![\"Sherkin](\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/The-Changeling-1.jpg?resize=640%2C360&ssl=1\")
<\/h2>\n<\/p>\n
Although I was only sixteen when I first heard the sound, it\u2019s something that still sends a flutter through my chest: the metallic staccato of shod hooves ascending a tailboard ramp. It\u2019s so confident, so positive, so full of optimism: a world away from the nervous, hesitant, sliding clatter of an animal being reversed from its conveyance. It was October 1982; Ireland was firmly in the grip of recession, I was adjusting to the challenge of fifth year in secondary school, and was on my way home after class when it happened. The scene was our town\u2019s annual autumn horse fair, traditionally held on the last Thursday of October, when farmers, followers of foxhounds, foreign agents, slaughter factory dealers descended upon us from every corner of these islands, and beyond.<\/span><\/p>\n It being after 4pm, the day\u2019s trading was effectively over when my attention was drawn to a dapple grey mare being loaded to a single box by a stocky, middle-aged man.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019s a beauty,\u201d I called out, alighting from my bike and craning my neck in an effort to get a proper look at the noble creature before the man secured the tailboard behind her. \u201cYou bought well!\u201d I added.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cBought? Hah! Indeed, then, I did not;\u201d he paused midway up the ramp, cleared his throat, and spat over his shoulder, \u201c\u2019twas hoping to sell I was. This mare is worth at least a thousand, but I\u2019d have settled for half rather than see her go to the factory.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cThe factory? Why; what\u2019s wrong with her? She doesn\u2019t look very old; is she injured?\u201d As if she\u2019d realised she was the subject of our exchange, the mare arched her neck until her left eye was fixed directly on mine.\u00a0 \u00a0 <\/span> \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cNo, she\u2019s not injured, but she\u2019s coming twelve and the trainer says there\u2019s no point persevering with her for another season. For the money I was asking, I thought someone might take a chance on her as a brood mare. She was twice placed over the banks at Punchestown, and she\u2019d run well on the flat, and won over hurdles and fences, before that. Her sire won The Derby!\u201d He turned, and took a half-step up the ramp.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cThree-hundred,\u201d a voice said. He\u2019d heard it too; he was squinting questioningly in my direction. That was when I realised that the voice had been mine. I did have the money \u2013 in the post office \u2013 I\u2019d been working with a silage contractor during the two previous summers, and I also had a winter sideline supplying pirate video tapes to RT\u00c9 dependant pubs. Uncle Podge, Mam\u2019s younger brother, would receive a suitcase of cassettes from <\/span>up the country<\/span><\/i> on Sunday mornings, he would then pass them on to me to deliver while retrieving the previous week\u2019s tapes to be redistributed, or recorded over, for the following week. Podge was something of an enigma; he didn\u2019t have an actual job but still seemed to make a reasonable living from what he described as <\/span>this and that<\/span><\/i>.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll let you have her for four, but not a penny less. I\u2019d get five at the factory\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cCan you wait twenty minutes?\u201d I heard myself ask, \u201cI can get it\u2026\u201d I said with more confidence than I felt. I was almost a hundred short, but I knew that John, my older brother, was at the cattle mart across town. John always carried cash; he was twenty-one, and had just taken over our family farm after graduating agricultural college. The farm had been in Mam\u2019s family for generations; she had inherited it while in her late teens, after her older brother had died in a road accident. Podge had never been considered for the land; even he would agree that he couldn\u2019t mind a cat, never mind fifty-plus cows.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll tell you what,\u201d the man sighed, \u201cI haven\u2019t had an offer all day\u2026\u201d he checked his watch. \u201cYou have until quarter to five\u2026then I\u2019m going home. Good luck!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n I located John easily enough, but I knew he wouldn\u2019t oblige if he knew my real reason for wanting to borrow the money. I needed a cover story \u2013 and fast.