Pastures New

Pastures New Equine & Animal Learning Centre. We help people achieve their potential through equine learning and retrain and re-home retired and injured racehorses

The problem

Thousands of horses finish their racing careers in the UK every year, some through injury and many due to the realisation of their owner(s) and/or trainer that they are simply not going to make the grade. What to do with a horse who was bought with such promise and potential, and at substantial cost, has become a dilemma for many owners who care about their horses. With the majority g

oing directly to the ‘Sales’ , where their fate is determined by the highest bid, many fall into the hands of unscrupulous dealers who trade in horse meat or pass them off as a ‘safe’ ride to innocent buyers. Some are bought with good intentions by well-meaning but inexperienced individuals, who may find them too difficult to handle and therefore have no option but to sell them on again. Our Solution

The prospects for ex-racehorses without a retraining programme can be bleak, as their purpose has expired. Pastures New are a registered charity dedicated to the rehabilitation, retraining and re-homing of retired and injured racehorses. Through our retraining programme we achieve a useful and worthwhile future for every horse, be it as a “happy hacker” or something more befitting of their fantastic pedigree, such as in dressage, polo, eventing or show jumping. Those horses suitable will help in our Equine Assisted Learning programme. Here we are helping both the horse and the programme participant at the same time. In the right hands, and with the right training, horses can go on to have a very contented, successful and happy life after racing

The farmhouse and garden, manège and orchard are about to go on sale.. with room for a pony 💕🐴 ..
29/08/2026

The farmhouse and garden, manège and orchard are about to go on sale.. with room for a pony 💕🐴 ..

I wanted to add, as a lot of our students - past and present - follow this page That to admit defeat having tried your d...
26/08/2026

I wanted to add, as a lot of our students - past and present - follow this page

That to admit defeat having tried your damnedest is actually one of the strongest things you can do

To throw in the towel, however, without giving it your best shot will always impact on your confidence

I don’t consider leaving my fight for ex racehorses a failure; to be fair it was never really my fight

I was a little voice in a big industry that exists through smoke and mirrors, and the facade that equine welfare is at the forefront

This is the same in many sports that exploit animals for entertainment or commercial gain

It presented hurdles bigger than the Cheltenham fences to navigate and I gave it a bloody good shot

Now that mantle rests with others; younger, stronger and not so jaded, to take up the fight for all sentient beings .. and the tide is turning

Animal abuse and neglect is growing, but so are a younger generation who choose not to engage in animal sports, wearing skins, eating meat, dairy, eggs.. they are the future

It won’t be the vegans that ruin animal agriculture though; it will be the abusers, the poor legislation in slaughterhouses, halal and kosher in mainstream supermarkets unlabelled, the diseases (blue tongue, mad cow and salmonella all cropping up again) the government, the imports and a plan to destroy the family farms (it would seem)… right minded people are rebelling - and quite rightly so (in my view)

Animal agriculture has become the biggest lie .. with a green pasture narrative and the ‘not fit for purpose’ RSPCA and Red Tractor assurances .. once you look into this further, just as in horse sport, the reality is very different .. and it’s depriving humans of precious water and land resources .. creating antibiotic resistance and consuming more grain than the human race could ever consume .. whilst many die of starvation

If this beautiful planet of ours is to survive it starts with the choices we all make
. and I will continue in some small way .. and should I end up in France again then I will follow my plan to fight the good fight for live horse exports for slaughter .. and fois gras of course! 😩🕊️💕

Sorry this is my passion laid bare .. I don’t usually use this forum but there you go!

That’s it

Over n out

The Final ChapterThis has been mulled over and written in my head for many months.Perhaps that is the real reason I fina...
26/08/2026

The Final Chapter

This has been mulled over and written in my head for many months.

Perhaps that is the real reason I finally told the story.

I would like to think that, although there could always be more chapters, more horses, more people and more stories, this brings us more or less to the present day.

It is also, perhaps, my way of shutting up those who have chosen to share their own versions of events and put their own truth in the place of mine.

Some months ago I entered into discussions with a children’s services company. The proposal was that the house would become a residential home for two complex-needs children and their staff, whilst the provision, the land and everything here would continue under their ownership.

They didn’t seem to have any qualms about the valuations I got.

For the first time, retirement to France didn’t seem quite so far-fetched.

I’d always wanted to retire there, but with so many responsibilities it had seemed an impossible dream. Now perhaps it could happen. I could take the thoroughbreds with me and they could live out their days in France, while the new company continued the provision for our students and retained our staff.

