If you pack your bags for a riding holiday in Ireland, throw in a pair of sensible walking shoes for a day trip to the Irish National Stud & Gardens in County Kildare. Stunning stallions, living legends, and the Irish Racehorse Experience await you.

For under 20 Euros per person, last summer four riding friends and I enjoyed the grounds of a working breeding farm and Japanese gardens, and also experienced racehorse ownership in a simulation in which we bought, trained and “rode” our charges to the finish line.

“There are two big things people visit specifically for: the horse—not one particular horse—but to get up close and personal with them, and the Japanese gardens,” says Ellen Mitchell of the Irish National Stud. She explains that the gardens are over 100 years old, and the farm is rich in heritage and horticultural history.

Mares, Foals and Living Legends

“You could be looking at a future [Epsom] Derby or Grand National winner, or a very expensive lawn mower,” said Gavin, our tour guide, as we gazed at a verdant pasture of mares and adorable foals.

In the spring of 2022, an incredible 319 foals were born at the Irish National Stud. Horse owners trailer in their mares to foal at the maternity hospital, and every year 30 equine veterinary students from around the globe are there to assist the deliveries. A colostrum bank and nursery paddocks ensure all foals are nurtured attentively during their early days.

Visitors can get up close and personal with retired hurdlers (steeplechase racehorses) in the Living Legends pasture. We leaned along the fence watching Beef and Salmon, a fan favorite, whose name was reportedly inspired by a wedding menu choice. Then there was Faugheen, nicknamed “The Machine,” nibbling tender sprigs of green. Beef and Salmon won close to 1 million Euros during his career, while Faugheen was over the million mark.

The small herd captured my attention because I assumed they were all stallions turned out together. But I learned that male hurdlers are always geldings, since jump races are longer—up to 4 miles—and geldings can sustain focus for a longer timeframe than a stallion.

Irish National Stud Stallions

The premier stallion standing at the Irish National Stud is a 26-year-old dark bay Thoroughbred named Invincible Spirit. He’s sired more than 20 Group 1 winners, the highest level of Irish racing.

A statue carved out of an 18-ton block of limestone commemorates him. His sire, Green Desert, covered mares until age 28, and his grandsire, Danzig, until age 27. Needless to say, longevity runs in the family.

Seven other majestic stallions, each with his own logo and stall with skylights, call the Irish National Stud home. The original farm owner believed in astrology, recording each foal’s birth in conjunction with the night sky, determining whether to keep or sell the horses according to the stars.

Irish Racehorse Experience

The Irish Racehorse Experience is an attraction that recently won a prestigious Thea award, given out by the Themed Entertainment Association. We stepped into a white modern farmhouse building to experience the virtual thrill of owning a racehorse, and were each given headsets and a device about the size of an iPad.

An introductory film on a life-size, horse-shaped screen greeted us first, then we headed to an auction simulation and “bought” our own Irish racehorses. I fell for a gray filly named Cool Colonnade. After the auction, we selected the best training programs for our Thoroughbreds. We had to be budget-conscious, as we were allotted only a certain amount of pretend currency for training.

The device screen listed the types of programs we could get, each one with a different fee. For example, it was 200 for beach gallops to have the “sea wind and soft sand put a spring in the step.” For another 200, I opted for treadmill training (“your horse needs to stay the distance”). I paid 150 for pampering, because I would enjoy that myself, so why not splurge on my pretend horse?

Following the rigorous training, we designed our own jockey silks. Mine were lime and emerald green with a Charlie Brown V-shaped pattern on the torso. I had more fun designing my racing silks than was necessary for a fake race.

The culmination of our racehorse ownership at the Irish National Stud was a race. We mounted simulators and faced a screen showing the racetrack. My gray filly came in dead last. At least I had fun riding in my first and last horse race!

Before we wrapped up our day, we ambled through the vibrant Japanese gardens and took a few selfies. We left with snacks, dozens of photos, and fun-filled memories.

If travel plans lead you to Ireland, add a day to your itinerary, jaunt off to Kildare and tour the Irish National Stud & Gardens. It’s located just 45 minutes from Dublin and two hours from Waterford, Cork and Galway.

Visit irishnationalstud.ie to learn more about a visit to the Irish National Stud & Gardens.

This article about the Irish National Stud & Gardens appeared in the April 2023 issue of Horse Illustrated magazine. Click here to subscribe!

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She’s pregnant,” I called triumphantly over my shoulder to my technician.

She was writing down notes for me in my daybook so that I could transcribe them into my computer records that evening. “Right horn. Sixteen days. Single vesicle.”

The owners, Carl and Celia, were standing nearby. Celia’s face lit up, but Carl snorted.

