Over the Hill: 8

My companion is Storm, an opinionated 12.2 hand British moorland pony. Our playground is the North Wales coast bordering Snowdonia National Park. 
P1000024-1The heather across Conwy Mountain is at its most spectacular, highlighted with yellow gorse and dappled sun. A honeyed perfume drifts across the swathes of purple, lots of blackberries are already ripe and the drone of insects is especially busy. We have company. His Little Lordship and Her Little Ladyship have been an item for some time and they’ve occasionally exhibited varying degrees of oneupmanship. Storm doesn’t like being overtaken, in fact he doesn’t always tolerate another pony hot on his heels either and is quick to engage the equine equivalent of sticking his elbows out. This can take the form of dastardly cutting-up manoeuvres or last-minute swerves of direction. Even a strong leg and hand applied to the opposing side brings no real control to the situation. However, Conwy Mountain presents a slow amble uphill and the ponies are positively docile. We dismount to walk down the steep slippery footpath which brings us to the top of Sychnant Pass to cross over the road and pass through the gate to the Pensychnant Estate.
Immediately, Lady’s head is raised, both sets of ears are pricked forwards and there’s a subtle shift in Storm’s interest as his hooves make contact with a sea of grass. It’s an especially scenic bridleway, the heathery views enhanced by glimpses of the sea and the eastern coast of Anglesey. But the best bit is of course, good safe going for a canter. Girths checked, we set off at a brisk pace. In no time, the ponies are neck and neck until Storm surges ahead at the last moment. But there’s no bucking, squealing, or swerving, and the gradual incline affords a natural brake. The route meanders to the boundary at the top, where it merges into the foothills of Tal Y Fan and continues as the North Wales Path. The previous summer Storm and I were caught-up here in a huge group of elderly ramblers. No one seemed aware that a pony and rider had tagged on behind, until a particularly officious Tail-End-Charlie suddenly caught sight of us. Stand well back everyone! There’s a big ‘orse wanting to come through!
The walkers slowly turned to look, expecting to see a horse and rider twice the size of us. I impressed that there was no need for alarm, but the opportunity to entertain didn’t escape Storm. He certainly knew how to work a crowd – his immediate reaction being to display his manhood – and then to take a long pee. This seemed to go on for some considerable time, head and tail raised to the wind stallion-style until finally, all 12.2 hands of proud pony strutted past a long line of tittering spectators, the majority of them compelled to tell me that Storm was a boy.
No ramblers today. Only a scattering of wild ponies, and sheep. We turn left after passing through the old iron gate to head past the pond, then take another left to resume the downward trail above a slightly misted Conwy Valley. Like the subtle shift in the seasons it feels as if the ponies have established their hierarchy to one of calm acceptance. Even the final canter facing home across the previously acclaimed naughty grass fails to deliver any explosive action – an area where Storm has often continued to canter downhill towards a strategically placed telegraph pole. For the moment though, it seems Her ladyship and His Lordship are living up to the dignity of their respective titles. Or maybe they’re just lulling us into a false sense of security…