Big Fat Cob proves he really is Welsh

Last night dinner was late. Very late. My Mare Gydja, Big Fat Cob and I waited in the usual place, at the bottom of the ramp, but nothing happened. No rumbly Landy engine, no torch bobbing along the path, no clatter as the bolt on the gate is drawn Nothing. Nada.

My Mare Gydja said we should just move off to the night rest spot under the trees and forget about it. Big Fat Cob just kept staring at the gate. I was getting worried.

Then voices. My “Late” Roger and The Woman. What sort of time in this?

Apparently they had been watching a human ritual involving men in white shirts and men in red shirts fighting over a funny shaped ball. I said it wasn’t on and hay should take priority. But Big Fat Cob said he didn’t mind because Wales had won – and being Welsh himself that was the priority.

Strange attitude for a horse I thought, but by then I was too busy eating hay to comment
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