PONY TREKKING THROUGH THE WICKLOW HILLS

By Leslie Daiken HE Invention of the Wheel must have been a great boon to travellers. And so. too. Clod bless us and save us, must be the internal combustion engine! A score of rival methods of sight-seeing now exert heavy sales-pressure on the would-be tourists from all quarters: see Ireland—by car; by steam-train; by diesel; by coach; by luxury coach; by bus; by motorbike; by jeep; by moped; . . . one could go on ad lib.
For my part, I would comfortably abjure all the contraptions which get you there in a
hurry and back, in favour of holidays in the saddle. And I have tried most of them in my life. Sight-seeing on horseback is not some eclectic recreation for the country squire, the hardened horseman, or the voUthful enthusiast with "ponyitis". Anybody, with normal everyday fitness, can enjoy Ireland today through the pleasures of pony-trekking.
If you want to savour the true rhythm of rural Ireland, if you want to extend the special sort of delight you may have expel ienced up on a jarvey's jaunting-car around Killarney's Lakes, if you have laughed yourself into goodhumour having ridden through the Gap of Dunloe (as is a tourist "must") on one of those Gap Men's knobbly ponies, trying to forget a sore seat--then you will really appreciate my claims in favour of this more natural way of getting about. So, just for once, let me persuade you to switch your allegiance from an accelerator to a saddle and bridle. Take up "Pony Trekking".
FAVOURITE
How to begin? The Irish Tourist Board can help you, They have a list of all the people, all the places in Ireland where this kind of holiday may be enjoyed. All of Ireland's beauty-spots are ideal for trekking. But all Irishmen have their own special favourites and mine is that county known as "The Garden of Ireland", Wicklow. An hour by road from Dublin airport, equally accessible by train from Rosslare (on the Fishguard sea-crossing) you will find the Bel Air stables and hotel, near the cosy, relaxing village of Ashford.
There, nestling amid rhododendron groves, overlooking on one side the blue sea and on another the lonely, beautiful, bracken-covered foothills, you will be guests of the Murphy family. To say that you will be "made feel At Home" (in the Irish sense, that is—no palaver, no formal dressing for meals, etc.) is an understatement. Madam Murphy, Tipperary-born, and full of tact and wit, is a trueborn hotelier; Mr. Tim Murphy has his own sly humour, especially when he tries to be in three places at once (a bunch of keys his only weapon!), in a station-wagon to fetch freshlycaught salmon for supper; upstairs, for some special comfort; racing around the bar with silky cream for the Irish coffee ...
But the particular Murphy member with whom one will be spending most time, happy, exhilarating hours, is Miss Fidelma, who runs her stables to perfection and who, as teacher and escort, takes you out with her string of sure-footed, knowing ponies and hacks. Her mounts suit every temperament and any (or no) expertise with rein
and stirrups.
Private trekking, you can contract for, almost the entire year round. But the trekking-season proper starts in June and continues till September. The fees usually include full hotel accommodation (in the main house or in chalets adjoining), guides, instruction, and all meals including the essential package lunch which, somehow, tastes best of all in the open air!
One may enrol for a week's trekking, for two weeks, or more. -I he average terms are in the region of two to three guineas a day. And one of the truly Irish features about these easy-going (and never too strenuous) rides, is that nobody is ever fussy about kit. Fully habited and booted riders are always welcome, but the usual thing is old footwear, jods., jeans, slacks, flannels—anything sensible from raincoat to windcheater, jerkin to pullover.
LUNCH
At some treks a sit-down meal is pre-arranged at a sheltered halting-place en route—say, near a flowing river, while the horses munch sweet grass; or at Mrs. Doyle's farmhouse on the verge of Lough Dare that mountain lake with its hidden fish and breathtaking views.
Children with a minimum of riding experience are taken on junior treks. This I found a double blessing when our two were much younger. Later, they imported to Bel Air pen-friends from London and Paris. Whoa! But those girls did have fun!
The joys and disciplines of a fine day's pony trekking must be indulged to be fully realised, The panoramic, birds-eye-view of landscape from aloft is quite unique, above the hedgerows, over the fences—nothing is out of vision as when travelling by motorcar. The organisers will have previously explored the best terrain; arranged access through wooded parkland, or private estate; through stateowned plantations of spruce and
For those who genuinely love the country there is an unmistakable thrill in seeing the curve of Wicklow Bay from a mountaintop. You find yourself "part of the team", borne up so quickly on to
hill or moorland where a motorist, Lord be kind to him! — dare not venture. Even when your pony's neck is downcurved as it slakes its thirst from a limpid roadside spring, you seem to be at a vantage-point on a level with the caves of cottages! A fresh wind blows away the flies, and each rider pauses to gaze around him or her, silhouetted against the skyline of this variegated county. Only in trekking have 1, personally, enjoyed superb scenery under ideal conditions; to value shared silences as much as shared enthusiasms. Ambling carefully, on well-behaved mounts, through plantations of young larch, high up on Carrick Mountain where only the wood-pigeon's cooing breaks the utter solitude, one is conscious of the trek-leader's ever-watchful eye as stragglers are waited for, as she canters from van to rearguard, a routine that makes for that one-family atmosphere. Ah, the clean wind in one's face! The vanilla-scent of gorse on a warm day! The patchwork of cornstooks and hayricks at harvesttime ...
ALFRESCO
I suppose that the pleasantest period on a full-day trek is when
we are called to a halt for the midday, alfresco meal. Never did bread and butter taste so mannalike; never did an apple hold such sweetness. There is always time for a siesta in long meadow-grass; a doze while fleecy clouds float on high; a plunge in lake or stream for the energetic among us . . . And then, all too soon, we are ready for the return journey. This is invariably by a different, but always exciting route.
Indeed, after many years of horse-borne holidays in Ireland I am still a zealous convert. The pleasures offered to eye and ear by this leisurely form of conveyance, seem to become, as it were, fixed in time. One recalls vividly every mossy wall, or grass-grown village street. in the mind's eye, long afterwards. The dart of a hawk: the motionless sentry-go of a grey heron (in Ireland we call them "cranes"); the slow homeward flight of rooks at sunset . . . all, for me, mingle inextricably with sounds like the hoofbeats on turf; smells like pine-resin; flavours like food, when one's hunger is whetted; and the tingling of the blood when one is tired, though relaxed.
Easy, girl! In you go to your comfortable stall—and manger of oats.
And in we go for a rub-down, wash, and some music-making in the Bel Air lounge-bar! The phoney escapism of cowboy films trying to re-enact the Wild West of 1863 has become an unspectacular but healthy reality in 1963.