Ditch, Donkeys, Diplomacy and Death .....

  Well, thank Fuck that went alright ....! Ditch the diplomatic ~ or maybe just completely, transparently child like in his honesty? Called Pat.

  I've just had my horse pen re concreted, see? And a slab laid outside, for the dung heap. Horse nirvana! Ditch nirvana too! But, more of that in a later post.

  Rosie and Donks are thus having a horses holiday, up on one of Pat's fields. Three fields, actually. Bunked up with his donkeys. Must have been up there a week or two now, I guess?

  What ever. It just occurred to me that I really should go and commune with them. I mean; I look at them, every day. But, that's just sneaking a peak over the hedge, as I walk the Dogs. Just see that Rosie's physically there and fuck off home.

  Today, I went up there alone. Got into the field and kissed Rosie's nose. She's looking fucking fantastic! God, the glow on her! Horse porn!

  Donks is as scruffy as ever. Flea bitten fuck. I saw his feet were 'OK'. But, I'll chip in the next time Pat has the Farrier down. I like their feet kept Right. Not just 'okay'.

  Then, one of Pat's two donkeys approached me. Aagh, jesus! Got a fucking beach towel rolled up, under the skin of both sides of its neck. Aladdin type slippers on. Hooves like upturned skis. Belly on it like a fucking oil drum! Fucked.

  The other one, with the head collar, wouldn't come That close to me. And I'd seen enough already. I had some thoughts. But, these are another mans animals. What's a man to do?

  Came home and couldn't stop thinking about her. The state of her. She'll be following Pony.

  Fuck it. Shit or bust. I rang Pat.

  Told him I'd been up there. His donkey's fucked. He needs to get them both into the shed and feed them straw. Get the Farrier in too. 

  I mentioned how I'd been amazed to see them, earlier, on the meadow above the fields they're now on.  Donkeys? On a Meadow?!? I said how that's like putting kids in a sweet shop.

  Give the man his due. He took it without a flinch. We'll be getting his donk's out of there and up into the little shed. (Where, probably in the dark time, that donkey will lay down and have to be shot)

  He got the first donk to keep Pony company. Then, Pony had to be shot, after he got laminitus. That left Donkey 1 alone. So, we got Donkey 2.  I think it's 2 that's now fucked.

  What ever. Shit will take its inevitable course now. And I'll break that chain. Because, if the other donkey survives? I'll not leave Pat to get her a companion. I'll bring her home.

  FFS. I have the room for her, in the stable. The work I'm having  done will make looking after them a breeze.  Pat can throw me a bale a week, for her up keep. Fuck it.

  As I made a new fat cake, for the birds, today. Filled the peanut basket. Filled the nigger seed feeder. Fed my canaries. Went up to check the horses. Fed my Dogs. Made a note to buy more Dog food. Fox food. Peanuts. Pondered the cost of nigger seed .....

  I often think to myself; One day, I'll die. And a Lot of creatures, round here, won't know what's fucking hit them! 

 

Pat's Buying A Donkey .....

 Met Pat , on the track, the other day. Tells me he's buying a donkey. Seems his female pony died and now the male's alone. Horses hate being lonely.

 I fucking coveted that pony. She was gorgeous! Chestnut fur and a golden mane. She'd never let me near her.

 " Pony ", as I know him? Same fur. But, a redder mane. Good as gold. I gained his trust in no time. We'd hang out and commune together, over the fence. While the female stood back a bit.

But, Pat soon came to rely on me to lead them. He couldn't get near either. I'd just give 'Pony' a minty biscuit, Kiss his nose. And chat to him as I led him absolutely where ever he needed to go. Female pony following him.

 Pat bought these two for his daughter(s), back in the day. I guess, like kids do, they just ..... I dunno. Ponies got 'relegated'. Just shifted from field to field. No good to anyone. Just an obligation.

 I'd have killed to have brought them down here. And what? Gone bankrupt, trying to feed them hay? Had their little feet adding to the destruction of the acre Pat lets me use for my own 'horses'?

  Anyway, she ~ Pat's female pony ~ went to absolute rat shit, virtually over night. This is the way. I was stunned, when I last saw her. It was like a sixteen year old had gone eighty, over night. Now she's dead.

  And, Pat said he's buying Pony a donkey, for company. A female donkey. Because the male one, living alone near him, shouts its fucking head off, all day. Drives Pat mad. Lonely donkey, see?

