Moving my horse from France to England

Having had my proposal for a PhD on the training of medieval horses accepted by the University of Exeter, Devon (UK), I found myself preparing my move from France to England. Of course, I was delighted at the prospect: it was something I had wanted to do for a long time. But what was I to do with my beloved 16 year old gelding? Actually, I didn’t ask myself that question. My horse was coming with me and that was that. I could not even imagine leaving him in France, which would mean giving him away or selling him to an uncertain fate. 

My and my horse’s move was planned months in advance, with the help of my very supportive family. We studied different routes. We called ferry companies. I discussed it with my vet. I tried to search the internet for detailed information – but did not find much that dated from recent years or that did not state that nothing was certain with Brexit looming ahead. 

At the beginning of 2020, almost everything had being planned. A date for our departure was chosen. And then Covid-19 happened and my projects, like the projects of so many people, were put on hold. And then there was the debacle that was Britain’s way of handling the pandemic. There was the quarantine imposed on French people wanting to come into the UK. And we waited, waited... 

Once there was no longer a quarantine, we decided that it was time for me to move. And time to wade through the French administrative system to make it actually possible to take my horse with me. 

Because it is not actually so straightforward to import a horse from Europe to the UK (and it seems it will be even less so when Brexit happens). There are special arrangements for racehorses and such, but an individual trying to bring a horse into the UK has some paperwork to do. Paperwork that, frustratingly, has to be done at the last minute. 

Ten days before the departure, your usual vet (provided they have a special authorisation), has to visit your horse and check that he is healthy enough to travel, and sign a certificate. Then, within 48 hours, this document has to be taken to the Animal welfare branch of local DDPP (Direction Départementale de la Protection des Populations). There, it has to be validated by yet another vet. Information about the vehicle used to transport the horse also has to be provided, as well as a detailed plan for the journey. Of course, the horse must have a passport and microchip. 

Straighforward enough, isn’t it? If you knew the time that had to be spent on the phone, on the internet, etc. to obtain these pieces of information! When I phoned the DDPP, they didn’t know if the certificate established by the vet had to be signed within 48 hours, or 48 hours before the actual departure. The DDPP vet was the only one to know, but the DDPP vet was never there. My own vet didn’t know if special vaccinations were needed for England. Or if there was special paperwork. Brexit, Brexit, everyone said. When I did manage to get the DDPP vet on the phone (somewhat at the last minute), he explained everything and it all became clear and all sounded so simple. 

Finally, I got the appointment with my vet. I waited with trepidation as she examined my horse. She checked the microchip, to see if it worked and fitted the one on the passport. She sounded relieved that it did and told me that it happened more often than you’d think that the microchip on the horse was not the one inscribed on the passport (something to think about when buying a horse). She gave me some medication in case of colic, as well as a sedative. In the end, I did not need to use either of them during the journey but it was reassuring to know I had them. 

I then had the certificated validated by the DDPP of the Yvelines, the département where my horse’s livery yard was. Of course, it was in a town I’d never heard of and I got a little lost on the way there and had to do an almost one hour car journey for an appointment that lasted maybe ten minutes. And that was done. Easy-peasy, I thought. 

My family and I had decided that instead of using a professional horse transporter, we would rent a lorry and do it ourselves. Not only would it mean that we would be able to keep an eye on my horse, who is not young and had never made such a long journey, but it would, all in all, be a bit less costly. Several people tried to talk us out of it (and they were probably right). But in the end, we stuck to this decision and, several weeks in advance, rented a lorry from a company that had been recommended to us. 

On the eve of the departure, we learnt that we would have no lorry. The one we had rented was stuck in Brittany due to the outburst of Covid in that region and no other vehicle was available. You can imagine our panic. Delaying the departure meant having to go through all the paperwork again (because it expires within ten days). It meant asking the livery yard if my horse could remain for longer, when I had given notice weeks ago. We spent three hours ringing companies and stables who had lorries to rent. None were available since they had all been booked to bring horses to the races and to competitions. Finally, we found someone who did have one and who was kind enough to bypass the necessity to book it twelve hours in advance. The relief! But it meant that we still had to change the paperwork (because the information about the vehicle had to be on the certificate signed by the DDPP). Thankfully, this time, they agreed to do it all through scans. 

And then came the morning of the departure. Of course, there was a heatwave that day, with temperatures of 40°C announced over France. The ideal day to transport a horse… 

I took my horse from his field. He looked one last time at his surroundings and at his friends. I felt guilty to be taking him away from all this, but as I’ve said before, it was a simple choice for me. He loaded easily, though he started to shiver and neigh once inside. I did not use travel boots, or a neck protection. The osteopath who followed my horse had advised against those, saying that for such a long journey, they would do more harm than good. I did wrap my horse’s tail. I did not tie him up in the lorry, though I did leave his halter on. 

We were to take the ferry in Calais. My horse behaved well, though he was obviously stressed and refused to drink, and ate only a little (I gave him soaked hay during the stops, so he would still have some hydration). As we waited to board the ferry, the lorry was checked for stowaways. The veterinary certificate was not even looked at. I asked if it would be at one point. “Not here,” they answered me. “Maybe in England, if they’re aware that there’s a horse on the ferry. Otherwise no.” What? I thought. After all the trouble I went through to obtain those papers? 

I was unable to remain with my horse during the crossing. I left him a bucket of water, which he did not drink. He was still stressed, staring wide-eyed at his surroundings, but otherwise resigned to his fate. 

On the other side of the Channel, I was feeling quite relieved. As we were about to leave the terminal, we were stopped at the customs. Uh-oh, I thought, as an angry-looking lady stared in a very suspicious manner at the lorry, clearly calculating how many migrants we could have hidden there. She asked where we were going. I said “Devon.” Apparently, it was not the right answer because she looked even angrier and gestured us to go into a sort of hangar. 

Another lady came up to us. She asked us how long we would be staying in England. I explained that I would be remaining for several years at least. She remained polite but something in her manner changed. Hostility? I wondered if it had something to do with the fact that my last name is not European, and that I don’t really look French either. She started asking a lot of questions, such as where and what I would be studying, where I was staying, where my horse was staying. Then she asked me if I had filled in the sanitary forms. I thought she was talking about the vet certificate and proudly handed it to her. But no. She was talking about my sanitary form. Covid-19, blah, blah, blah… 

Strangely enough, I was the only one of the family who had to fill one. The majority of other cars and lorries had not been stopped and the passengers did not have to fill this form. It was supposedly to keep track of me in case a passenger was diagnosed with the coronavirus. But what use would it be if not everyone on the ferry had filled it? It felt arbitrary. I wonder if I would have had to fill it if I had not, in a way, been immigrating to the UK. The paranoia about migrants that was so palpable made me very uneasy, especially since it was laced with latent xenophobia. 

Several hundred kilometres later, we arrived at our destination. The night had fallen. The journey had lasted over 16 hours in total. We were all exhausted. My horse still had not drunk anything and barely eaten. My vet had warned me not to let him gorge himself on grass upon arrival, so I stayed with him for a few hours, taking him in and out of his field, breathing a sigh of relief when he finally drunk. The temperature difference was so great between France and Devon that I put a light travelling rug on him for the night. 

Looking back, I am glad we transported him ourselves. It enabled us to really keep an eye on him and I think it reassured him to have his “family” nearby. It probably helped him to understand that he was not being abandoned or cast away as he must have been more than once in his life. He was amazingly good during the journey, though it was hard on him. He clearly lost weight, in just one day. I questioned my decision to have put him through all this, but I could not face the alternative. 

Now we both have to adapt to our new life. Make new friends. And embark on a new adventure.