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI was on my way home from school when this fella at the horse fair grabbed me,\u201d I blurted breathlessly. \u201cHe said I\u2019d damaged his car with the silage trailer when I was drawing for Jim Kelly. He wants compensation \u2013 two hundred \u2013 or he\u2019ll go to the guards. You know I\u2019m not insured to drive on the public road…\u201d\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n The ultimate crime in our household was bringing the Garda\u00ed to Mam\u2019s door. It was always her door; not Dad\u2019s. Podge had brought the Garda\u00ed to her door; he\u2019d been prosecuted a few years earlier for towing an unlit trailer after dark. There was more trouble when the pensions\u2019 officer read about the court case in the local paper; that was when we discovered that Podge had been in receipt of the blind pension for more than three years. According to John, Dad had managed to broker some deal with the pensions\u2019 office, and Podge avoided a second day in court. There was a weird symbiosis between Dad and Podge; Dad wasn\u2019t of the land and while he had lived on the farm ever since marrying Mam, he still considered himself a self-employed craftsman. Both his basic carpentry and more artistic wood carving skills were in constant demand; and only in dire circumstances would he fork a bale of hay, spancel a cow, or attach a milking cluster.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cIf every penny isn\u2019t paid back by Easter, I\u2019ll tell Mam,\u201d John said, \u201cand I\u2019ll also tell her about Podge\u2019s videos,\u201d he added, reluctantly handing over four fifties. I hadn\u2019t actually needed two hundred; half would have done, but I wanted to keep a cushion in my post office account in case I might encounter unforeseen difficulties in meeting John\u2019s repayment schedule. I rushed to the post office, withdrew two hundred, and then phoned Mam from the public kiosk to say that I\u2019d be late getting home.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI have it,\u201d I called out, approaching the man, \u201cbut I\u2019ll need you to drop her, and me and my bike, a mile or so out the road.\u201d My plan was to hide the mare at Podge\u2019s, but I couldn\u2019t risk Mam seeing me leading her past her gate. Podge lived at the edge of the farm, in the cottage that had once been home to the farm\u2019s full-time labourers. It had an acre plot with several outbuildings, some of which had formerly stabled Mam\u2019s grandparents\u2019 working horses and trap pony; also, there was a full shed of Mam\u2019s hay on the other side of Podge\u2019s boundary fence. I knew Podge would understand; Podge always understood.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n The man stopped his jeep at Podge\u2019s gate and after exchanging cash for documentation, I removed my bike and he unloaded the mare. Handing me the lead rope, he pressed a score into my hand.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cGood luck to the pair a ye,\u201d he said, shaking my hand. \u201cGoodbye, old girl, and be good for the lad. He might have saved your life,\u201d he gave the mare a few pats on the shoulder before returning to the jeep. \u201cHere,\u201d he said, retrieving an old rug from the back seat and then lobbing it, followed by the hay net from the trailer, towards me. \u201cHer sire won The Derby, you know,\u201d he shouted as he drove off.<\/span><\/p>\n As usual, Podge was nowhere to be seen. I doubt if even Dad knew where Podge went to do whatever it was that he did, and despite her innate curiosity, I know for a fact that Mam didn\u2019t want to know. I put the old rug on the mare, shut her with her hay net in the most secure of Podge\u2019s outhouses, and then wrote an explanatory note on a page from a school jotter which I slipped under Podge\u2019s backdoor.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cHer sire won The Derby,\u201d I informed Podge when he parked at our gate about an hour later.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201c<\/span>Shellskin<\/span><\/i>? Yes, I remember him; I think I might have backed him once,\u201d he said, scanning the mare\u2019s pedigree. \u201cThe derby, you say; any idea which derby? I know he won a race or two; but a derby\u2026? I don\u2019t think so\u2026then again it isn\u2019t always the daddy\u2019s name that appears on the birth cert; is it?\u201d After a hearty chuckle, he sobered and returned the mare\u2019s papers to me. \u201cBut seriously; what in the name of the good Lord above were you thinking?\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n It was a question I would ask myself many times over the subsequent months, but hearing it then from Podge\u2019s lips made my heart plummet. Podge knew his horses, and not just on the racing pages of the red tops. He had apprenticed as a teenager to a top Curragh trainer, but had lacked the discipline to make the grade as a jockey. Nonetheless, he went on to spend more than a decade working at various other racing stables and stud farms, learning the business from the inside out, and making a wide circle of connections.