Category Horse Girl

One year of horse ownership

Building a Relationship

On November 3rd, 2018, I drove to Oregon to buy Navani and bring her home. Though I’d been told she trailer loads, this turned out not to be the case:  it took a grueling three hours to convince her to board. She’d step up on the ramp with her two front hooves and then fly backwards, rearing up, always coming within fractions of an inch of smashing her skull on the trailer roof.

The deed was only finally accomplished with the use of a lip chain, a much harsher method than I would have ever wanted to employ, and not the greatest start to our relationship. If she hadn’t loaded then, if she had continued to fight until the chain drew blood, if she had to be dragged onboard, I would have asked for my check back and left with an empty trailer. Any horse who fights that hard not to go with me is not my horse. I’m certain it didn’t help that the entire family was there, one of them practically sobbing into her mane as the bill of sale was signed.

As it was, the sedative administered to last her the entire trip home had worn off before we even pulled out of the driveway. Thankfully, once she was on board, she rode quietly. When we unloaded her that evening, again she rushed backwards out of the trailer and it was only my desperate grip on the rope that kept her from hitting her head, but it was done. She was home. I had a horse.

Navani belonged to the same family since she was a yearling. Every formative experience she ever had was with them. Her life has revolved around them. From day one, I was less her new friend than her captor. I spent hours in her stall, talking to her and grooming her, giving her treats,  trying to convince her that though things were going to be different for her now, different doesn’t mean bad. Indoctrinating her into the cult of me. Fifteen days later, we had our family photo session for our “look we got a horse” holiday card. In many of the photos, her expression is concerned, her body language tense, ready to flee. I chose one where she merely appeared alert, joining the proud tradition of cards that paint a slightly-too-rosy tint over the facts.

All horses are individuals, of course, but there are shared traits among species, breed, and gender. Ask an equestrian which they prefer, geldings or mares, and be prepared to pull up a chair and sit awhile. I don’t know how much of it is true and how much is misogyny disguised as horsemanship. “Geldings do what they are told, mares are challenging.” “Mares are crazy, I’d never want a mare.” “Geldings are consistent. They’re the same every day. Mares go in heat, they change.” “Geldings are dull; a mare can give you more. You get the trust of a mare and she’ll give you everything. She’ll walk through fire for you.”

Getting that trust takes time. In late December, Navani realized she forgot to give me anything for Christmas and so to commemorate how she felt about our special relationship, gave me a hard fall. I hit the ground so resoundingly that my friend heard the thud from across the arena. I struggled to do anything but lay flat on my back for a week; when I moved I had the distinct feeling my right side was caving in. Three weeks later, I was back in the saddle. 

At her first bodywork session (basically horse massage), the bodyworker asked me what my favorite thing about Navani was, and I really struggled to answer. Our relationship was challenging. It took weeks to convince her to do something as simple as entering the crossties to be groomed. Just like the trailer, she’d back up and threaten to rear. She took food aggressively. On walks, she’d yank me around like the proverbial 1100 pound gorilla who eats whatever she wants, mash my feet, and knock me around. She’d give me as little of her attention as she conceivably could when on the ground and while riding. She was squirrely to ride, weaving around, being avoidant, and dangerous when she’d get scared and take charge. She made it very clear that in a life or death situation, my survival was inconsequential. “My favorite thing? Her, ah..little goatee,” I managed weakly. 

For a good long while, it was less a dream come true than hard, awful, and hideously expensive, with enough hits of brilliant, wonderful, best-thing-I’ve-ever-done dopamine to keep me going. For months, we’d been working on sitting trot, wherein the division of labor is such that she jogs around with me on her back and I just try not to bounce around too much. (And now you know why I buy my horse massages: guilty conscience.) So often in these sessions she felt like a cannon ready to go off; the gentle calf squeeze that signals the transition from walk to trot would cause her to react like I’d spurred her with a Jackie Chan kick because we needed to escape a jet-powered T-Rex. She would launch into a rushy, shitty trot like she was urgently needed in orbit and didn’t have time for any outside opinions. During many of these trots, she felt tense, she would lock up mentally*, occasionally grabbing the bit and zagging out from underneath me, a sickening rollercoaster-like sensation where I would have a moment to hope that my body would continue to travel in the same direction as hers, either naturally or by sheer force of will.  There were enough incidents to make me apprehensive about riding. “This is a hard season” the horsepeople said. “It’ll be better in a couple of months.”