It seemed too good to be true 🤔

I had even said that the other animals could stay, provided our wonderful staff remained responsible for them. The sheep, goats, chickens, donkeys…

I hadn’t quite decided about old lady Charlotte, now 32. I’m not sure the journey would be fair on her. But with our staff looking after the little herd, I knew they would be safe. And I had a proviso: if the staff were ever let go, I’d take my chances and transport the minis myself.

I found a house in France.

I started the promesse de vente. In France, you exchange contracts and pay a 10% deposit, and once the offer is accepted you can’t simply be gazumped. If you offer the full asking price, the property has to be taken off the market immediately.

I did.

We were good to go.

Until we weren’t.

The company had another valuation carried out. This time they decided the property was worth £300,000 less than the three valuations I had obtained.

I said no.

I’d put it on the market myself.

It was Christmas. Not exactly the best time to sell a house, but I had a six-month completion date to meet, which by then was March.

There was barely a sniff of interest.

I’d also tied myself into a 20-week agreement with the estate agent, so for the final month I asked them simply to market the house and garden and I’d stay here.

And so I lost our dream property.

Seventy acres. Woodland tracks. A walk-in barn. Miles from anywhere.

After the wildfires in exactly that area, perhaps it wasn’t the worst result in the world.

Perhaps that was another piece moving on a chessboard before I understood why.

And so, here we are.

I should probably explain the charity concept, because perhaps that has been misunderstood too.

A charity has to rely on fundraising, donations, legacies and grants. It cannot simply trade its way out of trouble.

Before my dad became poorly, he used to make a substantial donation every year on 6 April — for tax reasons, obviously 🤣 — and that helped keep us going.

But as you’ve hopefully realised by now, I too invested considerably more than money into Pastures New.

Blood.

Sweat.

And an awful lot of tears.

For fifteen years!

Pastures New the charity will be wound down this year.

It simply isn’t sustainable anymore.

And at 64, I’m beyond exhausted.

The charity no longer attracts enough donations to sustain what we do. A recent GoFundMe raised £1,255, which was hugely appreciated, but it is a drop in the ocean compared with what we owe.

And perhaps that is the hardest part.

The whole point of Pastures New was to rescue, rehabilitate and retrain ex-racehorses.

We simply don’t have the funds to take in more, so we are not fulfilling our aims and objectives as a charity

So the horses we have will remain in my care for the rest of their lives.

It is heartbreaking that we can’t help more.

THE PROVISION WILL CONTINUE, but as a business rather than a charity… that’s in capitals as the two often get confused and Chinese whispers have a habit of creating a false narrative

I’ve always thought a business sounds crass for what we do, but if it pays the bills so be it 🤣

But without the thoroughbred constraints there is nothing to stop us bringing in more ponies to fill the vacated stables

With our therapy tb horses all now at the veteran stage, I want them to retire… and training ponies from rescue centres will still be making a difference

The house and garden will be sold to pay the debts and future expenses (and a smaller house for me!)

The other animals have already been rehomed because I couldn’t take them to France. They are in loving homes, with caring people, and I see them often and keep in touch.

There is now an open-door policy (as we are staying in Blighty)

If, for whatever reason, any of them ever need to come home, they will.

Apart from the donkeys.

The thoroughbreds never really took to them.

Especially Harry.

……

I think I’ve tried everything I possibly could… holiday lets and camping pods (that one nearly started a neighbour riot! I hear there was a petition 🤣)

We are at the white-knight stage now.

Nothing short of a miracle — or perhaps a lottery win — would allow us to bring in more.

And that, perhaps, is the saddest part of all.

I’ve stopped expecting a lifeline and I’ve run out of time

Because I really thought the racing world would care enough.

I thought that after everything these horses had given, there would be enough people who believed that their lives mattered after the racing stopped.

I thought there would be more people willing to help.

Perhaps there will be one day and other charities will survive because of the kindness of a few good men/women in the sport

But for now, Pastures New has done what it could.

And for 15 years, we gave them somewhere to come home to.

And that, really, was always the point.
.
previous chapters are on our page - I’ll give it a few weeks before we close it down

The pictures on the fences will be auctioned off - please feel free to bid if you wish

Thank you for reading

With love 🙏🏼 and gratitude to all who have carried us through this journey xx

26/08/2026

Chapter 22

The Track

We are incredibly fortunate that our land lends itself to a track system.

