animals were created by the good Lord,” says Heinrich Werth.
For a while, he even bred nutria and pigeons. And, of course, horses, which today are not bred for work, but rather for pleasure only.
Isabell’s father operated a classic “mixed” farm, which were once common in their area, remaining unchanged for centuries, but which are almost extinct today. Today, all the farms on the Winterswicker Field are shut down, the buildings have been converted into houses, and the families have leased their land to large agricultural businesses. The “old way of life” is dying. Now, everything is about quantity and large spaces, fertilizers are used intensively, and the land is worked with large machinery—small farms just aren’t profitable. Heinrich Werth belongs to the last generation of farmers that operated in the traditional way. He is a farmer, through and through, but his life was even harder than that of his ancestors. Unlike his parents’ generation, he could not afford employees. Brigitte Werth also had to go about her tasks differently from her mother and mother-in-law—both had employed a maid for all their lives. The farm no longer yielded that kind of profit. Even using a “swarm” of children as a means of free labour was no longer a solution, as compared to the times where families with twelve or more members were not uncommon, they had few offspring.
As a child, Heinrich Werth witnessed the days when horses were still used to plow the fields. Through all of his work life, he had to carry heavy loads, day in, day out, since the mechanization was not as advanced as it is today. Thus, the arrival of the combine meant a great relief, although Heinrich Werth still worked industriously on his farm, got up at the crack of dawn to feed and to milk, sat on his tractor for days, and was, eventually, exhausted. He reports that he felt way worse at fifty than at eighty. His back refused to function, his discs, his sciatic nerve—he had to use a wheelchair temporarily. But he never complained. Happiness is what is most important to him, he says.
And a family who sticks together.
My sister and I grew up among all these animals. We loved and cuddled the piglets and the calves, and it was our chore to take care of the bunnies. We could count on a new “fur baby” every day, and we ran over, petted them, and thought they were cute. Of course, we knew that these animals were going to be butchered and, eventually, eaten. But that is how it was; we lived off what the farm produced. We also had no problem providing the obligatory pig eye for our biology teacher’s class on dissection in school. (Our classmates were horrified and started to scream!) As soon as a piglet weighed over a hundred pounds, “its time had come.” Whenever a pig was slaughtered, we girls looked forward to the vet’s attendance, as he examined the meat for trichinae. He let us look through the microscope. Making sausages was a natural next step for us and certainly nothing repulsive—quite exciting, actually, and quite yummy! A piece of the fresh meat was roasted or cooked that night and everyone looked forward to it and enjoyed it.
Isabell’s father knew every single cow and pig and took responsibility for their well-being. It was a life both with and off the farm animals. Even if they were slaughtered one day, the children learned to never lose respect for them. They were close to the animals physically and not repulsed. If the livestock were sick, they were treated, and nobody rested until they were well again. The family looked after the animals and cared for them three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Nevertheless: They were still livestock and not toys.
As a child, you are completely impartial; you don’t think about it. The horse is there; the dog is there. And you don’t develop an inherent kind of fear, but the animal is part of your daily life, almost part of the family. You go into the barn in the morning, the animals are fed; it is a rhythm, it is simply responsibility, and that is how you grow up.
Isabell knew everything. For example, when the sows had their piglets, they were allowed to romp about in the field. There was also a boar. One aggressive fellow put the fear of God into Isabell one day.
My dad had bought a new boar. Usually, a boar had his tusks sawn off right away as they can be razor-sharp, but this one hadn’t had this done. There was a cow field next door, and this boar apparently had never seen cows in his life. He went completely crazy, and cut open three cows, one so badly she could only go to the butcher. Attempts were made to stitch the others back together. To experience something like that, to see firsthand how fast something can turn on you and become dangerous—I found that deeply impressive.
Growing up closely with different animals, Isabell developed a natural relationship with them, one that was elemental and instinctual. The animals got involved with her, and she expressed interest in them, opened up to them, formed relationships with them, which cannot be described with words. Rural children approach animals without immediately expecting something from them. They do it simply because the animal exists. It is impossible for a city child to obtain such genuine access. The city child cannot imagine what it is like to grow up so closely together with an animal and to enter into a mutual interdependency.
The affection for all animals that started in her early chilhood is the key to Isabell’s joy in her life with horses—and also to her success. Over the years, she has further developed this special understanding, has refined it, enriched it with new experiences. And she has made it more professional. Anthropomorphized, is what she calls the instrumentalization of a skill she acquired as effortlessly as other children learn Spanish, French, or Portuguese from a nanny. Isabell was able to open up not only one country with the language that came to her, but an entire universe. The animals seem to speak to Isabell, and she seems to be able to hear them.
“A gift,” her father says. “We did not teach her it.”
“We have been asked where she got it from,” says her mother. “It was the Lord who gave her so much feeling.”
Isabell’s skill to anticipate is legendary. She knows what a horse is about to do, even when an outsider cannot perceive any signs whatsoever. Thus, she is able to take preventive measures, to guide reactions into sensible directions, or to prevent worse outcomes. She can latch onto a horse’s sense, understand his individual behavior, and find ways to interpret it.
I can feel it somewhere in a fiber of my body. In a nerve that was unknown to me before. In my hands, my seat, in my side, somewhere in the body. Somehow, the horse shortly freezes, he appears a tiny little bit nervous, reacts a tad differently than usual. I can’t explain it, but the feeling is there. Just a small perception sometimes, an instinctive hesitation, a gut feeling, which is confirmed later. Then I say to myself: Look at you, you were right, and I integrate this aspect into my experience. It is a form of communication and instinct. Instinct plays a large role. It has become very refined over time and has developed through the many different horses I have ridden. From my little fat pony to the Grand Prix competitor.
Gigolo, my first gold-medal mount, was a generous teacher with regard to communication. He offered himself to me and brought an extremely honest willingness to perform. I listened to him and learned to manage his overboard ambition. He managed to focus on me and the competition situation and always played along. As a Grand Prix debutant, I took this for granted. But the reliable heart of this horse was a great gift for me at that stage of my career.
Gigolo made it possible for Isabell to withstand Anky van Grunsven’s competitive onslaught for years. Anky was her biggest rival from the Netherlands, with whom she “fought” some nail-biting duels in the international ring.
Later, Satchmo would wreak havoc on everything that Gigolo had taught Isabell. Satchmo was also a very forward-oriented horse, but with such a moment of surprise! Isabell listened carefully, sharpened her perception, used her brain, and turned her nervous system on “high”—but he remained unpredictable, even for her.
Nobody has challenged and sharpened my sense of perception as much as Satchmo has; he was my second great teacher after Gigolo.
The more sensitive a horse is, the more difficult he is. A horse that has an “ordinary” disposition causes few problems for his rider; however, this type of horse is not ideal for the kinds of requests Isabell is likely to make in the international dressage arena. This