What I’ve learned about horses from a year of being around horsepeople:

Fall: “The weather starts getting crisp, the wind picks up. That makes horses go crazy.”
Winter: “It’s cold, they’re pent up, getting less exercise. That makes horses go crazy.”
Spring: “Hormones are surging, it’s new grass, full of sugar. That makes horses go crazy.”
Summer: “Flies are biting, there’s more activity on the trails. That makes horses go crazy.”

As a horse person, you start obsessing about the weather, the conditions that might help or hinder your ride, how much time you have before the sun sets. You become, almost against your will, an outdoorsperson. 

If you poke around in the horse world, often when someone is having issues with a horse, they’ll refer to “bitting up”; i.e. using a harsher or more severe mouthpiece to apply more force to the horse, to assert more control. Every person who owns and rides a horse will find their own line with regards to equipment. I have never felt comfortable using a bit, and for her part, Navani would resist being bridled but felt very comfortable taking the bit and going as she pleased. On my evaluation visit, I watched their trainer ride her and noted two things in particular: that she was being ridden with a lot of contact with the bit, and her lower lip was flapping, an indicator that she was nervous or uncomfortable or both.

Coercing my horse to open her mouth so I could put a piece of metal in there to assert control doesn’t feel good. I don’t think it felt good to her, either, or she wouldn’t toss her head up to avoid it. I’m also not a huge fan of a lot of contact with the mouth, especially if it’s not necessary, and in mounted archery, I’ll have no contact with her mouth as my hands will be busy with a bow and arrows.

So around the eight month mark, I started using a bitless crossunder bridle, and incidentally, that was when things started to take a turn for the better. From the very first time, she went so well in it that feels unnatural to use anything else. Instead of fighting the bridle, she now puts her nose in when it’s offered to her. She responds to lighter aids. She’s less spooky and snorty on our trail rides. She’s less spooky in general, less likely to duck and run, more likely to listen to me when I tell her that she has no cause for concern. She and I feel more like a team. I recently convinced her to load into a trailer in under a minute. 

I don’t give sole credit to the bridle but I do think that its use dovetailed beautifully with the months of consistent work and training I’d been doing, including all the trot work. We’d done all that trotting for myriad reasons: to help her build fitness and protect her back, to school speeds within the trot, to help me regain confidence after the fall and prepare for the mounted archery clinic I attended, and, as always, to help me become a better rider** and better partner to Navani. I have hope someday we’ll be able to go completely bridleless.

 

Things are clicking for her in other areas, too; the other people who handle her have all come to me separately recently to tell me that they can tell I’ve been working with Navani on her ground manners because she’s not barging them around anymore, either. I’ve been talking to her the whole time. I think it’s only recently that she’s started to believe I’m worth hearing. 

The People

I don’t own enough land to keep my horse at my home. Navani would mow down my back yard to the dirt within a few days, only the high rock content of the soil would keep it from turning into a mud pit, and my neighbors with the roosters and turkeys would finally get a taste of their own medicine as she’d blast calls across the neighborhood, looking for other horses. After she got bored of destroying my ornamental plants, she’d knock out at least one of the supports for my raised deck and then knock down my fence and rampage about the greenbelt. I would love to be able to wake up and look out of my window and see my horse but it’s not feasible now, which means I have to board her. 

