THE BARN IS PROFOUNDLY quiet. Sixteen loose boxes sit empty, devoid of straw, shavings, water buckets, haynets and horses. Clean, pristine squares, they are emphatically unoccupied, echoing chambers of emptiness.
Irish event rider Jonty Evans is perched on a wooden chair, next to a well-cleaned bridle that’s suspended from the ceiling of the tack room, the open door beyond revealing the scene of unintentional abandonment. Twelve months ago, this place couldn’t have been more different. Then it was as busy as a beehive. Staff swept, cleaned, groomed, tacked up and untacked, rugged up and turned out.
Jonty would return to the barn with a horse he had schooled, only to collect another to be put through its paces in the outdoor manège. It was an almost unending production line. Several…