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI thought I\u2019d breed from her; but are you saying that the name on the card mightn\u2019t be the actual sire?\u201d I would have grasped any sliver of hope.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cStud grooms are only human. Many a man has had to rear a big family on small wages, often relying on the generosity of mare owners to keep the wolf from the door. But it works both ways: sometimes the teaser is allowed to be the daddy; what better way for a poor man to strike back at a tight-fisted breeder?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Podge went on to explain that teasers are inferior stallions, kept by studs to gauge the receptiveness of the mare. An unwilling mare can bite or lash out, potentially causing serious injury to a suitor. Teasers are easily replaced, but any mental or physical injury to a valuable stallion could have enormous financial repercussions. We must bear in mind that back in 1982, DNA and micro-chipping were still unheard of, and regulation was more debated than enforced, leaving <\/span>The Sport of Kings<\/span><\/i> open to skulduggery from knaves of every shape and hue. The bookmaking industry had apparently learned more from <\/span>the Gay Future affair<\/span><\/i> than had the administrators of the sport.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cLook,\u201d Podge said at length, \u201cleave it with me; I\u2019ll be giving your father a hand tomorrow; we might be able to figure something out.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Oddly enough, Mam made no reference to having seen a horse at Podge\u2019s until late on Sunday evening.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYes,\u201d Dad confirmed; \u201cI\u2019m doing a job on the stable for him tomorrow\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t tell me it\u2019s a racehorse\u2026is it?\u201d Mam groaned. Dad didn\u2019t answer, but his expression said enough. \u201cI knew it; God only knows what he\u2019s after getting involved in this time,\u201d she added, making the sign of the cross.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019s called Sequin; she\u2019s retired from racing; he\u2019s only looking after her for someone; he\u2026\u201d Dad began.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cAre you telling me that someone gave Podge a racehorse to mind? I\u2019d sooner have a fox minding my henhouse!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWhat are you doing to the henhouse, Dad?\u201d John asked, squinting as he looked up from the cross-channel soccer pages of the Sunday newspaper.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cMam, can we go to see Sequin, please, Mam, please?\u201d my twelve-year-old twin sisters chimed in unison.<\/span><\/p>\n After school next day I went to view Dad\u2019s handiwork. The mare was grazing contentedly in the acre, raising her head only briefly at my arrival.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWill you look at her; isn\u2019t she a grand old sort?\u201d Podge grinned, \u201cShe\u2019s happy out; she won\u2019t be any trouble, but you\u2019ll have to keep an eye on her whenever I\u2019m away. Your dad did a great job; c\u2019mon \u2018til I show you\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n I was no expert on stables, but I was greatly impressed with how the stall had been transformed. I said so to Dad after tea that evening, and used the moment to mention that I\u2019d be visiting Podge more frequently than before.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI sort of promised to give Podge a hand with the mare,\u201d I began; \u201cyou know, after school and at weekends\u2026and stuff.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cThe horse won\u2019t be there that long; will it?\u201d Mam directed the question at Dad; at his shrug, her eyes swung to me. \u201cI suppose you could, but try to find out what he\u2019s really up to and let me know.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Podge did leave me in charge about a fortnight later. Dad brought my sisters to visit Sequin on the Saturday morning and their excitement on returning home was such that Mam and John arrived about an hour later to see what all the fuss was about.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYou poor creature,\u201d Mam said, scratching and then smoothing the whorl on the mare\u2019s forehead, \u201cI only hope he isn\u2019t fattening you up for the factory.