When you board a horse at a barn, your experience with your horse is intrinsically tied to the other people boarding there. It’s rare to have the facilities to yourself, and if the other people around are inconsiderate or unpleasant, it negatively influences your horse interactions because instead of quietly building a bond with your animal like you want, you’re forced to make small talk with an asshole. I’m so grateful every day that all the other boarders are such wonderful people who support one another like family. If the barn environment had been different, if people had been snide or gossipy, I don’t know if I would have made it through the hardest parts, when I’m already fighting the Seattle drizzle and depression and grief and daylight savings and the kind of cold that chills me to the bone and mud and her attitude and my attitude and… 

Because this was a need-to-sell not a want-to-sell situation, Navani’s former owners are still heavily invested in her in a way that I find unsettling and boundary-violating. We conducted a transaction. Why does it follow that we have to be in each other’s lives after that? They’ve sent messages asking me to post more photos of her, they’ve tried to befriend my friends, there’s been an endless stream of borderline condescending or insulting comments or training suggestions. “Her weight actually looks good!” “Navani told me she wants you to buy her such-and-such.” Aside from being annoyed that she is intimating that she’s having conversations with my horse, the audacity of telling me the things she thinks I should buy by couching them as my horse’s suggestion! 

There’s also a previous rider who until very recently still had a crowdfunding page up to buy my horse, referring to her as her heart horse and her soulmate. She friend requested me on social media almost immediately after I purchased Navani, and I just let the request hang because although it felt petty and chickenshit to directly refuse my recent livestock acquisition’s soulmate’s desperate plea to stay in touch across the miles, I also didn’t feel like I owed this complete stranger access to my entire life, which I write very sincerely and hypocritically, publicly on the Internet. She followed Navani on Instagram for a time, “liking” all the photos except the ones I was also in. Which is fine of course; we’re not friends. 

I have really struggled to reconcile the things they have told me about their experience with her and my experience with her. For example, they claimed online that she is such a compassionate horse that once when her rider became unbalanced, she fell to her knees to prevent her from falling off. But they also told me in person that if I was going to hit her, I should just not hit her on the face, because it makes her rear. Even now with our vastly improved relationship, I cannot imagine this horse ever falling to her knees to protect me, which seems unfair to me since I don’t hit her at all much less hit her on so many places of her body that I can figure out which places really upset her. 

The Expenses

Owning a horse is horrendously expensive. Less so than having a child in daycare, but nothing to sneeze at. Monthly board, farrier visits every six to eight weeks, tack purchasing, maintenance (this includes having a saddle fitter out a couple times a year to adjust and flock), and replacement, chiropractic, acupuncture, bodywork, feed supplements, unguents and creams for skin soothing and hair conditioning, sprays to repel flies and thrush and dust, special tools to scrape crap out of hooves and parasites off of legs, nets to control food intake, vet visits (all with an extra “showing up” fee that you can only avoid by hauling your horse in, which would necessitate owning a truck and a trailer and all their attendant maintenances) for shots, tooth care, bi-annual turd analysis and any lameness or illness needs, lessons and clinics…

I haven’t even gotten into stuff for me yet, but a decent pair of winter riding pants and a new pair of paddock boots to replace the ones that are currently falling apart after two years of use will set me back over three hundred dollars. Plus now I need a new helmet since I hit my head on my most recent fall and safety dictates that a helmet is only good for one impact. Navani is jet black because she is a black hole for every dollar I’ve ever thought about having.

TL;DR

My first year with a horse has flown by, and the difference between the horse she was then and the horse she is today in both temperament and condition is as stark as night and day. The changes in me have been nearly as radical. I can’t wait to see where we are at this time next year.

 

*Pretty much exactly what my December accident looked like, except I was consistently saying turn left…turn left…TURN LEFTTURNLEFTFORTHELOVEOFGODTURNLE–
**My next goal is to become a strong enough rider to be able to do one of the Ride Egypt vacations, but as of publication, Navani’s canter is still unbalanced and a bit scary to ride so it’s not something I’ve tried much. It’s a big dream.

