He was a thoroughbred, big horse of 16 hands, chestnut with two white socks, a white blaze, feet like dinner plates and too slow for the race track. Dad, who owned and trained race horses, said I could have him to ride around the country dirt roads. He suited me, being a big girl myself, just fine. By this time, I was married to Godfrey with two children and we had moved back to “Greenslopes” on Goomalibee Road to help Mum and Dad on the phone while we both taught at Benalla schools.
‘Mr Nicksar’ as he was known, was a gelding. His brother ‘Goomalibee’ was still ‘intact’ and raring to go with the fillies, so he, despite winning a few country races, was sold to a stud in Malaysia.
‘Mr Nicksar’ and I had a wonderful time participating as members of the Benalla Trail Riders Club on their monthly trail rides in the hills round Benalla and Mansfield districts. All this could be arranged with a supportive partner, Godfrey and wonderful child minders, grandparents Jack and Grace, although I doubt if Jack had much of a hand in the child minding.
As happens with family farms, changes took place with Jack dying and my brother John and his wife Melanie finding making a living out of their small holding at Baddaginnie difficult, so we threw our lot in together and formed a partnership to run “Greenslopes”. We were all four, and our children, dreamers for the future, extending the house and trying to make a go of the farm while holding down jobs. But this is not a story of that venture, but of farming, the seasons and my horse.
‘Mr Nicksar’ had a rather good life for a castoff race horse, as he lived most days and week down in the back paddock in the shade of the gum trees alongside the creek. I would wander down every few days with some hay. On these occasions, we would have some long chats. Well, I did all the talking, but he seemed to agree with a friendly nudge every so often. I was lucky in that my brother was a farrier, so ‘Mr Nicksar’ had his feet well looked after. With the occasional drench, a good hose and brush down, he would come up trumps for those monthly rides in the hills.
The seasons rolled on, but as is almost inevitable with farms, nothing really stays the same. Although the weather is usually very reliabe in the North East, this time the rain started to stay away and we found ourselves in drought. Changes had to be made. The day arrived when all of us were at home discussion what to do with the stock. My brother announced that the horse would have to go.
Although I was rather upset and saddened at this turn of events, I knew it was what had to happen. ‘Mr Nicksar’ had to go the way many horses go, that is, to the horse auctions. We all hoped someone would buy him for a hack, but it was doubtful.
I’ve had other horses, but they were never as close as ‘Mr Nicksar’.
‘Mr Nicksar’ as he was known, was a gelding. His brother ‘Goomalibee’ was still ‘intact’ and raring to go with the fillies, so he, despite winning a few country races, was sold to a stud in Malaysia.
‘Mr Nicksar’ and I had a wonderful time participating as members of the Benalla Trail Riders Club on their monthly trail rides in the hills round Benalla and Mansfield districts. All this could be arranged with a supportive partner, Godfrey and wonderful child minders, grandparents Jack and Grace, although I doubt if Jack had much of a hand in the child minding.
As happens with family farms, changes took place with Jack dying and my brother John and his wife Melanie finding making a living out of their small holding at Baddaginnie difficult, so we threw our lot in together and formed a partnership to run “Greenslopes”. We were all four, and our children, dreamers for the future, extending the house and trying to make a go of the farm while holding down jobs. But this is not a story of that venture, but of farming, the seasons and my horse.
‘Mr Nicksar’ had a rather good life for a castoff race horse, as he lived most days and week down in the back paddock in the shade of the gum trees alongside the creek. I would wander down every few days with some hay. On these occasions, we would have some long chats. Well, I did all the talking, but he seemed to agree with a friendly nudge every so often. I was lucky in that my brother was a farrier, so ‘Mr Nicksar’ had his feet well looked after. With the occasional drench, a good hose and brush down, he would come up trumps for those monthly rides in the hills.
The seasons rolled on, but as is almost inevitable with farms, nothing really stays the same. Although the weather is usually very reliabe in the North East, this time the rain started to stay away and we found ourselves in drought. Changes had to be made. The day arrived when all of us were at home discussion what to do with the stock. My brother announced that the horse would have to go.
Although I was rather upset and saddened at this turn of events, I knew it was what had to happen. ‘Mr Nicksar’ had to go the way many horses go, that is, to the horse auctions. We all hoped someone would buy him for a hack, but it was doubtful.
I’ve had other horses, but they were never as close as ‘Mr Nicksar’.
