CHAPTER 2

Sometimes as we wandered across the mountain slopes we would come close to people wearing heavy boots, trousers and anoraks and carrying rucksacks on their backs. "They are walkers who like to climb mountains," said my mother. "They are usually friendly people who give us crusts of bread and bits of cake, but you must be careful not to eat too much of these or they can make you very ill with colic, which causes violent stomach pains."

We also came close to the sides of the roads where motor cars passed by. "There's no need to be afraid of these," my mother would say. "Drivers keep well clear of horses and ponies and if the road is narrow, they will stop to let you pass. Sometimes these cars make a strange noise which could startle you, it's called a horn."

She would take me to the roadside and would stand by the stone walls waiting for a car to blow its horn. When it happened, I stepped back startled. "Never do that," she said. "It could cause an accident. Ignore car horns because if you are on the road, your rider will look after you."

We saw ponies and horses being ridden by boys and girls. They were well cared for, fit and well fed. They were well groomed, and their coats shone like silk. "One day you will look like that," said my mother. "You'll have a saddle and bridle and your owner will groom your coat every day. When you've been handled and broken-in as a riding pony, you will be taken to the blacksmiths to be shod, so that your feet will not be damaged or worn down too much by walking on the hard roads."

I was not too keen on all this, for I loved being with my mother high on the mountain sides in the warm sunshine and fresh air, galloping with all the other young foals and grazing the sweet short grasses of Summer.

"It's not like this in Winter," said mother. "The wind blows cold and the rain soaks right through to your skin. There is more mud than grass, and when it snows we are all hungry. Mr. Jones has to bring us bales of hay and sometimes pony nuts every day. Some of the older ponies suffer badly until Spring arrives. You will be better off going to a new owner when Autumn comes."

Sure enough at the end of October as the Autumn gales blew fiercely, removing all the leaves from the trees and the grass stopped growing, life on the mountain began to be hard. There were days when we were wet and hungry and we looked for shelter in the ruined buildings which had once been lead miners' homes.

We were all glad to hear Mr. Jones coming on the tractor with bales of hay and bags of nuts which he spread around so we could all enjoy a good feed.

One day he arrived with two more men on horseback and we were all rounded up in the old yard of the lead mine. "He's going to sort us out," said mother. "All those in foal, like myself, will be brought down to the meadows in the valley. The young ones like you will be coming with us."

Sure enough, we were driven quietly to the meadows where I had been born, where the grass was still green and there was shelter from trees and stone walls.

"In a few days you'll be leaving me," said mother. "Don't panic, for this happens to all young foals. You have to be weaned off my milk, for now you are six months old, half grown and strong. I have to be looked after carefully too, for next May I shall have another foal like you, and in the next few months I have to rest and build up my strength."

About three days later, Mr. Jones and his helpers herded us all into a different field, with tall posts and rail fences. When we were all in there, our mothers were haltered and led away, leaving us foals alone for the first time in our lives. We fretted and neighed, and some of the young stallions tried to jump the fence in order to get back to their mothers. Mr. Jones gave us hay and nuts twice a day, and soon we calmed down and became used to our new routine.

He regularly haltered us and led us around the field as he talked to us, stroking our backs, heads and legs. We soon became used to him and his helpers. They were always very kind and gentle. I was one of three fillies and all the others were young stallions.

In early December, about three weeks before Christmas, Mr. Jones said to me one morning, "I've got a new home for you my girl. Tomorrow all three of you fillies will be going in the horsebox on a long journey south and west to Pembrokeshire. You'll have a comfortable journey with plenty of straw to bed you down and lots of sweet smelling meadow hay in nets to eat on the journey. I shall stop every hour or so to see that you are all all right and give you a drink of water."

Early the next morning his Land Rover hitched up the horsebox and the three of us were led up the ramp into the box. Quietly and slowly Mr. Jones drove away from the farm heading for our new homes.

Several hours later we pulled up at the edge of a town called Haverfordwest in Pembrokeshire and my two companions were led away. They were going to live at a riding school where they would be broken in later on and join other ponies and horses.

"Don't fret little one," said Mr. Jones. "You are lucky, for your new home is a good one indeed. I'm taking you to a village called St. Florence, near Tenby, to a small farm where your new owner Mr. Evans will look after you well. You are going to be a Christmas present for his two small boys, aged four and three. They've never had a pony before, but you can be sure they will look after you well."

An hour later we arrived in the village just as night was falling. The farmhouse was a long white building at the edge of the village, close to the stream. I was led out to be greeted by excited shouts from the two little boys called Mark and Michael and smiles from Mr. and Mrs. Evans, my new owners. They were a nice young couple who stroked me and led me into my new stable, which was at the side of the house.

It was warm and clean, newly white-washed and the manger was already full of sweet smelling hay. There was clean straw on the floor and a new shiny bucket of clean water. In another bucket was a mixture of oats and bran called coarse pony mix. There was a bright light hanging from the ceiling, which I had never seen before, which I soon learnt was electricity.

They closed the half door and watched me for a few minutes as I settled down. "Now," said Mr. Jones smiling, "what are you going to call her?"

"Well," said Mr. Evans, "she arrived as it was going dark in the twilight, so Twilight will be her name."

I lay in my new home surrounded by strange smells and scents I had not experienced before. It was warm and comfortable on the straw bedding. I had nibbled a little of the sweet smelling hay and eaten my fill of the coarse mix. Water was there if I needed it and with the electric light left on I presumed until I was accustomed to my new surroundings. I felt happy that all my mother had told me had come true.

Indeed, Mr. Jones had made sure I had a good home with my new owners so I did not feel too upset at having left behind my mother and my fellow foal companions.

The door opened and in came Mr. Evans with another gentleman. His name was David and he called Mr. Evans Mike. He was the vet and Mike had asked him to come and check me over.

David carefully felt me all over, looking in my mouth and stood back. "A good strong well-headed little filly," he said. "A bit young to have left her mother, but with good feeding, exercise and plenty of loving care she'll make a good little pony for your boys. When she's fully grown she'll make about 12.2 hands. She's got good strong blue hooves and a good mouth. Look after her and she'll do you well."

With that, they left. The light was turned off and all was silent, except for the rustle of a fieldmouse in the hay. I rested peacefully and happy in my new home far away from the mountains of North Wales.

In the morning, early, I stood deep in the straw, too small yet to see over the half door and waited for the dawn. It was a bright one with a blood red December sun shafting through the window and then the door opened to admit my new master, Mr. Evans, bringing with him half a bucket of fresh water and two or three handfuls of pony nuts. He gently opened the half door and stepped towards me, offering a few nuts from the palm of his hand. I nuzzled and sniffed and took some in my mouth. He stroked my head and back and then slipped a brand new halter over my head and drew me slowly from the stable into the yard.

There waiting was Mrs. Evans and the two boys, Mark and Michael. They patted and stroked me and I was led gently through the gate and into the adjoining field. All was white with frost and after a few minutes of walking I was led back into the cosy warmth of the stable.

So began my new life at Court Vale, St. Florence, which I soon found out was a smallholding where Mr. Evans, as I shall call Mike, reared calves, kept chickens and laying hens and grew vegetables.

More next week