The Domaine de Chantilly, Jewel in the French Countryside

Situated on the edge of Sylvie Pond, the Domaine de Chantilly appears to float upon the water, like something out of a fairy tale. This château was constructed in the early 1800s; the original 12th century building and home to the Condés was destroyed during the French Revolution. So while this is the historical home of Louis II de Bourbon, this is not his house.

The reconstruction and embellishment of this home was the single grand vision of Henri d’Orléans, Duke of Aumale, who needed somewhere to display his vast art collection. As his would-be heirs predeceased him, Henri deeded it to the Institut de France along with the Great Stables, provided that they not be altered, and that none of the art should ever leave, on loan or otherwise. It now houses the Musee Condé, displaying all the intact treasure of a 19th century prince. 

(click for the full panorama and to play a game of “Where’s Melissa?”)

The grounds at Chantilly are extensive; motorized carts and horses are available to rent so that visitors can more easily traverse the 115 hectares (just over 284 acres), a large portion of which remains wooded with accents here and there. A temple dedicated to Venus. A life size game of snakes and ladders. In the center of the grounds is a more structured French 17th century style garden with symmetrical reflecting pools and manicured greenery embracing them, fountains and bright white statuary. 

It took me entirely too long to realize that wasn’t a tank top.

We spent some time admiring the exterior of the château and the grounds near the entryway. The Duke was clearly fond of statuary and ornamentation with a Grecian and Egyptian influence. Stone sphinxes placidly allow visitors to pass. Life size statues of men writhe on either side of the main entrance, their flesh realistically bound by stone wrappings.  Other details stand out: the roof tiles of the château are overlapping scales. Iron winds into curving, pointed shapes that suggest both the natural world and a threat simultaneously. I spent some time imagining how fabulous it would be to sweep through these columned archways en route to a masquerade ball, because thinking about expensive, impractical parties is one of my favorite hobbies.

Ornate does not even begin to describe the interior of the château. It is encrusted with riches the way a ship’s bottom gathers barnacles: more upon more. Gilding on top of decorative moulding on top of paintings to fit the little space above doors. Large fireplaces with unique decorative firedogs, gifts and acquisitions from foreign lands, statues and gold and art by masters and so much fine furniture for looking at. The château was criticized by Boni de Castellane as “one of the saddest specimens of the architecture of our era” because the layout is such that one enters on the second floor and descends to the salons. I don’t really understand this criticism in terms of how it affects the home’s functionality, but I do think I would enjoy spending time snarkily browsing real estate listings with Boni because he is going to have some thoughts on McMansions and I am here for them.

I know I’ve already admired the Prince of Condé for his outstanding pirate fashion sensibilities, but in these statues, I’m getting more of a hot vampire vibe. 

This was in a room of very large murals, subdivided into smaller paintings by these painted gold frames. I love the whimsical lion faces. 

And then there’s The Grand Monkey room, an entire room devoted to depicting monkeys engaging in the arts, the sciences, and lighthearted weapon-wielding. This was obviously my favorite room. Dress an animal in people clothes (especially with a wide array of fantastic hats) and you have my attention. Make them specialist academics and experts in arms and your room theme catapults from “cute” to “top ten of all time”. 

 

The Duke bought this fireplace screen painted by Christophe Huet at an estate sale to go in the monkey room, where no doubt he felt that whole body thrill you get when you find something that could’ve been made for you.

The library at Chantilly contains almost 19,000 items, including 300 medieval manuscripts, a small portion of which are on display to the public in glass cases. I wonder who gets to read from this library, if anyone. 

I’m deeply into these reading and writing chairs.

Medieval book, entirely hand lettered, illustrated, and illuminated. My mind boggles contemplating the amount of human labor that is bound into this book.

Presumably the last thing you see before you are brained with a lamp by your deadeyed lover.

Chapelle des Coeurs des Condé / Chapel of the Hearts of Condé, where the hearts of the family remain in a communal urn.

