By Adele Cash

Growing up in Connemara meant you could measure childhood not in years, but in ponies. Everyone had one, or borrowed one, or, at the very least, was chased by one at some point. They were sturdy, clever little creatures with the looks of angels and the temperaments of tricksters.

The star of my childhood was Misty, a grey mare with more personality than sense. She wasn’t mine, strictly speaking — she belonged to all of us kids in the family — but I seemed to be her favourite victim.

Take, for example, the infamous ‘shopping trip’. Misty had a gift for escape artistry. One Saturday morning, I discovered her gone from the yard, the rope hanging loose like a magician’s final flourish. I followed the trail of hoofprints down the boreen and into the village, only to find half the neighbours gathered outside O’Malley’s shop, laughing fit to burst.

There was Misty, head buried deep in a sack of animal feed, munching away as though she’d placed the order herself. The shopkeeper was doubled over, roaring that he’d “never had a customer pay in oats before.”

I tried to drag her home, but Misty had no intention of leaving a free buffet. It took my father arriving with a bucket of carrots to lure her away, while the neighbours cheered her on like a conquering hero. For months afterward, whenever anyone saw me, they’d grin and ask if I was “off to do the messages with the pony.”

That wasn’t her only stunt. Misty also had a vendetta against streams. Connemara is full of them — small trickles that look harmless enough until you’re trying to convince a stubborn pony to cross. While every other pony in the group would splash through without fuss, Misty planted her hooves like she was cemented to the ground.
No coaxing, kicking, or pleading worked.

One day, in desperation, I got off to lead her across. The second my boots hit the water, she gave a snort, leapt the stream in one graceful bound, and trotted off on the other side —leaving me standing in the middle, soaked to the knees. She looked back at me with what I swear was a grin.
And then there was the bog incident. Anyone who grew up in Connemara knows the bog is tricky ground, but Misty had a knack for finding the softest spot.

One afternoon, while my cousin and I were out for a ride, she decided to veer off the track. Before I could steer her back, she sank her hooves into a patch of black mud. She wriggled free easily, but I, her unfortunate passenger, was catapulted straight off her back and into the bog. By the time I scrambled out, plastered head to toe, Misty was already trotting home, tail swishing happily, leaving me to squelch after her like some sort of swamp creature.

Of course, ponies weren’t just a source of humiliation, they were also our freedom. Summer evenings were spent riding bareback along the lanes, racing each other to the sound of shouting and laughter. Sometimes the ponies let us win; more often, they
reminded us who was really in charge. Connemara ponies have a way of keeping your ego firmly in check.

Looking back now, what makes those memories funny isn’t just the scrapes and disasters, but how everyone around us treated it all as normal. A pony in the shop? Sure, why not. A child trudging home covered in bog mud? Nothing unusual there.

In Connemara, the ponies weren’t just animals; they were characters in the community, woven into our daily lives and our stories.
Misty lived a long life, outsmarting gates and exasperating children to the very end. And though she embarrassed me more times than I can count, I wouldn’t trade those memories for anything.

She taught me patience, resilience, and the importance of always keeping a bucket of carrots handy!
Whenever I go home now and see a grey Connemara pony grazing in the fields, I half expect it to turn, give me a cheeky look, and trot off toward the village shop. Some memories don’t fade — they gallop along beside you forever. ÷