I Always Migrate Back to the Farm

Trailing behind my Dad at the pet shop on a boring Saturday afternoon he stopped to look at the adverts on the wall. He pointed to a small piece of paper and read “Wanted, help with ponies at private farm”. At 11 years old I was horse-mad I was having one weekly 30 minute riding lesson a week at the local stables as that's all my parents could afford at the time but I lived and breathed them. I practically took my Dad's hand off and pestered him all the way home until he could call the number. We arranged to go up to the farm the next weekend and it was a very long week only broken up by 30 minute sit on an actual horse that kept me going. The following weekend Dad drove me and my younger sister to the farm. What greeted us was a very desolate, messy farm with very few farm buildings and even fewer ponies, not what I had envisaged. The farm was being used to farm sheep, and turkeys and grow wheat. The owners lived in a tiny mobile home in the middle of the yard. The owner showed us around to the one stable block which contained some scruffy-looking ponies with bits of horse paraphernalia hanging everywhere. The owner wanted some help with her and her two daughters' horses and ponies. <a href="https://medium.com/modern-women/i-always-migrate-back-to-the-farm-e0c19225fabf">Read More</a>