Travels With 'Donny' Pamella Laird   © Copyright 2025 by Pamella Laird

Image by clea129 from Pixabay

Whatever was she thinking? Ride to school from our farm—two miles, across a river—on old Donny! A horse we’d never ridden before! Apart from that, none of us had ever ridden any horse before!

Over 85 years ago, children didn’t question their parents—never even thought to quibble about arrangements. You’ll remember those days? We did what we were told.

My mother, a buoyant redhead, was known for her impetuous and somewhat ‘frisky’ nature. Through her hand-milking ability and strong wrists, she became a celebrity, having beaten every local man at tennis. She was given to squirting milk, direct from the cow, into the mouths of her three lined-up children. And I hesitate to tell you this, I even remember her leaping onto the back of Edith, a huge black sow, and riding her, until, hooting with laughter, she fell off, halfway around the pig yard.

From my angle as a seven-year-old, I accepted my mother’s antics without question, and these included the unexpected (some slightly mad) activities that were expected of my older brother Peter, myself, aged seven, and young sister, Diana. Diana was then five, and Peter would have been nine.

Normally, it was a lovely walk to our tiny country school (maximum roll 14), set in the foothills of the Southern Alps of New Zealand. An interesting rural hike, where among its more ‘risky’ perils, was fighting off nesting magpies and crossing a sometimes flooded river. We were living at the farm where my mother grew up, so she knew all its hazards and delights. These included a grass tennis court still used today and the waterfall under which she regularly stood for its ‘fabulous’ shampoo quality in mountain water.

On a gorgeous morning, my mother mysteriously disappeared in the middle of breakfast. My farmer father had apparently been lined up for the unusual job (for him) of getting our lunches together as well as ensuring we had bags and jackets etc. which we crammed into leather school bags.

None of us questioned the unusual happening, and I suppose, Diana and I looked to Peter, as the ‘head of the gang,’ to make sure all was well. Suddenly, my mother reappeared in the kitchen. “Come on, kids, you can ride Donny to school this morning.” Donny was a half-draught horse originally named Donald after a lethargic great-uncle.

On reflection, we assumed my mother knew what she was doing, even tho’ we’d never been on Donny before. We reminded ourselves that she and Donny (and other horses) had trotted off to the same school some 20 years before. Surely this meant our new conveyance was prepared for a trouble-free journey that he would know well! How trusting we were. Donny was dark brown with grubby, should be white, feathers above his hooves and a give-away grey around his muzzle.

Of course, our mother will know what she’s doing! How could we question that? At first, Peter was hoisted into the ‘driving’ seat, tiny Diana squashed up in the middle, and I, as it were, the ‘back seat driver.’ Peter had full command of the halter while we all sat on a heavy old wheat sack my mother had thrown over Donny’s back. No stirrups, no helmets, I do remember cotton sun-hats, but it seemed we’d been given over to plain common sense.

We soon learned that stirrups would have been useless, as Donny, by then, clearly an old horse, had no intention of a breakaway or joining a stampede. In fact, Donny was hard put to place one hoof in front of the other. This caused, as we saw it, a certainty we would be late for school. Surely my mother had spoken to the teacher the night before (there was no telephone at the school), so we would not be whacked over the hand for being late?

Not only did we have to learn how to balance on Donny’s bumbling backside, but we also had school bags with lunches, school books etc. to somehow keep safe. Lurching up the long, winding driveway before we hit the country road, was an essential place to get all these finer points under control. We two girls had complete faith in big brother, which was just as well, for we were at the mercy of both horse and ‘front man.’

We had no idea of the learned particulars expected of horse-riders, such as the use of knees. No one told us that the magic words to get Donny started or stopped were ‘walk on’ and ‘whoa.’ I don’t remember a dialogue of any description between the horse, my mother, or my brother and sister. I think we all had the impression, you got on Donny’s back and he walked and presumably, knew where he was going.

The day was gloriously sunny with a fresh mountain breeze. All went well on the road that, on a good day, might see one car. We turned onto the side road that would deliver us to the school. From here, we felt our first unease as we descended a small hill; the macrocarpa trees hereabouts were the territory of a pair of magpies who terrorised us every spring. Right on time, they dived, causing the usual mayhem—would floppy cotton brims protect us from those stabbing beaks? We did our best to protect our eyes from these vicious nest builders and learned later—my mother knew all about them too!

