Sarah Todd: Pony trek from far and wide with eyes on the prizes

One thing that lifted her spirits was news of a signed photograph from showjumper Ellen Whitaker. She'd been making a personal appearance at the R&R equestrian store, near Selby, and we'd (not very subtly) mentioned why we weren't going. The glamorous Ellen made me think about the showjumping stars from my childhood in the 1970s. Apart from David Broome's sister, Liz Edgar, I can't remember many ladies. It was dominated by the likes of Harvey Smith, Ireland's Eddie Macken and Germany's Paul Schokemohle. The patient had some bad news in that one of her first hens, a Light Sussex called Madge, went to the great coop in the sky. The young poultry farmer's father had seen her lifeless body at the end of the lane but by the time he'd finished what he was doing – rolling the front paddock – all that was left was a few white feathers. We've not had a fox all winter, so it's a shame if one suddenly starts calling around for his supper now. We were mad with ourselves for not noticing something was amiss earlier. Ralph, the cockerel, had undoubtedly been trying to tell us. He's been perched on the little handgate cock-a-doodling for all his worth. To my shame, he'd been told to "shut up". Anyway, poor old Madge was soon forgotten with an invitation to visit four newborn foals. Two fillies and two colts. The mares, all overdue, seem to have sensibly waited until the blossom was out. The patient's brother was thrilled to get a letter the other day; children do love post. It was a schedule for our local show, presumably sent to him because he entered the fancy dress on a pony last year. Sadly, this class is still all that it offers the youngster living nearby who owns a "normal" pony. The distance people travel to pot hunt (win the trophies) at these shows beggars belief, with contestants from Lincolnshire, Durham, Derbyshire and even further afield. When I was a girl you could have an average pony, plait it and clean your old tack yourself, and you'd be in with a sporting chance. But today's children seem to be lifted out of plastic bags adorned in rig-up costing hundreds of pounds, almost-glued onto brand new tack and ponies that are professionally produced (plaited etc) for the occasion. Our daughter has been practising her plaiting on bits of baling band. This is what turnout classes should be – children doing it themselves. If I get to be an old lady, I'd like to judge such things and ask the young jockeys how they've helped get their pony ready. CW 24/4/10