a herd of stock. He learned to be irrigator’s pony, although he wasn’t altogether trustworthy when left at the ends of bays with the reins on his neck (you can’t ‘ground tie’ an irrigator’s pony, the reins get wet!). There always seemed to be a filly somewhere that required his attention and as it isn’t convenient to be tying and untying a pony while chasing water, he was excused further duty in this line.

We used him under saddle all the next winter, then he did a few shows locally before being turned out with his mares. His first foals were on the ground and we were thrilled with them - seven fillies and a colt, most of them brown or bay, and all with tiny ears, big eyes, good limbs and that unmistakable ‘Percy’ look.

Warwick loves his mares and takes a personal interest in his foals, spending lots of time babysitting while the mares get on with the serious business of eating. Over the years he and I have developed a good working relationship about stud duties. Mostly his mares run out, but if he is required to serve in hand he is happy to oblige.

When it is time for preg testing visiting mares, Rocky is our first guide as we take the mare out of his paddock. Mostly he takes an interest in what we are doing, but makes no objection. A few times he has made a real fuss, trying to hustle the mare back, standing in the gateway, etc and we have found the mares treated like this to be not yet in foal.

Well, there he is out there, my roll top desk on four legs. Shining black coat, flashing dark eyes with almost hypnotic power, ears pricked attentively as he supervises us all in our daily activities. I value him far above furniture, jewellery or paintings.

This story was first printed in the annual Journal of the Welsh Pony & Cob Society of Australia, 1985

“THEY ALL DO IT IN WALES.” “I wouldn’t risk it.” “They make a bit of noise at first, but they soon settle down.” “They would kill each other for sure.”

After several years of discussing the pros and cons of running stallions in the same paddock over winter, last year we finally decided to take the plunge. Armed with advice from people who had done it successfully, we carefully laid our plans and made preparations for weeks beforehand.

Each of the stallions was gradually deprived of his harem, until there were three rather cranky ponies running up and down their fencelines, making faces at each other and calling out hopefully to us whenever we went near. We left them by themselves for a week, by which time they had settled back to bachelor life and stopped being agitated.

Finally the big day arrived. We had chosen a seven-acre paddock visible from the house and had kept horses out of it for some weeks after harrowing, so that there would none of those exciting piles around that turn stallions on. The idea was now to let all the stallions go at the same time, to prevent anyone from having first claim to the territory.

Twyford Skylight (Imp UK) was led into the paddock and tied securely to a post in the fenceline, and Ian’s mother stationed outside the fenced with instructions to undo the lead-clip and let Skylight loose with his headstall on when we were ready to let the others go. This was an emergency compromise when we realised that we had only two experienced stallion handlers on the place.

All went well. Ian led a very lively Thorpeville Fanfare into the paddock and out to the far corner, Fan shaking his luxurious mane, dancing, leaping in the air and calling out loud challenges to everyone.

I led Owendale Warwick who was behaving like a real gentleman. I should have been suspicious. He stood politely while I shut and fastened the gate. He walked sedately past Skylight, who stood like a rock but emanated almost visible rays of antipathy. Warwick and I reached our spot in the paddock. I took my eyes off him while I checked to see if the others were ready. Warwick took two quiet steps backwards, flipped his tiny ears a bit, dropped his head and there he was – naked – with the bridle lying on the ground and me staring at it in disbelief.

The little black devil threw up his head and looked at me for second, rolled a wicked eye like Moby Dick just before he munched up the Peacod, whirled around and charged off – hell bent for Skylight, still tied to the fence.

I found my voice and yelled to let them all go; no one seemed to understand. With nightmare slowness the message got through, but poor Skylight, unused to being free with a headstall on, was convinced he was still tied up. He stood his ground as a black fury bore down on him, mouth open, eyes blazing, ears pinned back right out of sight. Murder seemed imminent.

Skylight decided to go down fighting and roared like a train in a tunnel. Grandma shrieked and jumped away.