  And I'm aghast. Just how much money has Pat got?! Female donkey?!  Fuck!!! When I bought Donks, my bare yearling, male donk? He cost me £300. And that was straight down the line what a Male donkey cost ye, then.

  Female Donkey? £1,500!!! Faaaarkk!!!! And Pat's gonna buy one, just for company for Pony?!? Fuck!!! I'm all for fetching Donks and us breeding some donkey. Get a female? Fucking jack pot!

  I say this to Pat. He looks at me, " WTF?! " I look at Him; " What?! "

  And this is where my harshest lesson in the reality of the rotten stench of the decomposing corpse of the long dead Celtic Tiger comes in.

 I bought Donks, £300.00, fair going rate for a male donkey. Yeah. But, that was six years ago. When a female donkey was £1,500.00. 

 Checked the free ad's paper, on line, last night. Female donkey? £100.00!!!  

 I was saying in the pub, today, how I was  going home to slap my worthless donkey around. Tell him what a useless, worthless, expensive hay munching machine he was! Costing me a fortune, just to be there.

And spy on me, in the 'morning', when I came out. Peering through the gap, waiting for his breakfast. Shouting his fucking head off, for his supper, when I came home at night. Chatting to Rosie, while I'm not there.

And, yeah; I admitted, in the taxi back home ..... Any silly cunt ever turned up offering me £1,500 for my Donks? They'd be out of luck. He's My worthless, hairy skin full of shit. He's mad as fuck. And I love him to bits. Mad fucker's Priceless, to me.

Can't wait to see what Pat ends up with. A fresh packet of minty biscuits is on my shopping list. (These are special, made for horses, minty treats, by the way) I just Love these creatures :-)

From The Mouths Of Strangers .....

  Just 'Pimping' my gorgeous " Rosie " here ;-) 

But, it's all true.

 Went into town today. Steve's got some guy in the motor already, second fare. Guy hops out the front and gets into the back when I appear. Thus he's pretty much shut off to my hearing. Me being clinically deaf as a post in my right ear.

 Did my stuff, in town. Called Steve to fetch me back here. This guy's, coincidentally, still in the back seat. No matter.

 So, as we pull up at my place, Rosie and Donks are on the field. Earlier, I imagine, they'd just happened to have been down, out of sight, in the paddock.

  Then I've heard the guy roaring: " Oh Jesus! Look At That!!! That's fucking Beautiful! And will ye Look At the Back on it! Christ! What Condition!!! "

  Even as I'm quietly murmuring that yes, that's my Rosie. My pride and joy, the guy's just fucking beside himself. He even got excited over the condition of Donks. 

 Steve ~ who seriously knows his horse shit ~ was in agreeance. 

 Me? I was all warm and cuddly. Just absorbing, and deeply appreciating, the Respect being bestowed upon my beloved Rosie by guys who've probably forgotten more about horses than I'll ever live to fucking learn.

  

    Best bit is, as they pulled away, so Rosie, recognising that my coming home meant supper time, came galloping down the field. Her gorgeous mane flowing as her feathered feet thundered. She Was Breathtaking!

  I knew they'd both be watching her. And, yeah; My heart filled with love and pride.
 
 

So; I Hear Ye Selling Ye Mare ....?

  Couple of weeks ago now, Tommy the Hay Man had dropped me off a couple of round bails. I don't know how many of ye have had any more experience of these things than driving past them, in fields?

 Truth is, they're really rather big and incredibly fucking heavy! Tommy and I had somehow managed to roll the first one into my round feeder. The other's lain outside the pen, waiting till it was needed. I needed it in there today.

  That's why I'd called Pat and asked the favour of him popping down with one of his tractors, with the bail spikes on. Happily, he was shifting some bails of his own right then. He turned up within minutes to shift mine too. Bless him.

  As we were bolting together the two halves of the galvanised steel ring I feed 'The Horses' from, I heard Pat saying; " So; I hear ye selling ye mare? "

  I looked up, just in time to catch the mischievous sparkle in Pat's eye. Bastard! LOL! And I knew exactly what he was on about too.

  " Tommy can go fuck his fucking self! " I replied. " Sell my fucking Rosie?! I'd as soon sell ..... My cottage! " I said, having no kids or wife to offer as a better example. Pat made a sort of 'Oooh!' face. But, I could see he was pleased to have got the rise he was looking for.

