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What magnificence . . . .
how Irish horses have been bred to suit the landscape and people with such success and satisfaction. Thoroughbreds may be found at the National Stud, but the Connemara Pony, though it stands just a hand short of being a horse, is one of the most hardy, dependable breeds Ireland has ever seen. Bred for the rocky, wind-blown boglands of the Connemara Peninsula, they are heavy-boned and muscular, the kind of animal warriors and long-riders found ideal. The Connemara takes readily to the sea, often swimming between islands to graze. The beast is truly Irish in invention and the centuries have seen them spread throughout the island and, recently, to Europe and the Americas.

I was not at all surprised to find two pregnant Connemara mares feeding in a rocky field in The Burren of County Clare, but disbelief over the size of their bellies forced me to stop the car in amazement. I walked up to the stone fence that stood between us and was about to set the camera on the top of one of the stones when off to my left came a scream and a snort and the charging form of one of the most magnificent creatures I have ever seen. The muddy-white stallion came on with the madness and abandon of a wild Montana mustang. Twice he slammed into the fence, nostrils flared and snorting, his ears laid back so firmly they disappeared in the massive mane that cloaked his face and head. He pawed and shrieked and made it clear the mares were his.

Perhaps it was the wildness of it all, or the kind of madness that comes over those living in wild places too long alone, but I was without fear when I leaned towards his massive head, drew a long, deep breath and blew a blast of air his way. He stopped pawing but shook his head as if my breath were rotten. Remembering a trick I had learned from a horse trainer in Montana, I leaned in close, actually dodging once as he swung his head, and gently breathed into his open nostrils. He snorted and stiffened, but after another breath, he settled down completely. He would not let me touch him, on that point he was clear, but for the moment he appeared at ease with my voice and words.

I photographed him with everything I had, taking plenty of time and using several different kinds of film and cameras. I was determined to record the moment and his spirit as clearly as possible. We worked together for twenty minutes or so, until he bobbed his head a few times, made the softest, strangest sound, and walked casually to the other side of the field. Some would say he had the devil in him, that he’d gone mad with lust and land and wind. If that were true, then I had gone completely mad as well. He and I understood each other. We communicated. We exchanged thoughts and spoke in that wordless, soundless language reserved for those who use their ‘other’ senses to converse. Wildness. Madness. Magic. One is the same as the others and the devil was nowhere to be seen.