If her parents had ever asked, she would say to go in search of Dartmoor ponies because they were the best thing on Devon holidays. There were cream teas, of course, but lately puppy fat had been mentioned more than once, and also the benefits of eating Ryvita ‘if you can pinch more than an inch’ and anyway being driven on narrow lanes after eating clotted cream curdled her stomach, making the new car odour of vinyl and wipe-clean upholstery almost unbearable.
So it must be Dartmoor ponies, which according to The Observer’s Book of Horses and Ponies are frequently dark brown or bay in colour and favoured with thick necks (though not as thick necked as the nearby Exmoor ponies) and tend towards plucky dispositions. Her own neck appeared to belong to Dartmoor at least though the pluckiness was yet to come.
She hoped to not just spot ponies in the far distance across heather and gorse but to get close enough to breathe in their pony skin scent and witness their wildness. Because Dartmoor ponies really are wild, like she wished she could be. Without her parents always watching, protecting, nagging, she would go off alone on plimsoled feet, find the gentle grazing herds and walk among them. She would leave her parents gorging themselves on scones and jam and curds of yellow cream. Wild ponies wouldn’t mention the hoop of fat around her waist or the way that her chest was still baby flat. Ponies did not care as long as people were kind and quiet, and brought stolen scones in their pockets to feed from flat-palmed hands. If wishes were horses, if she was ever asked, the moor would be where she’d want to be.
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