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Podge joined us for Christmas dinner, and spent much of the day deflecting questions about the mare with the ever reliable <\/span>I don\u2019t know, yet<\/span><\/i>. But Podge did know, and Dad knew, and after Dad had sat me down in his workshop a few days before New Year to tell me that Podge had already organised a sire to cover Sequin, I thought I knew.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n In the early morning of February 8<\/span>th<\/span> the horseracing community, and the public at large, were left reeling by a startling news headline: Shergar, the world\u2019s most famous racehorse, had been kidnapped from his stable in Ballymany Stud in County Kildare; there was talk of a two-million ransom demand. The first I heard of it was at lunchtime, and as soon as school had ended that evening I made a beeline to Podge\u2019s to learn his thoughts on the affair. Podge wasn\u2019t home, and neither was Sequin. Podge had pinned a note to the stable door: <\/span>MARE IN SEASON \u2013 TAKING HER TO STUD \u2013 BACK IN A FEW DAYS<\/span><\/i>. There was no telephone number or any indication as to his location; but what else would one expect from Podge?\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Without Sequin to visit, the weekend dragged slowly by, and with Podge being absent I had no new stock for my Sunday video run. The papers were full of the Shergar story, and I read lots of stuff that I hadn\u2019t previously known. Podge brought Sequin back on the following Saturday and explained that she had been covered by a stallion called <\/span>Islander<\/span><\/i>. Podge assured me that the horse was bred in the purple and that he had been a reasonable middle-distance performer. He was vague about the stud fee, but assured me that he and Dad would continue to meet the mare\u2019s day to day expenses.<\/span><\/p>\n Without having to dig further into my savings, I\u2019d repaid John in full well before my Easter deadline. With the Shergar story continuing to run, the opening of the flat racing season saw Islander\u2019s first crop of two-year-olds beginning to appear the island\u2019s racecourses. The silage season was soon upon us and summer progressed without any of Islander\u2019s progeny threatening to be the season\u2019s top juvenile. After several false dawns rumours began to circulate that the Shergar story may have come to a tragic conclusion, and the newspaper and other media headlines soon refocused on recession, inflation, and The Troubles. Meanwhile, Sequin was enjoying the freedom of an additional three acres which Podge had managed to wangle from Mam. The mare looked an absolute picture; it seemed that pregnancy was suiting her very well.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n The harvest over and my silage duties fulfilled, Mam decided that my final year of secondary school had to take priority over my commitment to Podge and Sequin. Unwilling to risk his temporary good standing with Mam, Podge agreed, and I found myself being barred from caring for, or even visiting the mare. What I didn\u2019t know at the time was that Dad and Podge had come up with a plan. The first I knew about it was when Dad nudged me on the couch one evening during Mam\u2019s favourite soap; he shot me a sidelong wink as he began to speak.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI suppose we\u2019d better organise a few grinds for you now that you won\u2019t be practicing you Irish conversation with Podge anymore.\u201d Mam\u2019s reaction was instant.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cHow do you mean \u2018Irish conversation\u2019 with Podge?\u201d Her eyes darted from Dad to me and back again. Dad was well prepared.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cThe \u2018<\/span>comhr\u00e1 Gaeilge<\/span><\/i>\u2019 for the Oral Irish exam; sure, Podge and himself only ever talk in Irish when they\u2019re together. They could be giving the pair of us a right going over, for all I know.\u201d he gave me the slightest of nudges.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d Mam gasped, \u201cPodge had good Irish at school, all right \u2013 \u2018twas about all he was any good at \u2013 but I didn\u2019t think he\u2019d kept it up\u2026\u201d Again, Dad was ready.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cSure, what kind of an Irish Republican would he be if he couldn\u2019t speak his native language?\u201d Dad was pushing it: Mam was anything but a Republican sympathiser, and always turned a conveniently deaf ear to rumours of Podge\u2019s political allegiances, reassuring herself that he lacked the application to be of much use to any cause.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cIs that true?\u201d Mam eyed me levelly; there was no avoiding her gaze. In fairness, Podge did have good Irish, but his vocabulary wasn\u2019t entirely appropriate for a second level State examination.