 Turning to look Rosie over, he was more serious when he asked, " Do her give her any meal? " To which I stated, categorically, that I give them both their meal, every night. This equating, around here, about with saying ye feed ye Dog best steak.

 " Aah, she's looking in fierce fine shape though. " Breathed Pat', with obvious sincerity bordering on awe.

 And that's probably the real reason I've wrote this. To let it out a bit. Express just how bursting with pleasure I am at his words.

 See; I've had Dogs all my life. Ye can say what ye like about my Dogs. Doesn't touch me. I'm used to Dogs and handling them is second nature to me. Bloody sure mine are in good condition, mentally as well as physically. I was brought up with Dogs. I know about them.

 But, Rosie? I've had her just two years now ~ I believe it is? Never had a horse before. Never had fuck all to do with horses. Might as well have bought a Fire Engine.

 But, there's the difference, see? She's Not a machine. She's a living, breathing, thinking creature. And, as I'd always said to people, before I got her; 

 I can't stand fucking machines. Hate them. Greasy, oily, smelly, noisy. I don't understand them and wouldn't know how to do with one. Animals I can get on with.

 And, here we are. Tommy had fucking near chewed my ear off, when he brought that hay round, repeating " Will ye sell her? " like a fucking mantra. So much he was starting to get on my nerves with it.

 Now Pat' ~ another man who knows the quality of 'stock when he looks at it. I tell ye; When blokes like these look at my mare and are moved to sigh and breath such complimentary things? Makes my fucking day! Because, it lets me know I'm doing right by my creatures.

 Matters to me.
 

A Long, Long Week ....!

  The Dogs erupted and I was immediately wide awake. Peering out through the blind, I saw Pat there. Instinctively, automatically, I counted the Dogs, barking and milling around me. All there, of course. As they had been all night. The night after a day in which none had gone AWOL.  I relaxed. No trouble then.

 Walking out, smiling at my friend and neighbour, I must've greeted him and asked " 'Sup, mate? ". Expecting some small enquiry. 

 What I never, in a million years, expected was; " That bloody horse of yours has stampeded my cattle! Chased them through fences! ". That was when my world ground to a halt.

  " Ye'll have to get rid of her! ", he stated. The meaning obvious; If I can't fucking control the thing, I have no business keeping her here. Here where I allow her to reach There. And quite possibly wreck another mans livelihood. Recompense for which would, in turn, destroy me.

  As we strode up the track, his next angry utterance was; " If any of my cattle abort because of this, I'll have to hold you responsible! " Obviously.
 
" The ground's too wet anyway, " He continued. " Keep them off the field now. " The field in point being His acre. The one he allowed me to pasture 'my horses', Rosie and Donks on, as a favour.

  Trudging along through Pat's fields, even as I tracked the big, round hoof marks across his grass, saw the horse shit and the broken electric gates, I was still partly in denial. How in hell could Rosie possibly have got into his land?!

  Well, no matter. Because, as I rounded a hedge, there she was. Standing like a big, black and white monument to the gut wrenching truth. Fuck.

  And there she stood. Never twitched a muscle as I came up to her and clipped on a lead. Came with me, good as gold as I started leading her back home. My head bowed in turmoil and trying to calculate through my confusion. This could end up costing me Everything.

  Once or twice, she spurted forward a step or two. I knew Pat was behind us. Slapping her behind. Anger flared in me. I wanted to turn on him. Scream that, " Oh, yeah! Fucking taking it out on her's gonna solve Every fucking thing. Isn't it?! "

 But, of course, my anger's always been slower to rouse and much faster to abate. Anyway, I felt so sick to my own guts and had almost wondered how Pat hadn't landed one on me yet, let alone just slapping my horse. I let it go.

  Then I was alone with her. Still on Pat's ground. Noticing the torn away coil of wire that was one of his electric gates. Damage done. By my horse. But, those gates cost mere pounds. What could an aborted calf cost me?!

  I asked Hugh Logan, my Slaughterman / Butcher friend that same question, hours later. He thought about it for a moment. " £500? £700. Depends ..... " He said. Casually informing me of the sentence for a Capital Crime in Cattle County.

 He also offered that such a cow might take up to three days to actually get round to aborting. That I should just forget about it. That, should any decide to do so, I'd " Just have to make some arrangement with Pat' ". Like, what? Give me time to sell my fucking cottage?!

 And it all started there. That day. One of the worst weeks of my life. I brought a new gate back from town. Pat' wasn't there, so I handed it to Mary. I was still too strung out to even register or read the look on his wifes face. God knows what mine must've looked like. Drawn? Gray? I expect so.


