High horsepower

When Denis asked me if I wanted to go to the horseshow in the village of Veules-les-Roses, I hesitated. Veules-les-Roses is a beautiful seaside village, but it is also a weekend home to throngs of bourgeois Parisians. I immediately pictured perfectly coiffed, trim blondes and their spoiled offspring, all riding expensive saddle horses. When I evoked this mental image to Denis, and began to demur, he interrupted me. "This is a country horse show!" he said. "Practically all draft horses."

By the time I finally tied up my kitchen and garden chores, it was three in the afternoon. But we arrived in plenty of time for tail-end of the show. The "ring" had been set up with street barriers in the parking lot down by the beach. (You can see the bright bluegreen Atlantic in the background of many of these photos.) The emcee--a portly, florid man who we had seen officiating at all the area animal fairs we'd attended, was in full swing. A French country horseshow isn't one of the hoity-toity affairs I remember from my equestrian childhood, where perfectly--and expensively--appointed riders circle their mounts around an enormous indoor ring and an official drily announces the judges' scores.

No, here the announcer kept up a friendly banter while he waited for the next group of horses to enter the ring. He pointed out various community pillars and thanked them for their roles in the production of the show. He interviewed people in the audience--including some personalities clearly legendary and known by all, and others just random spectators. He joked. He asked the lady with the Labrador retriever in the path of the entering horses to kindly remove him. And he instructed the disc jockey to play an appropriately grand piece of music for the horses about to enter.

 

 

 

These were four Comtois, all harnessed together in parallel, belonging to the same breeder. And after them, a handsome Comtois stallion. When, in a relaxed mood, he aired a certain part of his anatomy--as stallions are sometimes wont to do--our emcee did not hesitate to seize the opportunity for some gentle jokes about his "attributes." Not very tall, but powerfully built, this sturdy breed was developed in the mountains of Franche-Comté. Undoubtedly, their compact stature is an adaptation to their mountain origin. They are sorrel in color--bright red-brown with blond manes and tails. Denis couldn't help snapping this young man, taking care of his horses after they exited the ring, his hair matching almost perfectly the color of their coats.

After the Comtois, there was a group of miniature horses, pitiful-looking things with a dull, vacant look in their eyes and weak little legs. They were a perfect testimony to human vanity in animal breeding, developed simply as an amusing toy for human enjoyment ("Oh, aren't they cute?! that sort of thing) with no regard whatsoever for the health and vigor of the animal. I refused to photograph them.

Next, much more enjoyable to watch, a group of donkeys consisting of two different local breeds: the Cotentin (dark black brown) and the Norman (mouse gray with prominent cross-shaped ray over the withers). Our emcee elaborated at length differences and characteristics of these two breeds for our edification, and described how in the old days each Norman farm had a donkey for hauling the enormous milk cans--two at a time. The Cotentin donkey had a baby (barely visible behind the adults in the photo) with adorably long furry ears and a rounded, fuzzy forehead, twinkling along close to mother on tiny ebony hooves.

The judges were almost as much fun to watch as the judged--three old codgers who obviously had been judging together all their lives. In fact, I'd seen them myself at numerous area horse fairs. They had picturebook Norman faces: lean, with high cheekbones, rosy apple cheeks, and--in the case of one them--a bright red nose. Perhaps he had indulged in a bit too much Calvados to warm his bones after hours spent judging in a chill Norman wind.

 

Next came the most beautiful breed I saw at this show: the Boulonnais. Like all animal breeds in France, this was a regional breed, developed in the region around the northern fishing port of Boulogne-sur-Mer. The Boulonnais is a draft horse (by definition a horse able to pull four times his own weight), but without the outsize proportions of some draft breeds. Standing 6 to 8 inches taller than the Comtois, the Boulonnais is a magnificent horse, heavily muscled yet elegant, with an arching neck, a noble head, and regal bearing. I could easily imagine a knight mounted on the back of one of them. In fact, the Boulonnais is renowned for having hauled, at top speed, wagons bearing the fresh fish for the court of Louis XIV from Boulogne-sur-Mer to Versailles.

With the Boulonnais, we met the undisputed star of the show: Didier Gibert (photo right). This factory worker at a Citroen plant is regionally famous for his outstanding Boulonnais. For twenty years, he has devoted his life (when he's not working his 9-to-5 job) to breeding his magnificent horses. He travels the countryside with his breeding studs, visiting other Boulonnais farms for breeding. On his business card, it says "Didier Gibert, étalonnier', which comes from the word étalon, meaning 'stallion.'

Mr. Gibert was completely different to watch in the ring than all the other handlers. He spoke almost constantly to his horses, directing them with verbal cues. His rapport with his magnificent beasts and his pride in them were a joy to watch. And the animals themselves were breathtaking, none more so than the matched pair of sorrel stallions above. One could tell from the way they moved in synchrony that they were used to working in harness side-by-side. They interacted like old pals. But most of all, they were so superbly beautiful that I couldn't get enough of looking at them.

But a breathtaking finale was in store for us. The announcer asked the DJ for his most grandiose music, and warned us, the audience, that we were about to see the most impressive sight of the day. And here they came: six of Didier Gibert's Boulonnais tied in parallel, strutting their collective stuff around the ring. Now, these are big horses, and the ring was narrow. When they reached its end, it took all the force the handlers (there were six of them too, with Mr. Gibert at the front) could muster to keep the inside horse (the sorrel in the foreground right) turning in place while the rest of the lineup careened around him. Six Bourdonnais (four of them stallions!) is a lot of horsepower, and believe me, those handlers were paying attention every second. It was terribly exciting to watch, especially as all six horses were perfectly magnificent. We all applauded wildly.

After the horses left the ring, we wandered around to see the contestants at close range, tethered to parking barricades and being tended by their owners while they awaited their departure for home. At left, you see the traditional hairstyle for French draft horses. Maybe this where 'French braiding' came from? The ribbon color of choice is nearly always the good ole bleu-blanc-rouge (as distinct from red-white-and-blue).

We approached the encampment of Mr. Gibert and his steeds as he was tethering up his 'Grand Finale Six'. I noticed he used a wide nylon web tether looped several times and securely tied as well as a chain for extra security.  One of his sorrel stallions bugled as a trailerload of mares left the grounds, striking sparks with his enormous iron-clad hooves.  I found myself wondering whether, if they set their minds to it, those horses couldn't just uproot those steel posts from the concrete and take off.

We stopped to chat for a bit with Mr. Gibert. He told us that although he has 22 (!) Boulonnais, he dreams of having more. I noticed how extraordinarily thin he was, nothing but a bundle of ropy muscle--a bundle of energy. "How do you do it?" I asked, "Taking care of so many horses and having a full-time job?" As if that weren't enough, Mr. Gibert is also mayor of his village. "I get up at 5, take care of the horses, go to work, come home and take care of the horses," he responded laconically. But his reserved words couldn't hide the fact that his horses are his passion and his métier--his calling in life.

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