16 Wales

Welsh Rarebit (Cheese on Toast)

I stared at the opening door in sheer horror. My mouth was full of clotted cream chocolate cake but my jaws had frozen, mid-chomp. The book fell into my lap.

In the doorway stood my boss, the hotel owner. Time stood still.

Oh no, Janice Parry is going to get this job after all.

He stopped, and his mouth dropped open when he saw what I was doing. I was supposed to be making up the bed with fresh linen, not leaning back on the pillows of a guest bed, reading a book, stuffing my face with chocolate cake.

But worse was to come. Behind him I could hear the American couple, Mr and Mrs Matthews, approaching.

I dropped the book, jumped off the bed and swallowed my mouthful of cake, all in one movement. My boss’s face had turned an unhealthy shade of purple.

“I cannot believe…” he started, as Mrs Matthews popped her head round the door, then came in.

“Gee! I sure am glad you’re eating that cake!” she said, eyeing the much-reduced cake on the plate. “We hoped somebody would eat it, didn’t we, Chuck? Too good to waste and we couldn’t take that on the airplane with us really.”

My boss was still doing a codfish impression, but he closed his mouth, although his eyes were still bulging alarmingly.

“And y’all found our book on your Thomas Hardy!” chimed in Mr Matthews. “That’s what we came back for. Wanted to show the folks back home where we’d been.”

“Much obliged to y’all for cleaning our room and finding our book,” said Mrs Matthews. “We’ve really enjoyed our stay in your quaint little hotel. Now we must hurry or we’ll miss that airplane.”

They bustled out, but not before Mr Matthews had stuffed a crisp £5 note into my uniform pocket.

My boss shook his head, stared at me for a moment, then hurried after them. Somehow I’d got away with it, and after I’d been scolded by my boss, the matter was never mentioned again. Janice Parry didn’t get my job after all, but I’d learned my lesson.

* * *

I wasn’t very good at tennis, or any sport, but I always wanted to ride a horse. Even the criminal New Forest ponies hadn’t put me off. I continued to plead but my parents wouldn’t allow it, saying that it was far too expensive. Although I now had a job, I couldn’t afford regular lessons. However, another opportunity to ride horses presented itself.

“Why don’t you go on this Youth Hostel holiday?” asked my mother, waving a newspaper advertisement in my direction.

“You know I didn’t like the Youth Club much.”

“Ach, this is completely different, nothing to do with a Youth Club. Youth Hostels are a way of staying in wonderful places in England and Wales. You can stay in a castle, or mansion, or farm, all very cheap!”

My mother liked to save money.

“I don’t think…”

“Read it! It’s a pony trekking holiday in Wales.”

“Oh!”

I read the details and decided it did look rather appealing.

“Now that you have your new job, you can save up and go if you want. Your father and I will help.”

I mentioned it to Annabel, and she rather liked the idea too. Auntie Jean and Uncle Frank had no objections, so we both booked.

The description ran something like this:

Enjoy six days riding our native Welsh cobs and ponies on treks across the picturesque Black Mountains. Enjoy the Brecon Beacons with its wonderful views, interesting riding trails and mountain streams. We cater for riders of all abilities.

We would be staying at one particular Youth Hostel in the Brecon Beacons national park. On one of the days, we’d trek to another Youth Hostel and stay there the night. It sounded perfect.

Annabel and I spent ages planning and deciding what we needed to pack. It was summertime, but good weather can never be relied upon in Britain. Therefore, rain-proof jackets and wellington boots were essential, as were jeans, T-shirts and sweaters. Then came the question of underwear.

“I think I’ve had a brilliant idea,” I said. “Rather than taking lots of pairs of knickers, or less and then having to think about washing and drying them, why not take paper pants?”

“Paper knickers?”

“Yes, I saw them at Boots the Chemist. They come in packs. I’m going to buy a couple of packs, I think! They’re disposable so I won’t have to worry about washing and drying them, I’ll just throw them away at the end of the day.”

Genius.

Annabel didn’t follow my lead, which was probably very wise.

Our holiday took place about 45 years ago, so I’m a little fuzzy over exactly where we stayed in the Black Mountains. I believe we slept in a ‘bunkhouse’ and I remember that there was a roster sharing out the chores. Some cooked, others cleared up after the meal. Those not working were free to sit on beanbags and sing Where have all the flowers gone? while one of our fellow guests, a German with long hair, strummed his guitar.

When we arrived, all our mounts were tethered in a line outside in the yard and we were allocated a pony each. Annabel was given Dougal, and my mount and companion for the week was a sturdy little mare with calm, liquid eyes and a shaggy mane. Her name was Megan. She sized me up briefly then carried on munching hay from the rack on the wall.

We were handed a bundle of reins, rugs, brushes, hoof-picks, saddles, and additional horsey paraphernalia, all baffling to a novice like me.

Annabel and Dougal

First we had to put a halter on our ponies, then take it off again. Megan didn’t mind that, so long as I didn’t get in the way of her hay munching.

“Good,” said Jack, our trek leader. “Now you will groom your ponies. Give your pony a good brushing down.”

I enjoyed that, and I think Megan did too, although she didn’t stop munching long enough to tell me.

