Tales of a survivor

Eve Jones, having completed another hunt season relatively unscathed, wonders whether a back protector might be better than keeping up appearances

WITH spring on the horizon and, for many of us, the hunting season winding down, there’s an inevitable round-up of thrills and spills that probably questions the sanity of anyone who sits on a horse. I began the season hoping our horses would stay on the road, legs and backs would hold up, that jumps, bogs and holes will be kind, and ended the season thankful that my head and limbs are still intact. I did fall off our 18.1hh hunter in January but, in his defence, I had been having a quick wee owing to the morning’s sloe gin and had to climb back on from a gate just a bit squiffy. I toppled off the other side head first into a soft, muddy puddle, which, given the height, gave me quite a lot of slo-mo time to think I’m glad I’ve got my helmet on, if only to keep my hair clean. Other humans have been less lucky. Among our friends, two broken backs, in infuriatingly unlucky falls – a spook and a buck – a broken wrist and a collision mid-air resulting in a badly smashed up leg and a fractured skull from a kick to the head. Thankfully, all are back home, some at work, a couple in the saddle – the others are chomping at the bit.

For riders in any field, falls can be a shock to the system. Some years ago, I fell off a horse while I was riding in London, a welltrodden path for any Civilian Support Rider to the Household Cavalry. If you are in Hyde

Park on any early Monday morning you’re likely to see some class rodeo action. The horses, mostly 17hh-plus, will be super fresh from their Sunday rest and the Civies, mostly petite, 20-something girls, whose legs creep just below the saddle, will be less fresh, distracted by three-day hangovers from Fulham dinner parties, shooting weekends or Army balls, comparing notes on the weekend’s sport, whatever it (or who he) was, and vulnerable to explosive manoeuvres.

Having clocked up about three or four years as a civy rider without hitting the deck, I was over-confident and requested a particular horse that was enormous, young and had form for exuberance in walk, trot or canter. I was nursing sore kidneys from weeks of general excess and should probably have been sleeping it off; instead, I chose the furthest point of the park from barracks to kick on. Predictably, he went orbital and after 30 metres in forward, upward and downward gears, spun 180 degrees and threw me out the side door onto the Tarmac path.

It’s not a great indicator of health when you thwack the ground, bash your bonce and think you hear a crack in your back. My first thought, as I lay immobile, face down like a sack of spuds with foreign tourists gabbling away around me and a horse snorting in my ear, was, “Bollocks, if this is bad, Mum is going to kill me for not wearing a back protector.” My riding companion went for help and a jogger pushed through the ogling crowd saying, “Let me through, I’m a doctor.” Of course, if it had been a Richard Curtis film, it would have been Hugh Grant or Jude Law, sporting teeny tiny running shorts and a humorous yet oh-so-gentle bedside manner. Actually, it was a middle-aged lady of generous proportions in skin-tight lycra, but given my incapacity I wasn’t complaining. I couldn’t anyway, I was winded, but by the time the Army Riding Master reached me, Dr Not-jude-law had me upright, deciding I wasn’t concussed, paralysed or dying and jogged off. The RM asked me if I wanted to get back on. Being brought up with a getback-on-the-horse-unless-you’re-dead mentality, I was mortified that I definitely couldn’t. He asked if I’d like an ambulance. ABSOLUTELY NOT! A car from the barracks? “GOD NOOO, I’ll walk.” As the spectators left, I turned to walk the mile back to camp realising I couldn’t actually move without howling and frightening the public so I hobbled to the road where a cab driver took pity on me and drove me back for free.

A stint in Chelsea A&E followed, where, after some weeping, pills, an X-ray and a painful battle to take off my jodhpurs in the tiny loo and pee in a pot, I was diagnosed with cracked ribs, torn muscles and a mild kidney infection. They brought me macaroni cheese and offered me a morphine chaser if I wanted to stay the night. Neither appealed, so I was driven home, where I walked woozily into the door frame because I’d taken a lot of really excellent pain killers.

Since then, I’ve dined out on ‘that time I fell off in Hyde Park’ because, flukily, it’s the one time I’ve really hurt myself riding. It shook me and as I approach the end of another hunting season, I’m thankful (touch wood) to be still intact. Stupidly, I don’t wear a body protector; hands up, that’s vanity but I’ve respect for those who do. Quite often it’s after a bad fall – closing the stable door after the horse bolted – and I feel the same about velvet hunt caps. They do make the most Instagrammable photos but a lot of friends who’ve had bad falls and head injuries were wearing one and I’ve seen enough crashes not to hanker for velvet. I now hunt in a skid lid, which seems increasingly to be the majority’s choice; even Mr D, a pedant when it comes to turnout, has conceded and bought one this season.

Nobody’s skills give them immunity when riding, especially crossing unforgiving country. We fly fences by the seat of our breeches, the adrenalin rush half the fun. So much goes into keeping our horses sound, safe and healthy, it’s probably worth considering during the summer months out, whether we’ve hit the deck or not, if we’re giving ourselves the same fighting chance as our hunters.

It gave me time to think, ‘I’m glad I’ve got my helmet on, if only to keep my hair clean’