Riders and their horsey entourage are oblivious to how fascinating this is to non-horsey folk. They seem not to notice. For them it's neither unusual nor funny. Try telling that to the townie kids next to me, crippled with mirth as each croquet ball makes the 1-metre drop.
It's one of the many wonderful smells at the showgrounds. On the nose one can detect manure, hot dogs, horse musk and loads of leather.
Which is another observation. With all the leather down here, the show is as much bovine as it equine. The cattle beast has staged a bloodless coup during the horse's finest hour. Not only is every second stall resplendent with cow-hide products but each horse is saddled, stirruped and holstered with the stuff. Thus, the Horse of the Year paradoxically doubles as a celebration of the cow.
If you're into contact sport, showjumping is your gig. It's a mix of muscle and poise. Expect Ben Hur chariot race-like collisions and carnage. Okay that's a long bow. Still, local showjumping king Maurice Beatson yesterday sported a Hestonesque steely-jaw as he negotiated his ride around the arena.
One stall offering homeopathic solutions for horse ailments is unmanned. Another stall holder looks at my media pass and shoves his business brochure at me: "Write something about it." Sure.
A friendly chap selling hay steamers extends his hand. His machines, apparently, sterilise hay's harmful microbes and makes it "more palatable". He's in the alchemy game. Hay is rendered gourmet hay. There's something profound about offering a solution to a problem no one knew existed.
He informs me horses don't breathe through their mouths. It's why they get dust up their noses, which is, he says, why they're forever snorting. He demonstrates said snorting: "prrrrddt ... prrrrddt ... prrrrddt". Two days into my equine immersion and the language is still a little foreign.
Still, today's another day.