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cOh, <\/span>sin ceart, gan amhras<\/span><\/i>. <\/span>T\u00e1 Podge f\u00edor l\u00edofa i nGaeilge<\/span><\/i>,\u201d I spurted at breakneck speed, hoping to disguise any mistakes that she might notice. Although Mam had been a secondary school teacher, Irish wasn\u2019t one of her subjects. I doubt if she\u2019d ever had a conversation through Irish since her own school days.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWell, if you think it will help with your Irish, you can spend an hour or two with Podge on Saturdays or Sundays, and we\u2019ll see how you get on in the Christmas exams.\u201d Her point made, she turned back to her TV programme. I returned Dad\u2019s wink. It was a very good result; the evenings were already drawing in and once the clocks had gone back to winter time, I would have been limited to daytime visits on Saturdays and Sundays anyway. Besides, once I\u2019d cleared my debt to John, the revenue from my video enterprise had become a bonus rather than an essential. But I resolved right there and then to devote a greater portion of my study time to my oral Irish.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I suppose it was inevitable that the third Thursday in October would trigger a flood of memories. I spent my lunch break at the horse fair in the vain hope of meeting the man I\u2019d bought Sequin from; I needed to know more about the sire that had won <\/span>The Derby<\/span><\/i>. I had established that Shellskin hadn\u2019t run in the Epsom Derby, nor had he featured in either the Irish or the French equivalents, but many other races incorporated the word derby, and I would have happily settled for any one of them. I cycled to Podge\u2019s immediately after school. The mare whinnied a greeting as I entered the paddock, and trotted towards me to receive her customary treat of sugar lumps. As she nuzzled my hand I whispered <\/span>happy birthday <\/span><\/i>to her, even though I knew she\u2019d been foaled on May Eve. She looked warm and snug in the new all-weather rug which Dad had bought her, and I was delighted to see a good carpet of grass on the still firm paddock. Before leaving I checked that the stable door was open, that her hay net and water trough were full, and that there was a good bed of clean straw should she need to take shelter during the night. By then, not only were Mam and Dad regularly popping in to check on her, but even John had begun to pay an occasional visit. Podge went on one of his mysterious trips in late November, and all three vied on a daily basis for the right to care for the mare. There was a strained atmosphere in the house; especially between Mam and Dad, particularly during the nightly TV news bulletin. Even though I was largely frozen out on those occasions, I didn\u2019t complain; Podge\u2019s absence meant that I was frequently required to feed the mare and bed her down for the night before going home after school. Things were going far better than I could have ever dared to hope.<\/span><\/p>\n It was a struggle all through Christmas dinner to keep the smile from my face, and although I avoided looking in Podge\u2019s direction, I could picture the heightened glint of mischief in his eyes. For many years he had been left to his own devices over the Christmas period; a year before he\u2019d been at our festive table on sufferance; now he was the guest of honour, with everybody hanging on to his every word. I did catch Dad\u2019s eye at one stage: his ghost of a wink nearly caused me to choke on a mouthful of stuffing.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s all looking good for mid-January,\u201d Podge assured his audience, \u201cbut the vet is happy for me take her back soon after New Year. She\u2019ll foal at the stud, and \u2013 all going well \u2013 we\u2019ll get her covered again when she comes back in season.\u201d I didn\u2019t know it then, but the deal Podge had struck with the stud manager wasn\u2019t a case of <\/span>no foal; no fee<\/span><\/i>, rather it was one of no fee; no foal, but it applied not to the foal she was then carrying, but to the first filly foal she would subsequently produce.<\/span><\/p>\n Two days later, I was surprised to hear Dad tell Mam that Podge had taken the mare to the stud on the previous evening. If mobile phones had been invented, I would most certainly have been calling Podge for an explanation. Although I\u2019d been to great pains to keep it secret, I was, after all, the owner of Sequin \u2013 or so I thought. Podge came to the farm a few days later, called me aside, and explained to me how he\u2019d had to form a syndicate to navigate a way through the layers of red tape involved in the horse breeding game. Even though mine was the only family name not on the list of Glitter Syndicate members, I was relieved to learn that Podge and Dad were the two authorised signatories. Dad later assured me that once I\u2019d turned eighteen I would officially own two quarter shares in the syndicate, with Dad and Podge holding the other two.