Johnny Arden

Sixteen metal-shod hooves clattered, suddenly much louder as they entered the echoing stone walls atop Venford Dam. “Get on!” shouted the man at his team of four Dartmoor ponies pulled his cart and its passengers harder in response. No gentle, soft ponies these, but as tough, bloody-minded and strong as their driver. Walkers crossing the dam pushed themselves flat against the walls, wishing there was more space as this snorting, steaming, clattering and swearing mixture of flesh and steel bore rapidly down upon them…

Or at least, that’s how I remember it.

The man was Johnny Arden. The date was around 1984. Sat up front with him was my mother, who was being taught by Johnny. And me - a thirteen year old string bean of a boy - bouncing around on the tailgate at the back, watching the green turf and gorse of Holne Moor recede behind us.

It came about because my mother announced at the dinner table that she wanted to learn how to drive horses. We were living in Torquay then, and we already had a couple of Shetlands kept nearby at our friend Judy’s stables. Mum said that she’d read an article about this gentleman up on Dartmoor who was teaching carriage driving and she’d already booked a lesson.

A week later saw her and I rattling through increasingly high-banked and alarmingly narrow and muddy lanes, as I squinted at our AA Road Atlas until eventually we spotted a sign for “Mitchelcombe” and very soon, emerged in a picture-postcard scene of a delightful stone hamlet, complete with smoke curling gently from an old farm’s chimney. Standing in the attached yard was a thick set man with a huge beard who welcomed us with a hearty “Hullo!” and a cheeky grin shining out from a thick beard.

This is how we met Johnny Arden, and started one of the most memorable periods of my childhood.

Johnny ushered us inside into his living room. A low ceilinged and very comfortable room, with a set of wooden stairs and a leaky log burner that caused this room to always smell of woodsmoke, even in the summer when the fire was let go. He was a man who was never without several dogs, they always within orbit and always watching him with half an eye, ready for a new adventure. Tea supplied and consumed, we chatted for what seemed like hours, before Johnny announced we should meet the horses.

Leading us outside, with dogs of all sizes seemingly everywhere, we were shown into the large stables. These were pole built with corrugated metal sheets which rattled in the wind and dripped water down in several places onto the dirt floor. On either side of a high ceilinged passageway that led out onto fields were several loose boxes with horse and pony heads poking over them.

One horse was selected, and I led it out into the yard whilst Johnny collected various pieces of harness. Whilst I held, he expertly fitted each piece, calling out its name and explaining its purpose. Much driving harness has no direct equivalent to its riding equivalent, so although we were both experienced with horses, there was still a lot to learn. Breastplate, traces, breeching, crupper, blinkers, retainers, wither straps, brake straps… So many new names and many bearing no relation to their function - it was good to be shown by an expert.

A small exercise cart was pulled out from the side of the yard and introduced to the horse. The shafts were slide through the tugs, the traces hooked onto the swingletree and the reins lifted back to the cart. Johnny and Mum got on, and, it being a two-seater, I was relegated to gate duty. Following his instructions, I opened and closed a series of gates as Johnny drove over the bridge that crosses the small stream which runs through Mitchelcombe and into his mostly flat field behind the barns which ran down to the Holy Brook. I then sat on a log and watched whilst Johnny gave my mother her first lesson.

Watching her learn alongside Johnny, I knew she was instantly captivated. Watching her concentrate as she transferred a life of horse riding and horse knowledge into this new thing. Some things were easier for her because of this, such as working with the horse. Watching its ears flick as it switched focus fore and aft, picking up her verbal instructions and the feel of its reins - not just on the mouth but also along the flanks. A gentle flick meant one thing, a shorter flick another. A touch with the long stemmed whip here, or just there, brought an instant reaction. The verbal commands were quickly picked up too and without any leg assistance. There aren’t many of them in carriage driving, but each can be used with every inflection and tone to change its meaning and urgency.

Sitting on that log in the middle of Dartmoor a warm on a warm summer evening with swallows riding the air, watching the two adults drive circles and figure eights, is a memory I shall carry forever. Both adults experienced with horses, but one learning much from the other. The drive home to Torquay afterwards was a chatty one, with Mum bubbling over with excitement and plans.

