“Don’t Let Me Buy Anything”
By our second morning in Ireland, I’ve begun to accept the new world order: Living with horses. Everything good in life arrives accompanied by hay. Em’s nightly Lancombe is supplemented with that charming barnyard manure fragrance. OK, this is not what I expected, but what are vacations for?
As I rouse from the bedroom, Em and Laura are talking breeding (horse breeding!) in the kitchen.
“Are we seeing Ireland today? I thought we could go to Dingle Peninsula. It’s in all the guides. Pretty little towns filled with Irish music…is it a tourist trap?”
“Don’t know it,” Laura says, waving off like there’s a fly in her ear. After 10 years in Ireland, this is news to her?
I don’t give up easy. “South of Cork is supposed to be gorgeous, and Dublin and Northern Ireland would be great.”
Glazed expressions from all assembled. When Em invited me on the trip, I suggested renting a car, but she said, “Laura will drive us around. It’ll be fun.” I’m wondering what happened to the fun part when Laura finally tosses me a bone.
“We can go to the Rock of Cashel. An Irish king lived there and it’s close by.”
Why do we want close by?
“And the horse auction’s in Goresbridge—that’s a drive. We’ll get to see lots of country on the way.”
Their expressions leave me feeling puckish and high-strung. I’m still on New York time: New Day—Mountains to climb! Let’s get at it! Em is already working what I come to recognize as Irish time: We’ll get there, what’s the problem? It’s the difference between a Stairmaster and a shrug of the shoulders.
After my morning run and shower, I pad back to my bedroom with a fully-formed thought in mind. I trace the route we took the day before on the fold-out guidebook map, fingers parsing the scale. From Shannon Airport to Laura’s house is 35 miles as the crow flies—but it took us almost two hours. And no wonder—any crow attempting our route would spin to earth with a bad case of vertigo.
There’s nothing like a direct route in this country. The erratic landscape and highways built over horsecart paths make every trip an assemblage of local stages, instead of the grand processions Americans are used to. There’s no driving from Dublin to Waterford, for example. You go from Dublin to Naas, take the left fork near Kilcullen, follow that south to Carlow, then the winding road west to Kilkenny, finally south past Knocktopher and Ballyquin to Waterford. Hills and dales, bogs and stone walls, roads just big enough for hamster cars and one-lane bridges sized to keep the Vikings from pursuing you too quickly. All at once I understand why my travel plans make the girls nauseous.
The Horse Auction
The drive to Goresbridge is beautiful, even with me sulking most of the way. When we reach the town, Laura begins shunting left and right, navigating roundabouts and spurting onto sidestreets. At each point of decision she looks purposeful and self-assured, but after a few moments, it becomes clear we aren’t getting anywhere.
“I haven’t been there in a while,” she admits.
“What’s a while?”
“Ever.” She takes a hairpin 90-degree turn onto a promising side street.
“And remember,” Em says, “don’t let me buy anything.”
“Won’t be a problem if we can’t find the place,” I say, and she shoots me a look. “You buy horses?”
“They’re all hers,” Laura answers. “Except for Malcolm’s.”
“Who’s Malcolm?”
“Major Lloyd, of the Irish Defence Force.”
“The Irish have enemies?”
“UN peacekeeping,” Laura pronounces airily. “He’s been in Congo, Lebanon and Cyprus recently.”
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“OK, that’s tough stuff,” I admit, though I don’t like the way Em’s cheeks redden at the sound of the man’s name.
And then, all at once, we’re there. Laura follows a horse trailer around a turn, and I step out into a huge muddy yard. Is there anything in this country that isn’t in the mud? We tramp past tin-roofed long sheds and concrete stalls in rows. Our reflections shimmer in the aluminum sides of horse trailers.
The paddock air is full of hay and feed and the rich manure of well-fed animals who relieve themselves wherever they feel like. Everywhere you turn, another handsome huge horse in chestnut or buttermilk is clop-clopping behind some teenager in a parka and riding helmet, members of the two Irish cliques—the freckle-faced/red haired Celts and the olive-skinned Black Irish. If I’ve been frustrated at not meeting locals, that has to change now.
At the top of the hill is the jumping area, a big tin-roofed shed, enclosed on three sides, wooden hurdles laid out in an arbitrary pattern. At least, it looks totally haphazard to me, but the riders recognize a winding route in it instantly. These kids sit high and preening, not that you can blame them. The horses get up a good clip jumping barriers and pounding around the enclosure, close enough that you can feel them go by. To control such a creature has to be pretty intoxicating.
“The horses are green, and the riders not much better,” Emily says. The animal in the pen now is an almost liquid charcoal color—if I ever saw that shade in a thundercloud I’d head for cover immediately. He’s ominously, thrillingly beautiful. “But it gives you an idea of their potential—of what they’re worth.”
After about three minutes a chestnut with a girl rider replaces the gray. “You can watch for so little time and buy him?” I ask. I don’t know exactly how expensive horses are, but the thought is staggering.
“Not really.” Em opens the leaflet we were given entering the paddock. “Everybody knows who’s got the good horses. They list the sire—hopefully you’ve heard of him, he’s won something. And you see how many hands—that one’s about 18. My pony’s 14 hands. You can walk up to them out of the ring and see how the joints and muscles look and how they’re built.”
“And check the teeth,” I say, offering my sole piece of horse knowledge.
“And check the teeth.” She smiles, without explaining why.
Just then, the chestnut catches his hind legs on a jump and goes down hard. The rider rolls clear and is back in the saddle and circulating the ring again before the rest of us can even react. “He just lost value,” Em pronounces.
“From that? No mistakes allowed?”
“I didn’t say it was fair, darling. But he did it right in front of us. And look—he’s still dragging the foot.” Sure enough, the same horse knocks the same pole off again the next time round.
