So
many stark contrasts between Britain and the US, the list is endless. So many
contrasts between contemporary politics, the law, medicine and healthcare,
education, even language (words and expressions we take for granted require
explanation here and vice versa (had to explain ‘blagging’ and ‘cupboard love’
the other day.). Other words and phrases make sense, but are unique to North
America e.g. ‘half-bath’, which is basically a loo and a sink! It’s too easy to
assume that because we essentially speak the same language, we are pretty much
the same. Even if you ignore accents (of which there are so many, of course),
there are rhythms and tones unique in everyday sentences.
Then,
of course, there is the history. The other day I was describing where I grew up
and mentioned that the local church dated back to the early 600s. This to
someone who lives in a US state, which up until 1848 was part of Mexico and,
before that, the Spanish Empire! However, yesterday was, in part, spent
reflecting on the slow, steady movement of settlers westwards, pushing the
‘frontier’ as they went. We’ve all seen those romantic, clean and tidy films and
TV shows, usually black and white, depicting a cosy, skewed view of the wagon
trains, the horses and riders, the cowboys and bonneted women. Yesterday, I kept
coming back to the two same themes, one being hardship. Across the North
American continent came those at the vanguard, followed by legions of settlers,
sheer effort and tenacity, unimaginable conditions, and that neither begins to
scratch the surface, nor touches on the impact of indigenous populations. The
other theme? Horses.
Again
a contrast. The relationship between human and horse in Britain has, of course,
been there forever. From the times when the horse was a hard-working partner for
people who travelled, worked the land, worked the towns and cities, our
relationship with the horse has been ever-present. Where I live is ‘horse
country’, riders an ever present feature of the roads and lanes and common land
– among the cattle grazing on the common, a small, merry band of horses (plus
that lovely donkey) amble around, always together in some shady spot, or
nibbling the grass by the roadside. Livery is an industry, stables aplenty
offering lessons and lodgings for ponies and sleek thoroughbreds alike.
Difficult to separate from ‘class’ or social status, I suppose. Then there’s the
vast community of equestrian sports, whether it be racing, eventing or that
particularly status-soaked sport, polo. Again and again, it comes back to the
relationship between horse and rider. As my friend said yesterday, in the end,
everything is dressage, that subtle, delicate process of using small physical
actions to communicate with the steed. Then there’s the addition of vehicle –
carriages, carts, drays and so on. When I think of carriage-racing (driving, to
be accurate), I think of Prince Philip, but I also know it’s a tough, break-neck
activity, whether harnessed to one, two or four racing animals. Which brings me
to the contrast - yesterday, by way of the screen, I was introduced to the sport
of chuck-wagon racing, and the communities that are devoted to this spectacular,
terrifying, fiercely competitive occupation. It so clearly, so obviously has its
roots in North America’s historic relationship with the horse, and where the
stereotypical images of equestrian pastimes and communities in Britain include
black riding hats, jodhpurs, waxed or tweed riding jackets and mirror-smooth,
shining black leather boots (of course, also part of similar US equestrian
communities), the exception, the knock-out punch of difference is, well, the
cowboy. Jeans, cowboy hats, ‘plaid’ shirts, machismo…
Yesterday I sat and watched how huge communities take up their different roles
in purchasing thoroughbreds, nurturing and training them, building relationships
with these fast, wilful animals. Three or four months each year, entire families
go out on the road and the circuit, all hands ‘on deck’ to ensure that
horse and rider is ready to roll into the ring and suddenly commence the
complex, almost choreographed, team sport that is chuck-wagon racing.
Comprising a light-weight ‘wagon’ hooked up to four horses, driver and two (used to be four) outriders, they must
complete a figure of eight almost ‘in situ’ and then hurtle out around the
track, outrider teams in hot pursuit. To win, the wagon driver must cross the line first with each outrider no more than 150 feet behind - more than that and the team incurs a penalty. The speed is breath-taking, the race full of risk, the skill, the horsemanship quite extraordinary. Each event comprises nine consecutive races and requires an army
of helpers – the thoroughbreds are ‘sassy’, as one woman pointed out, and a
rider must be at one with horse just to ride them a few feet. Generation upon
generation carry on this tradition, this way of life. Toddlers are up in the
saddle by rite of passage. Children aspire to joining the teams. Men and women
work from early morning to late night. I knew nothing about this vocation before
yesterday, but can say I was fascinated and quite moved by what I saw.
“Mammas, don’t let your babies grow
up to be cowboys” (PATSY AND ED BRUCE)
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