Staircase into The Stag Gallery

The Stag Gallery. Jason thinks that a table this size would be perfect for miniature wargaming but based on my experience with their catalog, if the Duke had been into Warhammer on this scale, he wouldn’t have been able to afford to construct the château. It would have just been the table, a tent, and 50 million francs worth of plastic figures on top of the rubble of the old château.

I found the most important part of the tapestry for you to look at. 

When I entered the Domaine, I was entirely unprepared for its art collection, including Raphael’s Les Trois Graces. I took a photo of a painting of a horse (because horse) and then realized that it was painted by French master Théodore Géricault. There’s so much art everywhere, stacked up the walls in 19th century style as many as three deep in thick, golden frames, room after room filled with master works, an entire museum of art in one wing.

One of the ways the paintings are protected is through constant, vigilant security. On the day I visited, the young man on the job strode purposefully from room to room, his shoes squeaking vigorously with every step. Those squeaks stalked me throughout the château, the volume belying his position at all times. The energetic squeaks grew near, then far, then near again. It seems like knowing roughly how much time you have before the guard squeaks past your location would almost embolden a thief…but I suppose that’s when the other guard with silent shoes they never noticed gets them.

The Gallery of Painting, at the far end of the room, the rotunda.

François-Hubert Drouais, Marie Antoinette, 1773

Piero di Cosimo, Ritratto di Simonetta Vespucci come Cleopatra ; I love this painting and I was thrilled to see it in person. 

The ceiling of the rotunda. I’m not familiar with this particular escapade of Hermes but that muralbombing cherub seems pretty dismayed.

A painting about friendship and fond feelings about apples.

There was an entire wall of sepia-toned stained glass depicting scenes of…I don’t know, let’s take a look.

…so here it appears we have a crowd gathered by torchlight to watch a baby get a Prince Albert.

Correction: a very creepy baby.

I was particularly fond of the artistic flourishes used around text. 

I love the sassy expressions on these satyrs. 

This looks like Jesus got pretty great seats for his friends for the Ultimate Fighting Championship.

Pottery produced in Chantilly featuring an animal that I’m certain everyone recognizes and immediately pictures whenever someone occasions to say something is “leopard print”.  Long scaly fingers tipped with claws, jagged tusks for teeth, wide human eyes and that unmistakable polka dot coat: that’s a leopard, all right.

Life goals.

THIS STAIRCASE. Look at that curving, swirling gorgeousness. No one is allowed to touch it but my desire to touch it was so high. Check that little lizard tail poking out! This staircase is so fabulous that everyone who gazes upon it walks with an extra sway in their step for the next fifty yards. 

The Palace of Versailles used this painting by Vernet of King Louis-Philippe at Versailles as the cover for their visitor guide for their limited time exhibition on Louis-Phillipe, the king who transformed the palace into a national monument.

Eventually the nonstop squeaking drove us outdoors for another stroll through a portion of the gardens. The sky blustered on and off and a cold wind bit through our jackets so neither of us harbored dreams of walking OR riding the entire estate. We mainly walked around the back of the castle and through one section of the woods, finding a cave that I’m a thousand percent certain is the mossy home of a magical critter that Jason went into and I declined, fearing magical rabies. 

The side of our hotel, the Auberge du Jeu de Paume.

Our time out in the gardens of Chantilly chilled me to the bone, and so we each spent some time luxuriating in a hot bath. I remembered how going out to dinner early in Paris had made us cross paths with closed restaurants and rude waiters, so in Chantilly, we started our search for our first meal of the day a little later, around 7, and that’s when I learned that in Chantilly, they roll up the red carpet around 5pm. We bought the dregs of a boulangerie that we caught just before they, too, closed up shop for the day, went back to the hotel room, and ordered five star room service while watching movies on youtube. Their restaurant has a Michelin star, there’s a small chance that room service comes out of the same kitchen. It may not have been fine dining, but it was delicious and would’ve been so even if we both weren’t ravenous.

