Mares, Mums & Marzipan: The Real Gallop Behind Mother’s Day in Ireland

Mother’s Day in Ireland is one of those curious traditions that seems as old as the hills, but when you start digging, it turns out it’s more of a well-worn bridle than an ancient relic. It’s been polished up, rebranded and trotted out with a fresh rug every few decades. Still, we love it — and let’s be honest, it’s a rare excuse to get breakfast in bed, flowers we didn’t buy ourselves, and maybe even an uninterrupted bath (though the odds are better on a win at Punchestown).

Originally, Mother’s Day in Ireland had absolutely nothing to do with Mums. It came from the Christian tradition of “Mothering Sunday”, which, unlike your own mother, doesn’t ask if you’ve been eating enough vegetables. This was the fourth Sunday of Lent, when servants were given the day off to return to their “mother church” — the one they were baptised in, rather than the one that still hasn’t repaired the roof. While they were at it, they'd visit their actual mothers and, with any luck, bring a simnel cake — a light fruit cake with a marzipan layer, often decorated with eleven balls to represent the apostles, minus the famously dodgy Judas. Bit of an odd treat, but then again, some of us like polos and stable-sweepings, so who are we to judge?

Fast-forward to the 20th century, and the idea of honouring mothers in a more commercial (read: chocolate-scented and flower-wrapped) way galloped over from the United States. Ireland and the UK took the bones of the original religious custom and saddled it with Hallmark cards, daffodils, and a new lease of sentimental life. Now we mark it with lie-ins, roasts, and hopefully, a glass of something bubbly before midday. But what does Mother’s Day look like for equestrian women? The ones who spend their lives knee-deep in muck, driving horseboxes at 7am on a Sunday, and shouting “heels down” at their offspring like it’s a holy chant?

Well, the traditional version includes the usual rituals — a homemade card, perhaps a slapdash breakfast, maybe a sad tulip or two wilting in the hallway vase. But the equestrian version? Let’s be honest, it needs its own flavour. So here’s where we propose a few new traditions, especially for the horsey mums of Ireland.

First, the “Tack Cleaning Amnesty”. One glorious day a year, mothers shall not be expected to clean anything sticky, hairy or mysteriously crusty. Instead, the children — supervised or not — will be handed a sponge, some saddle soap and told to get scrubbing. If a bridle is reassembled backwards, so be it. It’s the effort that counts. Maybe.

Then there’s the “Cup of Tea and Fence Sitting Hour”, in which horsey mums are allowed to sit quietly on the nearest jump, cup in hand, without being asked to help load a pony, plait a tail, or find someone’s missing glove. Interruptions are punishable by having to scrub the inside of the water trough with a toothbrush.

We also suggest the “Mane and Tail Spa Experience”, where instead of booking into a fancy hotel, the mum gets to shampoo and condition her favourite horse without someone shouting “We’re late!” or turning on the hose while she’s crouched over the bucket. A Zen-like experience — until the horse rolls in a puddle five minutes later, obviously.

And lastly, the crowning glory: the “Ride of Silence (Except for Cursing at Gates)”. A peaceful solo hack where no one talks, no one asks questions, and the only sound is the rhythmic plod of hooves — and the occasional frustrated mutter as she wrestles with a rusty gate latch. Bliss.

In the end, whether it’s celebrated with a roast dinner, a slightly burned piece of toast in bed, or a few new yard-themed rituals, Mother’s Day is just a moment to stop and appreciate the women who make it all happen. The ones who have plaited your ponies, stitched your show jackets, driven you to lessons, picked you up when you fell (literally and figuratively), and somehow still find time to muck out their own lives with one hand and yours with the other.

So this year, let’s tip our riding hats to the horsey mums of Ireland — covered in mud, smelling faintly of Fly Spray No.5, and always trotting three strides ahead of the chaos.

Happy Mother’s Day. You deserve a rosette just for making it this far.