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Clyde the Clydesdale – of horses and hearses

Despite the rise of the tractor and the demise of horse traction, enduring horse tales still abound. What used to be a beast of burden is often a much-loved pet now, and sometimes horses perform sacred duties.

Once Cheeky shot through. The compact little pony, a child’s pet, shrugged off his flimsy confinement and cantered down State Highway 4 on a Saturday night when traffic would normally be heavy and unforgiving, with boy racers roaring and big-rigs bisecting the volcanic plateau. An old farmer who couldn’t sleep saw the tiny horse following the white line in the moonlight. Insomnia was no friend to the old farmer and he wandered out on to the balcony to see – surely – the little pony come into contact with any number of opposing vehicles. He waited for the thud and looked away.

But Cheeky cantered on in the moonlight, faithfully following the white line. Meanwhile his owner, who worshipped horses for their nobility and shared in the special love that young girls sometimes feel for their equine friends, followed. Like the parting of the Red Sea, State Highway 4 provided unexpected sanctuary. The little pony plodded on. No big rigs swiped him. Boy racers reined themselves in.

Eventually, Cheeky plodded off the highway, finding further sanctuary in a horse paddock a few kilometres down the road. The young owner approached him with chastisement and relief in equal measure. Cheeky flared his nostrils before munching on grass in his safe haven.

‘Was that your horse?’ the old insomniac asked the father of the owner, once he’d ventured out onto the highway in dressing gown, pipe and slippers.

‘Inadequate fencing,’ the father replied in atonement.

‘Bloody lucky,’ the old insomniac reckoned.

‘Bloody oath,’ the father concurred.

Later, news seeped through regarding a motor accident to the north, where a car had hit a wandering cow, and the road south of the crash site was temporarily closed. No wonder there had been no traffic to threaten Cheeky.

‘Bloody lucky,’ the father said.

‘Bloody oath,’ the young girl agreed. The old insomniac returned to bed and fell asleep.

Normally Cheeky operated on remote control. Kids could start him up with one flick of the reins and he’d trot all day. He didn’t seem cheeky at all, until that Saturday night when his wiring fused and the fence wire failed, and he decided to kick up his heels.

Some horses can become so set in their ways that it’s almost impossible to de-programme them and reboot their software. On the West Coast there was a team of Clydesdales that pulled beer wagons from the brewery to the various pubs in the district. Then they transported the empty barrels back to the brewery as a matter of course. This had been their modus operandi for years. You could set your fob watch by them. They virtually knew their own way home. On one occasion when the wagon driver had engaged in too much ‘quality control’ at one of the pubs, they did arrive back at the brewery on their own after the driver rolled off his seat onto a pleasant grassy knoll where he slept off his employer’s fine products.

The old wagon driver eventually died, but his team of Clydesdales continued life on the brewery beat. But not before they were summoned to undertake a special duty. And it was an aspect of undertaking. The family of the old driver thought it would be fitting for the coffin to be carried on a brewery wagon from the church to the local cemetery. And who better to pull the funeral train than the faithful old Clydesdales?

All was going well with the funeral procession, the Clydesdales performing their function dutifully, until they reached the fork in the road. There one prong of the fork headed for the cemetery, the other to the brewery. Despite the best efforts of the new driver, the old Clydesdales stuck steadfastly to the brewery route and could not be convinced otherwise.

The tale died a death at this point too. Assumptions are made that the old driver wasn’t buried in the brewery grounds, but you’d wager it would have taken another team of horses, or one of those new-fangled hearses, to get him to the cemetery.

The horses and hearses theme surfaced again some years later, in days when campervans had become a recreational transport option. An old farmer had been diagnosed with a terminal illness and, in an attempt to see a bit more of the world he would soon be leaving, bought a campervan. But his health deteriorated rapidly and he passed away before he could take to the broad highway. At least the old farmer could have one ride in his new toy, his family decided, and his coffin was placed in the campervan, which was now operating as a hearse.

On the way to the cemetery the campervan broke down and a Massey Ferguson tractor was hooked up to provide traction. The final climb to the cemetery was too much for the tractor alone and the farmer’s beloved old Clydesdale (called Clyde) helped ease the odd caravan over the brow to the gravesite. It was the most unusual funeral procession mourners could remember in many years of mourning. And Clyde refused to leave the grave until the old man was safely buried, although the driver had tried to guide the horse away to a nearby paddock.

Obviously horses had minds of their own, which was another way of saying they were loyal and trustworthy, if a little change-averse. Nehe Paki told of the time he and his mates used to travel to school from their farm on horseback. The nags-as-school-buses were loyal and trustworthy. They never missed a beat on the designated track from the farm to the seat of learning.

One day, one of Nehe’s mates mucked up at school so badly that the teacher sent him home. He was last seen cantering philosophically towards the hills before changing gear to a gentle walk. His loyal nag didn’t bridle at the lack of pace. His rider didn’t want to arrive home too early. His old man would surely give him a hiding for lousing up in class and being sent home before school was out.

Halfway up the road, Nehe’s mate, aware that he would still arrive home too early despite his faithful horse’s amble, dismounted, tethered the nag, crawled into the scrub and went to sleep. It was a pleasant spring afternoon; the sun and gentle breeze were soporific. Soon he was snoring and dreaming of riding the winner in the fifth at Ellerslie. The afternoon came and went. By the time he woke, the sun was a blur on the horizon. When he and his horse did make it home his old man gave him a hiding for being late. And the loyal horse was sent to Coventry.

The moral of the story? Don’t get home late when you can arrive home early and get a hiding for the right reasons. And favour a horse that sticks to its chartered course and programmed pace, like the brewery Clydesdales. And be wary of cheeky little ponies who decide, off their own bat, to head for the bright lights of town on a Saturday night.