JUDGING TRIPS to Ireland have always proved to be entertaining as well as enjoyable so it came as little surprise to me that a recent judging sojourn to the Emerald Isle lived up to all expectations.

The best bit about it is the surprise element; you never quite know when the fun will start nor indeed who will start it. However, the cards were on the table when a the flight was delayed by an hour on the way out and all of a sudden there was plenty of time for an additional cup of coffee, a wander round the shops and, most importantly, a comfort stop before boarding.

The Saturday evening flight to Dublin was surprisingly packed and I couldn’t help notice that amongst a sea of t-shirts and jeans there was a group of five well-dressed travellers sitting on the periphery of the seating area. In particular, there were two who stood out; first of all there was a very attractive woman dressed in smart black wearing a distinctive matching trilby-styled hat who somehow looked familiar and an older man, quite tall of heavy build who again was wearing distinctive head gear, this time a large Australian bushman’s hat. They registered with me however my immediate thoughts were turned to shiny shell suits, the preferred travelling outfit for many modern travellers which, thank goodness, have fallen from favour.

Having an equal hatred of queuing and sitting in stationary aeroplanes, I chose to board late only to find myself sitting next to the old man who had chosen to keep on his heavy coat as well as his big hat. We exchanged glances as you do and I contented myself with the emergency instructions then read through the prompt cards I had prepared for the talk I was giving the next day. We were no longer than 10 minutes into the flight when I noticed that my neighbour had pulled out a race card and was studying the entries which he discussed with his older female partner whom I guessed was his wife. He spoke in the quiet, dulcet tones you expect from the southern Irish, so I had no idea what he was saying but they both seemed happy.

From past experience of becoming locked into conversations about football or worst still holiday stories or recollections of visits to Scotland, I don’t normally engage my travelling companions in conversation. However I just couldn’t resist it this time so I asked my neighbour if he had been at the races, curious as I knew full well that Musselburgh and Kelso hadn’t raced that day and Ayr and Hamilton race goers were unlikely to fly out of Edinburgh. Luckily his face lit up and he was only too happy to tell me that he and his travelling companions had been to Newcastle to see their horse run in the big race, The Fighting Fifth, a Grade 1 two-mile hurdle. This explained why they were all smart dressers but best was to come – their horse, Go Native, had won; with £100,000 prize money at stake, it was no wonder they could afford the taxi fare to Edinburgh. And it was no wonder that I felt I knew the lady in black, I had watched her collect the trophy with the rest of the syndicate on the television prior to leaving for the airport.

Well that was the start of it and the 50 minute flight to Dublin passed in no time. Thomas Dowd (my neighbour) kept me entertained for the remainder of the journey, pausing only to show his wife a part of the race card which told them that there was £1m bonus at stake if their horse won its next two big races. At 25-1, it was a bit of an outsider this time however Go Native had won for his connections the Supreme Novices Hurdle last year so his win over the Newcastle favourite, Binocular, couldn’t have been such a surprise after all. Needless to say I was introduced to his party before I went on my way – but how interesting was that?

Little did I know that this was only that start of things to come and I was duly met by my hostess for the weekend, Paula Cullen, a friend of long-standing who shares a love of Welsh ponies which she breeds at her lovely home in Co Wicklow. As a member of the Irish Pony Society, it was she who had suggested that I judge their foal show which was being staged for only the second year. Paula was in great form having just come from the rugby international where her national team had been victorious over the South Africans and where her son, Leo, with already 20 Irish ‘caps’ to his credit, had been called up for the game but sadly spent it on the bench. As captain of the all conquering Leinster team that won Europe’s Heineken Cup last year, this is a rugby family through and through with a mother who talks horses.

In some ways it was lucky for me that her husband was away on business and she had an American nephew and niece-in-law staying the weekend so the pressure to talk rugby (of which I know nothing) was completely off since he is an archaeologist and she is a landscape designer. The weather was foul with sleet blowing through a gale on the way back. Some parts of Ireland had suffered floods at the same time as those in Cumbria however there was little chance that the show would be called off although it was anticipated that many of the entrants would stay at home. None of this had any effect on me as I soon became engrossed in conversation over good food and the best of Bushmills. That was until there was an almighty crash of lightning which filled the night sky and all the lights in the house went out; candles were quickly mustered, the Aga door swung open to provide some heat now that the central heating pump had fallen silent and we settled back to the comfort of the dining table with a few more stories as the level in the whisky bottle slowly dropped.