 Mid week I was in Hugh's shop again. Had I seen Pat? No. I'd been hoping to run into him, on the track. Find out what was what. But, I hadn't met him yet. At least nor had he come to my place, counting out how many calves I owed.

  Hugh pursed his lips at this. To his way of thinking, Pat's way of thinking would be more like, " Lovely; The guys horse causes me untold potential damage. And where is he? No turning up to enquire. Just stays away down in his own spot. "

  But, I know better how we function. I only go to Pat's home on otherwise unavoidable business. We just meet on the track. We don't bother each other. That's why I'd been pacing around my own corner for days now. Enduring nightmares by night. Palpitations by day. Quietly, and privately, becoming nervously unravelled.

  Then, this evening, as I fed the horses ~ tied to their stalls, behind closed, locked and barricaded gates. Under High Security which I won't rest till I've made higher ~ I heard Pat's Quad. More than that, I heard it up by my front gate. Here we go ......

  Feeling suddenly exhausted, I walked up through my compound and looked over the gate. To see Pat's head moving along behind the hedge of his top field. He was on his quad, doing something in there.

  I went out and stood by the gate to that field. Waited as he returned on his circuit and dismounted. As he approached I croaked out, in a hollow voice; " Alright, Pat'? How'd ye cattle make out? "

 I was ready for anything. So I thought. Resigned to it. But, I wasn't ready for this:  " Hullo, Ditch. Naah, they're fine. Look; I'm sorry I went off at ye like that, last week ..... " Eh ....?!

  The rest is forgotten history. Pat apologised. I, flabbergasted, obviously Insisted that I was the one yet still apologising and so humbling myself in shit loads of contriteness. Pat' just waved it all aside.

 Next thing ye know, all I can think of to say, looking up at the sunny, blue sky, is; " Fucking gorgeous day, isn't it? " And, squinting into the sun himself, he dropped it: " T'is a grand day. Why don't ye let ye horses out on the field ....? "

 I blustered that they were in that pen and going to fucking well stay there till I'd sorted out how to contain Pegasus!

 " Oh, " he says, as if it's just a matter as inconsequential as how to how to lace a shoe, " Why don't ye just run an electric tape down along the bottom, where she got out? "
 And so I'm forgiven. Tutored in Stockmanship, by a man born to it. 'Shit Happens' ~ Forget it.


 And this is why, just about every day since I came here, I've harboured this tingling buzz of hope that maybe, if I'm really, really lucky? I may, today, find myself able to do one of these people a service. 

 To somehow take another small chip off the enormous and ongoing debt of pure kindness and forgiveness they've shown me, ever since I blundered into their lives and began blindly thrashing around, trying to master the art of living in Co. Leitrim.

  I fucking Love this place ~ and her people.

Bloody Back's Gone, Again ....!

It's at times like this when ye Mother, or Brother will drop round, isn't it? Take care of the little things that need doing for ye. Maybe get ye a bit of grub together. Feed the Dogs. Tea and sympathy. Eh? You, maybe. My old dear's long dead and my Brother's hundreds of miles away in another country. Out here I bite the bullet and carry on as best I can. No good feeling sorry for yeself, I can assure ye.

So, aside from a small pack of 'Interesting' Dogs ~ as in; No one else could get near them or, thus me anyway. I actually have this mad donkey and my beautiful Cob mare, Rosie. Donks is daft as a brush and just looks for mischief all the time. Rosie, of course, is as gentle as a huge feather in just about everything she does.

So; I have them in the pen, obviously. Field's a swamp. And I keep their hay in a small shed in the corner. They need a bale of that hay, every day. Come what may. Without fail. I have to get it out for them then.

In I come, hobbling about like Master Po, on my staff and make for the shed. Drama enough getting the gated door open. And there's the hay. How in hell am I gonna hump a fucking bale of the stuff out of here?!

As I always say to the Dogs; " Well: It needs to be done so I'd better get on with it. Cos there's sure as hell no bugger gonna come here and do it for me! ". Into this pokey shed I clamber. Look, balefully, at these bales. Take the strain on one and start screaming!

No. Heaving on the bale wasn't so bad. I was screaming at Rosie! Dear, sweet bloody thing had decided to join me in there! Trying to help out by eating her hay in situ. So, there's me, staggering about in the half dark, with my stick going through the pallets I'm standing on. Fucking great bulk of a horse stamping about in front of me. All I could do was try to keep my balance as I screamed at her to get the fuck out of there! LMAO!