Megan and me

“Now,” said Jack, “pick out each foot with your hoof pick. Avoid the frog and the quick, and as you groom, check the horse for lumps, bumps or swellings.”

Obediently, we did as asked. Megan didn’t seem to mind standing on three legs while I picked her hooves. It certainly didn’t spoil her appetite.

“Is your pony still munching?” I asked Annabel, beside me. “Mine never seems to stop.”

“No, he stopped ages ago.”

“Right,” said Jack, “now for the bridles. Put the reins over your pony’s head, like this.”

Done.

“Put the bit in the horse’s mouth.”

For the first time, Megan objected, and I knew why. I was interfering with her food intake.

“Put a finger on each side of the bit and gently push against the horse’s mouth,” said Jack.

“Ouch!”

I think Megan mistook my novice fingers for a bunch of carrots.

“Victoria, it’s a good idea to put your thumbs in the very corner of Megan’s mouth, where she has no teeth.”

Now he tells me!

We succeeded in the end, after much fumbling. By now, Megan had finished her own hay and had started on Dougal’s.

“Well done, everyone,” said Jack, as I rubbed my bruised fingers. “And now for saddling up.”

We all watched as Jack demonstrated with his pony.

“Put on the blanket first. Place the front on the horse’s withers, and slide it down a bit so the hair isn’t pushed into an unnatural position. Place the saddle gently on the horse’s back and buckle up the girth.”

That looked simple enough. I followed his instructions and as Megan munched, I slipped the girth around her sturdy middle and buckled it quite tightly, allowing space for just two (bruised) fingers, exactly like Jack showed us.

“And now it’s time to mount! Stand next to your pony’s left front leg.”

We did so.

“Hold the reins in your left hand. Put your left foot in the stirrup. Stand on your left foot and swing your right leg over … and there we are!”

Jack was astride his mount, and our party began to copy his movements.

“I did it!” called Annabel, patting her Dougal’s neck.

Megan stood munching quietly as I positioned myself correctly. I placed my foot in the stirrup and swung myself up. The next thing I knew, I had landed with a thud on my backside on the ground on the other side of Megan. The entire saddle had rotated; the girth was much too loose. Megan probably rolled her eyes but she didn’t even stop chewing.

How can that be? I had tested the girth. I’d left space for just two fingers.

“Ah, Victoria,” said Jack who had appeared at my elbow. “My fault, I should have warned you about our Megan. She’s a bit of a devil, plays that trick on all her new riders.”

“Well, she got me good and proper!” I said, still rubbing my sore bottom. “How does she do it?”

“She’s a crafty one! She inhales as you buckle up her girth, so of course it’s much too loose. Next time, wait for her to exhale before you buckle it.”

We hadn’t been on a single trek yet, and I already had bruised fingers and a bruised behind.

The next morning, we saddled up with no mishaps. Megan had finished her breakfast and was contentedly cropping grass as I prepared her. I was extra careful with her girth, and the saddle fitted with no problems. I was one of the first to mount.

If you are an experienced horse rider, pony trekking is probably not for you. The pace is leisurely as the ponies follow each other, nose to tail. There is plenty of time to enjoy the view as the ponies plod along. It suited me just fine.

One of our party was a tall German who had come with his companion, the chap who played the guitar in the hostel every evening. The pair were friends but had very different personalities. The guitar player was a free spirit, quietly-spoken with long hair and a leather band around his forehead. His tall friend was loud and demanding.

“Jack! We make our horses run here, ja?” he shouted to our trek leader.

“No, Klaus, we don’t.”

To be honest, Klaus, the tall German, looked a little ridiculous astride his pony. His legs were so long, his feet nearly touched the ground. But this didn’t stop him urging his mount to go faster. He would sneakily hold his pony back so that he could urge it into a canter to catch up with the party. Klaus’s pony was obedient, but refused to go faster than a slow jolting trot, which meant that Jack quickly saw what he was up to.

“Klaus! Our ponies aren’t built for speed! And this terrain is dangerous. A pony could easily end up with a hoof in a rabbit hole and a broken leg.”

He waited for Klaus to catch up, and kept his eye on him from that moment. Klaus sulked but never managed to turn his pony into a racehorse.

Megan, my pony, was definitely not built for speed. Actually, she wasn’t really built for any kind of movement at all. Her mind was only occupied with filling her stomach. Persuading her to abandon a tasty clump of grass and resume our journey was often extremely difficult.

By the end of the first day in the saddle, I was loving it, but I was sore. Muscles that I didn’t even know existed ached and throbbed.

And I discovered that my decision to pack only paper knickers was probably not a very clever idea after all. When I undressed that night, I was shocked.

“Annabel?”

“Yes?”

“You know those paper knickers I brought?”

“Yes?”

“Well, I wore them today.”

“And?”

“Well, they’ve gone.”

“What do you mean, gone? Stolen?”

“No, gone.”

All that was left was a band of elastic round my hips and another round each leg, with a few tattered pieces of paper hanging off. The rest of my paper knickers had simply worn away.

* * *

The pony trekking holiday was soon over, and I was back home in Wareham. It was hard persuading my mother to take us out. Unless there was some kind of horticultural attraction, she preferred to stay at home pottering in the garden.

However, I do remember one family outing that didn’t turn out quite as planned.