I am beyond glad that the room service did not arrive during the “outrageous French accent” scene.

When we checked in, the clerk emphasized that we could have breakfast served in our room or we could have it at their restaurant. The website even says that breakfast is served in the room so that you can enjoy the view from the window “immediately upon waking”. “What a lovely amenity to offer,” I thought. “And they’re so proud of their high level of service that they want to make certain everyone partakes of the most important meal of the day.” Since we had a train to catch back to Paris, I chose to eat in the restaurant, not taking much but delighted by the selection of beautiful French pastries, eggs made to order, rows of cups of vanilla infused creme Chantilly

And then I got my bill printout and saw that breakfast was an extra 35 euros apiece and I wished that I had stuffed my backpack full of chocolate croissants instead of just eating one and drinking a cup of tea like a sucker.

The next few days would be Paris alone, and while I would miss this swanky hotel and its flattering mirrors, I was glad to be going to a home base of sorts. I didn’t need to worry about which train seats corresponded with my fare on my ride back to Paris: the train was so full everyone’s seat was “face in stranger’s armpit”. A human scent-ipede.

Chantilly: Watch me whip, watch me neigh-neigh

I bought a regular fare train ticket from Gare du Nord, and it wasn’t really evident upon boarding which seat section corresponded with that fare. I selected a row and then reconsidered, moving up a section past a minor partition, not wanting to be so near the bathroom, and hoping its proximity wasn’t what defined the fare structure. What I should have hoped for was one or two of my fellow passengers to oversleep and miss the train so they wouldn’t end up getting into a shouting, high-pitched and then muffled screaming fistfight in the row I’d vacated earlier. My seatback was to it so I mostly heard rather than saw the fight. It was surprisingly quiet on the train afterward. No one around me seemed inclined to offer up their take on current events, so I have no definitives and only wild guesses.  

Some questions that I’d never bothered to consider before now: What if I hadn’t moved? Would the fight still have occurred? Was it about who had the worst seat versus the second worst seat? Alternate universe Melissa who did stay would almost certainly have been snitty about toilet smells but she wouldn’t know exactly how long a train could be held up at a station after two pugilists were dragged off by French police.

It’s a long time. 

Our destination was Chantilly, a French commune 35 miles north of Paris on the border of the Chantilly forest with a population of eleven thousand, historically admired for their whipped cream and very fine black silk lace. Although I did hope to partake of some crème Chantilly during my visit, I was going there for horses. In addition to their famous hippodrome which hosts the prestigious Prix du Jockey Club (the French Derby), Chantilly is also home to the Museum of the Horse, located inside the Great Stables. 

The Great Stables are the largest stables in Europe, with the capacity for over 200 horses.  200 horses in 2019 is a huge number of horses, and on days that I feed and turn in at my stable, I’m glad there’s never more than 17 (especially if the weather has ’em feeling snappy), but for historical perspective, in 1775, the Grand Equerry (the highest office for all matters relating to the royal horses), Charles Eugène of Lorraine and Prince of Lambesc was accused of misappropriating 120 of the king’s horses for his personal use. He took horses from work the way some people take pens. And still, those embezzled equines represented a mere 6% of the king’s total stock. A stable that holds 200 horses would barely accommodate Louis XVI’s benchwarmers.

Located on the outskirts of the Domaine de Chantilly and across the street from the Great Stables was our hotel, the Auberge de Jeu de Paume, the little splurge of the trip. Our room looked out onto the gardens of the Domaine, less manicured and more forest-like than the term “garden” would lead one to believe, particularly in the royal French countryside.  

