Jeannette Ellwood fell in love with horses when she was just five years old, but it wasn’t until she discovered The Authentic Arabian by Lady Wentworth that she uncovered her passion for the Arabian breed. In the 1970s, she purchased her first Arabian mare, Pride of Argosy (Magic Argosy x Pride of Rusan by Rimini) and Jeannette’s fate was sealed. After a life lived with the Arabian horse, Jeannette became an in-hand judge and in this special Throwback Thursday, she shares her experience of her first time in the show-ring as a judge almost fifty years ago.
“When I judged this particular Arabian stallion class many years ago, the emphasis was shifting toward fitness and overall athleticism, as well as traditional beauty and type,” Jeannette explains. “Asking for a short canter in-hand was my way of allowing the stallions to show their soundness, balance, and natural athleticism across all three gaits. This brief canter gave a clearer sense of each horse’s strength and movement – qualities that, at the time, breeders and judges were becoming more interested in seeing alongside classic Arabian presence.”
The sky was blue, with small, fluffy clouds scudding high overhead. Here in the middle of the show field, the sun was warm, and a lazy breeze barely stirred my hair.
This was my first time in the centre of the ring, and I was decidedly nervous. I could hear the battery of cameras clicking as I stood waiting for the first entries. They entered slowly, one by one, encircling me as I stood there feeling utterly unprepared – a novice judge among experienced hands.
They were certainly the most handsome male specimens I had seen for a very long time. Muscles rippled sinuously as they walked – beautiful, sedate, showing off every inch of their powerful, well-developed bodies.
I sighed. This was going to be extraordinarily difficult.
I tried to recall all the instructions my mentor, Finn Guinness, had given me.
“First of all,” he’d said, “study their conformation. Then give them an opportunity to exhibit their paces. Keep your distance at first – you need an overall impression of their quality.”
My steward stepped forward, bowler hat raised politely.
“Shall I ask them to trot on, madam?”
I nodded graciously, hoping my precariously balanced hat would stay in place. Instinctively, I raised a hand to steady it, just in case.
He glanced at his clipboard and, with an imperious gesture, indicated that Number Seven should increase his pace to a smart trot, followed immediately by all the others, stepping beautifully in time.
I watched as the glorious animals circled around me, coats gleaming, tails held banner high, manes flying, front legs reaching far to show off their stride.
Their warm, rich scent reached me as they passed. This was why I had trained so long, why I had longed to stand in the centre of this prestigious show-ring. I felt a surge of purpose.
It was my job to choose the best, the Champion who would sire the crème de la crème of future generations.
“Now let’s test their mettle,” I thought, and nodded to my steward.
Canter,” I instructed.
He raised his hand; all eyes in the ring were on him. The handlers readied themselves to run like the wind. They had trained for months to keep up with these muscular, feisty stallions, knowing the faster they ran, the more chance they had to catch the judge’s eye.
The competition was fierce. Every handler hoped their boy would be champion, drawing the attention of the overseas visitors who had travelled halfway around the world. The top three would be most sought after, commanding the highest fees as future sires. A great deal was at stake.
When they had cantered past me two or three times, I gave an almost imperceptible nod. My steward raised his hand again to bring them down, from canter to trot, then to a walk.
A hush fell around the ring. The moment had come. He moved closer and murmured, “Have you made your choice yet, madam?”
I stood stock-still, utterly focused as each stallion passed before me. One had a superbly laid-back shoulder; another, an intelligent eye; a third, the most refined muzzle. After what felt like an eternity, I whispered three numbers into his ear, then paused before quietly adding two more.
“Bring the rest in – any order,” I said.
The crowd held its breath.
I walked up to number one and began my careful inspection. He stood like a statue as his young handler posed him, his coat silky under my fingertips as I paused at his shoulder. Then I moved to the next, and the next.
Suddenly, number ten took exception to my approach, rearing up, pawing the air and snorting loudly in protest. I stepped back quickly, and the red-faced handler hurried to bring him to order, but I knew at once that was an unforgivable offence. With a small nod, I let him lead the stallion quietly out of the ring.
From the corner of my eye, I saw the rosette and sash bearers waiting respectfully at the edge of the arena.
Back at the top of the line, I indicated in a low voice the few final adjustments I wished to make after my close inspection – swapping numbers three and four, then five and six. The rest stayed as they were.
There was a ripple of excitement around the ring as I fitted the coveted red rosette onto number one’s bridle and slipped the sash of honour over his powerful neck and shoulders. I bestowed rosettes on the others in turn, patting each one and murmuring, “Good boy,” as I did so. Finally, I returned to number one to accept the polite thanks of his handler, then stepped back as my steward signalled the champion’s parade of honour.
And only then did I allow myself a breath, my hands trembling slightly as I left the ring. I had done it. My hat had stayed on, I hadn’t stumbled, and – best of all – my asthma had held off.
As we left the arena, my steward metamorphosed into Finn Guinness, my experienced judge and sometimes critical mentor.
He held out his hand. “A very good choice,” he said. “He’s a magnificent specimen of the breed. He will do well and make a lot of money for his owner.”
A pause, and then he added with an approving smile: “You’re proving to be a fast learner – and a good judge, too!”
With that, he strode off to the stewards’ refreshment tent, leaving me to make my way to the luxurious luncheon with my fellow judges.
Last line from Trial by Jury: “…and a good judge too!”