How I never got trod on, collapsed in a heap of abject agony, or just plain had a heart attack, I'll never know!

Never mind. All's well that we manage to survive in tact. They got their hay ~ all be it dumped onto the ground in their shelter. From where they're strewing it amongst the shit as I type! But, they're fed. Even tottered back down there and gave them their supper of meal ~ dosed with worming paste tonight.

Now I have a pint of my Coopers Stout in front of me. Stove's lit. Dogs are settled down for the night. I wouldn't have it any other way ..... Well; Maybe aside from the whiff emanating from poor Chain Dogs cage. No Way could I have her out on her lead today! Dash of disinfectant will sort that out, presently. At least the pressure's off her bladder now.

Maybe, when I wake up tomorrow, this back'll be a bit less sore? If not? We'll just have to get through on 'emergency measures' again.

Yep. Life can sometimes be a tad trying, out here. But, it's seldom mundane or boring!

Horse Fair .....

Local towns annual Horse Fair, today. I went in, to show my face and have a sly look around. I go in every year. I'm developing a pattern now though. Taxi in. Walk once round the 'C' shaped circuit. Duck into my local for a pint. Go back home.

I mention this because, for the people of the little town there, it's a real event. Horses are absolutely the central theme, of course. But it's also the Sunday of the Bank Holiday and so a fine opportunity to get pissed and have a bloody good time, day and night. Me? I just go in to, as I've said, show my face. And look at the horses and what ever else is on sale.

Great, actually. See, last year there was some bloke there with a nice, quiet, piebald cob mare. She was all harnessed up to a Pot Cart too. Only, that's all she did, all day. Stand there. And the cart was well past its best too. I still drooled, of course. And, at the end of the day, he put her in a horse box and the cart onto a trailer. Hauled them both away.

This year? Heh! I'd already been telling anyone half willing to listen how I Could have brought my Rosie in. I could even fetch the Pot Cart and have her just stand there, to be admired. But, I didn't want to ruin any ones day by simply blowing what ever they had out of the water.

True. One nice mare there today. Good feather on her feet. But she was more white than piebald. Nah. Another one, I don't even remember her 'colour'. But, her back was so short, it's like she had a quarter of herself missing. The Wall Eyed one? Who knows. One glimpse of that eye and mine moved on. Finally; The poor thing with a head like an 'English Bull Terrier'! That one made me look twice. But only because it was so freakishly malformed. Poor thing.

I looked at some Exercise Carts. One selection uniformly laroped with sky blue paint. Hiding god knows what bad welding, potentially fatal to both horse and driver. Unable though to hide the thin tube steel and even the mismatched moterbike wheels. And I hear the cunt was asking 400 for them?! :o

Another one Did catch my eye. Quite a bit. But, I figured it was 'worth' 200. And, being a fair, the lunatic would've been wanting 600. I didn't waste my time by asking. Within an hour, I couldn't see it any more. Some mug .....

The star of the day for me though was the little Appaloosian. (I don't know how to spell it. Half of ye probably wouldn't know what I meant if I could, ffs) Just think of a Dalmatian Horse. Prettiest little thing, one of them. Spots all over its face 'n all. 200!!! But, as I said to my informant; " With the weather, and the price of hay? I couldn't afford to support the fucking thing if they gave it to me! "

And so, satisfied, I came back home. Cleaned Rosie and Donks out. Gave Rosie a nice brushing. Then just spent an inordinate amount of time simply hugging her big, beautiful bum. Pressing my face against it and planting kisses on it.

I fuckin' worship that horse! :D

Rosie; About Time I Introduced Her ....!

Here she is.This is my " Rosie ". The most gorgeous Cob mare in all Eire ~ and to hell with anyone who tries to argue against that fact! She's absolutely fucking beautiful, and that's all there is to it. Even if she was in foal, wearing her winter coat, had been having a roll in the mud and her mane needed a fucking good brushing ..... But, that's how ye seeing her here. I, of course, see so much more of her.

I see her with her coat brushed and shining. Her mane brushed till my arms are dropping off. Clean and spruced and, most of all; Moving! (Click photo to see rest of her. Fuck knows why it does this?!)




