Saturday club

For most people after a 6 day working week Saturday arrives with a great sigh of relief. On Rockside however, Saturday is a carnival of action as the local kids swarm in for ‘Saturday club.’ This consists of quick-fire one hour rides, piles of cakes and spats over which instructor is more fun. Cue competitive Helen

At the end of this week Eileen, the yard manager, and I were joined by one more member to the instructor team, Rachel. An old school Rocksider (gosh that sounds a bit rock n’roll), she has been riding at Rockside since she could sit on a Shetland pony and hold obscure conversations, and has worked here for the last two summers. A girl unquestionably more fun than me, she sadly posed quite a challenge in the instructor popularity contest.

As we took out the first batch of local kids round the sun-drenched farm tracks I was wowed by the range of riding based games. All I could do was laugh along goofily with the rest of the kids as we rounded corners arms akimbo attempting to impersonate various proffessions that bore little relation to riding.
Dismissing games in my head as quickly as I thought them up (horse-back sardines? Really Helen?) I suddenly hit upon a game to up the ante, a village hall classic, the Hockey Cockey.

It’s fair to say that although no great riding skill can be attained from shaking one’s legs all about, there was an air of triumph in my return to the yard that ride. One girl even asked me how I did my hair (the wildly outdated bouffant) so that she could re-create it. I’ve finally found my audience…

Port Char-lash

Two weeks into the job and I feel like the transition from Edinburgh to Islay is almost complete. All too easily the horses have filled the void which used to be taken up with seeing friends and doing city-ish things. This became worryingly apparent when, on seeing a friend of mine from Edinburgh across the yard today, I actually trotted towards him in excitement. Were I trying to flirt with him I’d have moved on to screeching, stomping my foot and throwing my head around to try and impress him, I’m just certain it would have worked.

Thankfully he overlooked the trot and offered to take me out for a drink this evening. Having no car I have sadly not adventured beyond the farm since I’ve arrived, not a helpful fact when I’m trying to offer a sort of tourist guide service of Islay for the trekkers, so I was thrilled to accept.

We went to the Port Charlotte, one of the larger villages on the southern end of Islay. It’s a beautifully white-washed village set right against the shore-line giving it a sort of exuberant freshness. My grandfather had been a minister both there and Kilchoman in the late 40s so I loved being able to imagine the scene of island bliss from the early days of his and my grandmother’s marriage when they lived in the manse in Port Charlotte.

The Port Charlotte Hotel’s whisky collection was another thing worth the visit. I think Islay has at least 7 major distilleries but this display of bottles far exceeded that in variation. I felt wildly inappropriate ordering wine, sadly I am JUST not man enough for whisky, but it buoyed me up for the journey home and as I looked over the rolling fields as the sun set over them I tipsily thought, I rather like Islay.  

Kilchoman skulduggery

The clan Maclean has always played a large part in my life as my parents are devout clan gatherers. Be it the opening of a Maclean themed public loo or the celebration of an argument over laundry tablets that was lost by a Maclean in a field 500 years ago, my parents will be there, swathed in tartan.

You can imagine the tremors of excitement that shook the Maclean household the night I announced that I would be working on Islay, the home of many a Maclean spat, for the summer. I felt it my duty to find out more about the ins and outs of this history when I arrived on Islay and was amazed to find the most famous events took place within the route of the treks.

Kilchoman Church, sadly now dilapidated, sits proudly at the top of a gentle hill overlooking Machir Bay, Loch Gorm and the distant outline of the rocky outcrop generally known as the ‘Opera Rocks’ because of its close resemblance to the Sydney Opera House. On the ride we reach it via a sharp ascent from the dunes so that it bursts into view.

A stunning church, it is also the burial site of Lachlan Mor Maclean, the 14^th Chief of Duart. In 1598 Lachlan had understandably set his sights on Islay, the land of the MacDonalds, pitting his army against the MacDonalds’ near to Loch Gorm. His death by an arrow through the eye was supposedly brought about by his disregard for a hunchbacked-dwarf-fairy who had offered him pre-battle advice. I would certainly never turn down a pep-talk from such a man. Furthermore, he’d ignored the advice of an old wise-woman who was against the whole expedition in the first place. Lachlan should have probably seen the clue in her name.

Nearby the rudimentary pile of stones, named Duncan’s Cairn, marks the burial place of Lachlan’s foster brother. Duncan was not killed in battle, but was actually part of the funeral party who took Lachlan’s body up towards Kilchoman. During the procession he burst into laughter at the sight of his foster brother’s head bobbing around in the funerary cart. With all the ruthlessness of Supernanny, Duncan’s mother decided enough was enough, she by-passed the naughty step and beheaded Duncan.

As I ride past these landmarks to the follies of my ancestors I have tried to garner some form of life lesson from them…Take advice when it’s bestowed by odd looking people, and don’t let mother near swords (though I suppose we already knew that).   

The King of Zenotron

In describing the adventurous treks around the farm and down to the beach I have left out one crucial element of the forms of trekking available.

The pony ride. This is a 20 minute option, usually for the under 7s, during which an instructor walks alongside or leads the beginner down a field and back.

Dull you say?

