welsh mountain pony. He was the fattest thing you ever saw.

He was given to us by a woman of dubious integrity soon after

we arrived at Flag Swamp. A short while after she gave him to

us, claiming he was eight years old (someone later looked in his

mouth and said, "More like 18!"), I was visited by a trio of large,

red-faced, taw-haired women with arms like washerwoman.

They claimed that Taffy-- who went by a different name

as far as they were concerned--had been "sold" to our mutual

friend and she had failed to pay for him, therefore he was their's

and they were going to up-lift him and send him to the knacker's

yard to recoop the money that was owing.

Horrified, I asked how much was owing? $45! Naturally, I

whipped out the cheque book and wrote a cheque there and

then. They produced a receipt to say that I, Lindsay Lyons, had

paid for Taffy and I was now his proud owner. I felt at the time I

had been duped, but they went away happy and Ive never seen

them since.

Taffy was not an easy pony. He tried to bite you and he had an

unpleasant habit of jerking his head upwards so as to catch you

under the chin or other even more sensitive places. He enjoyed

standing on your feet, to. His most obvious characteristic was

greed. He was only ten hands--that's about 40 inches to the

shoulder--but he was very fat. He never stopped eating.

To reach food, he could stretch his neck further than any animal

I know, except, perhaps, a giraffe. He could stretch his lips and

his tongue, too, and he used to press himself against the barbe

wire fence for extra distance, regardless of the pain it must have

caused him.

I decided "have pony, will ride" and went out and bought a

bridle and reigns. The saddlery in our village is a quaint little old

shop on the main road and it smelt sweetly of leather, saddle soap

and horse liniment. Looking at the saddles and boots, the helmets and

hacking jackets, I imagined a new world opening for me in which

I could make an elegant fashion statement and so, after paying

only the slightest attention to the saddlers perfunctionary

instructions, I proudly took home my bridle and reins.

It would have been difficult enough trying to get a bridle on taffy

anyway--he new just when to waggle his head vigorously--but it

took ages before I realised I was trying to put it on upside down.

fat; I had no saddle or stirrups, so it was a case of tying Taffy to

the gate post and climbing on a chair, then swinging a leg over

and struggling on to his back. That should not have been

difficult--he's only forty inches high remember--but Taffy knew

exactly when to move of to the side, leaving me with one foot

hooked over his back and one on the chair. It was like being on

the rack. The chair eventually tipped over saving me from being

split in half but leaving me to do a desperate version of the

can-can until I freed my right foot.

"Let them know who's boss." thats what they say about horses,

so I persevered, and finally Taffy let me get on him. Looking

back, I now realise the only reason for this because he was ready

to try out a new trick.

My next problem was to get him to move. Imagine, if you can, a

fat little lady jerking backwards and forwards and bouncing up

and down on a fat little pony, trying to gode him into action.

There he stood, stiff-legged and ears flattened back, not budgie.

I didn't want to hurt him but kicking him with my heels was'nt

achieving anything, so I leaned around and whacked him firmly

on his ample rump. He lurched forward and by the time I'd

regained my balance and some of my composure, Taffy had

wedged us into the corner of the paddock. He stopped there as if

wondering, "Now, let's see how she gets us out of this one.'

It took me ages to figure out how you steer horses. When I

remembered about the reins and pulled to the right, Taffy took

off straight up the fence line at a very fast walk, gaining speed

all the time. He went as close as he could to the fence so

that every fence post whacked me on the leg. On reaching the

far end of the paddock, he suddenly turned and ran under a birch

tree so that I got the full benifit of the low branches, and then he

pig-jumped all the way back.

Technically, I suppose, I was still on him when we stopped,

although I was more askew than astride. I decided to stop letting

him know who was boss and slid the remaining 24 inches to the

ground and, with wobbly knees and a thumping heart, staggered

back to the house, hoping that nobody had driven past the

schoolhouse while all this was happened.

I did'nt ride Taffy again. My husband, Dan, did a couple of times.

With his long legs, Dan could almost touch the ground as he sat

on Taffy--it was more like being on a motorbike than a

horse--but Taffy still managed to throw him. The pony was so fat

that you couldn't dig in with your knees and, in the absent of a

saddle, you simply slid off him. It was like trying to balance on a

barrel.

Eventually we gave Taffy away to owner's who would ride him and

give him the exersice he needed. I often wonder if the new

owners were visited by those there women with the

washerwomen arms claiming ownership of Taffy and

threatening. "Pay up or he goes to the knacker's yard."

It wouldn't surprise me in the least.