People; Ye'd better believe me when I say that seeing Rose move is enough to damn near stop ye heart! I've had her since November now and I still can't get over just seeing her move. It tightens my chest and catches in my throat every time. So Much beautiful horse, gliding along. All flowing, white mane, feathered feet and black and white ..... Movement! It's just breath taking!





Here's the other side of her, just so ye know. It's not right to hide either side of a horse like this. My Rosie has nothing to hide. She's gorgeous all round. I'd show ye a shot of her bum; But That would just over whelm ye and have ye sliding out of ye chairs in a swoon. Ye think I'd shit ye about a thing like this ....?

When I had the vet' out, to micro chip and draw up Rose's 'Passport', She was so taken, she simply had to exclaim, " Oh! What a Beautiful Bum! ". Telling ye; This mare Is a fucking show stopper!

Anyway, I can already see this becoming a Loooooong one. So I'd better kick off with the story right now. Obviously, I intend to break it down and come back to it over time. Just look on each post about her as being a new Chapter. Here's the first one:

I was born and raised in Portsmouth. That's a shitty little city right down at the arse end of england. Dockyard town. Seemed like 1/4 of the population worked in the Dockyard. Probably another 1/4, or more, of us were settled Gypsys. And almost a 1/4 of the place was still 'Bomb Sites'. There were spaces, amongst the houses, where no one had yet thought to build flats. Or drive a fucking great road through. Horses and carts, even then, were nothing to to think twice about.

And so it was, at age thirteen, I'd started developing this notion of getting the fuck out. I figured the best way of doing this was the only way I knew how. And, being a recently made Fatherless kid? I knew Fuck. Obviously. But I still had my natural instincts. That which was simply born with me. In my blood. And something in those instincts beckoned me to get out on the road. Turn the clock back and return to my roots.

Hell of a fucking idea, eh? Get myself a horse and vardo. Head off over the bridge out of Pompey and, somehow, just get on with it. Hey ho.

And now, a word about " Vardo ". It's the Romani Gypsy word for what You might term a " Gypsy Caravan ". Ye know the old horse drawn ones? They're actually known as a vardo. Gypsys, in england, still retain remnents of what was once a full language. Only, these days, we struggle to express ourselves to each other through a handfull of mutually remembered and understood words.

The pronunciation is a bitch too. In writing, that is. But, it just fucks me off to think ye might all end up reading what I'm saying, in ye heads, with the wrong sound. So, I'll try to explain things to ye:

" Vardo " may, equelly well be spelled as " Varda ". It's the end bit that's most important here. Just like the " Dicklo " I have, tied round my neck as I write this ~ and should sincerely hope to have, as I get popped into the burning box.

My mate, " Moucher ", I have seen spelling " Dicklo " as " Dickler ". It's all down to any given persons effort to express word sounds not normally encountered. Probably a bit like the 'Perfect Grammer' French, I imagine, they teach in schools. Bit different, I dare say, to what ye might hear on the streets of a provincial, French town?

So, anyway; Vardo is pronounced, as best I can explain it, with the VAR like in Reg Varney. Or VARnish. The last bit is 'Throw away'. It's Not " Doe ", or " Da " or " Der ". It's more like " D ", followed by a sound ye've lost all interest in. As I about have in trying to teach you bastards a 'foreign' language that likely means fuck all to ye any way. Just read it how ever ye want. Like my " Ye ".

Now, where the fuck was I ....? That's right: So, I'm stood there, leaning on an inner city stable door. We still had bits of open ground then. Local (settled) Gypsys tethered their horses there. Some had houses with garages out back, opening onto small roads. They made those (back) into stables. But this was an original stable yard. Just off the main road. Dealer boots, a dicklo and the right parantage were the passwords into that place.

And I'm stood there, having expressed my ideas to some guy I found there. (Oh; And he wore the right sort of hat too. Cross between a Trilby and a Fedora. In case any film production sort wankers ever read this. Get it right, FFS!) And ~ Finally getting round to my point here! ~ This guy's saying to me:

" Want a vardo, son? Nice little Open Lot, or Bow Top would do ye. And ye'd want something like This to pull it ..... " And, with that, he nodded. I looked. And there before me, in a heavenly, fresh hay scented stall, stood The Most fucking gorgeous, black and white bum. (Piebald, to give it its correct, not Gypsy but simply proper english, term) " Nice, quiet Cob mare. About 13.5 Hands. Not too big. But strong built. Good legs. She'd pull a vardo for ye. "

I decided, there and then; I was gonna get me some of That!