When I was two years old, my grandfather gave me my first riding lesson. He had learned to ride cavalry and taught me how to sit, where to put my feet, and how to hold the reins. Then he took me to the center of a circle of hay bales and said, “Okay, lay down.”
I said I wanted to ride.
“No,” said Grandpa. ‘First you learn to fall, as relaxed as possible and without hurting yourself. It’s what they taught us in the army. You fall and then you get back up.
I have no doubt that Princess Anne, a talented equestrian, was taught exactly the same lesson. Fallen, without problems, she picks you up again. It’s as good a lesson for life as it is for horseback riding.
She is recovering in hospital this week, after being hit on the head by a horse while walking around her Gatcombe Park estate in Gloucestershire. Ending up with minor head injuries, a concussion, and no memory of what happened is the last thing you would expect after a quiet evening walk.
But I have no doubt that this extraordinary woman will not think twice about riding again. Like her mother, she will be straddling it when she is 90 years old.
Princess Anne on horseback at Trooping the Color earlier this month, just a week before she was injured while horseback riding in Gloucestershire.
I can’t think of any woman I’ve admired more than the Princess Royal. She was right next to the lake when she fell at the Badminton Horse Trials in 1982. She was submerged in the water as her horse, Stevie B, struggled to regain his balance. She had no patience with the photographers who rushed to take a good picture when she emerged. “Don’t go,” she shouted.
This is the same woman who earlier this month, at the age of 73, rode the King’s frisky horse, Noble, in Trooping the Colour, making it abundantly clear who was boss.
Princess Anne and I were born in 1950: I in May; her in August, and as a child, I must admit I was jealous of her. She had an older brother, who I, an only child, missed.
She also had her own pony. I had to borrow one from the equestrian center owned by the daughter of my grandfather’s best friend.
Grandfather and his friend had been called up for National Service at the age of 18, happily for them, in 1918.
Grandfather had suggested that they join the infantry. “No,” said his companion, “the cavalry.” Grandfather doubted: “But I don’t know how to ride.” ‘Eee, don’t worry boy, they’ll teach you.’
In fact, they did. My grandfather’s passion for horses after two years of galloping around Hyde Park knew no bounds. This is how I, at the age of two, like Princess Anne, was put on a horse for the first time.
This horse was called Captain. He had been a mountain pony and couldn’t have been more excitable when outside in the light of day. I had learned my grandfather’s teaching methods in the army.
The grooming had to be so thorough that a white glove could be passed over the animal’s body without raising a speck of dust. The tack – the bridle, the saddle, the stirrups – had to shine and shine and it was clear from the start that horses can be dangerous – never approaching from behind and falling could cause untold damage.
During the procession, the Princess Royal, 73, dressed in her military uniform and skillfully stabilized her steed.
Wherever I traveled, I rode. At Hull University I managed to find a wonderful riding school with top quality horses.
As is often the case, people buy a hunter, don’t have the time to give it the exercise it needs, and appreciate it when people like me take them out and even compete with them from time to time.
Of course, I have had some nasty falls in competitions. I remember one in particular, where I approached a cross-country jump on a horse I trusted completely. He decided he didn’t feel like putting in the effort. And you can’t just stay in the saddle when a galloping horse decides to suddenly stop. My back didn’t like taking the jump one bit but, out of breath, I caught him and got back on.
My years in the New Forest as a young television journalist provided me with hours of wonderful cross-country riding, and then came the children, London and Wimbledon Village Stables.
Ed was four years old when his brother Charlie was born and was understandably a little upset by the attention he was receiving. I asked him if there was anything he and I could do that the baby couldn’t participate in. He wanted to ride, he said. He loved it and it was great hanging out together.
Later Charlie joined us and he was a very good rider who seemed to be glued to the saddle. He didn’t really love it though. He preferred to go to ‘mini rugby’ with his dad. Everyone was happy.
Our move to a small farm in the Peak District meant I could have my own mare and Ed an incredibly fast little pony. We went over the hills until Ed was 15, the age at which many kids give up.
To be fair, he had grown so much that his feet were almost touching the ground when he was in his little Rocky.
For a while I rode alone until the day I lost track of time, wandered slowly through the neighborhood, and finally came home to a frantic husband, David, pacing the road, imagining me dead somewhere in the hills. Traveling alone is not a good idea.
Then, at age 56, came breast cancer, chemotherapy, avascular necrosis, and a double hip replacement. It broke my heart to accept that it was too dangerous for me to continue.
So, sadly, my life as a rider didn’t last as long as Princess Anne’s, another reason to be jealous. She can go on and on and I can’t. But I wish you continued enjoyment of her horses and a quick recovery from that concussion.
What kind of daughter doesn’t make plans to show her father how much she loves him on her 80th birthday? Thomas Markle paid for her daughter’s education and introduced her to the world of cinema in which she worked. The fact that she seems to have no intention of showing him how grateful she is says everything about who she has become. No daughter at all.
Thank God for women like Gemma Arterton. Thirty-eight years old, properly covered in a real swimsuit instead of an extremely skimpy bikini. Then the big hat. She will be fine in a heat wave in Sardinia and she looks beautiful too.
Actress Gemma Arterton wears a pale yellow swimsuit as she navigates the waters of Sardinia.
Tom Bradby says there aren’t many middle-aged white news anchors left on television. Good. There are many brilliant women doing excellent work. When Olivia O’Leary and I presented Newsnight on the BBC in the early 1980s, we were known as “the Newsnight Wives”. I like to think that I paved the way for women to be taken more seriously and given the opportunities they deserve.
Is it any wonder that phone theft is so ubiquitous when people walk the streets, stand at bus stops, and sit in restaurants with their phones begging to be stolen? Why are people so careless about something so important? I would lose my life if I lost mine!
Green Party leader Carla Denyer admits she still has a gas boiler. Then I won’t feel guilty about mine.
