I do believe that the first horse I probably ever saw, was actually what we know today as a Gypsy Horse. I was very young at the time and it was during the War in England. We lived in Falmouth in the County of Cornwall. Wartime was difficult for everyone. There was not an abundance of food for anyone and many items such as margerine and sugar were rationed. Unless one was lucky enough to have dairy cows and could make one’s own, butter and cheese were seldom available. Of course, cake, biscuits (cookies) and sweets (candy) was a complete luxury and difficult to find. I don't remember ever having Candy or a soft drink until I was probably at least 6 years old. I suppose that was lucky for me in some respects, since I didn’t grow up having a sweet tooth!
I well remember as a small girl, growing up knowing never to turn a light on at night, until the “blackout” blinds were in place. I remember the dreadful droning sound of the German bombers as they approached almost every night. The whistle of the bombs as they fell to earth and the thud as they hit their mark. Many families went down into the bomb shelters when the sirens blew but my family always stayed in our home. After most usually a long night of bombing, the “all clear” siren would blow and everyone went back to their homes – if indeed they were still there. Sadly many were not. Remember, this went on for five whole years!
Each morning my Mother and I would walk down the road to view what, if any, homes had been destroyed during the previous night. Sometimes it was only to view the few which were left. Always when out, we wore our gas masks. To this day, when I smell rubber, it brings back memories of having to wear my little gas mask as a child.
Being very young, I really didn’t understand the real importance of that which was going on all around us. It was just something I was used to, even though sometimes bombs fell very close to us and actually destroyed houses on our own street.
With the destruction and hardship all about us, it is not surprising that the Gypsy communities throughout England suffered greatly. Those who would have previously purchased their items or given them a helping hand, could no longer do so. Many of the general public who had previously been living comfortably, suddenly found themselves in very difficult positions. Many large stables and kennels, actually destroyed all but their best stock since there was almost no food available for animals. Some destroyed all their stock.
One Gypsy community, set up a few miles from our home. They had I believe, come West from Devonshire at the time, where bombing had become particularly bad due to the huge Naval fleet there. My own Father happened to be Captain of one of that fleet but luckily he and it, came through the war without a scratch.
This particular Gypsy community stayed in the area for several years and maybe indeed long after we left the area. They travelled daily into surrounding villages and towns, going door to door, selling anything and everything. Some did odd jobs and others sharpened knives. That is how my family met Reuben.
I would imagine Reuben was probably about 35 years old then. He picked up spoiled and bruised fruit and vegetables, selling them from his long flat cart. Sometimes his wife and son accompanied him and sold clothes pins, matches, ribbon and assorted other items. There was a back lane behind all our houses and once a week Reuben arrived at our back gate. He would stop there and ring his bell. The women appeared from their back gates and would all walk up the lane to our house where they would purchase what they needed and of course, talk about the current situation - who had lost their house and sometimes, who had lost their lives. Reuben's appearance was a chance for the ladies of our street to get together and talk.
Almost all our neighbours at the time, purchased their vegetables and other things, from he and his wife even though sometimes the variety was sparse. Reuben’s wife, when she accompanied him, would take her small tray and basket and go around to the front of the row of homes on other streets. She’d go door to door trying to sell her items. Since she didn’t accompany him often, I don’t now remember her name or much about her.
Reuben’s son was a nice lad of maybe about ten years old. I doubt he ever attended school, but was polite to his Father’s customers and obviously worked hard filling baskets of those who purchased his Father's vegetables. He liked coming to our house since we had a cat he particularly liked and always asked if he could see him. It was obvious that he liked animals greatly and probably didn’t have a cat of his own. Sadly I don’t remember this lad’s name now.
I do however, remember Reuben’s horse. Her name was Dolly. She was probably no more than 14 hands but looked enormous to me at the time. She was all white and always seemed to be particularly hairy. Not just in feather, but seemingly all over. I don’t know now whether that was because she was maybe older or if it was because it might have been winter time when I, as a child, first took note of her abundance of body hair. I was possibly only about two and a half or maybe just three years old when I first fell in love with Dolly and I can only think that because of her, began my lifelong love of horses.
It was “the” highlight of my little life, when Reuben and Dolly made their weekly appearance. I listened eagerly for the sound of Reuben's bell and would run down the garden path, waiting for my Mother to open the gate. Reuben knew us all by name and everyone knew him. I must admit however, to being rather more fond of Dolly than Reuben and it was she for whom I really waited each week.
From then on, I started drawing pictures of Dolly on every bit of paper I could find. Remember it was wartime, so drawing paper for a child would not have been something purchased. My Father, would bring home scrap paper from his ship, so I could draw. And draw I did. All day, every day. Always Dolly – nothing else. Of course as I grew up, my drawing diversified somewhat from Dolly, but I know that it was most certainly she, who was the start of my interest in horses and maybe even in art.
Reuben would sit me up on top of her while neighbours came up and down the lane to purchase his goods. I remember once, sitting between her front hoofs and my Mother becoming very upset about it. My Mother unfortunately was not a lover of horses. But Dolly never moved a foot and while there was only one other child of my age on our short street, she remained always patient with our overly enthusiastic attention.
I have of course since learned, that Dolly was indeed what the Gypsy Horse is all about. What it is known for and for what it is treasured. Thank you Dolly. Although you are now long gone, I have no doubt that many of your descendants now grace this Earth and are bringing happiness to their owners and children.
While many in England at the time, looked upon Gypsies with some contempt, our family and our neighbours grew to love and appreciate this man and his always happy demeanor even in the face of the most terribly hard times he and his family were surely suffering. I know now, he and his family must have suffered much more than most, during those war years. Even today, though I have not now seen him for probably 60 or more years, I can remember him quite well. He was dark of skin and hair, was not of much height and was thin in build. He always wore a flat cap. He had the most delicious smile which he used generously.
He, like his wife, are probably no longer with us, but because of Reuben and his wonderful Dolly, he made a great difference in my life. I know he and his family are somewhere now, travelling a sunlit road, with their beloved Dolly at the helm, stepping out smartly and disappearing into the mist. I certainly hope one day, when The Good Lord sees fit to remove me from this Earth, I might have the privilege to meet up with them again.
It certainly was a privilege to have known them.

Lizzie