One of the regular routes with Johnny was when he would tack up his own team of four Bay Dartmoor Ponies. These were fierce creatures to a young lad, and I was always careful around them, especially when tacking up when they were quick to bite anyone they could reach, especially as the girths were pulled tight. Johnny’s cart was a four-wheeled affair, with a hydraulic footbrake and a car battery that powered lights, as he was not afraid to drive long distances and that often meant getting home late and in darkness. The cart was on four car wheels and tyres, and meant to work, not look fancy. A great many years later, I was to see Johnny’s cart at Exeter Auction House during a horse sale as his effects were being dispersed, and it was exactly as I remembered it.

Once the team was harnessed and “put to” the cart, Johnny would drive with Mum sitting next to him. I’d ride on the back, bouncing around on the tailgate. The normal route would be to turn left out of the yard, then right by the post-box which took us over another small bridge and up the long and narrow lane to Holne. This served well to warm the ponies up as it wasn’t too steep.

At the end of that road, we’d turn left away from the village and were soon on the steeper hill climbing to the cattle grid at Holne Moor. Johnny would give the ponies their head here, shouting “Get on! Go on!” as they trotted and sometimes cantered uphill, foam flying from their mouths and if it was a cold day, steam from their breath or their bodies flowing back over the cart. We’d have to slow everyone up for the cattle grid, and I’d hop off and drag the passing gate open to the left of the grid, which was always stuck and took some considerable effort. Then I’d have to mind my feet as the cart went past, quickly shut the gate and run run after the cart, for Johnny would never fully stop.

The next stretch was calmer, never taken at more than a trot as we ran along the level and then the gentle descent to Venford Reservoir. The ponies settled down and everything fell together in well rehearsed union. Here, Johnny would often pass the reins to Mum to practice her team driving, but would be quick to grab them back if she wasn’t strict enough. Dartmoor Ponies are wickedly clever and know instantly if someone is hesitant or unskilled and are quick to take the mick.

When the cart entered the road over the dam, the noise would instantly rise as the clatter of their metal shod hooves echoed back from the low granite walls. If we met a car along here, it was always they who had to reverse as there wasn’t room to pass, but few argued the toss. Ponies they may be, but they made for a fierce combination and it would be easy to do real damage to a car.

Once over the Dam, and a whip raised to acknowledge any car drivers who’d reversed for us, we’d be up and on. Our ultimate destination was usually Combestone Tor car park, where there was enough space to turn around. I’d often hop off the tailgate at the corner before, by Hangman’s Pit and explore the old tinner’s girts and the badgers setts that were dug into them. When I heard the sound of the hooves returning, I’d clamber up the slope and hop back onto the tailgate as it passed.

Mum and I were frequent visitors at Mitchelcombe for a few years, and took part in many local driving events, mostly organised by the Great Western Harness Club. We had a Roan mare and a little gig that mum would drive, and I’d groom for. One such event was a Driving Marathon held at the East Dart Hotel in Postbridge. The course was in a big clockwise circle, up to Lower Merripit, then down to Runnage, across the ford at Pizwell before cutting across the open moor of Cator Common and then back through Bellever and its plantation to a nice pub lunch.

One Christmas Johnny had been talked into playing Santa, so of course we all got roped into trying to make his ponies look like reindeer. I’m still not convinced this was in any way a successful ruse, but Johnny himself needed very little decoration to be an extremely convincing Santa Claus as he handed out presents to the local children at the Tradesman’s Arms at Scorriton. I stood outside holding the ponies, listening to the fun inside.

I often travel those roads today, and each corner brings back another memory.

My mother was Rosemary Kind, a lifelong horsewoman who a few years after this, started the Mare and Foal Sanctuary over that same dinner table with her husband Brian. She did so to help rescue Dartmoor ponies. It’s an organisation that continues to this day and has rescued and rehabilitated well over a thousand ponies and horses. Mum passed away in 2022 and Johnny died in 2023, survived by his wife Maggie.