With rocky inclines, woodland walks and natural boundaries, you could be forgiven for thinking we already had the wild territory that those building track systems are trying to replicate.

It’s an amazing concept.

And with a whole herd needing rehabilitation, the kids off through Covid, and, most importantly, two horses—Tigger and now JJ—sporting swollen lower legs whenever they were rested, it became my new goal.

I wanted to create a haven for horses.

Wildflower meadows.

A track winding through the woods.

Water stations.

Hay stations.

Herbal borders.

Ponds and a watercourse.

At around a mile long, with field shelters and natural windbreaks provided by the trees and hedgerows, it would allow the horses to keep moving as nature intended.

Once they were accustomed to it, we could bale the inside paddocks and have our own organic meadow hay.

It would be marvellous.

And if I had been a little stricter with our herd, perhaps it would have been.

Unfortunately, our contrary Marys have other ideas.

They like to run all the way to the gate of the field and then stand patiently waiting for me to open it.

Or they decide the track is actually a racecourse and tear around it like they’ve just been released from the starting stalls.

The best-laid plans of mice and men…

and horses.

🤦‍♀️

But it is blissful.

Only last night I went up to check and feed them.

It was dusk and, as I trundled along on the quad, a pure white barn owl silently scoured the land for prey.

A badger scurried into the herbal border.

A young fox ran ahead of me, just within the beam of the light, before nipping over a wall.

The mother deer and her twin fawns weren’t around that evening.

She had twins the previous year too, on our sheep field, and now she is leaving them more and more as they take those first tentative steps towards independence.

The wind was magical.

The moon was epic.

And as I sat watching the horses eat their supper before tucking into the hay—the grass still rather sparse after the drought—I was reminded that for all the work, worry, arguments, bills and sheer exhaustion…

this is a place beyond beautiful.

If they choose the paddock, and therefore never eat any of our own hay, then so be it.

They still have free access to the track.

Very occasionally they have a wander.

But, truth be told, they are happiest and most settled on the field.

And I have learned that sometimes you have to let horses choose.

I can sit on the rocks at Cassie’s grave and listen to them munching around me.

And, for those few minutes, all is right with the world.

No matter what.

⸻

I also had another plan.

I thought the track could become a retirement home for ex-racehorses.

I’d take retired racehorses on lifetime retirement livery, giving owners the reassurance that their much-loved horses would have a safe home for the rest of their lives.

The cost would be a fraction of what they had paid while the horses were in training.

I took out full-page adverts in the owner and trainer publications.

I thought surely this would be something people would want.

Surely owners who loved these horses would want to know that when their racing days were over, there was somewhere they could go.

Somewhere beautiful.

Somewhere safe.

Somewhere they wouldn’t become surplus to requirements.

We didn’t get a single enquiry.

Well, that’s not quite true.

We got one.

They told us our fencing wasn’t fit for purpose and needed another rail.

It just happened that they were a fencing company.

Of course they were.

Once again, I was left disappointed.

Not by the lack of business.

By the lack of interest.

By the lack of care afforded to these extraordinary warriors once they had finished doing what they were bred and trained to do.

I’d wanted to build them a retirement home.

It seemed, once again, that I wanted it more than anyone else did.

Chapter 21Once You Feel It, You Can’t Unfeel ItI’ve dipped into woo-woo land from time to time throughout this story.But...
25/08/2026

Chapter 21

Once You Feel It, You Can’t Unfeel It

I’ve dipped into woo-woo land from time to time throughout this story.

But once you feel it, you can’t unfeel it.

I’d already heard hoofsteps in the barn when nobody was there.

I’d felt a horse’s breath on the back of my neck and turned around looking for Dan—our resident escape artist who can undo his own stable bolt and therefore has a clip permanently attached to it.

There were little things.

Things you could dismiss individually.

But eventually they begin to add up.

The back of our barn opens onto a sand-surfaced walkway leading to the arena. One day I noticed fresh hoofprints in the damp sand, leading from the barn towards the arena.

There was no horse in the arena.

And, spookily, there were no hoofprints coming back.

We’d already had our visit from the lone jackdaw, along with the folklore attached to it.

For the last few years there’s a crow watches me from a branch outside the landing window - and smashes into it from time to time! I explained it away - it was either attacking (or flirting with) its reflection for the first couple years .. but when I moved bedrooms in search of a better bed (bad back) ‘jack’ moved too and sat atop a fence where he could still see me.. he’s always on a fence near the barn when I’m working.

