David Foster belonged to a vanishing species. He was a country gentleman, mannerly and courteous, loyal to Ireland, loyal to his family, loyal to the old ways of the land. He was the guardian of certain traditions which he would never have spoken of, but which were embodied in him, and which were ineffably Irish: courage, duty, humour, a certain recklessness, a good deal of self-mockery, a great deal of dedication.
The stock he came from is sometimes derisively called horse-Protestant. He would have enjoyed the jibe, and accepted it. Yes, he was a Protestant, yes he was a horseman; nothing to be ashamed of there. He cut no dash at being other than what he was - a man of the land, raised to reverence for horses and horsemanship, for equestrian skills and the bottomless courage of the horse world.
Perils of riding
Nobody in that world doubts the perils that await on either side of the saddle or over the horse's nape. There is hardly a serious rider who has never had a major fall, hardly a rider who does not know of a friend paralysed or killed in the sport that is their lives. They barely speak of courage, these people, as the rest of us barely speak of the air that we breathe. David was such a person. He took courage for granted, in the manner of his forebears, the manner of his caste.
He was not a man to make statements about himself or his country. He was too full of whimsical irony to be caught out in grandiloquence; but there was a deep sense of purpose to him, as there had to be. It was in his blood. His forebears had served with distinction in Irish regiments and one of them wrote an eloquent and insightful diary during his time on the Western Front with the Leinsters.
His stock might once have been unionist in the old days, but there was nothing hyphenated about David's Irishness. He was not Anglo-Irish, simply Irish, and he did the most natural thing in the world when he joined the Army. Of course, he was a member of the equitation school, but serving in the Army wasn't just a career opportunity for him to enjoy horses at the expense of the rest of us. He was proud to wear the soldier's uniform of the land he loved, and he served the Army loyally and well - as you would expect for, as I say, he was a gentleman. He would never have been found with the word "honour" on his lips; but honour guided him through his life.
He met and married an East Belfast girl, Denise (Sneezy). They seemed an absurdly perfect couple: he handsome, debonair, unfailingly kind and attentive, she blonde and striking with laughter bubbling out of her like water from a wellspring, and she bore three lovely children, Jessie, Lucy and Nick. The star of fortune seemed to have settled upon their house in Meath: beauty, charm, success were their constant companions.
Hard work
Such companionship is earned only by hard work, and David and Sneezy worked hard. As a rider with the Army, he was extremely successful; he was perhaps unlucky not have been an Olympic medallist. He won both the Spanish three-day event in Madrid and the World Military Showjumping Championship, and success became a habit, though you would never know it from his manner. He was quick with the self-deprecatory remark and slow to lose that whimsical smile which was the natural condition of his face in repose.
He left the Army about 10 years ago, and set out on his own. We have heard a great deal about the enterprise culture which has taken root in this country in the past decade, but David and his stock have been embodiments of enterprise culture for generations. Raising and training horses is a risk business. Days begin at dawn; horses have to be fed and minded, walked and watched; and most of all they have to be sold. A bad horse bought can undo a successful year; and various manges and distempers bide by the stable door to bring ruin to those unlucky or unskilled in the ways of the horse.
David was as good in this world as he was a soldier. It is a world calling for self-discipline, patience, courage, hard work, honesty: qualities which came naturally to him. But eventing is not something one can do into old age, and after competing in more than 100 three-day events, he had directed his stables more to point-to-pointing and steeplechasing.
Of course, competing is not something those drawn to the horse world can easily leave behind. It is a strangely addictive pastime, with very particular requirements which David had in full - drive, gentleness, bravery, delicacy of hand combined with enormous physical strength. He was back at the horse trials last weekend with Denise and his three young children when his horse fell at a fence and killed him. Death seems to have been instantaneous.
That he did not suffer is something. But it is a purely negative consolation, because those who knew him know that we have lost something unique. It was not just his humour, or that ready smile which lay in his eyes, so that even now as I write this, it seems simply incredible that that light has gone from them; nor was it all the other qualities which I have spoken of already, and which are to be found in many in his world.
Irreplaceable decency
What there was in David that is irreplaceable was decency. It was not just the common but still admirable decency of his stock, the decency of the plain Irish countryman and countrywoman, which has been bred over generations of people who have to co-exist. He had that, certainly; but he had it in a kind of super-abundant supply. It shone from him in a crowd; it showed in his face like a glow of goodness; you had the feeling that if you faced a crisis, he would the first to go your aid, at whatever personal cost to himself.
Now he is gone, and the thought is past bearing, and equally past believing. He has returned to the Meath soil which he so often graced on horseback, and none shall ever see the like of his smile again. But we who had the privilege of knowing him can honestly say that once upon a time, we knew a true Irish gentleman.