The end is nigh

With my leaving date drawing closer, the month of August has seemed to flash by all too quickly. A huge portion of my boss’s family, who should probably be renamed Swiss Family Robinson, have been flowing in and out the house taking full advantage of the sailing, fishing, stalking and riding opportunities of their farm. It has turned into a living off the land lifestyle, Bill Oddie eat your heart out. No, not literally Bill.

With time running short I’ve been making sure I fill my days off with riding expeditions which scale the heights of Kilchoman area. From there you’ve got a fairly privileged view of both Ireland across the sea and the surrounding area of Islay, all vivid green farmland and hills which descend into wave battered rocks. I have also been delving into my arty gimp side and attempting to bash out a few drawings here and there.

Opera Rocks from above the farm

One of the big job perks as you’re coming to the end of your season on Rockside is racing! The instructors have been allowed to take our pick from the speediest steeds at the farm and blast them along the beach after work in the evening.

Meg

Who the speediest horse is, is a point of contention. Yes there may be thoroughbreds at Rockside, a breed built for speed, yet I have invariably gone for Meg. She’s been my summer romance. Unstoppable in the face of an adventure, she’ll have her rider armless from attempts to restrain her before she loses a race. Although a tiny wee thing of 27, in her mind she’s a youthful Seabiscuit, or Red Rum… after that my racehorse trivia runs rather dry.

Although we lost almost every time to said thoroughbreds, we certainly won the stamina trial as she refused to see the finish line as anything but the stable yard, a good mile away from the actual finish line. Dashing along the deserted beach in a line as the sun went down will be one of my most lasting and most happy memories of Islay.

Only a week or so left now…  

The Show and Dance

The month of August heralds great things throughout Britain. Up and down the country the yoof happily wile it away in a hedonistic haze at one of Britain’s numerous music festivals. Islay, I'll have you know, is no different, for it has the Islay show.

I have to admit that I’ve spent my life sniggering at Highland shows, namely my local one at home. Bearing frighteningly close similarities with Craggy Island’s ‘Funland’ complete with the Crane of Death, the Strontian show is a slightly mad mix of boozy farmers shearing anything in sight and such nail-biting competitions as ‘dog with the waggiest tail’ all held, of course, in the pouring rain. But this year there was no place for such scepticism because the Islay show offered two rare things- one, a day off and two, the experience of a social environment. I couldn’t wait. 

In actuality it sadly wasn’t that far off the Strontian show. The crucial difference being I seemed to know more people at this one. This is an embarrassing reflection on how hermity my home-life is. Other than judging Islay’s rival trekking centre’s ponies, we therefore spent most of the day running away from 10 year old girls wielding silly string and blue hairspray. I’ll never be cool.

Not all friend-making opportunities were eliminated though, as that evening all the show goers were to de-camp to the Show Dance. In fact they probably just rolled there from the Show field. Rachel and I could not wait for it and so, having turned up about 3 hours too early in Portnahaven in our full glad-rags, we ended up having a few drinks at Rachel’s Granny’s house. I’ve never had such guilt-inducing lash as pre-lashing at an OAP’s.

Nevertheless we trooped on to the village hall where the sounds of the ‘Pneumatic Drills’ filled the still night air. Summer of 69, Strip the Willow and 500 Miles were always going to be winning tunes and we blazed the night through singing and being thrown around whilst trying to avoid collision with such colourful characters as the human cannonball and the local psychotic (always important to have one).

Perhaps it was because dances are relatively rare on Islay or because I’d become so accustomed to hanging out with horses all day, but I came away thinking that Islay folk know full well how to have a good party. Sign me up for next year.

Baloo

When it comes to animal intelligence I feel that horses are far too often bypassed. Granted, they allow far weaker beings to clamber on them and boss them around, but perhaps it’s all a conspiracy. One horse at Rockside, Baloo, has proved time and again his superior intelligence.

Firstly, he will refuse to behave for any instructor unless he hears them exhort his virtues to anyone who’ll listen.

Secondly, an innate fear of being left in the stables whilst all the other horses are put back in their fields means we have to perform a pantomime of pretending we’re taking out a ride if we are. Saddles loosely put on and loud announcements about how much we’re looking forward to our ride are the only means to stop him breaking down his stable door in fury.  

 Furthermore, when Rohaise had the bookings book open on the table the other day, he put his head on her shoulder.

“Oh hello Baloo” she said, “which day would you like to work on?”

At this he closed the entire book shut with his nose.

This is a warning for the impending takeover of the horse race.

Pony Club Camp

On my first night at Rockside farm, I was given my full job description. Trekking, tacking, cleaning… these I already knew, but there was one last task which had so far gone unmentioned. Mark and Rohaise (Mr and Mrs.Rockside) looked at one another, hesitating, until it was Mark that cracked and uttered the word “Camp.”  So here was the catch in my contract.

 20 girls between 8 and 14 descending on the farm from Saturday morning until Sunday afternoon was a terrifying prospect, and this weekend it became a terrifying actuality. Luckily Rohaise had the whole thing down to army precision with quick rounds of lessons and treks punctuated with industrial sized portions of cake all of Saturday. It terrified me slightly when one girl asked at our 4.30 break whether they could go to bed yet, “no” I snarled at her through a mouthful of cake, for she had my ‘Mystery hour’ to look forward to.

From 6-7 pm I’d been given the job brief “tire them out.” Instead of the cheery ball-games which I think were insinuated by that brief, I immediately sprung upon the idea of a treasure hunt, recalling a happy day at school spent hiding my friend’s entire shoe collection around the grounds with a riddle in each to find the next one.

It’s fair to say I got a bit carried away with elegiac wording and long distances. A wee hour run around the farm turned into an epic Odyssey, taking them high and low through field and meadow, to the prize at the end attached to Haggis, the Shetland pony, who we hid in the kitchen cupboard. I couldn’t wait to see the joy on their faces at the end. It turned out to be quite hard to make out the joy on their faces through the puce red of their cheeks and cries for water. One girl even retired early from dehydration and exhaustion.
Well, I can’t be blamed for not fulfilling my job brief.

 The rest of the evening was spent unintentionally creating the most awkward pre-teen school-style disco known to man. Everyone stood firmly around the outside of the room with their eyes to the ground while music continued to blare unconcernedly. We quickly re-invented it as games night with such classics as Musical statues and Musical chairs (say hello to Rockside’s champion 2011), before they all trooped off to their tents for midnight feasts and frantic whispering.

The next day followed with more treks and lessons before the biggest event of the Pony Club summer- the fancy dress competition. I cannot stress the tension that hung in the yard as the girls transformed their horses into brides, unicorns and hula girls (yes, really). Those who couldn’t hack the pace broke down into tears, leaving the remaining red Indians, fairies, and I think what was a Hasidic Jew, with a cold look of determination in their eyes. That rosette was theirs and theirs alone.

It was the bride and groom combo that won at the end of that Sunday, though not without the usual accusations of bribery, bias and copying. Victory is a dangerous thing. As the girls headed for home towards the evening we all trooped back to Mark and Rohaise’s for a big jug of Pimm’s and much back-patting. Another year done.