Plodding steadily on, Donny appeared unmoved by our agitation, and having finally passed out of their territorial range, we were then confronted by the river that divided the Valley in half. Most of the time, this was an affable river that in the winter we were accustomed to crossing by a chain swing bridge. On summery occasions, we were able to use stepping stones or even remove our shoes and paddle across. Today, Donny benefited from our gullibility!

Indeed, in the past, I had seen its dirty, angry waters carry timber, uprooted trees, and even carcases swiftly through the ford on it’s way to the sea. The river went by the delightful Maori name of Hae Hae Te Moana, translated as ‘Hurry, Hurry to the Sea.’ Every now and again, our fun-filled swing bridge would be swept away; that, of course, meant a day off school.

But that morning, we met a totally unexpected hindrance to our progress. Donny was thirsty! Try as he would, Peter was unable to stop Donny filling himself with fresh mountain water. What I hadn’t realised then, Peter must have been hanging forward over Donny’s neck, likely any minute, to fall into the river. Fortunately, there had been plenty of mane to hang on to.

Time passed, and although we had no wrist watches, as country children, we were well aware of the sun’s position throughout the day.

We spoke hopefully to Donny, we encouraged Donny. Finally, we lost patience with Donny, when the extra water in his bulging stomach raised our six legs higher and higher. We thumped with our heels—still we waited.

Eventually, in his own time, Donny lifted his head and clumsily negotiated the river’s sandy bank to waddle ashore. We heard the water sluicing around in his belly, but never mind about that! We were on the move again.

I began to think ahead of other possible hazards and yes, there was one—the overhanging branches of the willow trees further up the Te Moana Road. Diana was in the lowest seat in the stalls and could barely see beyond Peter’s back—she would be all right, but Peter and I were exposed to possible decapitation or certainly—the removal of our hats or the restyling of our hair.

I called to Peter, reminding him he would need to duck at Willow Corner. There was never a thought that, come what may, Peter might jump off Donny. How would he mount again? I felt I could bend enough to keep clear of the sweeping branches. Despite my fears, all were still on board as we negotiated the corner and a small hill that marked the ancient boundary of a once widespread river.

When we were probably 100 yards from the school, we heard the handbell, rung by the sole charge teacher, our devoted Miss Molly Caskey. She must have left the remaining eleven children to their own devices as she waited at the gate of the horse paddock. Could it be, my mother had telephoned and warned her of our morning expedition? Even today, I have no idea whether she did or not. There were three ponies quietly grazing in the field they knew so well, and not a child in sight.

One by one, we slid off Donny’s back. Our ‘Miss’ slung the sack over the fence while we clamoured together to tell her of Donny’s apparent addiction to river water. She smiled, and bless her, said nothing except, ‘I have hot cocoa ready for you.’

When the time came, it hadn’t occurred to us that we’d need to somehow climb onto Donny’s back to get ourselves home. Someone had made a hopeful stile attached to one of the sturdy posts in the horse paddock and after a frustrating cornering, Peter finally grabbed Donny by the halter and brought him back to the so-called mounting block.

Being totally green at horse riding and the requirements needed for such equestrian proficiency, we leaned on the teacher’s knowledge or skill. With hindsight, I suspect this may have been even less than our own.

Time was moving on, the other ponies and their riders had long gone, but Miss Caskey had managed to sling the sack ‘saddle’ back over Donny. That was a start. Peter climbed up, Diana was bundled up by our ever-patient ‘Miss,’ and eventually, by balancing on the top of the fence, I managed to scramble up behind my little sister. Donny stood like the proverbial statue.

School bags were duly handed into our care, and Peter pointed Donny in the direction of the gate where ‘Miss’ had strolled to wait for us. Donny must have remembered the river, as he started off at a good clip, however, his gait changed, I think when he saw my father, and carried on through the water.

Even then apparently, unconcerned at the three lumpens on his back it would seem our ‘conveyance’ was either already replete or fully aware of the authority that awaited his crossing.

My father was a quiet man, but I recall my relief at seeing him on the far side of the river, patiently waiting. He smiled widely as we ambled through the water. Did I detect that smile as one of relief? I’m not at all sure he had been in favour of my mother’s unexpected madcap proposal. Donny stood quietly as we and our bags were downloaded.

Then, trudging in a way that clearly indicated, ‘this was not a good idea,’ he followed the car and my father’s easy-going driving on the last long walk of the day. From time to time in the summer, we repeated these ‘Donny travels.’ I doubt our dear old horse ever realised the delight, joy and saddle-bags of memories he bequeathed us in those, his declining years.