A courtyard at Auberge de Jeu de Paume

In my blog post about Versailles, I took a photo of a statue of Louis II de Bourbon, Prince of Condé, and said I didn’t know any historical tidbits about him and didn’t intend to look anything up but I thought his clothes would be appropriate for an excellent pirate. Well those words came back unexpectedly to bite me in the ass because as it turns out, the Domaine de Chantilly is Louis de Bourbon’s house and the Great Stables are his stables and a fun fact about him is that he had these amazing stables built because he believed that he was going to be reincarnated as a horse and wanted to make sure he’d be housed in facilities appropriate for a horse of his rank. I have many questions, none of which are answered by the historical record: Did Louis intend to allow himself to be ridden or did he assume he’d still be giving orders in some fashion? Did people working at the stables after his death have any guesses as to which one, if any, was the reincarnated prince? Did they geld him anyway? 

Built in 1719 by architect Jean Aubert, the Great Stables are nothing short of imposing. The stalls inside are flooded with natural light and the ceilings rise in a gentle cathedral arch. The entrance to the Museum of the Horse is located between a row of stalls containing full size horses and a row of half stalls for donkeys and miniatures, including one small shaggy shetland pony with long black hair and whiskers named Ramses le Grand.

Now, if I know anything about how reincarnation works (I don’t, nor does anyone else), you get to choose what you’re reincarnated as but due to the laws of physics you have to maintain the same relative amount of body mass, so if you’re a 150 pound man with a fondness for red squirrels, you’ll come back as 200 of them. If you’re a man with a fondness for horses…miniature horse weights range from 150-350 pounds. I’m not saying that this miniature horse with an important name, long black hair and whiskers is the reincarnation of  Louis II de Bourbon, Prince of Condé, a slim man with long black hair and whiskers, but I’m not NOT saying it.

I’m going to come back as two obese Chow dogs.

Each animal has a personal water fountain and seems very pleased about it.

The Museum of the Horse challenged my typical photo taking and posting philosophies. When deciding what to post, I’ll run down a list of loose guidelines: Does it set a scene? Does does it illustrate a story? Does it demonstrate scale? Do I find it beautiful, or meaningful, or historically interesting? Is it funny? Is it cute? Is it a horse?

Being comprised entirely of horses and horse-adjacent items, The Museum of the Horse contains over 1200 photo opportunities on a diverse range of horse subtopics: replicas of old horsemanship manuals, riding equipment from around the world, horses in art including a room of carousel horses, racing memorabilia, and more. The Domaine had been bequeathed to the Institut de France with the stipulation that it be preserved exactly as it is. The Museum of the Horse was established in 1982 after riding master Yves Bienaime, who had learned to ride at the Great Stables, noted that the building was falling into disrepair and wanted to restore its glory. And why not formally recognize humankind’s relationship with the horse? It has ploughed our fields, allowed us to hunt farther and faster and pack the kill home, carried us to war and to work and to pleasure, been an honest friend for centuries.

Photographed because large horse

Photographed because shy horse with helmet hair

Tibetan stirrups, 17th century

Chinese saddle, painted wood, Qing dynasty, 19th century. It’s so beautiful but my butt hurts just looking at it.

Chinese stirrups, Qing Dynasty, 18th century

Imagine how mad you would be if this was your cart and you got back to the parking lot from the farmer’s market and saw someone had scratched your paint.

A sculpture of HRH Queen Elizabeth riding her police horse Tommy in 1947.

Rajasthan, early 19th century

Photographed so now you’ll know that all the plants you can see around the arena are in fancy horse-centipede planters

Photographed because setting

Photographed because scale. And this is a big horse, with a tall rider. Lastly, once you see the eyes in the windows, you can’t unsee them.

Photographed because now there are two very large horses, more = better

My favorite part of The Horse Museum, however, was their magnificent outdoor arena. Set in a courtyard in the stables, two giant horse statues loom at one end, trumpeting silently at onlookers. Silently, thankfully, because speaking as the owner of the loudest horse in the barn, I think if a horse this size screamed at full volume, the sheer force of it might fling a person catching the brunt of it into space. 

And all this was just Louis de Bourbon’s stables, what he imagined to be fit for a royal horse. I couldn’t wait to get into his house.