Riding a polo pony — how hard can it be?

Times

2 days ago

Polo may be the only sport in the world more sensibly played on elephants. Cannoning round a field on a horse, swinging a croquet mallet the wrong way round, is like driving a Formula 1 car one-handed while using your other arm to practise your serve. In India, they play polo on elephants. Elephants are generally more inclined to lumber than speed, and come with their own elephant whisperer to steer. Alas, I'm in southwest London not Rajasthan, it's decades since I sat on a horse, and I've never had a riding lesson in my life. Nevertheless, I arrive for my first ever polo lesson well prepared. I am wearing cowboy boots and two bras. I am invincible.
For one hour only, Nube is my horse. She lives at Ham Polo Club and looks at me doubtfully, as well she might. 'Her name is Spanish for 'cloud',' says my teacher, Manuel, stroking her nose. I sign a waiver promising that any calamity that befalls me will be entirely my fault. I look at Nube, wonder what the Spanish is for 'oh shit', then haul myself into the saddle and very nearly straight over the other side. When I'm safely installed, they insist that Nube is placid and small, even though the ground seems a long way down. But she is also a polo pony, and polo has always struck me not as placid but borderline lethal. We clippety-clop to the training ground and I hope for the best.
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Ham is a rural idyll near the A3, a place of vast green polo lawns, broadleaf trees and little white clubhouses stacked with catering company chairs. Traditionally, summer in England isn't summer without the royals being photographed at a polo match, from Charles and Camilla in the 1970s to William and Harry in the 2000s. Just once, there was Meghan and Kate at the Guards Polo Club in 2019, back when everyone was playing happy families, but no more. These days, Charles is too old, William's too busy, Harry plays furiously in Santa Barbara or Florida, and Kate's always been allergic to horses anyway.
Polo, though, is still indelibly associated with the royals. Chestertons, the estate agents, sponsors the annual Polo in the Park weekend in central London, in a bid to combine the sporting and the social with diversity (not just posh people), inclusivity (not just country types) and, presumably, selling houses. Described as the world's biggest polo festival, Polo in the Park is a veritable melting pot at the Hurlingham Club in Fulham, where the Princess of Wales used to bring George and Charlotte for tennis lessons when they were little.
Back at Ham, Nube and I are bonding, a bit. She makes it clear with every snort and toss of her head that I am an idiot and she knows best, and she is not wrong. Polo ponies are trained to be extremely responsive, I am told, but the flipside of that is that they need to be told exactly what to do. This is difficult when your main focus is not falling off. I hold the reins in my left hand, as Manuel's shown me, and grip the front of the saddle with my right, to his consternation. I'm used to saddles with pommels, I tell him.
The last time I got on a horse was when I lived on Vancouver Island in my twenties, and over there the saddles have pommels. A couple of times a week, I'd pick up a toffee-coloured horse called Rocky from the local stable after work and we'd head off fearlessly into the forest to explore. That was then, I was 24 and Rocky, bless him, was a Ford. Nube is a Ferrari. How I sit, and lean to swing the mallet, how I hold the reins, where and how I kick and with which part of my heel are all carefully calibrated parts of the equation geared to getting her to do what I want. Get any part of it wrong and Nube will effectively shrug, take the path of least resistance and do what she wants, which is stop.
Manuel is an Argentinian professional polo player who's been riding since he could walk. He makes cannoning round a field swinging a mallet look as easy as falling off a log, or indeed a horse. From my reassuringly stationary position at the side of the pitch, I watch him demonstrate a rising trot. 'Now your turn,' he says, with an encouraging smile. I rack my brains for diversionary polo-related small talk.
'Is Prince Harry any good at polo?' I ask. He considers this with the seriousness all things polo deserve. 'He's a decent amateur,' he replies. 'Now lift the reins so she knows to move forward and kick your heels. Keep kicking so she knows to keep going.'
'And Prince William?' I ask, exhausting my supply of polo-related small talk quicker than I'd hoped.
'Probably a bit better,' he says, adding that he didn't like Harry's Netflix programme Polo at all. It concentrated on the social side, not the sport itself, he complains, so he watched two episodes and gave up. The gist of his conversation is that polo is about adrenaline and sportsmanship and manly excitement, not royals, or blondes necking bubbly on the sidelines.
'Your turn!' he says cheerfully. 'I'll come too!' So off we set. I go bounce, bounce, bounce and start to worry for Nube's spine and my own. Manuel confirms that he has had a bad back for years, which is discouraging, but we persevere. My steering seems OK even though my rein handling is deemed erratic — 'lift the reins, don't pull! She thinks you want her to stop! Kick!' — but the bouncing improves sufficiently that we try a figure of eight round two traffic cones, with success if not aplomb. I grasp my mallet, activate my core, and lean over to hammer the ball two, maybe even as far as three feet ahead. I swear under my breath, Nube snorts and soon I'm getting cross.
I want to be good at this, but I'm not. I want to look at ease in the saddle, but I don't. I could ride a bit when I was younger, and had a pommel, so why can't I do it now? I read Black Beauty as a child. I know my Jilly Cooper. I watched Rupert Campbell-Black canter elegantly across my TV screen in Rivals and honestly, how hard can this be? Every so often Nube and I find our rhythm and I get a tantalising glimpse of just how wonderful riding must be. Then it's gone and I'm bouncing around in the saddle like a double bra'd jack-in-the-box.
After my lesson, I walk bow-legged back to the clubhouse. The polo ponies look down their noses at me from their stalls. Nube is led away without so much as a disdainful backward glance. In the distance, real polo players gallop across the pitch with languid grace, turning on a dime and belting the ball to kingdom come. Rocky would have been good at this, I think, if he'd ever got the chance, but next time I think I'll try elephant polo. Anyone can ride an elephant. How hard can it be?
Chestertons Polo in the Park is at Hurlingham Park on June 6, 7 and 8. polointheparklondon.com