How long could I ignore the signs?

It would seem not very long.

So when I heard about Libby, I was on the phone.

I wasn’t quite sure what to expect.

I just knew I wanted to meet her.

⸻

I warmed to her immediately.

She has an amazing aura and seemed completely at home from the moment she arrived.

I walked her into the barn and the first horse she encountered was Tigger.

As she leaned over his door I said,

“Careful. He bites.”

She replied,

“He says he’s not as bad as he used to be.”

Sceptical me thought that could be a given.

But then she asked:

“What does eight mean?”

I said I wasn’t sure. I knew his old owners had him for eight years.

She said he told her he had been happy until he was five.

That made sense too.

He had arrived with us at around twelve or thirteen.

Then she told me he said he had always tried his best, but when he was finished they didn’t want him.

Again, I suppose that could have been guessed.

Then came the bit that stopped me.

He told her that I had saved him twice.

And his other mummy had saved him once.

At that point, I had indeed saved him twice.

Once when he developed the deep sulcus infection in his feet. Not many people would have had the tenacity to keep that cleaning routine going for hours every day while simultaneously being launched into barn doors by the patient. Not having been given such a poor prognosis anyway.

And then there was the broken tooth and subsequent sinus infection.

Both were nasty.

Both could easily have made him feel that he was going to die.

And of course, ‘Rose’ had saved him at the yard.

She was his other mummy.

Suddenly it all made sense.

He told Libby he was happy.

Lucky.

Grateful.

Which, frankly, was slightly surprising because Tigger hadn’t exactly spent his life making his gratitude obvious.

🤣

But then he told her he was at his happiest when he was with his little friend in the field

⸻

She described a chestnut pony.

“He’s very proud.”

Blaze.

I told her he had been a little show jumper.

“No, he wasn’t” she said. “He said he was a show pony.”

He was there with us

She described him more.

A Mohican mane.

His chin tucked into his chest… very prancy!

And then she pointed to a spot outside the barn.

“He says he was put to sleep there.”

Exactly where I’d held him for the vet

She said that I had held him and told him,

“Don’t worry, little man. I’m here.”

And that it had meant the world to him.

I was bawling.

I’m probably going to be bawling when I read this back too.

Then Daisy told her to go away.

Which, frankly, sounds exactly like Daisy.

⸻

At that precise moment, Pablo decided it was time to emerge from his slumber.

Libby dropped to her knees.

She had been searching for her soul mate, she told me.

She had always been incredibly drawn to pigs and had actually just booked herself a pig experience the following week as the pull was so strong

And then she met Pablo.

She embraced him and cried.

It was one of those moments when you don’t need anyone to explain anything.

They had found each other.

Pretty soon afterwards, Pablo moved to Wakefield and into Libby’s back garden, where he still lives today in the magnificent pig palace she built for him.

He has even appeared on The Yorkshire Vet.

Not bad for a pig who once wandered around our Christmas nativity knocking over the speakers.

⸻

Anyway, I digress.

Libby told me it was Cassie that was around me all the time.

I didn’t need to keep her ashes.

That was when I knew I could let them go

Cassie and Blaze were both scattered on the field with the herd.

They were home.

Perhaps they had never really left.

⸻

I wish Libby lived here.

She visits perhaps twice a year, bringing through animals and human loved ones who have passed.

She also communicates with our herd, they tell her what they like (and what they don’t)

Whether you believe in it or not, the comfort it brings is real.

I believe.

And Libby has brought extraordinary clarity and vision into my life with the horses

Not just about the animals, but about me.

I’ve asked her recently what I should do, money, or lack of it, always has me wanting to make radical moves

She told me she wouldn’t come again just yet, it was too confusing

That, like a game of chess, there are pieces being moved that don’t yet make sense.

I need to trust the universe more.

For a control freak, that’s a fairly monumental ask.

I want to know where every piece is going.

I want to know the next move.

I want to understand the end game.

But perhaps that’s not how this works.

Perhaps all we can do is keep moving forward, keep listening, keep trusting…

and believe that somehow, eventually,

it will all be okay.

……
Previous chapters can be found on our page

Chapter 20The Next TeacherAs the kids returned and we tried to find some semblance of normality, our provision became mo...
24/08/2026

Chapter 20

The Next Teacher

As the kids returned and we tried to find some semblance of normality, our provision became more fine-tuned. We had to develop a curriculum of sorts.

