Precious legs…Katia comes on the scene…a life with horses…

| Friday, June 20th, 2020


Dear Friend,

Her legs were long, spindly and knobbly. And like any newborn horse, she was already on them. Within a few hours, she was cantering to catch up to her mother.

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A horse’s legs are a precious thing. Each one is a delicate construction of bone, blood, ligament and tendon. Four of the “five hearts” of a horse are found at the ends of its legs. When a horse steps down, the springy cushion on the bottom of its foot presses blood back up to its body. Those extra blood pumps give a horse quick power and speed. A horse can sprint at 88 km per hour– happily, the average lion only moves at 80 km.

And a horse’s legs are like two extra pairs of eyes on stalks. They sense treacherous terrain and allow a sensible horse to avoid dangerous obstacles. A horse seems to have an instinct for picking its way through swiftly churning streams, for hopping from rock to rock on a mountain trail, or for galloping across fields full of rabbit-holes without ever tripping. 

Or course, some – like my husband’s good-natured horse, El Bayo -- just seem to have a knack for sinking into quicksand up to their shoulders. Luckily, El Bayo placidly heaves himself out, though not always with his rider on his back. My husband nevertheless trusts El Bayo, and El Bayo tries his best to keep my husband aboard. A partnership with a horse is precious, too.

This newborn filly, with a thunderbolt running from forehead to nose, is the grand-daughter of my sporting mare, Gavotte du Loup. Gavotte’s own daughter, the filly’s mother Victoire, was born with a twisted foot. It never properly straightened out. 

“Is she straight?” I texted anxiously, when I received the birth announcement of Katia de Courtomer last week. The answer was a series of pictures taken a few hours after the birth of Victoire’s grey filly, on June 8. 

Victoire gives us a proud gaze as newborn Katia learns to feed

Victoire gives us a proud gaze as newborn Katia learns to feed

“Just as well!” our stud manager Michel had consoled me when we knew Victoire could never be ridden: Victoire had the dreadful temperament of her father. Mais!...she could be a broodmare! His eyes brightened.

Michel knows that some horses just aren’t cut out to be partners with man. After an accident left him lame and slightly hunchbacked, he found his second calling – breeding horses. He’s also a judge of modèles et allures, conformation and gaits, of young horses at the Haras nationaux. But…

 “Mon plus grand regret – not riding, I regret it” he told me. Michel is what the French admiringly call un homme de cheval – a horseman.

He began training and riding young horses in the 1960s and by the 1970s, he was competing and winning in the prestigious French Showjumping Championships. He rode for Olympic showjumper Philippe Jouy – and several of his rides, like the explosive Nagir, went on to the Olympic Games. Jouy also bred horses – and Michel looked and learned.

Michel soars over the bars at the Championnat de France with the great Anglo-Arabe Andante, in the 1970s

Michel soars over the bars at the Championnat de France with the great Anglo-Arabe Andante, in the 1970s

It was quite true about Victoire’s temper. When she was just a yearling, my son Henry and I used to keep her at bay with a long baton de berger, or shepherd’s crook, while we filled her bucket. 

Later, when Michel tried to teach her how to work on a lunge line, she was disobedient.

Incorrigible !” he exclaimed, scandalized. Victoire had veered towards us, ears pinned back. Her intentions were obviously evil.

Katia’s first twilight, with her mother Victoire as evening falls in the pasture

Katia’s first twilight, with her mother Victoire as evening falls in the pasture

Luckily, motherhood transformed Victoire. We could admire her foal and pet her in the field. We could give her treats; she seemed to expect it.

But still, it was a disappointment. Victoire owed her name and, of course, her existence to Gavotte. Gavotte had come into my life when my faithful weekend steed had to retire. I tried to find a replacement, but none of the horses were quite right. A burly mare with an impressive derrière – “quelle moteur!” said the dealer admiringly -- scared me. Another horse was too young. He would have bucked me off in a trice.

The dealer sighed. 

“Bring me Gavotte du Loup!” he commanded his young assistant.

“Gavotte du Loup?” she answered, incredulously. 

Gavotte of the Wolf! The very name drew me! In a few moments, I heard the clatter of hoofs on the stone of the stable yard…

To be continued…

A très bientôt, 

 
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PS: We are enjoying the beginning of summer at Chateau de Courtomer. Last weekend, we planted the geraniums. And happily, we’re now enjoying some rain after a dry spring.

 
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