I Dream of Horses
Julie Copeland

When was the first dream? The first horse? Aged three, sitting in the gutter outside our shop at the top of Alma Road, up from St Kilda Junction, watching and waiting for the baker’s horse, Ginger. A chestnut, of course. My little finger’s still crooked, because one morning, through no fault of his own, the patient cart horse bit through it, along with the apple pieces my mother always gave me to hand him.
Just two years ago, I lost the top of my middle finger in Greece, snapped off by a hungry horse, as I poked grass to him through a wire fence, an accident which, given the village’s inadequate medical facilities, generated quite a Greek crisis.
My strongest adult dream is of another chestnut—not Ginger, because this is a mare with a foal gazing at me across a stream, not a distressingly distant divide, because her gaze is one of reconciliation, fulfilment, peace.
The other real chestnut in my life was named The Gent, a
17 hands racehorse I rode to victory a couple of times at race meetings in Wentworth, New South Wales. At that time, as a fifteen-year-old girl, I rode in what were called ‘Ladies Bracelets’—country races for female jockeys only. Nothing much has changed.
I was madly in love with The Gent, but I had trouble controlling the handsome thoroughbred, who bolted with me regularly, as he knew only walking and galloping.
When we moved from Wentworth across the border, I rode The Gent the thirty miles to Mildura and, after we had walked decorously for some miles, I vividly recall defying the horse-trainer’s orders, leaning low on the horse’s neck and letting him stretch out and run along a track by the river for what seemed like forever—glorious!—pulling up panting and sweating… and then the panic that I’d ruined him, destroyed him, as we limped into town an hour later.
Although I had some of my most thrilling moments with The Gent, and spent a lot of time gazing adoringly at him, my father was right: for a girl, a large, highly-strung thoroughbred was no fun.
Enter my bay stock pony Bambi who, although he was no beauty, could, and would do everything and we became inseparable; out all day, trotting across the dry flat claypan, tearing through the saltbush, jumping logs, swimming in the river.
At the annual show, we entered every novelty riding event, and the pony races.
Despite the enjoyment I had from a much-loved succession of horses and ponies, accidents and broken bones—there was always the endless yearning for the dream horse.
In fiction, there was The Golden Sovereign, a spectacular palomino stallion, and The Mandrake, the perfect bay. Black Beauty was unbearably sad (I still can’t read or hear of animals suffering). In film, there was National Velvet, Flicka and her son, Thunderhead, the white stallion—and later, my favourite Australian filmstar, Phar Lap.
Sometimes they actually appeared, in all their heart-stopping beauty; I even got to briefly ride one or two dream horses, owned by wealthier families than ours. Once I was loaned a champion grey gelding to compete for Best Girl Rider at the Mildura Show, and I only had to arrange myself on top of this perfectly trained grey rocking horse to effortlessly win the blue ribbon.
Wherever we lived, my younger sister and I fell in love with horses and dragged them home, all shapes and sizes, from everywhere.
It was Shetland ponies for my sister who, when she was very small, had a terrible fall off my first horse, and never quite recovered her nerve.
I spotted Satan in the Dandenong Horse Sales, a large, stunning, jet-black thoroughbred, sired by a famous steeplechaser. I had to have him. My grandfather bid and got him for a very reasonable price. But the charismatic beauty turned out to be a killer, who even my powerfully built father couldn’t handle.
I only drew horses. And despite not having done so for decades, on a recent holiday in Italy, I spent happy mornings on the terrace drawing horses with an eleven-year-old, horse-mad friend, Sophie, and was immensely flattered when she pronounced me the very best drawer of horses ever!
Sadly, although I believe the best way to view the world is from astride a horse, there is no horse in my life now. But their superior beauty still obsesses me. I respond to every image of a horse, watch bad movies on television which feature horses; in the city I stop, notice, every police horse, carriage horse, speak to them, smell them, touch them when I can.

And they’re always, always there in my best dreams.

Julie Copeland is one of Australia’s most significant radio broadcasters and producers. She has worked in political and arts journalism for more than thirty years and is currently the producer and presenter of ABC Radio National’s weekly arts program, Sunday Morning. She initiated, produced and presented landmark programs including First Edition, The Europeans and The Coming Out Show. Julie loves horses, reading, painting and arguing about the arts and politics.

From: HorseDreams: The Meaning of Horses in Women’s Lives
Eds. Jan Fook, Susan Hawthorne and Renate Klein
pp 84-86

Website: http://www.spinifexpress.com.au