The Horses of Wooldale Road (Part 1 of 3)

The Horses of Wooldale Road (Part 1 of 3)

In Norse mythology, it is said that the Norns spin the threads of fate at the foot of the tree of the world – Yggddrasil. The concept of free will collides with fatalism. The future is written. Maybe.

Some locations in the world hold a certain significance. Take Oxford Street in London or 5^th Avenue, New York, for instance. One place with very little meaning to anyone other than locals is roughly half a mile away from Junction 15 of the M1. Take a left turn off the A45 and you will find yourself on a windswept diversion, flanked on one side by a housing estate and the other by a sheep farm and a school. However, Wooldale Road for many years, held a secret. People would come from far and wide to see the inhabitants of a patch of green land wedged between the hedged boundary of a homestead and an Academy housing schoolkids of several, surrounding estates. On the far side is a tree lined, dirt pathway that marked another urban district to the rear.

Numbering a dozen or so, hardy gypsy cobs would stand in the field in all weathers, grazing on the land and keeping themselves amused. Coats a mixture of light brown and white, their tails swishing to dismiss irritants. Families would travel to see them, often parking in the lay byes that dotted a wooden slatted fence when not visiting on foot. The sight and sounds of children laughing and playing with the four-legged charges was common place.

Wooldale road is a thoroughfare in this part of the world and a popular route for runners like myself. It was an attraction, jogging alongside the borderline of the meadow to catch a glimpse of the celebrity nags and their foals. I would often see parents and their offspring popping their hands through to stroke the nearest equine. Spring was the busiest time with new-borns drawing in the crowds. After all, there was no admission fee to pay. In his younger days, my collie cross would stand a walk long enough to take us beyond the perimeter of the neighing dwellers of the grass lands. We would cut across their territory to get back to the main road. In the centre stands a concrete storm drain with metal rails and a standing zone on top that often sat in the middle of a patch of bog as rainfall overwhelmed attempts to run off excess water. It was an adventure navigating the dandelions and horse dung, wearily tiptoeing passed the long-faced champions of the area.

This was the way of it. Until 2020 came along.

Ownership of the rag, tag and bobtail show ponies was a mystery. I always thought that a family of Romany travellers were too busy traversing the avenues and byways of the Kingdom to be bothered with the welfare of their long forgotten animals. I was to find out later that this wasn’t the case albeit I never did discover the identity of the absentee proprietor.

It was understood that a long running, legal battle to evict had been ongoing for years. Vets were frequently called out and, I imagine, it was the farmer nearby that ended up footing the bill. For whatever reason, attempts to move the horses on failed and their continued, local fame carried on unabated. However, in a year like no other, time finally ran out and the spinners of fate foresaw their demise.

It was newspaper reports that ran the story that the recalcitrant owner had died. It seems that, whoever the beneficiary was in the will, didn’t want the burden of looking after a team of ponies. As a consequence, they were dispersed to various horse charities with a couple ending up living close to the farm itself in a sanctuary across the way.

I remembered seeing the occupants one final time; in marshy grounds that belonged in a picture frame on a mantel piece. One of the larger horses was surrounded by its younger dependants. Backing onto a fence next to the pavement, I could see a panel cracking under the strain of its hind quarters. Perhaps it had an itch as it pushed and pushed. As I passed by, I wondered whether the troupe would end up on the road, milling about now stationary cars and causing mayhem. The stress test was passed, thankfully, and the barrier remained intact. Just. And that was the last time I saw them. Running up and down Wooldale Road became a dull affair after that.

Days turned into months. A void appeared where there was none before. The air hung heavy with an absence of wild stallions. Until one day I noticed cars slowing up and stopping, windows winding down and phone cameras being pulled out of pockets to take pictures. Queues of traffic would build up behind these voyeurs. Families out walking would come to a halt and stare with little children fascinated by a new curiosity, dancing and laughing in a “Ring a ring o’roses” style. The walkways of Wooldale Road became thronged with a new attraction. Little, white vehicles (think remote controlled toy but larger) with a wide front window, three wheels on either side, twin headlamps and an antennae that blinked orange in the dark became the new world order. They carried a message that asked and answered “Hungry? I can help”, Starship emblazoned on paintwork. Base was the Co-Op store on Wootton Hope Drive, remarkable only for putting the Indian restaurant next door out of business by buying its lease when it came up for renewal. The expanded supermarket became twice the size, the takeaway took up a new arrangement 8 miles outside Northampton, out in the sticks. Evenings have become a sideshow in their own right with the fleet of minions lined up in dry dock outside the shop after a hard day’s graft.

These small wonders have become endemic over the last few months. As bad as 2020 has been (and it has been very bad for most), there is a new paradigm. The local council have also recently deposited numerous electric scooters that simply lie prone, waiting for a passer-by to work out why and how to use them, preferring technology to Shanks’s pony. Electric brethren. Bin lorries being christened names like Sir Trashalot is old news.

Nowadays, a run takes on a different dimension, counting the number of miniature cyborgs en route, slowing to pass them as they crawl along at a few miles per hour and watching intrigued as they pause at the edge of a road waiting for the right moment to cross. There are rumours that they are, in fact, spies working for the Russian government. This may have been fuelled by the occasional sighting of them side by side, temporarily blocking paths, seemingly chatting like two people with crooked elbows poking out of inert cars, surreptitiously exchanging mission notes.

This armada sent by the outliers of new technology haven’t had it all their own way. At the bottom of Water Lane recently, one of the little blighters got caught on a kerb and was floundering to right itself. In a touching moment of symbiosis, the driver of a rig applied the brakes, got out of his cab and gently lifted the stricken machine back onto the pavement. It was like a father helping his child. In his mind, he was thanked silently as the rescued worker continued its trek up the steep hill.

The refugees from an episode of Doctor Who are now everywhere. One was hovering outside a neighbour’s house only the other day. Old Martin Fisher had lost his wife in ’97. His best friend ever since has been the erstwhile Jack Daniels. Any dispatcher of medicine for the soul is more than welcome around here. With Christmas lights reflecting back off its metal body, just for a moment there was the possibility of robot panic as it gingerly attempted to negotiate a patch of shale in next door’s front garden. No need to worry as it plunged onto the concrete path and made off heading for “home” and its next delivery; the “lift to open” flap having been executed by a grateful recipient.

You could be forgiven for thinking that some things are irreplaceable. In an era of artificial intelligence, maybe those things will number very few. I hope the original horses of Wooldale Road go on to live the rest of their remaining lives for a long time. I wish the automatons of a new age well.

So the next time you see one of these teeny servants of mankind, think of the horses of Wooldale Road and remember the service they gave. The future of their replacements will be served by fate.

In the meantime, whatever next….driverless cars?

*Image is my own

**Based on a true story.

Part 2 at: https://www.abctales.com/story/marandina/horses-wooldale-road-part-2-3

Part 3 at: https://www.abctales.com/story/marandina/horses-wooldale-road-part-3-3