The Irish Riding Holiday Pt.3
Me, Trevor, and Stubben
I was tired after my big night out, slept in until 9:30, and ran down the road to the Riding Centre, boots clomping. We were supposed to ride at 10:00. I arrived frazzled, trying to figure out who I was riding that day. Trevor, the stable boy who I had gotten to know over the week, helped me find my mount. Trevor was 16 like me, lived nearby, and worked at the stable whenever he wasn’t in school. Having never met a boy who was into horses, I was immediately smitten.
Trevor was mildly attractive, in a choir boy, ginger-haired way. The best part about him was his voice, the lilting Irish accent which I found so irresistible. It also helped that he was sort of flirtatious. He would take extra care to help me get my horses ready, and then tease me, saying, “the things I do for you.” (I know he actually said this because I recorded it fervently in my travel journal. These are the sorts of things sixteen-year-old girls do.)
To my delight, Trevor let me know we were going for a beach ride again!
In my travel journal, I wrote, this morning there was no instruction. Ian is in Dublin. We went for a three hour trail ride to Coney Island! At first it was rainy but it got better. I rode a pony named Archon. At first I was disappointed he would be slow but he was great! We galloped so much! It was absolutely terrific. He was super fast and racing with everyone. We were supposed to gallop in single file but we were all over the place. I was laughing so hard and trying to slow Archon. Eugene was a little pissed off but all well. He was having trouble with Taz.
We rode back to the stable, covered in water and sand. Everyone was sorry this was our last ride, but looking forward to the farewell soirée that evening. Our hosts loved to party, and all the guests were happy to partake.
That afternoon my mom and I walked down the road to visit the lambs that lived in a field there. We had visited them almost every day and I had taken to scrambling over the rock wall and picking them up, because they were so adorably soft and docile. That day, there was a local man and his toddler son already there. The little boy picked up a lamb as big as he was and carried it, staggering around, while the rest of us watched and laughed. I love the Irish, I decided.
After dinner the group of us from the B&B walked to the riding centre. The party was held in the loft on top of the pub, overlooking the indoor arena. They seemed to have tried to replicate Equinox at the riding center. It was dark, except for flashing disco and neon lights. The music was so loud you could barely hold a conversation. The dance floor was well used. I hung out with my mom and the other adults from the B&B, eyeing up the teenage group across the room. The group consisted of Trevor, another teenage boy named Dave who was also a stablehand, and a few local girls who rode at the centre.
Trevor studiously avoided my gaze. Weird, after the flirtation that morning. However, one of the girls, a petite ginger-haired girl who would best be described as a lass, took pity on me sitting with the “old people” and kindly invited me to join their group.
I sat next to them on a beaten-up couch while she tried to ask me something. The music was so loud I had no idea what she was saying. Eventually I agreed to something, saying “yes” a few times since it seemed to make her happy to hear it. I had zero idea what I had agreed to.
The next thing I knew, I was walking outside next to the stable with her and the other stablehand – not Trevor, but the shorter and less handsome Dave. Ugh. What was going on? The girl gave me a knowing smile and said, “I’m going back upstairs.” Then she left. Oh no.
Dave faced off against me and leaned forward with lips puckered. I looked down at him (being much taller) and momentarily considered going through with it, but found that I could not. My heart belonged to Trevor.
“Um...no thanks,” I said, laughing awkwardly.
“I thought you wanted to go outside,” he said.
“I did,” I replied. “Here we are, outside.”
He kindly explained that “going outside” was the local lingo for “making out next to the barn.”
“Sorry...” I said, feeling uncomfortable but knowing there was no way I could bring myself to go through with it. If it was Trevor on the other hand.....but it was not. It was all horribly embarrassing.
We went back inside the party. The girl apologized profusely to me for the mix up. I began to get the impression she had something going on with Trevor. So that’s why she was trying to fix me up with Dave.
Some random creepy guy asked me to dance. I think he lived nearby and came to the stable to drink and leer at women. I danced with him once and fled. After that, the night was at least partially redeemed as I spent the remainder of it lounging low on the couch next to Trevor, our heads close together as we talked horses.
Someone asked if I was a good rider. Before I could reply Trevor retorted, “She stayed on Stubben outside, so yeah.” My cheeks flushed warm with pleasure. Trevor suggested I come back to Ireland and work at the centre next year, after I graduated high school. Solemnly I said that I would.
I was hoping he’d ask me to “go outside” and this time I would be prepared, but alas, he didn’t. The girl took him away to dance, and eventually we all went home.
The next morning was sad. It was time to leave. I said good-bye to Ian (back from Dublin), the horses, and of course Trevor. I was disappointed by a somewhat stiff, anticlimactic farewell after the intimacy I had felt with him the night before. Being the year 2000, there was no Instagram, Tik Tok, or even Facebook handles to exchange. Long distance phone calls were expensive, and teenagers didn’t really email each other. We would either see each other in person next year if I returned to Sligo, or never again.
My mom and I took the bus through Ireland back to the ferry, and then the long ferry ride back to the UK. I was feeling teary, and kept rubbing my worry stone, the small, smooth egg-shaped stone someone had given me. It had been such an amazing week – I had ridden all day/every day on a variety of horses, made new friends, and had so many new experiences. I left feeling a little more grown up, a little more aware of what waited for me in the world outside Kimberley. I could do anything I wanted, and be anyone I wanted to be. It was bittersweet to leave. I rubbed the worry stone again, soothed by the memories it contained. I would be back, one day.
Author’s note: Thanks for reading! 20 years later, I still haven’t been back to Ireland but a trip is in the works! The Sligo Riding Centre still exists but does not appear to run international riding holidays anymore. I googled Ian (the instructor) since I had written down his last name in my travel journal (thank you teenage self). After working at the centre for many years, according to LinkedIn, Ian is now a regional sales manager in Sligo. I wonder what everyone else is doing?
Julie jumping a horse named Taz in the indoor arena at the Sligo Riding Centre.