The pony’s trot beat out a fast rhythm on the road, the harness jangled in harmony. The traces took the strain alternately. Sitting up front on the right, he held the reins accross his body. With sufficient pull to refrain her from a canter. Young Barrett was content. Going up Woodstock, he felt the gig going forward under him, as the mare extended. He moved his left foot slightly for balance. He could see the extra swing in her quarters as she clipped determinedly along the straight stretch of road. She hadn’t asked to walk since leaving Newwcastle, and she kept the same tempo as she turned for Móin Gearr. Still with the forbidden canter in her head.

The stallion at Clooniffe ran to the gap to investigate. All his senses alert and excited. As she passed the head of the road, she heard him. Then she saw him. She picked up her head and slowed. Barrett let back into an easy trot, admiring the stallion as they passed. He pulled accross to get a better look. The mare slowed and raised her tail. The stallion was dancing with excitement, blood coursing through the veins all over his body. Then she came to an abrupt stop and showed for him.

Barrett knew better than to hang around, and with a swift, determined lash of his whip, they were away again. The stallion followed inside the fence, and as he reached the end of the field, jumped without pausing onto the road to give chase. He now used his whip in alarm, and was in a frantic gallop when he reached Clydagh with the stallion in hot pursuit. ‘Why on earth did I slow down?’ the young lad asked himself. Then the stallion was alongside, calling urgently, and pushing the pony towards the ditch, as he forced his attention upon her. He tried to beat him off as they met a car with a startled driver. Another car drove behind, keeping a safe distance, the driver incredulous.

As the mare slowed in exhaustion, the stallion’s excitement increased. For a moment he came from behind and planted his front feet in the bed of the gig. His hind legs, in double time, keeping pace. Barrett had enough, sweat pouring off him – ‘Is fearr rith maith, ná seasamh fada‘ he decided, and jumped ship. Going up Killagoola, the driverless mare and gig were taking both sides of the road, while motorists pulled aside at every vantage point for safety as they gazed in awe.

As they approached Moycullen village, at least ten cars had formed a cavalcade behind them. The stallion was prancing and roaring in a frenzy.

The pub owner, a pony man of note, was standing at the pub door, when the convoy entered the village. It didn’t take him long to assess the situation. He ran to his car, parked only a few yards away, and grabbed a bridle. A motorist came to his aid, and they got the stallion under control. Barrett jumped from another car, in which he had gotten a lift and took charge of his pony. Order was restored, and the traffic cleared.

That night in the pub, it was the only topic of conversation. One customer was quite insistent that he saw the stallion at one stage with all four feet up on the cart! By closing time, a few more had seen the same thing. Another pint there, lads!

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