Trinny

Trinny was what we call a “proper mare.” Not in the rude sense, though she did have opinions but in that honest, no-nonsense, work-horse way. She came to me as a six-year-old and suspicious of everything. Took me weeks just to get her to stand still while I tacked her up. But beneath all that fire, there was a clever mind and a soft heart. Once we clicked, we really clicked. She was forward-going, sharp off the leg, always wanted to get on with it. Trotting out with Trinny was like riding a train on tracks, you just had to point and hang on. She was sure-footed and brave, never spooked at the bin lorries or flapping jackets. Other horses followed her lead. She was never flashy, but she had presence. She’d nuzzle your coat pocket like clockwork, just in case a polo had magically appeared there. We competed a bit, nothing much, just local level stuff. The way she’d rest her chin on my shoulder while I mucked out or how she’d whinny, not loud, just low and throaty, the second she heard my voice. In the end, it was arthritis that got her. We tried everything—supplements, injections, field rest. But when she stopped rolling in the grass and lost interest in the other horses, I knew it was time. She went with dignity. There’s still an empty space in the field where she used to stand. And I still carry one of her chestnuts in my pocket—like she’s still with me somehow. Sleep well, my girl.