CHAPTER 8

One afternoon in mid-September, Jenny disappeared. We knew that if she wanted to get out of the field she would do so and only four walls and a door would keep her in if she decided to go. Mr. Lewis had said "If there's a hole as big as her head, then the rest of her will get through," and so it always was.

We could find her nowhere. Searching high and low there was no sign of her at all. Mike rang around, but no one had seen or heard her. He 'phoned the local policeman at Lydstep and reported her missing, but there were no reports of a straying donkey.

Upset, we all gave up and as a last resort I was sent out with Michael to ride around the lanes in the quickly arriving Autumn twilight, but there was alas no sign of her.

Two days later, at tea-time, as we were sitting at the table, there was a loud He-Haw, He-Haw outside and there was Jenny complete with a tiny baby donkey standing on the yard. Where she'd been we never knew, but every time she was due to foal she would disappear for two or three days and return with her baby, proud for all to see.

We called him Jacky because he was a boy and if you've never seen a baby donkey, you've missed one of the most beautiful sights in the world. Conker took to him straight away and he followed close to us throughout that Winter.

If ever there was a character it was Jacky. He had the intelligence of his mother and was very friendly to everyone. Before he was a year old he could be ridden, complete with saddle or without and later on, on the birth of his brother, he left us to become a well loved friend to hundreds of children, for he joined the donkeys which gave rides on the South Sands at Tenby.

Another good friend and equally a character in his own right was 'One Eye', a Jack donkey who was the father of many of Jenny's children. He came to us on loan and used to stay the Winter, being one of the beach team.

One year, Jenny had foaled in July and immediately afterwards came into season. Jacky was at work on the South Sands four miles away. One day, without warning, he sniffed the air to the west towards St. Florence and suddenly bolted away, across the golf links, over the railway line, through a large caravan site, across the main road and along the winding lane home to St. Florence.

Nothing or anyone could stop him, for he wanted to be with Jenny, and so he arrived to stay for a good while. How he managed to do it without damage to life or limb we shall never know. He would do this wherever he was, when Jenny was in season and one time even broke out of a well secured shed smashing the door down.

The goats were also good friends of mine. We had two of them which were milked every day. The milk was supplied to the local hospital who used it for babies who could not digest cows' milk. Dolly, one of them, would follow me everywhere as I grazed and on a fine day as I lay stretched out in the sun would lie on top of me. This amused all the visitors who would always try to photograph the pair of us in this position.

The other goat was Dot the Spot, so called because she had a black spot on her face. She was the best milker, but always had to be tied up or tethered on a swivel because she was terribly destructive, would eat anything, even the washing on the line!

At the market one Wednesday, Mike bought Mark and Michael a tortoise each and painted their names on the shells. They lived in the vegetable garden amongst the lettuce and could not stray far due to the chicken wire fence. In the Autumn they were put in a large straw filled box in my stable for the Winter and would usually emerge around the beginning of March looking very hungry.

In the Spring of 1968, after a very mild Winter, they were nowhere to be seen. They had obviously disappeared during a fine day having awakened due to the warmth. We forgot all about them until 10 years later, they were found by a local farmer two miles away at a place called Copybush.

With Conker growing rapidly, Jenny and her little Jacky to keep him company, I was able to go out much more often during the Winter and Michael who had become not the best but the keenest rider started to take me to the meets of the South Pembrokeshire Hunt.

He would ride me to wherever the meet was held, usually at the top of the village at Ivy Tower Cross, or outside the Sun Inn and then follow them for a mile or two. The hunt in those days was very popular and would attract 50 to 60 riders. Children were expected to keep back to allow the adults or big strong hunters of 15 to 16 hands to keep up with the hounds.

I liked the hunt and the sound of the horn which even now make me want to gallop away. One November, Michael rode me to the meet at Ivy Tower Cross. After the stirrup cup provided by the lady of the Manor House, before the hunt even drew away a fox was scented, right by me and Michael, over the hedge. The hounds gave cry and off we went. Michael and me next to the hounds up front. Nothing would stop me now I thought and I galloped on, Michael holding on like grim death.

"Get back boy," roared the Huntsman. "Stay back, you'll do yourself harm" as the mighty hunters tried to get past us, but they could not, I jumped two hedges and a fence and was still in front. "Stop her boy, stop her," they cried, but Michael could not. "Let go of the reins for goodness sake," they yelled and Michael in panic let my reins go. With my head down I carried on, leaving him sitting on the ground, and it was a mile before I slowed down.

"Don't you ever bring her again," said the MFH. "Hunting's not for seven-year-old boys and small ponies. Keep at the back and hold her lad. She's a real wild one!"

Although we went to the meets many more times over the years we never drew off with the hounds, for Michael had learnt his lesson. He knew that once the hounds were in full cry and I heard that horn I would be away at the slightest chance!

More next week