I’d always been one to wing it. Within a student’s capability and engagement, we’d slowly but surely move forwards with the equine learning. The HorsePower programme was forever being adapted. You have to be fluid in these situations, I find.

But that is difficult to transfer to staff.

You can’t simply say, you’ll know what to do when you see it.

We had to try to teach it.

Our cohort of young people during this time were challenging, to say the least. There were episodes of verbal and physical abuse, and it was really hard to find that magic.

A bit like the elusive je ne sais quoi of a therapy horse, the right people are just as rare a find.

Seeing beyond the behaviours of some students and getting to the root cause can be incredibly difficult. By the time children arrive with us, many have already seen almost every professional going. They have an armour firmly in place and often a very definite no before they have even heard the question.

Blaze had a way of dropping that guard.

He was perfect.

Sometimes we’d simply suggest they go and sit with Blaze while we got on with the jobs they refused to take part in.

“I’m not shovelling s**t.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“I’m definitely not doing that.”

Fine.

Go sit with Blaze.

And then, within a short space of time, you’d hear it.

The whispering voice of a child who had found a friend.

They’d sit quietly with him.

Then they’d go back again.

Within days they were gravitating towards Blaze, and before long they wanted to care for him.

And then, somehow, they were shovelling s**t.

And arriving with a smile on their faces.

That was Blaze.

He didn’t demand anything from them.

He simply accepted them.

And somehow, that was enough.

⸻

Then we lost him.

I came down one morning to find Blaze sweating. It looked as though he’d had a frightful night—rolling, box-walking and clearly in pain.

Colic.

We gave him Buscopan, the medication that can sometimes relax a horse’s gut remarkably quickly.

It didn’t work.

The pain relief barely touched him.

And so, as any animal owner will understand, we had to make the heartbreaking decision to let him go.

Our children were devastated.

To return and discover their friend had simply gone was almost as painful to witness as his actual death.

Blaze was a prince amongst horses.

He had been so much more than a pony.

He had been a teacher, a therapist, a friend and, for some of those children, possibly the first creature they had trusted in a very long time.

⸻

The herd was only just beginning to come to terms with losing Cassie.

Daisy had stepped up as alpha mare, with her beau JJ beside her, and now they had lost their little buddy too.

Blaze had been part of their world from the moment he arrived.

He had helped countless horses settle.

He had helped countless children settle.

He was as much a part of Pastures New as the grass beneath their feet.

And somehow, we had to carry on without him.

⸻

Before the escape, JJ had a home lined up.

His prospective owner had been to see him several times. She had ridden him, walked him, groomed him and spent hours getting to know him.

It looked like a good match.

But the escape changed everything.

JJ was never going to be the same horse again.

He had always had DSLD—Degenerative Suspensory Ligament Desmitis—a chronic and progressive condition affecting the suspensory ligaments. It was one of the first things I’d noticed about him.

Then the injury he sustained during the escape compounded it.

His suspensory was now permanently compromised and the scarring on his leg was frightening.

His prospective forever home fell through.

And so JJ stayed.

As he rose through the ranks of the herd hierarchy with aplomb—being quite the bully on occasion—he also revealed another side of himself.

A quiet calm.

An intelligence.

A sensitivity to people.

He responded to energy.

He responded to intent.

He was, quite simply, a shoo-in for the role of premier equine facilitator.

The first horse many of our young people would work with.

Standing at nearly 17 hands, it took some convincing to persuade some of them that this enormous horse was actually a gentle giant.

But once again, we discovered that the stable could be the classroom.

“Go and sit with JJ.”

And the whispering would start.

Just as it had with Blaze.

A child who wouldn’t engage with us would sit quietly with a 17-hand ex-steeplechaser and somehow begin to talk.

Perhaps it was grief.

Perhaps it was trust.

Perhaps it was the horses.

Probably all three.

Blaze was gone, but never forgotten.

And when another chestnut took to the arena, I couldn’t help feeling that, in some strange way, Blaze was guiding JJ towards his new role.

We were about to learn just how much more there was to this place than we had ever imagined.

Because somewhere between the horses, the children and the extraordinary energy of this little farm—where three valleys meet—we were about to be introduced to the most amazing animal communicator.

And with her came an entirely new understanding of spirit guides, of energy, and of the possibility that perhaps our horses didn’t stop communicating with us when they left this world.

Perhaps some of them were still here.

Just in a different way.
………………

Previous chapters can be found on our page

24/08/2026

❤

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Ealees
Littleborough
OL150HJ

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