One man with his mut and mare
Now here's a time when I wish I was a morning person. The Smithfield Horse Market is on at the crack of dawn the first Sunday of every month. I managed to horse myself out of bed one such Sunday and went down with my sister Julie to take some photos.
My God, there's nowhere else you'd find such a proliferation of patterny jumpers and wild children on miniature ponies. We had to mind out for galloping young bucks with their shell tracksuits caught taut in the wind like the sail of a boat.
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We had great chats with some of the people there. One Roscommon farmer was selling a miniature pony called Paddy. Most of the roll of film went on Paddy's dusty blond forelocks and pink bridle. We were told that the farmer's grandson once managed to fit Paddy into his wardrobe!
This is not Paddy. Paddy's about 15 hands smaller than this beast
Turns out though that when I went to get the photos developed, the wind on in the camera hadn't worked at all. So all I got back was smooth brown negatives and a dejected feeling in the pit of my stomach. I made this drawing from the pithy pits of disappointment. There's nothing else more satisfying that that.