Hacking to the station

DESPITE being born into a non-horsey family in 1934, I was horse-mad from day one.

I used to get the H&H for sixpence. Around 1947, I discovered a riding school had opened nearby in a suburb of Leeds, which was manna from heaven to me. All my spare time was spent working there for a free weekly ride.

One day the owner asked if I would like to take a thoroughbred called Priory Hill to York Sales. In a flash I said yes. I had to ride him to Leeds city station, where there was a rail box booked, and once there the porters would deal with him.

On the morning of the sale I arrived at the stables at about 6am, where Priory Hill was tacked up in snaffle bridle and no saddle, just a saddle blanket with surcingle.

How I got to Leeds city station in rush hour, through tramlines and traffic lights, was more by luck than anything. As I rode into the station I was met by a flurry of porters wanting to know what I was doing there. The horse carriage was already attached to the passenger train, and he loaded like a saint from the platform as the train smoked and steamed.

The owner was at York to meet us and sadly I never heard of Priory Hill again. My return home was not without incident but that is another story.