Enter Major Malcolm Lowell
A clamorous noise rises behind us. I see Em turn and hear a male voice say, “I should have known you’d be here.”
He’s all got up in his manly green Irish Defence Force uniform with rows of color-coordinated campaign ribbons and the easy air that comes of too much admiration. Is that sour grapes? I guess there’s never too much admiration if they’re admiring you. After a second’s time lag, I realize that everyone in sight is staring at us—at him.
“Ted, this is Major Malcolm Lowell,” Emily says, blushing, “one of the world’s great riders.”
Malcolm smiles and holds out his hand to shake, heartily of course like a real man. “Emily exaggerates,” he murmurs smoothly. “Do you ride?”
“The last time I rode a horse, I was pretending to be Roy Rogers.” This raises not a glimmer from Major Malcolm. He turns his attention to the ring—which means that every eye in the place shifts over there as well. It’s a wonder the poor kid on the horse doesn’t get thrown out of his saddle by the sudden shift of attention.
“See anything worthwhile?” he asks.
“There’s a really nice gray—they just took him out of here,” Em answers. “Good jumps, turns well. Looks like he’ll take some riding—“
“Let’s have a look at him.”
It’s been dripping rain on and off all day. Nonetheless, the courtyard is crammed with people and horses shuttling between the tracks and the auction house. The people circulate in clusters, some surely just ogling—all these people couldn’t have serious horse-buying money—while others who smell of money might just as well be discussing soy beans or oil drilling prospects.
The auction house itself is way too small to be the center of all this activity. Surrounded by the busy expanse of tracks and stables and car park, it is almost shockingly modest and utilitarian, like a grapefruit set in the center of a Thanksgiving table.
Even from the five or six rows of bleacher seats, you can make out the eye color and condition of the horses legs as they’re led one by one round the center ring. And there are more people in the walkway surrounding the ring—where you can feel the animals breathe—than in the bleachers. Laura drifts over to make a closer inspection of the candidates. We keep a respectful distance, the way you do once someone has warned you not to let her buy anything.
Across a vented divider stands a pub (naturally) packed with onlookers throwing down a pint or three—and bidding! The pub-side groups are raucous but only a few seem to have any serious intent. The auctioneer stands at a raised dais above the ring. Without the loud haranguing I expect from movies and commercials, he simply announces the horse, the sire and breeding farm as each animal is led around, and then it’s time to take bids. A board on the wall behind him rings up the changing tally in euros, dollars and pounds sterling. As we enter, a not particularly distinguished-looking horse goes for €5,500—“About $7,000,” Emily said.
“And only 15 hands,” Malcolm comments.
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“Mmm. That’s a good price. Who bought him?”
“Don’t know them,” he answers, pointing to a noisy black-haired group in the pub. “They must be Americans,” he slurs, and the two of them giggle.
“Anyone pays too much around here, the Irish assume it’s a foreigner,” Emily says. “As though we never overpay for anything.”
The gray is led into the ring. “Oh, he is very good,” Malcolm breathes.
“Look at the hindquarters,” Emily says, without a hint of humor.
Appraising looks and meaningful nods pass between them. The horse is led round the ring twice in preparation for bidding.
“You know the owners?” Malcolm asks.
“I’ve met them.”
“What do they say about him?”
“I haven’t talked to them in months. I haven’t got money to buy anything. You know I’ve got to sell one of the ones I already have.”
“You know you can’t bear to,” Malcolm says smoothly.
Horse Shopaholics Anonymous
Until two days ago, I didn’t know Em even liked horses. Now it not only turns out that she owns several, but that she can’t bring herself to sell any of them. Is this some neurotic form of shopping addiction? Help me Oprah, I see a horse and can’t stop myself from buying it?
“What if we went partners?” Malcolm asks out of the blue. “I put up the price, you train him. I’d be willing. But it’d be no good if you couldn’t sell him when the time came.”
Em’s eyes flash. “I’ll have to think about that,” she answers, trying to control her smile.
Malcolm is already bidding. His is a clever game. Even if Em hasn’t openly agreed to his terms, how can she resist once he has the horse? It is a pretty horse. At least it’s a pretty color—that’s all I know about horses other than you should look at the teeth, and I still have no idea why.
Things quickly spin into a bidding war. The raucous pub groups bid lustily, cheering each back-and-forth. A squat couple on the other side of the ring and four Calvinist accountants in the bottom bleachers make restrained bids, like juggling Renoirs at Sotheby’s. But all eyes, of course, are on Major Lowell of the Irish Defence Force, worldwide peacekeeper, fabled horseman, signaling his bids with an elegant turn of the wrist—and, irresistibly, inevitably, on the brunette now grafted to his side, the woman alight with all that attention. There is such a look on Em’s face, such a torrent of conflicting emotions, during the contest. It’s as though they’re bidding for her.
Malcolm puts in the winning number, beating the pubcrawlers, who outbid the Calvinists out of self-respect. When the auctioneer accepts, Malcolm and Em exchange a handshake that travels to the elbows, cackling in each other’s faces.
And by the time we return to Laura’s house, to the afternoon feeding and mucking-up, I have come to a serious conclusion: If I’m going to keep Em, I’m going to have to be more than a horse spectator. Either I find a way to muscle into that part of her universe or consign myself to Permanent Observer status.
To be continued…
Follow Ted’s adventures in Ireland every Wednesday through Dec. 8.
Ted Krever went to Woodstock (the GOOD one), spent 20 years in television documentary production, is happily divorced, purports to be a good kisser and knows nothing about horses except you should check the teeth. He was once falsely accused of attempting to blow up Ethel Kennedy with a Super-8 projector.