In the knowledge that I had come to do some judging the next day, by midnight I despatched myself off to bed along with my candle and a smile on my face: yes, this was Ireland. However, the smile had gone by 7am when there was still no electricity and I found myself cautiously moving around in a strange bedroom trying desperately to remember where everything was. I needed to shave, something I couldn’t do without a light so, like the proverbial Willy Winky, I tip-toed along the corridor to the door I trusted led to the kitchen in the hope that Paula was around to light my candle. (Doesn’t that sound really bad?) All I can say was thankfully I selected the right door, thankfully Paula was already making breakfast and thankfully, I had packed my good pyjamas! It was difficult to shave in candle light when there was such a huge smile on my face.

If that was not sufficient, the show didn’t let me down either. The Irish people are so friendly and so funny without even trying. The centre where the show was staged was a bit rough round the edges to say the least however the actual riding school itself was excellent and moreover, it had a meeting room attached with a huge open fire generating warmth that could only be matched by the hospitality that was on offer to all. In the centre of this room, which doubled for the show office, was a huge dining table which over the course of the morning filled up with plates of sandwiches, cakes and biscuits; the kettle was constantly on the boil. The organisers had a great idea of charging a nominal sum for the hospitality for the day to anyone who wished to avail themselves of it. This meant that there was a constant flow of people, eating and drinking to their hearts’ content, enjoying the warmth and taking the opportunity to chat with their fellow competitors – and no burger van. It was marvellous. Later in the day after judging, I was able to enjoy the comfort of the fire as I delivered my short talk on producing foals to the 40 or so enthusiasts who had remained.

Amazingly, there were very few call-offs, the classes were modestly filled but I have to admit that there were few stars. Some foals appeared in more than one class during the morning but sadly there were no entries in the Connemara class, to which I have to say I was looking forward. One little man appeared in three classes with his Welsh filly which unfortunately held up the line on every occasion. On the third time of asking, he declined to trot up the filly for me and understandably so since both he and the pony had run out of both ‘puff’ and enthusiasm. My steward was taken aback by his attitude but I perfectly understood; who could blame him?

As luck would have it, there was one foal in particular that did not let me down. I associate Ireland with good strong sorts with excellent limbs and sound conformation suited to a day’s work. In this grey filly to make around 15 hands, I found just that; she stood four square on great legs and feet and could walk for Ireland. I have no doubt she will make a top class working hunter pony in the years to come. Although well turned out for the time of year, she did look a bit rough compared to one Welsh colt that look absolutely amazing; he looked a picture and a real champion but sadly didn’t go like one. Despite giving him every chance, he continually messed around and just refused to trot a stride. Down the line he went much to his owner’s consternation. It was only after the show that I discovered that this colt was sold in utero by a very good friend in Yorkshire who had received a great price for his mother at the sales the previous year. Like mother like son; she is very beautiful pony like her son but also like him, she’s not much of a mover.

Needless to say, the grey filly was champion; runner-up to her was a very nice quality black riding pony filly which looked immaculate, was in good condition and went well. On chatting to her owner after the show, I learned that this lady, whom I had never heard of let alone met previously, was a Fifer now living in Ireland and her filly was out of a Waxwing-bred mare. If that didn’t seem to everyone as a bit of a ‘fix’, the grey champion was shown by the Irish Pony Society chairman of the Breeding Committee who organised the show, again someone I hadn’t met before that day.

The lasting memory of my trip to Ireland occurred as we left the school on our way back to Wicklow. Anxious to get back to business, the empty school was now in use by some riders who were schooling their mounts over jumps. By the collecting area there were five young lads, all wearing skull caps, ‘tracky’ bottoms and riding boots. The way they handled their ponies seemed so instinctive, so natural. There was nothing fancy about the ponies or their tack but there was something special about the relationship their riders had with them. Where would you see a group of young lads working with horses or ponies in this country? This is obviously where they hang out and it’s what they like to do. There wasn’t a girl in sight that day. It is little wonder that so many race good jockeys have Irish accents.

Much to the disgust of my hostess but to my personal delight, meeting us in the street leading from the centre was a small group of men who were indulging themselves in yet another stereotypically Irish interest, driving. The unlikely equine this time was a young lean skewbald trotting horse pulling a sulky through the middle of a housing scheme.

Before heading back to the airport my trip to Ireland concluded in almost the perfect manner with sight of a big horse which epitomised the best of Irish breeding; little did I realise that she was stabled only a few yards away from my bedroom. This lovely home-bred bay mare has already started a successful eventing career for the Cullens and has won the Irish equivalent of the Burghley young event horse championship two years in succession. With bone, size and substance, she reminded me of the super Irish middleweight steeplechasers I once saw at Doncaster Sales many years ago. Needless to say I’ll be interested to chart her progress in the years ahead but in the meantime I can’t wait for my next trip to her home land.