"TOGETHER WE RIDE."

Auckland Star, Volume LXV, Issue 147, 23 June 1934, Page 1 (Supplement)

"TOGETHER WE RIDE."

THE HORSE RETURNS.

ELEGANCE AND COMFORT

(By M.E.S.)

It is said that riding is once more becoming fashionable and that hope is springing 'again in the breast of the horse-breeder. It may be so in the larger cities. Curiously, the horse has not penetrated into the country towns and their civilised outskirts, whence the motor ousted him with the coming of metalled roads. Here it is still the interesting exception to see a woman, in riding dress, so interesting that the heads of all passers-by turn involuntarily, and the pleasing effect of a neat figure iu correct riding-kit is too often marred by the self-consciousness of the face. No, so far the liorso remains a town luxury.

Exccpt, of course, in the real backblocks. Here he reigns supreme and must continue to do so as long as poverty and clay roads persist. Last summer I spent a week in a beach camp at the back of beyond, and there saw every manner of horse and rider pass by. For our bcach was a main highway to the upper reaches of the harbour, and tho settlers there, Maori and pakeha, have no means of access to their humble homes save by riding along the beach at low tide.

The horses were as varied as their riders. There were the usual batches of Haori kaiporkas, with tliose disturbing •igns of mixed breed that make a man rub his eyes and wonder anxiously what ho drank last night. For you will see the head of a thoroughbred upon a draught's body; clean and beautiful lcs and tho scrubby weak head of a Maori weed; the magnificent quarters of a steeplechaser with a rat-tail and ugly ewe-neck. Somewhere, somehow, a good stallion had obviously escaped from civilisation, to lead a wild free life in the sandhills beyond, and he had left his mark in tho herd of horses. But the strain had been hopelessly weakened and corrupted by in-brceding and unsuitable crossing, and the result was thirty clumsy, ugly horses for one useful presentable beast. All Styles. But tho Maoris cared little about that All they asked of a horse was that it should bo able to gallop. And how they did gallop. They would come tearing along, the women with babies on their backs, the men with a toddler on their saddle-bow and another clinging precariously at tho rear, mud and sand flying in every direction, the horses sweating freely but struggling gamely for the advantage at every bend. There were pakeha settlers too, and, watching the young couples cantering past, I seemed to renew my youth. For this riding together of which Browning has written so beautifully has become a lost art. Young people ride together so seldom, and if they do it usually degenerates into a race. The engaged couples of my acquaintance are never content unless they are trying horse against horse, for this is the age of speed. Nor do the married couples ride placidly side by side. The man usually gallops ahead with set jaw thinking of the cows to milk at home, and the woman hurries after, hoping that the fire has not gone out and tho children are not hungry. .. —

are not nungry. .. But there was one young c,ouple that we watched riding past on the beach who seemed as yet to know no such domestic cares, Tliey rode together in the old beautiful sense of the word. Their horses were well bred and -well matched. Easy to see that they had been chosen because of their paces and well trained. They were hacks in the real sense of tho term, able to break from a fa3t -walk into an easy canter that seemed effortless while covering the ground amazingly. Tho couple rode easily and happily, talking and laughing, holding tho reins quite loosely and with easy seats that told of a life spent in the saddle. Romance. Watching them enviously I thought this tho best and most romantic of all companionships. There was ease and grace in their pose and in their horses' powerful unhurried gait. I have lately been used to young couples -who dart about in fast cars and chatter of pace and mileage. Their faces have a strained look as they race past and they have little time for mutual dalliance and enjoyment of each other's company at 45 miles an hour. Nor do they look as charming nor as graceful. No exercise more becomes a woman than riding and none more perfectly emphasises a man's straight and easy pose. That "Last Ride Together" was fit subject for a poet's pen. I cannot imagine even our present Laureate wasting much eloquence upon a couple in a fast car.

Dreaming thus in the sunshine and with tho quiet lapping of the incoming tide in my ears, I thought of other days and other -ways. _ Riding, they say, is coming in again; it was once tho most fashionable of exercises. All Victorian heroines indulged in it. They rode highstepping horses, guaranteed, nevertheless, in the words of the immortal "Irish R.M.," "Like a novel for young ladies, entirely safe if a trifle slow." Horses have deteriorated —and so have novels, perhaps. How elegant the heroines looked in their sweeping habits and tall hats, with their slender waists and sloping shoulders. And those little boots that peeped so coyly beneath their habits— how many a romance has blossomed suddenly as the swain received that delicate foot in his strong hand and swung the slender rider into the saddle! An Easier Age. And even when he had got her there, there was still his manners to mind. There was no reckless cantering about, no rushing past her and rudely challenging her to a race. No, for the first ihalf mile they paced decorously, nor dreamt of breaking that long-paced walk. Then, "Would you care to increase the pace?" and the well-trained horses broke into an easy amble. Yes, it was all very pretty and very charming, but just a trifle dull. Personally, I preferred my young couple upon the beach. They were' not elegantly dressed, and their well-trained horses knew nothing of high-stepping. But they were full of speed and heart; like their riders, they were getting the most out of life. Hearing their merry voices and their challenges, "1 ( aster! I hat nag of yours is going to sleep and_we won t get home to-night," I fo "J ,d myself picturing that little backblocks home anion" the hills to which they would presently conic, the big open chimney, the dog-waiting at the gate, the purple hills in the distance. Presently the sun dropped behind the mountains, and I rose sadly and stiffly. Ah, well, even my youn- couple must grow old some day—and° ride in motor cars .. .