The first posting abroad that I remember was some three years in Berlin, arriving there when I was around 4 or 5. There, we lived in a block of flats amongst several other blocks. A lasting memory is of the huge pine tree on the grassy area in between our block and the block next door and I can remember being so frightened that one day that tree would fall, as it swayed most alarmingly when the wind blew.
Interestingly, my Mum’s strongest memory of that flat is the black and white chequered kitchen floor - now very much an icon of the sixties - which apparently was the very devil to keep shiny. Those were the days when, of course, a housewife’s worth was judged by the shine on her kitchen floor. I would play shops in the living room, while my Mum did the ironing. I had some teensy little replica food packets that I would “sell” to her for imaginary money. I can also remember playing cowboys and indians with the other children from the married quarters, in and out of the shrubbery at the end of a central grassy area.
However, if you mention the word “Berlin” to me, the first memory that springs to mind is of the pony from the Bierkeller.
I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t interested in horses. Until his death my Dad would still alert us to horses on the road or in fields by calling out “horses!” in a sing-song voice as he drives along – and often, I’m not even in the car!
Anyway, back to the Berlin pony. We would walk past the Bierkeller (or pub) quite regularly on our way to the bus stop into town. The area must have been hilly, as I can recall that the building was set aside from the road on a terrace to the right that was some 3ft lower than the path we were on. To the right of the building – and adjoining it – was the stable. It opened out into a sandy area into which the pony could free-range but was basically a pit. I expect he was the delivery pony, as he was a stocky, short-legged bay type with a mealy mouth who would come up to the chicken wire that constituted the fence at the top of the containing wall and beg for blades of grass. I would always run on ahead so that I could have a moment or two to feed him those blades of grass before my Mum could catch up and chase me onwards to the bus stop.
I can remember loving how he would always come to the fence to say hello, the warm, horsey smell of him, the coarse whiskery lips that would so delicately whoofle up the grass, making me nervous that he’d suck my fingers into his mouth with his big discoloured tombstone teeth. I was always so disappointed when he wasn’t there.
I know we had some seriously snowy winters while in Berlin and we would walk through the town and along the Kurfurstendamm with huge (well, they were huge to me then!) piles of snow on either side of the path. My parents would be all wrapped up in big heavy coats with hats and gloves, yet my hands would always be too hot for gloves. My Mum would take my hands into hers, to warm her chilly fingers.
My Dad would also like to tease me regarding the Berlin Bear. He told me that, if you looked carefully, one day you would see the Berlin Bear appear and skate across the roof of the Kongresshalle – this was, of course, before its roof collapsed in 1980. I did so want to see the Bear doing his triple sulko as he swooped from one side of the curve to the other. My Dad tells me that this flight of fancy of his was spawned by the local T.V. station producing an advert that appeared regularly, featuring the Berlin Bear skating madly around the roof of the Kongresshalle. I can’t say I recall ever seeing that advert – and I never got to see the Bear doing his stuff, either.
Owing to my Dad’s regiment being sent to the middle East where families couldn’t follow, we found ourselves back in England for some 18 months while he completed a tour of duty in Aden. We shared our house in Stoneleigh, near Epsom, with my Aunty Joyce (no relation) and her two children, Michael & Janice. Her husband and their dad, my Uncle Bill, had also been posted to Aden and it made sense for the two families to amalgamate and support one another.
I missed my friend at the Bierkeller and as we were living in quite an urban environment, it didn’t occur to me that there would be horses nearby. In fact, in years to come we moved back to the area and lived in the next road. It took a while, but I discovered there were horses very locally. I would guess that the stables were there all the time we were, but of course without a car – and with little spare cash – there was no chance of my being able to meet up with them. So, I had to put up with living my dreams through my Sindy’s horse, who became my most treasured possession.
By the time we’d moved to Münster in Germany, I was around 8 years old and horses were well and truly in my blood.
My first contact with them was the little old pony that would deliver milk to our street. Thinking of him now, it is hard to see how he could have been so consistent, delivering milk each day no matter the weather. He looked, bless his little heart, as though he could hardly stay awake long enough to pull his cart to the next stop. However, pull it he did and generally without much steering from the milkman who would walk alongside making his deliveries, only stopping when the milkman needed to dole out ladlefuls of milk to those who brought their own containers out to him.
The big change came once I discovered that the Army horsemen gave riding lessons using their polo ponies. I pestered my parents until finally they gave in and I began riding on a Saturday morning.
The ponies were housed at one end of the Tank hangars (yes, think Tiger, Sherman, Panther etc.) and it was no great surprise to have to wait while one of the tanks manoeuvred, before being able to go through to the stables.
Once through the little doorway, you were into a land of wonder. Filled with the warm grassy breath of the horses, that smell which is so appreciated by those who adore the animals and the soft chomp, chomp of contented horses munching hay.
Each stable unit had another door which led to the one next door, so you could move from the REME horses, to the 10th Hussars and so on. Through another door and you were into the harness room – a room filled from floor to ceiling with gleaming polished saddles, bridles and harness, their silverwork and brass shining in the relative gloom and with that evocative smell of leather, saddle soap and tobacco.
Outside the harness room, they had a polo horse – a wooden horse upon which you could sit and practice your moves with the polo stick. The sides of the enclosure were ramped, so that the polo ball always rolled back to be hit again. I used to love to sit on him and practice my rising trot, just like I would sit on the back of the sofa at home and practice it there. I swear that sofa taught me to ride far more than the army teachers did! I seem to remember being late for my lessons on a regular basis – largely because I was too small to tack up my own horse and the teachers just left you to it. To be honest, at that stage I doubt I’d have known how to go about putting the saddle and bridle on, so I would have to wait until someone took pity on me and “dressed” my horse for me. Thereupon I’d be able to amble down to the indoor school, if it was a good day, I’d get teased for being late, if it was a bad day, I’d have a strip torn off of me for being tardy. I can remember being fairly petrified of the actual riding part, but I wouldn’t have changed it for the world.
I felt so privileged to be there and spent as long at the stables as I possibly could, just completely adoring the whole thing and being in awe. I was never happier than when I was there, moving from horse to horse along the lines of loose boxes, greeting dark bay hogged Losita, then her sister the light bay Rosita, being very careful of the grey Anemone who had a reputation as a biter but who had never bitten me, to my closest friend and the horse upon which I preferred to have my lessons – a 15hh palomino mare called Debutante. It was rather like putting a pea on the rock of Gibraltar, putting the 8 year old me on to a 15hh polo pony, but she always took care of me and I’d have been happy to have just ambled around while I stroked her and told her through my fingertips what a beautiful, loyal and honest friend she was. I truly loved Debbie and it broke my heart to have to leave her when we were called back to Britain.
3. Newbury Gardens.
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