Harnessing his scant knowledge of equine behaviour, Frank McNally takes to the back roads of Laois in a horse-drawn caravan
The important thing, explains Henry Fingleton, is to earn the respect of your horse from the start. Caravan horses "are like children who stay with a different set of grandparents every week," he says as he introduces us to Junior, a 13-year-old piebald, and gives us a course in catching and harnessing. "They'll size you up quickly and see what they can get away with," Henry warns.
I've never been alone with a horse before. But once the alarmingly short course is over, I muster all the authority I can and lead Junior, gently but firmly, to our caravan - one of 17 operated by the Fingletons. In the manner demonstrated, I circle him in front of the shafts and, hands on the reins, reverse him gently but firmly into place. The next step is to fasten the harness correctly, a process that can be daunting at the first attempt, even without constant interruptions from your five-year-old daughter.
"But Daddy, there's a problem ..." says Roisín, as I lift the shafts into the straddle tugs, and ease Junior further back. Ignoring her, I proceed to connect the traces to the shafts, and the shafts to the breeching. "But Daddy," she tries again. "What?" I growl, consulting the manual with a furrowed brow, and trying to hide my self-doubt from the horse. "Daddy, this is the wrong caravan!" says Roisín.
On closer inspection, it turns out she has a point. So, moments later, Junior finds himself being unfastened and led, gently but firmly, to the corresponding caravan in the next bay - the one our stuff is in, the one we slept in last night. The horse betrays no reaction as we begin the process anew. But I'm very glad one of us is wearing blinkers, because eye contact now would be uncomfortable.
Despite the early setback, Junior does not seem to think worse of his new grandparents. Then again, the horses are not the only ones who size you up early. Henry also subtly profiles his guests on arrival and chooses a four-legged match. In our case - the insult has not gone unnoticed - he has picked his best horse, an utterly reliable animal that combines the engine of a BMW with the patience of a saint.
Like many of the Kilvahan horses, Junior used to work in the Dublin markets. His move to the midlands was like an ageing Premiership footballer dropping down a couple of divisions. Nothing in Laois is likely to faze him, not even the occasional moron who drives past doing 60 and blaring the horn.
Unusually squat for a horse, Junior's crowning glory is his arse, which is the width of a minibus. Its power is most impressive going downhill, as he places his hooves deftly one in front of the other and takes the strain of a 900-kilo caravan on his hips. There's a manual brake, but you're not encouraged to use it, because it spoils the horses.
Another thing you're not supposed to do is let the horse feed while working. Even Junior is not above the temptations of the lush grass margins of Laois, however. When the mobile phone rings, and he senses the driver's attention wonder, he seizes his opportunity. With amazing technique for a city horse, he dives into the side of the road and, in a split second, emerges with a medium-sized sheaf of hay between his teeth. He's still chewing it when we hit Ballyroan.
As a holiday option, horse-drawn caravanning had its heyday in the 1960s and early 1970s. The real gypsies had moved on to motorised transport. But hippy tourism provided new careers for theirs and farmers' horses, until low standards took a toll and thinned the number of operators. When the Fingletons - Henry and Paula - started out 12 years ago, they were the first new entries into the business for more than 20 years.
It's a "small product", Henry says, but on the Continent, its habit of featuring on magazine covers has made it synonymous with Ireland: "You can't do it properly anywhere else. Most of the people we get come to Ireland specifically for this." Forty per cent are English; the rest are mostly Scandinavians, Germans and Dutch. One in a hundred is American, and fewer again are Irish: "We might get one a year."
At our Ballyroan stop - a farmhouse outside the village - the caravans parked on the lawn are a perfect cross-section. There's a family from Birmingham; two middle-aged Cockney couples straight out of EastEnders; a young German pair; and four backpackers from Sweden.
The Cockneys are complaining that their horse (Bob) has a mind of his own. Henry confides later that this is exactly why he was allocated to them. Bob is another veteran of Dublin, where he pulled coal and was called Slaughter ("probably because he was big and ugly"). His stubbornness and unflappability was legendary in the city. A trader once lit a newspaper under him to persuade him to move. "He does everything at his own pace, and I give him to people who I think might overwork him," says Henry.
The Brummies are a couple with a grown-up daughter who loves horses. "I'm a five-star hotel man myself," says her father, who looks a bit doubtful about the latest family holiday. Certainly, the caravans are a far remove from five-star hotels. But they are small wonders in engineering, with seats that convert to two double beds; a kitchen and a gas cylinder at the back to fire the cooker and lights. Some of the prescribed stop-overs are pubs or guesthouses, but the minimum requirement of each is shower and toilet facilities, drinking water, and grazing for the horse.
The stops are between four and 10 miles apart, ranging from Abbeyleix and Farran in the west, to Vicarstown, on the Grand Canal, in the east. The traffic on the back roads of Laois is quiet, and so is the scenery. Apart from pubs, tourist support structures are scarce. On a wet Sunday in Ballyroan, you'd need deep inner resources, or a good book. But travelling at two miles an hour gives the Laois countryside a chance to work its bashful charm. And in early summer, with every hedgerow an explosion of colour, you can see why foreign visitors here don't all feel the need to go to Kerry.
Good weather helps. In fairness to Laois, the weekend we spent there was sun-drenched, except for a sudden belt of rain that swept in (carrying the Irish Times photographer) and drenched us in the traditional manner. When we headed back to Kilvahan on Sunday evening, the sun was glinting off the sweat on Junior's back.
Near the Fingletons' farmhouse, we met a woman driver who was obviously not from these parts, because she was so stunned by the sight of us that she parked to have a proper look. "It's fantastic," she said, to no-one in particular, as we passed by, smiling back at her: like a John Hinde postcard come to life.