In Ireland

Mrs M had left for England, on a week’s gardening course in Guildford; this left me in charge of the vast country house, the ponies, dogs and the goat.

I had applied for a job for the summer, and was attracted by the idea of animals, country life and the West of Ireland. I had got it on account of my impeccably well-brought up credentials and general naivety on matters of employment. My duties included housework, cooking, caring for the animals including exercise of ponies, amusing the three children when they returned from boarding school and, in my spare time, helping on the farm and in the garden – for my keep and £12 a week.

But most of the work I enjoyed, although I finished each day physically exhausted. It was the housework – polishing and dusting in the 90-odd rooms of the Irish mansion – which was tedious. But when the lady of the house, Mrs M – who always resented the amount of time the animals kept me out of the house – left for England, her husband, who was far more lenient, encouraged me to take my time over the ponies and the farm – and never mind if the morning room wasn’t spotless. It was rarely used.

There were three ponies for the children to ride, and I was to get them into condition for their holidays. The young Connemara pony was a problem; too young and flighty for the eldest child, Smokey had been neglected and unridden for a year – a waste of a beautiful pony. I caught him and rode him in the field; had him shod at a local smiths at Mr M’s suggestion, and had been working him regularly since my arrival.

He was untrained and nervous, and deposited me twice in quick succession, whipping round at lightning speed with no warning. But I was getting the measure of him; his speed, flowing gait, spirited, alert, inquisitive manner, the sensitivity and natural balance, and breath-taking nimbleness. He was a dream.

Mr M suggested that after having seen to the other animals I take the rest of the day off and ride Smokey to the sea. I should see it, he said, and it would do the animal good.

It was a ten mile hack along winding country roads, across the moor. We walked most of the way, the pony stepping out, loose reined, my mind wandered idly. There was little traffic.

The beach was broad, sandy, deserted. It was a warm day, but not hot enough for bathers. There was no-one in sight. I slithered from the pony’s back, unsaddled him, let him roll in the sand. Later, I leapt onto his bare back and encouraged him to greet the sea.

He was nervous, snorted at the low waves, leapt back from the foam. I urged him on, he gained confidence, and soon was wading knee-high. We walked, splashing through the shallow water, then trotting, cantering slowly. I gripped hard with my knees and kept him well under control.

Relaxed now, the pony became impatient; at the far end of the beach, I turned him and let him run. We leapt forwards, pounding through the water with smooth long strides; he was like an Arab or Thoroughbred horse, not a 14 hands Connemara. I buried my hands in his silver mane and leant over his neck, splashed by the sea and the wind, his dark grey ears ahead, striking forelegs below . . . this is what I learnt to ride for, this is why I came to Ireland . . . the rocky promontory marking the end of the sand raced towards us; I sat up; gripped his warm flanks with my knees and pulled on the rubber bit; having galloped half a mile the pony dropped his nose and slowed, cantering, we circled and walked back to the dunes.

“That’s a great little horse.”

A boy sat in the sands watching. The pony baulked, eyes popping.

“Go on,” I said. Smokey walked forward, I slithered from his back, reached for the halter in the rucksack with my lunch and tied the pony to the gate.

The boy stroked the pony’s shoulder tentatively. Smokey was now eating greedily and ignored the newcomer.

“Where are you from?” I said, interested, intrigued by the thick accent, but acutely aware that I gave myself away.

“Derry” he said, and I had to think before I understood what he said. Did he mean Londonderry, or the county . . . (was there one?)

“You’re British,” he said. “Are you on holiday?”

“Yes, well no, I’m working for a family in Ballymote. They have a farm, they own this pony.”

“I’m staying with relatives in Sligo.”

His language was almost impossible to understand. But I was intrigued. His impenetrable tones symbolised for me my ignorance; of politics, particularly Irish politics. Here in the south it didn’t matter. But I had never been to northern Ireland; half longed to go, but not alone, and only carefully chaperoned.

“Do you know about horses?” I said, conversationally. “Can you ride?”

“No. But I think they’re beautiful. That’s a beautiful pony. I drew a picture, do you want to see?”

He showed me a pencilled drawing of a galloping pony, all mane and tail and seaspray, and a figure – me – crouched on its back.

“It’s lovely,” I said. “That’s what it felt like, the speed and the spray . . .”

I looked at him again. A couple of years younger than me, thin, blue eyes, wavy dark hair, freckles. Very Irish, I thought and wondered if I looked very English. I felt ashamed of myself, suddenly, my accent, Smokey, that it was me who galloped along the Irish shore on a Connemara pony, not him; me with 3 ponies to ride around a grand estate, me with my knowledge of the animals and the countryside and Irish ponies and he didn’t even know how to ride.

“Do you live in the city?” I asked.

“In the Bogside.”

It sounded interesting, not like a slum anyway.

“Where is that?”

“Derry.”

“I’ve never been there, what’s it like?”

“All right. Not like round here.”

“How come?” I pressed on, dimly aware of being on sensitive ground.

“You’d have to come and see. Would you like to do that?”

“I would! If I could go with you!”

I was surprised by my own passion.

“I mean – if I had someone to show me round.”

“There are no horses,” he said. “Anyways not like this one.”

“Oh I know . . .” sensing I was being made fun of.

“You’re not afraid of the Provos?”

What did he mean – the IRA? I looked down, not knowing what to say.

“I’m going home next week. You could come if you want to. I could find you somewhere to stay.”

“Will you be there in three weeks’ time? I could get a few days’ holiday, but not until then.”

That was how it started – my curiosity to see his home and his to see my reaction to it. He was young but not naïve, he had sized me up as soon as I opened my mouth and knew where I was coming from, English middle-classes, liberal, a touch of conventional pacifism. Over the following week we met quite often, he came down to help on the farm, Mr M was glad of an extra hand and though inexperienced, he was good with the animals, and they liked him.

He was lightweight, so I got him riding the other pony, quiet and dependable, he came with me to the beach on another occasion, not minding the indignity of being deposited on the sand by a momentarily frisky Cora, shrieking as the sea tickled his feet, leaping from her back into the water, splashing Smokey so that he shied, and I fell off too, and the ponies went for a paddle by themselves.

He persuaded his sister-in-law to extend his stay. I had less time once Mrs M returned, and she took against him, and wouldn’t have him in the house – but he still helped Mr M on the farm.

The children came home, they took no notice of their mother’s disapproval, but mocked his accent mercilessly, which he took with good grace, and mocked theirs, which was as impeccably English as my own.

I followed him home to Derry, three weeks later, for four days, and the night before I came back we made love, clumsily; I didn’t mind, nor did he; it didn’t matter.

I’d seen enough by then; it was the summer of ’82 and men he knew were dying on prison hunger strike not far away. Love only matters on holidays, on horseback, on broad white sands with no-one else about.