My Double Clear Round at a Beginner Novice Event

The best part of eventing is that a result can feel enormous even when every fence is small. At beginner novice level, the fences are modest, but the discipline is not: horse and rider must move through dressage, show jumping and cross-country with the same steady partnership throughout the day. A double clear means completing all three phases without refusals, falls or time penalties. It is a demanding standard, particularly when the competition ground is unfamiliar.

My round with Archie was one of those days when the result felt larger than the numbers on the score sheet. Nothing about the competition was glamorous. There were queues at the water trough, a damp patch beside the start, and a clubhouse sandwich that disappeared before my cross-country warm-up. Still, I left knowing exactly what I had achieved and which parts of the preparation had genuinely worked.

Building confidence before the flags

My preparation started with ordinary flatwork rather than a sudden increase in fence height. Archie needed to stay connected through the trot, move uphill into the canter and settle quickly when I asked for a transition. At beginner novice level, those basic movements can look less important because the jumps are approachable, yet a horse that is drifting or rushing will make every phase feel harder.

At home, we practised changes of direction in a field, using the leg rather than a stronger pull on the reins. I also worked on keeping Archie balanced around a pole on the ground. He tends to look sideways at anything unfamiliar, so I wanted him to understand that a marker should be treated as part of the exercise rather than something suspicious. Confidence came from repetition, not from pretending he was never worried.

During a lesson before the event, my coach set a tiny grid of fences in the indoor school. The exercise looked simple on paper, but I kept allowing Archie to take off too early and land underneath the next pole. She asked whether I could jump the fence before I needed to, then reminded me to look up and keep my hands still. That advice stayed with me for the rest of the season.

Our competition warm-up took place on grass beside a sand dressage arena. I walked Archie around the edge while the ground crew prepared the jumping arena. The boots went on, the fly rug came off and the noise of the tractor stopped him for a moment. Once he recognised the usual routine, I mounted and began with a few relaxed circles.

Finding rhythm in the dressage arena

The dressage phase began early, with the first competitors facing a low sun and the damp air still hanging over the western Sydney ground. The arena was long enough for us to pass a row of spectators before reaching the far end. I focused on the letters, the rhythm and Archie’s balance rather than the people standing behind the boundary.

I had entered a straightforward beginner novice test, but even simple work can expose small weaknesses. Archie hurried slightly through a transition and looked towards the vehicles outside the arena. Instead of correcting him immediately, I softened my hands and asked for the trot again. He came back to me, and that was the first moment I felt the pressure of the competition ease.

From the side of the arena, my coach called one reminder about my position: I was tipping forwards, especially when I tried to keep Archie straight. I sat taller, allowed my hips to follow and gave him more time to respond. The test was not a particularly memorable one, but it gave us a useful score and, more importantly, showed me that we could stay composed when the surroundings changed.

After the phase, Archie and I walked out through a strip of grass near the car park. I removed his bridle, checked his legs and drank half a bucket of water. There was time for a coffee and a look at the other competitors before the show jumping. For me, that quiet interval mattered. Eventing can become a series of disconnected tests when nerves take over, so I was trying to treat each phase as part of the same day’s work.

Treating the show jumping course as a conversation

The show jumping course was built inside the grass arena, with coloured poles and a few more substantial fences around the middle. At this level, the questions were about whether Archie could stay attentive and whether I could give him enough information. He can jump an awkward-looking fence very well when he feels balanced, so I spent more time on approach than I did on worrying about the height.

I rode a practice course first, then asked my coach to watch the line to the third fence. She suggested that I should keep Archie’s canter rhythm on the turn rather than trying to shorten the stride too much. It was an adjustment I had heard before, but watching him drift towards the inside of the arena made the advice obvious. We fixed the canter, and the next attempt looked far more fluent.

The course walked well on foot, which can be deceptive. The ground was soft in places, and the combination near the entrance asked for a confident canter through a change of direction. When my turn came, Archie felt the pressure. He shortened in front of the first fence, so I followed the coach’s earlier reminder and kept my eyes further ahead.

We jumped the whole show jumping course without a knockdown. My hands were probably still too busy, but I did not lose the rhythm, and Archie never stopped looking for the next fence. He had plenty of experience over small fixed fences, and that familiarity helped when the arena filled with spectators and the announcement system crackled overhead.