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Dad came to my bedroom at about eight o\u2019clock on the following Friday evening to tell me that Podge had phoned from the stud: Sequin was expected to foal that night. I would never have considered Dad a fast driver, but his <\/span>Transit <\/span><\/i>van covered the sixty odd miles in just under an hour. There was no such urgency about Sequin, but she did deliver a healthy colt foal shortly after 4.20 on the following morning. Podge took total charge in the foaling box, the groom watching with Dad and me from outside the door. Neither Dad nor I had ever before witnessed a foaling; we were easily impressed, but the groom with many years of foaling experience was adamant that Podge was as good as he\u2019d ever seen.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWill ye look at his markings,\u201d Podge beamed, supporting the little creature\u2019s first attempt to stand on his splayed, spindly legs. In fairness, he was a handsome little foal: his white blaze and four white socks in stark contrast with his damp bay coat. With Podge\u2019s help he finally managed to latch on to a teat; I could hear Dad gasp at the first switch of the stubby black tail. \u201cI think we should call him <\/span>Gary<\/span><\/i>; what do ye think?\u201d Podge said to nobody in particular. Nobody argued, but neither had any of us dared to demur when Mam had suggested that we call the mare <\/span>Glitter <\/span><\/i>within minutes of she first laying eyes on her.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n Dad and Podge \u2013 with me helping on Saturday \u2013 needed every minute of the week before the foal\u2019s arrival home to convert another of Podge\u2019s stalls into a large double box. I had wanted to begin the work immediately after the mare had gone to the stud, but Dad had insisted on waiting until the foal was at least three weeks old. Any sooner, he\u2019d said, would be tempting fate. Not having seen the foal since birth, I was amazed at his progress in the intervening weeks. Once turned loose in the acre paddock, the foal bucked and reared his wellbeing before taking off at a canter in his dam\u2019s wake, his stubby tail held comically aloft.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s like a coiled spring,\u201d Dad muttered; \u201ca coiled spring…\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s all there,\u201d Podge said absently; \u201che has the straight limbs and great balance of his sire.\u201d I\u2019d wanted to see the sire before returning home after the foaling, but Podge had explained that the stallions were kept under lock and key in another yard.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s perfect,\u201d I added, loud enough for all to hear; nobody commented. The three of us stood side by side, our elbows resting on the top bar of the gate, silently gazing in shared admiration; each mind awhirl with individual dreams and fantasies.<\/span><\/p>\n My frustration grew with each lengthening spring evening. By then I was virtually a prisoner in my bedroom, with my only break from after school revision being an hour\u2019s TV before bedtime. I cheated, of course, my subterfuge enabled and abetted by a young trainee librarian whom I had won over with my weekly updates on the foal\u2019s progress. I\u2019d prevailed upon Mam to grant me a four-hour release until lunchtime each Saturday, equally divided between studying at the library and practicing my oral Irish with Podge. Rita, my librarian friend, would have two new horsey books awaiting my collection at opening time each Saturday \u2013 everything from <\/span>Fraser\u2019s <\/span><\/i>tome on horse care to the <\/span>William Allison<\/span><\/i> 1901 classic <\/span>The British Thoroughbred Horse<\/span><\/i> \u2013 which allowed me to spend almost two hours extra with mare and foal.<\/span><\/p>\n I got lucky with my oral Irish examiner. When he asked about my hobbies, I mentioned <\/span>mo l\u00e1ir fol\u00fail agus a searrach<\/span><\/i> \u2013 my thoroughbred mare and foal \u2013 his eyes instantly glazed over. He just happened to be a horseracing fanatic, and from that moment on he didn\u2019t ask me a single question that required anything more than a <\/span>sea <\/span><\/i>or a<\/span> n\u00ed hea<\/span><\/i> response. He had backed and won on Sequin, and had also seen Islander win his maiden at the Curragh. Mam didn\u2019t need to ask when I returned home; my demeanour told her all she needed to know, but as I tucked into a celebratory slice of rhubarb tart it was obvious that she believed that the credit for my apparent success was due entirely to Podge \u2013 and I really couldn\u2019t disagree.