Goodnight Columnist Tessa Waugh’s hunting diary
Basic camping conditions are the least of Tessa Waugh’s problems as she dips her toe in the world of mounted games — and is confronted by children as bold as mini bull-fighters
‘They had to stop the race while I performed the walk of shame, accompanying a sobbing Mary over
the finish line’
IF you turned back the clock 20 years and told me that, sometime in the future, my middle-aged self would spend a weekend at a mounted games tournament, with plans to sleep rough in an ancient Rice trailer, (“Not old, vintage!”, I tell the children, who find it embarrassing), I would have asked you (politely) to jog on. I loathed camping even then and mounted games was anathema to me. Isn’t it amazing what parenthood makes us do?
It took all day on Friday to pack the car with essentials such as cheese strings, chocolate, duvets and Peroni before my daughter Mary and I set off for two days and a night at games camp. The action takes place at Kelso Racecourse, attracting teams from all over southern Scotland and northern England.
This year our very small Pony Club branch, the North Northumberland, had managed to provide four teams; which is some achievement considering we have only around 50 members. Although there is a strongly competitive element with expert teams polishing up their skills before the zone finals in July, there are plenty of less experienced children who come along for the camping, the camaraderie and the chance to go feral with 80-plus pre-teens once the games are over.
Mary was firmly in the “feral” camp, so no pressure there, but I had thrown a spanner in the works by leaving Josh (old and creaky) at home and bringing my son Alec’s pony, Rusty, for her to ride.
IKNEW it was a gamble bringing Rusty and I started to regret making it as I watched the pros warming up on the first morning. Some of the older children were riding souped-up games ponies with the chutzpah of mini rejoneadores in the bull ring. I had been warned about this.
Kittens entering lions’ dens sprung to mind as Mary pottered towards the start line for the first warm-up race — the bending relay. The flag went down and off they went. The pace was incredible and the ponies were a blur, thundering over the line at a gallop while
Mary and Rusty steadily negotiated the second pole at a trot.
At the third pole, the proverbial hit the fan and Rusty knocked out a buck, then shot backwards, sending Mary plummeting to the ground.
“Rusty, you little s***,” said one of the organisers as she dragged the pony back to his rider.
They had to stop the race while I performed the walk of shame, accompanying a sobbing Mary over the finish line in walk while however many “been there, seen it all” mums looked on. “Poor thing, she’s shaking,” noted one, as we wandered past. I considered flogging myself with a schooling whip. It was going to be a long weekend.