Warwick slid to a halt. Skylight realised he was free and spun around to meet Warwick head on. Fanfare, who had stood riveted to the spot watching, pranced over to join the action – and there they were, nose to nose, breathing in great snorts, squealing, snorting, striking, whirling away and kicking thin air.

Hearts thumping we watched as the stallions reared and screamed, the black, the white and the roan all going up at once.

A weak voice calling, “Help, help, oh help,” which I at first took to be my subconscious slowly penetrated. It was Grandma. Her frightened leap had landed her in two feet of muddy water in the irrigation channel.

Leaving the stallions to sort it out, we rushed to the rescue. A very muddy and wet Grandma was helped out of the water and her shoes retrieved.

The screaming continued in the paddock behind us. I was nearly sick with anxiety about the stallions but common decency prevailed. We dried Grandma off as well as we could and headed back towards the house. Grandma bumped into the fence. We realised that she had lost her glasses.

We retraced our steps – no sign of them. We probed in the channel with no result. The tractor was brought up, the water blocked off, the pump hooked up. We scrabbled around in the mud and ooze left behind as the water level dropped.

With a yell of triumph Ian grabbed the glasses from amongst the weeds and nearly hit Warwick on the nose with them. Three interested faces regarded us over the fence. They looked at us. They looked at each other. Then off they went, galloping in troika formation, stopping, rearing up, biting at legs and kicking out. It occurred to us at this point that not a blow had landed.

The diversion with Grandma’s glasses had carried us through the worst of the sound and fury. We went away and left the boys to it.

The stallions settled down in less than 24 hours, but continued with their galloping and rearing at intervals. They were paddocked together all winter and seemed to enjoy each other’s company. They grazed together and although they never socialised to the point of mutual grooming, they spent a lot of each day blowing in each other’s nostrils, squealing, striking and playing chasey.

With the spring and the first of the new season’s foals, the games became rougher and we separated them out again to run with their own bands. We plan to run them together again this year as they have never gone into spring looking fitter or more full of zest.

However, the first hour probably took five years off my life and added several grey hairs to my head. I would not recommend the experience to the faint-hearted.

Warwick and the roll top desk

Not for the faint-hearted ...

Stud season at our place is like staging a grand Italian opera with the cast drawn from a women's college on the weekend of the intervarsity athletics comp. There are strong overtones of bedroom farce and melodrama.

We shuffle mares around the place trying to keep the destination of each a secret from the stallions so they don't get huffy when they work out they aren't each getting all the mares. The plot lines contain all the classic themes of opera … love, hate, jealousy … with the added elements of farce … lots of coming and going with ponies popping in and out of paddocks and stables until a map of their movements looks like a star chart.

I seem to spend a lot of time catering to the whims and desires of cast members … soothing bruised egos, encouraging cooperation and effort from the shy members and controlling the boisterous displays of others. I play the part of producer, director, stage manager, chief cook and bottle washer. My husband is the financial backer … the 'suit'.

The young stallions are the tenors. Full of fire and passion, they are the equivalent of the all-star relay team. Arrogant, brash and full of confidence, they are sure that they deserve the lion's share of success. For them, this seems to be measured by the number of mares in their paddock. They question me closely whenever I go near to make sure that I haven’t been talking to the fellow down the lane. If I am inconsiderate enough to put the chestnut's headstall on the brown, chestnut sulks. Reverse it, and brown has a tantrum.

The grand old horse is the baritone and appears as the world-weary but ever-so-attractive coach. He's a bit more laid back about my contact with the other stallions but gets pretty interested if my hand smells as if I might have been in close contact with a mare

The assorted geldings around the place play the male chorus. You know, they get to make a lot of noise without moving the plot along. And they never end up as anything but best friends with the female cast.

The mares and fillies (read the sopranos and the women's chorus line) make their own plans and schemes that are often but not always thwarted by fate (read the management - that is, me).