<\/span><\/p>\n As May approached, and oral Irish practice with Podge no longer a credible excuse, I chose to keep a low profile and took to my bedroom\/study of my own volition.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWhy don\u2019t you come out to Podge\u2019s with me,\u201d Dad suggested on the Saturday morning of the Whit bank holiday weekend. Before I could comment, he turned to Mam and said, \u201cIf he doesn\u2019t know it by now; he\u2019ll never know it.\u201d The silence was deafening.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI suppose you\u2019re right.\u201d Mam sighed, after an unusually lengthy pause. \u201cGo on so with ye, and be back for lunch at one. I suppose ye may as well bring the other fella with ye.\u201d Although it was something she would never admit, I had a feeling that Podge\u2019s stock was possibly at an all-time high with his big sister. Dad and I were also happy with him as we watched the mare and foal canter across Mam\u2019s three-acre paddock towards Podge\u2019s gate. After much oohing and aahing, clicking and clucking, scratching and patting, nuzzling, and palming of sugar lumps, Podge asked,\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWhen is your last exam?\u201d I told him. \u201cRight,\u201d he nodded; \u201cI want you fully awake, fed, and ready for road at five on the morning of Saturday the 23<\/span>rd<\/span>; we\u2019ll be going on a bit of a journey \u2013 and, by the way, bring your wellies.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWhy; where\u2026?\u201d I spluttered.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019ll be ready on time, and properly decked out; I\u2019ll see to it,\u201d Dad grinned; apparently, he didn\u2019t need to ask what, where or why.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n It was weird, facing a full Irish fry-up at 4am, a time at which I\u2019d gone to bed just a few mornings before. Podge materialised from the scullery about fifteen minutes later, pulled up a chair beside me, and didn\u2019t bat an eye when Dad slapped an equally piled plate in front of him. Chewing a mouthful of sausage, he tapped his knife against the edge of my plate and mumbled.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cCome on; dig in; it could be a while before you see another bite!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWhere are we going?\u201d I asked, feeling my appetite awaken.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWould you prefer to watch a film or have someone describe it to you?\u201d Dad asked, grinning as he winked at his brother-in-law. Slicing into a sunny-side egg, Podge returned Dad\u2019s wink with interest.<\/span><\/p>\n It wasn\u2019t until I saw the signpost that I remembered the song, and then realised where we were: Spancilhill! But why; surely, Podge wasn\u2019t going to a buy another horse? Still feeling quite miffed at having been excluded from whatever he had been cooking up with Dad, I wasn\u2019t going to give Podge the added satisfaction of ignoring any more of my questions. No sooner had we disembarked, than Podge was engulfed by a wave of flat caps, knitted beanies, trilbies and fedoras; tweed and waxed jackets, and anoraks. It looked like my black sheep uncle was quite of a celebrity in the horse-dealing world; I couldn\u2019t but wonder how his big sister might view such status. My mind awhirl with images of biblical prophets being mobbed by adoring disciples, and fifties\u2019 American police detectives besieged by ravening, murder-scene newshounds, I did an about turn and headed for the centre of the fair.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n If I\u2019d been taken aback by the size of Podge\u2019s reception committee, I was totally bowled over by the sheer magnitude of the gathering. Our local horse fair could have comfortably fitted into any of the four corners of the massive field. Every breed, size, shape and hue of domesticated equine was represented, from Clydesdale and Shire to Connemara and Shetland; from Sport Horse and Irish Draught to bog pony and cob; from bays and greys to roans and duns; from blacks and browns to piebald and dappled. Their <\/span>equus asinus<\/span><\/i> cousins were also plentiful, plus a scattering of mules and hinnies, and some even stranger looking creatures that could have been either or neither. Astride noble hunters, gentlemen and ladies in full eventing regalia vied for the spotlight with half naked pre-teen boys, who bounced bareback on unkempt, wild-eyed skewbalds, or slid around wheel-rutted corners in colourful streamlined sulkies. Meanwhile, the boys\u2019 fathers and older brothers scrutinised the onlookers for the faintest flicker of interest.