“I know Maggie’s pregnant! That mare always lets me know when she’d bred. This ultrasound thing is just a waste of time, if you ask me.”

I raised my eyebrows at Carl, then looked over at Celia, who was still clasping her hands tightly.

“She’s really pregnant, Celia!”

“Oh, thank goodness,” she exhaled. “I’ve been an absolute mess since we scheduled you to come check her. Thank you so much, Dr. Diehl. You’re really an amazing veterinarian!”

I laughed.

“I think the stud and Maggie did all the work this time. I’m just the bearer of good news.”

Celia patted my shoulder.

“Well, you got her all fixed up so she could get pregnant one last time. I don’t know how to thank you!”

“Well, you’ve spent enough on vet bills,” grumbled Carl. “That should be thanks enough.”

Celia swatted him.

“Now that’s enough, Carl. Say ‘thank you’ to Dr. Diehl, and go on back to the house.”

Carl turned to me soberly.

“Thank you to Dr. Diehl and go on back to the house.”

I hid a smile as he shuffled off, hands in the pockets of his overalls whistling tunelessly as he headed toward an old Victorian farmhouse. A black-and-white dog slunk from the shadows and fell into step behind him.

My assistant was cleaning up my machine and gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up, then mimed wiping sweat off her forehead. I’d been nothing but the bringer of bad news for the last four months while we tried to get Maggie bred with cooled shipped semen. The broodmare had had a lot of difficulties conceiving.

Broodmare Difficulties

It had been a rough time, and between Carl’s dry comments, Celia’s disappointment and my own frustration, I’d wanted to quit many times. It was even worse having to send bills. The checks always arrived promptly, written in Celia’s cheerful script, and I just wanted to hide them away in my daybook.

Maggie was normally an easy breeder, but I’d inseminated her twice this season without any luck. She’d developed an infection in her uterus, and I had to spend another few weeks treating her and cleaning the infection out.

She was an older mare, and realistically this would be the last season we’d try to breed her. Celia had been distraught over the long chain of misadventures, as she desperately wanted one last foal out of Maggie. Another stud was available at a nearby farm, and I’d suggested live-covering Maggie this last time rather than doing another attempt with artificial insemination.

Maggie was trailered to the farm and stayed for three days. We waited until the 16-day mark to check Maggie, and neither Celia nor I had slept much during those last few weeks. Of course, Carl claimed he was sleeping like a baby and wasn’t one bit worried. He scoffed at us when we complained about our lack of sleep and muttered that it was good that at least someone had some sense in this equation.

When Words Aren’t Enough

Beyond the broodmare with difficulties, Celia had some other horses for us to see, and as we worked our way through her list, my mind kept returning to Maggie and the beautiful image of her pregnancy on my ultrasound screen. I’d worried and fretted and obsessed about this for so long, and it felt like Christmas had come early. My emotions were all over the place, and I kept smiling and chuckling to myself randomly as my assistant and I checked sore legs and bandaged cuts.

There was one damper on my mood though. That darn Carl could have at least said something nice or shown just a little appreciation, I thought. He’d given me a hard time over the last few months, and it would have been nice if he’d at least seemed pleased.

I was placing a few stitches in a cut on a gray mare’s muzzle when the same black-and-white dog I’d seen following Carl appeared. He nudged Celia’s leg, then plunked himself down at her feet and whimpered once.

“Patch, what are you doing out here?” said Celia. She looked at me. “That’s odd. Patch never leaves Carl’s side.”

I frowned.

“That is odd. Do we need to go check on Carl?” She nodded.

“I think I will. Are you OK here for a minute?” We assured Celia that we’d be fine, and she left, then returned quickly.

“Well his truck’s gone, but I don’t know where he went. And why he left Patch behind is anyone’s guess. He takes that dog everywhere!”

After a while I heard the roar of an old truck rumble up the road. Patch jumped to his feet and shot under a gate. A door opened and clunked shut, something banged and thudded, and then there was a slam of another door.

“That’d be Carl,” said Celia. “What on earth is he up to now?”

We all headed outside. Carl was disappearing into the house, and I stopped short at a flash of color visible through the driver’s window of my truck.

My entire front seat was filled with flowers. Mixed bouquets of daisies, roses, carnations, lilies and daffodils were jumbled in a heap and spilling onto the floor.

Celia peeked over my shoulder.

“Oh, that man will be the death of me. I swear, just when I’ve had it with him, he goes and does something like this.” She nudged me. “Look, there’s a card!”

I pulled the little envelope free and slid out a stiff white square of heavy paper. There were just two words on the card, written in a shaky script.

“Thank you.”

This Vet Adventures column about broodmare difficulties appeared in the June 2020 issue of Horse Illustrated magazine. Click here to subscribe!

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