One favourite old mare, the primadonna, used to try for special privileges and seemed to threaten to leave the cast unless we complied with her wishes. Having been a model of decorum throughout her pregnancy she became a scarlet woman once the foal arrived. We had trouble keeping her where she was put until she was put where she wanted to be … with a stallion. I don't say she was a tart, but she didn't seem too fussy which stallion. Most years we had to retrieve her from the laneway because she managed to slip past while we were trying to get a foal to follow its mother through a gateway. She was always making a beeline for the closest horse, which would be leaning over the fence barracking like mad. In the theatre, her antics would have been recognised as upstaging everyone else.

But one year she succeeded in making her own arrangements and we found her (and her week old foal) paddocked with the stallion of her choice. She was wearing a disgustingly smug expression and was so PLEASED with herself. The only way she could have ended up in the honeymoon suite was by swimming down the irrigation channel (and ducking her head to get under the fences that crossed it), climbing out, crossing over to another channel and then doing it all over again. Oh well, I thought at the time, perhaps he's an inspired choice … he wasn't the stallion I'd planned to put her to, but it was fairly obviously too late to worry. The resulting foal was a corker and went on to win as a stallion and then had a huge saddle career as a gelding, so she must have known what she was up to.

Devious as she was, she wasn't a patch on a mare that belongs to friends. This little treasure has had seven foals over the years … not one of them planned (by the owners, that is.) Ain't no mountain high enough etc. to keep her away from the fellas when the fancy takes her.

As I said, I do usually manage to keep things under some sort of control but it takes a lot of vigilance. These are not aristocratic Thoroughbreds which have had their marriages arranged for them, dowries paid and dynasties worked out by humans for centuries. They are ponies, used to managing their own affairs and thriving on adversity. Their ancestors lived in the wild hills of Wales, where they wore the centuries away doing what came naturally and thriving on it. Hardy and independent, they are full of guile but disarmingly charming when caught out in misbehaviour.

One night the sound of soprano squeals and baritone snorts from the paddock in front of the house woke me. I found a bevy of three year old fillies clustered around the gate, showing off in the most outrageous way to the grey stallion (aka 'the coach'). They were flouncing about and kicking up their heels and promising him the world if ONLY he was free to come out and play with them!

They were pretty peeved when I herded them all back to where they'd come from and then put an extra chain on the gate to prevent the smartie-pants red-headed filly who had managed to open it from doing it again. They tore around the paddock in a display of bravado with lots of tossing back of disordered locks … "MEAN old thing … we were only having a bit of FUN!! He's the COACH!! We feel so SAFE with him …"

That old pony had the best line of small talk ever and reached Olympic standard in foreplay. The first year we owned him he arrived late in the season and all the mares I intended to put in foal had already been covered. But on the principal that you never know how long you might have a horse, I decided I would use him over a few of the maiden mares held over till next year …'just in case'.

It was the middle of the show season and we were keen to get him out and about so we decided on hand service. Poor pony. I've never seen such a collection of right little teasers in my life. A very experienced stud horse, he was super patient and gentle and willing to take all the time necessary to calm their nervous fears. (A neighbour who came to help out suggested she should send her husband down for lessons … hmmm. I'd always suspected his notorious roving eye betokened a less-than-caring bedside manner.)

Those hot little mares gave the pony the big come-on and then, just when he was about to get down to tin-tacks, would scream that they were only kidding and kick like crazy. He'd look at me, roll his eyes up to heaven and then start again with the smooching. What a great little fellow he was. Eventually of course age and experience won out over their youthful shenanigans. My advice to them to stand still and think of England as I applied the twitch probably helped too.

The second act of the opera opens with the arrival of the visiting mares. And the plot thickens. The stud's females become jealous of the new arrivals and fear that they will get more of the action than the locals reckon they deserve. They make snide comments behind their forelocks about the breeding of the foals at foot and the morals of the strange mares. "Hmmm, common little thing … bet the foal is by the milkman's horse."