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I\u2019d lost all track of time until Podge tapped me on the shoulder at a burger van close to the main entrance.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cIf you\u2019ve seen enough, I\u2019m ready for road,\u201d he muttered, wiping a blob of tomato sauce from his chin with a tattered tissue. Chewing a mouthful of burger, I nodded and, wondering where more than four hours could have gone, followed his lead past a long line of hucksters, buskers, three-card-tricksters, and purveyors of everything from farmyard poultry and exotic cage birds, to rabbits, kittens and puppies, and goldfish swimming in plastic bags. I was surprised to see a little neat covered trailer hitched to Podge\u2019s Land Rover.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cDid you buy a dog box?\u201d I asked, as he unlocked the passenger door.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI borrowed one, but don\u2019t tell your mother. Anyway,\u201d he said, lighting a cigarette; \u201cdid you enjoy the fair?\u201d I told him that I\u2019d thoroughly enjoyed the experience, but didn\u2019t add that I\u2019d found it similar to watching a foreign language movie without the benefit of on-screen subtitles.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I didn\u2019t say much on the journey home. I wasn\u2019t going give Podge the satisfaction of asking about the trailer again, even if I was totally flummoxed by the strange animal noises that intermittently sounded from behind his vehicle. But why buy a dog box? Podge didn\u2019t have a dog but, then again, Podge was Podge. To add to my frustration, he insisted on dropping me off at the farm rather than at his place, saying that I couldn\u2019t tell my mother something which I didn\u2019t know. Not to be outdone, I sprinted to the tractor shed, got my bike, and peddled furiously towards Podge\u2019s. As I crested the hill, I could see him unload a pair of beige\/brown animals from the trailer. From a distance of more than a hundred yards, they could well have been dogs, largish dogs, but as I freewheeled closer I noticed that one with the shorter body had a pair of horns and a shaggy smig, and the other had a long, flowing, cream-coloured mane and tail. What could Podge possibly want with a tiny Shetland pony and a bedraggled nanny goat?<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWhat do you think?\u201d He called, hazing the newcomers into the small paddock.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m sure there\u2019s a perfectly logical explanation, but I\u2019m not sure I want to hear it.\u201d It was a lie, of course; I couldn\u2019t wait to find out why he had wasted a whole day, driven so many miles, and probably spent good money on such oddities.<\/span><\/p>\n Mine weren\u2019t the only eyes drawn to the unlikely pair. Sequin had her head across her paddock gate; ears pricked, muzzle twitching, and lips curling as she made a series of strange snorting sounds I\u2019d never heard before.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cSee, she likes them already,\u201d Podge slapped me soundly between the shoulder blades. \u201cI know it\u2019s a fair way off, but Gary will need company when the mare goes back to the stud to foal; and, we can\u2019t have him prancing all over the new foal, when he or she arrives. He should be well used to Mac and Nanny by then!\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Twelve hours later, I watched the three horses graze contentedly together in the large paddock while the goat browsed happily on the overgrown perimeter hedge. I\u2019d love to have spent more time at Podge\u2019s, but I was already behind schedule on my first morning back in harness with my regular silage contractor.<\/span><\/p>\n My Leaving Cert results arrived in mid-August. I dread to think how much worse they would have been if that oral Irish examiner had been interested in rugby, or music, or art, or politics, or anything other than horseracing. Mam was devastated; she kept on and on about having another Podge on her hands. Her desire for me to follow in her teaching footsteps had only increased after her retirement, but short of seriously swatting for a year, and then resitting the entire exam, teaching was a definite non-runner for me. Dad\u2019s idea that I could help with his carpentry once the harvesting was over was quickly dismissed. Mam was adamant that I should find work in Dublin, in the civil service, or a bank or insurance company, or some other half respectable institution. That was when Podge suggested an unlikely but possible solution: he had a contact in a large civil engineering company in the midlands. With my silage machinery experience, I could get in on the ground floor as a driver and then work my way up to a suit and tie.<\/span><\/p>\n