Quite the contrary. These 20 minute slots which pepper our busy days are usually an adventure into the psychological land of the unknown thanks to the wild imagination of these 4-7 year olds. Who needs to ask mundane questions about a customer’s holiday when you can be privy to one young boy’s plot to take over and become King of the night-land Zenotron (I think he has it in him), or sing made up songs about what the Shetland ponies are thinking?

The only problem is not letting this over-simplification of life into conversations with those older than 7. I found myself telling one adult trekker the reason one horse kept veering towards another on a ride was because “He loved her and one day hoped to marry her.”   

Perhaps island living really is getting to me.

A close shave

With my first week drawing to a close I was beginning to relax into my job a little. The hours are fairly long, but with a morning commute of about 100 metres from my boss’ house to the stables I don’t quite have time to feel jaded. The blistering sun had held out for each ride, infusing everyone and everything with that holiday feeling. A feeling only bettered when I’d come back from work to find a fat glass of white wine awaiting me.

The last trek of the day on Friday, a two hour ride which takes in the nearby stretch of beach, was to test this smug feeling though. My boss had decided I might be able to handle ‘doing the line,’ which means riding alongside the line of trekkers, offering advice and keeping order (hello Veronica), whilst attempting to entertain them with jolly small-talk (I believe hairdressers undergo similar training). She planned to sit at the back of the line as backup while a local ‘yoof’ who’d been drafted in to help would ride at the front of the line making sure the pace was kept slow.

Something I think she, the yoof, wasn’t quite aware was her primary prerogative. As we arrived at the vast stretch of beach, the plucky welsh cob she was on began dancing with excitement, the stretch of beach transformed into a racing track in her eyes. With little restraint from the yoof she took off down the beach in full gallop, a long line of 7-9 year old beginners being dragged in her wake as their horses strained to join the race.

Picturing a beach strewn with fallen children I shared an ill-disguised look of panic with my boss who urged me to get out in front of the trekkers and stop the line, the welsh cob now a black blur in the distance. Having managed that and placated the terrorised children somewhat (the knack is to pretend we intended for that to happen) we soothingly plodded towards the end of the beach expecting to find the yoof as shaken as all of us. Instead she joyfully announced that she hadn’t realised that the welsh cob had such a tremendous gallop. Thanks a lot.

It’s fair to say that the thought of my next beach ride leaves me in cold sweats. Think I’ll stick to sweeping next time.

Meet Veronica

It has indeed transpired that more is expected of me in this job than merely smiling at customers. This week, although probably the best anyone could ever expect from their first week of work, has shown me that I rather lack ability in the instruction department.

I can ride a horse, yes, but telling others how to ride a horse has never really occurred to me. Worse still, I have a nasty habit of going red whenever I do tell someone to do something.

A solution I’ve suggested, which has been rather too heavily backed by my yard manager, is to have a trekking alter-ego, Veronica. Veronica will whip these trekkers into shape as we traverse the sandy dunes and golden barley fields.

I imagine she won’t spare a thought for the weaker armed riders, she’ll brand them ‘pansies’ and will ruthlessly tell them to put some welly into it. Better still, she’ll silence restless teenagers desperate for a gallop with one cold look.

Helen can sidle back into poll position for such tasks as mucking out and sweeping, these she can do. Though Helen hopes she won’t be too muscle-bound as a result, regardless of how much Veronica would approve.

Horses abound!

Riding is one of those things that seems to particularly capture the imagination of young girls. Whether it’s that age old association of beautiful princesses on horseback or simply the pleasure of being so connected with the graceful animals, almost all girls fall prey to the obsession.

Some of us never quite outgrow it. I sadly, am one such over-romantic overgrown princess wannabe.

Help has come though, as Rockside Farm stables appears to be one hell of a place to channel this fixation. After catching, grooming, tacking, riding and holding long in-depth, though may I say it fairly one-sided, conversations with Rockside’s 27 lovely horses for the last few days I feel I am not far from becoming one.

Great for my purist idyll, less great for an employer hoping for a trek leader who can do more than vacantly smile at customers and announce everything is ‘just lovely’ in a sing-songy (perhaps verging on neighing) voice regardless of what was asked. 

The Island

Islay. Described by Wikipedia as the ‘Queen of the Hebrides’ (who wants to be King after all?) and the happy recipient of ‘clement’ weather from the Gulf Stream, will be my home for the next two months.

That probably isn’t the most complete introduction to the island I landed on this evening. Although my parents have been trying to drill this truth into me from a young age with endless boat-trips I’d insist on being sea-sick on and trips to their friend’s houses where I’d be invariably grumpy at having to do hearty things outdoors, it took until quite recently for me to realise that the Western Isles of Scotland are magical.

There’s a kind of modest austerity to the landscape in the summer, perhaps as a result of the winter months which leave the Highlands and Islands shrouded in, dare I say it, doom and gloom. The white sand and turquoise sea framed with monumental rock formations crested in lush green lands is all so fleeting, making it all the more special.

  

From the moment I stepped off the ferry onto Islay I was in full poetic mode. With this landscape I was sure that I’d get at least some kind of spiritual epiphany this summer, failing that, a fairly good tan.