But once out in the paddock, the stallion contrives to make the mares band together. "Youse sheilas stay over there. I'll whistle when I need ya ....and no makin' eyes at them other blokes down the way." (He's forgotten all the Welsh he ever knew and is now a complete unreconstructed Ocker male.)

One visiting mare was a slow learner. She had never run out with another horse in her life and was constantly chased off by the bossy old girls. So she thought she should tag along behind the Sheik from Scrubby Creek. (Oops, sorry, wrong opera. The robber baron perhaps?) He would set off on the rounds of the paddock and she would follow along. When he stopped to add to the pile of manure that marked his boundary, she stopped and waited politely until he'd finished. But then … she SNIFFED it!!

He was incensed. "That's secret men's business" he snarled as he chased her back to join the sewing circle at the other end of the paddock. It took her days to work out he really meant it when he said she should stick to women's work. At last, another mare was added to the paddock and she was pleased to find that she could boss her around … after the older mares had finished, of course.

The opera definitely makes way for farce when it comes to covering big mares with small stallions. Now, it's not something I choose to do with my own breeding program, but there are lots of people out there who like to put some native sense and agility into their glamorous show hacks. And most of our stallions over the years have been happy (and able) to oblige while running out. Clever little fellows and keen on their work.

But one little star was not so brave or accomplished. He had once got a fright in a horse-wash at a show when a Clydesdale in the next bay had a tantrum and ever after worried that large horses meant him harm. So when a friend wanted him to cover her elegant young Thoroughbred mare, I tried to talk her out of it. But she insisted that she could see a great future for a foal out of this mare by him, so finally we agreed to try. When the mare came on heat, we boxed them next to each other, hoping that if he couldn't see all of her at once he might feel braver. That worked okay. Next morning he and she were blowing gently into each other's nostrils through the grille. It looked as if they had a good thing going.

So we laid our plans. I scouted around the place and finally decided that if I stood the mare in a dry irrigation ditch about 18 inches deep, things would be evened out. Eighteen inches equals four and a half hands … he was 12.2, she was 16.2 … job should be right! Two inches to spare!

My son, co-opted to help, was pessimistic. "He'll fall in the ditch," he said gloomily. But he led the mare around to the chosen spot and got her organised. This mare was an angel. She stood quietly in the ditch while I brought the stallion up and was really pleased to see him. He liked her too and as his nose and hers were level he wasn't worried about her size.

When it seemed as if he was ready to consider actually serving her, I led him through the ditch. He looked up. The mare had grown four hands. He was horrified. His equipment, previously primed and ready to go, drooped. His expression said as plainly as the Queen's English, "Where the hell did that MONSTER come from?"

After a bit of kidding to him (the verbal equivalent of sal volatile waved under his nose), he climbed out of the ditch and was thrilled to find that the mare had shrunk to more manageable proportions. Instant re-erection. With a pleased snort he launched himself at the mare and 'things' were progressing smoothly. Joyfully even. Then he slipped and just as son had predicted, fell in the ditch. Under the mare. Onto his back, in the classic 'dead ant' position.

What a good mare!! She looked around, but never moved a foot until asked, when she stepped up out of the ditch and watched with what appeared to be concerned interest while the little bloke scrambled back to his feet. He shook himself and then bounced out of the ditch and up to her nose. His dander was really up now, and nothing was going to stop him. Heck, he'd worked out that big tall mares could be just as much fun as little ones! He attempted what we had thought was barely possible, serving a mare four hands taller than himself on flat ground. And he succeeded, because she was such a keen mare that she managed to drop her hindquarters by at least three hands.

So it seems as if the grand opera and the farce can give way to that great favourite, the romantic tale, where the good guy gets the girl of his dreams despite seemingly insurmountable odds and everyone lives happily ever after. Until next season.

Grand Opera ....

or Bedroom Farce at Mithril

a light-hearted look at breeding