My companion is Storm, an opinionated 12.2 hand British moorland pony. Our playground is the North Wales coast bordering Snowdonia National Park.
According to the farrier – who likes to keep us on the road and fully legal at all times – Storm has succumbed yet again to summer feet. We’ve tackled this rapid growth with some special equine moisturiser, and an extra trim. His nails look more resplendent than mine. Down by Pensychnant lake we canter up the slope, then take an almost hidden right into a vast swathe of bracken; a clear track in the winter but throughout August the ferns are so prolific they almost completely conceal us. Storm ploughs through the foliage in anticipation of a fast canter beside the lake, but we are thwarted at the last second.
It seems especially bizarre on this damp, deserted morning to come across two women loitering in the middle of our canter path comparing their summer feet ie: bunions from wearing ill-fitting sandals. Nothing for it but to wait until they decide to call up their dogs and shuffle back the way they’ve come. Slowly. Storm is agitated and paws the ground, until I finally let him fly. A couple of sheep dart out of the undergrowth and Storm leaps sideways. It crosses my mind that should we part company in this spot my body will probably lie hidden until the bracken has died back, sometime around October… but we recover, canter on. I hear the bunion women discussing the bobble on my hat, and Storm’s ears. They seem bemused by our closet activity.
Storm inches into the lake and takes a long drink. I’m not surprised he’s thirsty since someone with big teeth managed to remove the bath plug and let all the water out of the trough in the field. None of the residents claim responsibility, but I’ve a good idea who it might be. In fact, after several days of storms, there’s standing pools everywhere and my legs are wet from pushing through glistening foliage. Elsewhere, the ground is slippery so I decide to get back onto the lanes. The footpath to the rear of Oakwood View is blocked by a stone mason repairing the collapsed wall. I slide off the pony to ascertain if we can squeeze past, but his van is full of apoplectic dogs and the equipment on the grass doesn’t look horse-friendly. Mr Stone is super reasonable though, and obliges by reversing his vehicle all the way back down the track and we’re able to continue our planned route.
A right turn here leads us to a cattle grid and just beyond this, a left turn takes us by Berthlwyd Hall Holiday Park. I love this teeny narrow lane. It winds slightly downhill between gnarled oak trees and tall hedges, and in rough weather affords plenty of protection. At the junction, Storm takes it upon himself to turn left – the shortest way back to the yard, naturally. But I let him trot along Hendre Road until we come to the gap in the wall next to a row of terraced cottages, where a concealed footpath snakes uphill towards Oakwood. I dismount and let him scramble over the rock slabs at the entrance, which he does with ease. On such a dull day, this sunken path is a dark, spooky tunnel beneath a dense canopy of dripping trees. Whenever I pass this way I always recall getting halfway down with our dog – to come face to face with an enormous bull. Thankfully, no need for a hasty retreat today. Storm scrambles valiantly to the top, raindrops in his mane, his precious pedicure intact, and trailing a long bramble from his tail.