The score was not spectacular, but the jumping sheet stayed clean. Archie had finished the phase looking as though he could keep going. That was encouraging, especially before cross-country, where the obstacles would be fixed, solid and much less forgiving of hesitation.

Meeting the fixed fences at cross-country

Cross-country was the phase I had been thinking about all week. I knew the beginner novice course had been designed for riders and horses still developing their technique, but I also knew that riding into a solid fence is different from negotiating a knock-down pole. Archie needed to place his feet, remain balanced over uneven ground and trust me when I asked him to keep straight.

The course included a small drop, a table with a wide fence in front, a house-shaped obstacle and a series of logs. There was a water complex too, with a shallow crossing and a second ask just beyond it. I walked the course twice, partly to check the flags and partly to stop myself from inventing difficulties that were not there. Once I had identified the important questions, I tried to put them out of my mind and concentrate on riding.

Our warm-up was brief because the rain had started earlier and the ground was becoming heavy. Archie was fresh enough, but the air felt close. I chose not to rush him through too many fences and instead let him trot quietly until his breathing settled. My coach reminded me to ride positively without turning the approach into a flat-out gallop.

I cannot remember every stride of the round. What I remember is Archie’s ears moving forward as we approached the table, the sensation of his body coming up underneath me, and then the next fence appearing exactly where I had expected it. I stayed in the saddle, kept my lower leg secure and allowed him room to judge the ground.

We came through the finish with time to spare. There were no refusals, no fall and no time penalty, so the cross-country sheet was clear as well. Archie jogged out towards the lorry, shaking his head with satisfaction. I was relieved, but mostly I was impressed by how professionally he had done the job after a long day.

Why the whole day mattered

A double clear is usually discussed through its individual parts: a good dressage score, a clean jumping round and a fast cross-country time. That is how the result is recorded, anyway. In practice, the achievement felt more like keeping an emotional thread through the entire day. The same horse needed to be attentive in the dressage arena, careful over the coloured poles and confident beside the fixed fences.

The preparation involved far more than competition riding. I had short lessons, ordinary schooling sessions, stable chores and conversations with other riders about boots, rugs and tack. At an Australian event, it is normal to pack a great deal into the car: hay, buckets, a spare bridle, a first-aid kit, water for the horse and lunch for the humans. Local stockists make it easy to replace a missing item, but the most useful equipment is often the boring equipment kept in the back of the ute.

I also appreciated the practical rhythm of a pony club competition. Organisers rely on volunteers, families arrive early to set out the rails and the canteen serves inexpensive food rather than a formal banquet. Riders share water, compare rounds and offer advice that is usually friendly and occasionally too much. After collecting my number, I sat on an upturned crate near the warm-up area and watched other competitors tackle the same fences Archie had just cleared.

The result became something I could build upon without changing too much at once. I could work on my position in the dressage phase, practise a more consistent canter to the coloured poles and plan my approach to the water complex. The double clear was not the end of a particular training block. It was evidence that Archie and I had developed enough trust to tackle a course that required both precision and composure.

Taking the lesson back to the yard

Back at home, Archie’s reward was a thorough brush-down and a check of the legs that had worked over the fixed fences. I washed the boots and put the tack away, then looked through the photos my coach had taken during the warm-up. One photograph showed me sitting much deeper than I had felt. Another showed Archie stretching over a fence with a patient expression that I liked to see.

That evening, I recorded the result and the details of the day while they were fresh. Competition memories are surprisingly slippery. The score sheet gives you numbers, but it does not record the damp grass, the sound of the announcements, the queue for the toilets or the exact moment when you decided to trust your horse. Those details are worth keeping because they explain how the result was achieved.

The next training session began with no jumping at all. We worked on the trot, the canter and Archie’s willingness to hold a straight line. A double clear can encourage overconfidence, so I wanted to return to the fundamentals rather than immediately chasing a faster time or a bigger fence. Archie had done a good job at the event, and the best response was to treat that good work as part of an ongoing partnership.

Since then, I have continued writing about the ordinary days between competitions in my riding stories. The double clear remains one of the milestones I measure my progress against. More importantly, I now have a clearer understanding of what it takes: patient preparation, sensible decisions in the warm-up and the confidence to stay connected with the horse when the flags, the crowds and the solid fences make their demands.