Bent in Svinninge
Over the years, I have gathered many stories from my life with horses and have written about several of the people I have met along the way. Not every story has a “happy ending,” but every life has its conclusion, and each one is unique. The man I want to write about today chose how his story would end – and even though the ending was deeply sorrowful, his story is not. Life has an end, but it is up to us to make the journey worth living.
Today, I want to tell you about Bent in Svinninge, a man I got to know when I lived in Denmark. He is worth remembering, and lately, memories of him have been surfacing again and again. While searching for some old pictures, I came across one where Bent was plowing with his two horses—both offspring of my stallion Mackay. I also recently ordered two new wheels for a stallion gig I once bought from Bent. It almost feels like he wants me to tell his story.
I had been living in Kalundborg, Denmark, for a few years, running a boarding stable for horses. One of my clients was a woman who had recently moved from her farm and was looking for a new home. She rented several stalls from me, and during that time, she had one of her mares bred to Mackay. The foal turned out beautifully, and when Bent saw it, he decided he wanted to breed his mare to Mackay as well.
One day, without any warning, he showed up with his mare.
“Well, she’s in heat now, so I might as well leave her here,” he said matter-of-factly.
Luckily, I had a stall available, but I was certainly caught off guard. That was Bent in a nutshell—everything at full speed, nothing left to chance. He was hardworking, meticulous, and always had something new in the works. We became good friends, and soon, I was invited to visit his incredible farm.
Bent ran a dairy farm, but he also had horses, magnificent carriages, and harnesses—all in pristine condition. When I first met him, he was alone, handling everything himself, but later, he found a woman as energetic as he was. Together, they built their home into something truly special. He eventually phased out the dairy business to focus more on carriage driving. He and his wife offered wedding and graduation carriage rides, and he had a particular white wedding carriage that was stunningly beautiful. It was an enormous undertaking, so they bought a truck to transport both the horses and the carriage.
Bent loved everything fun, and one of my most vivid memories is of a Midsummer celebration at his place. He had invited all his friends—at least 50 people. He had slaughtered a cow and hired a chef to grill it on the farmyard. The weather was perfect, warm and pleasant. In Denmark, it is tradition to light a bonfire on Midsummer, and Bent had gathered an enormous pile of branches to set ablaze. Dressed in an immaculate white suit, he hesitated briefly before lighting the fire—concerned that it might be too dry and that the flames could get out of control. But Bent was Bent, and once he made up his mind, things happened fast.
The fire caught immediately and became larger than expected. In the next instant, Bent regretted lighting it. Without hesitation, he leaped into the flames and stomped feverishly on the embers until he managed to put the fire out—all without getting a single mark on his white suit! We were left speechless before bursting into laughter. It was just so typical of him—impulsive, decisive, and fearless.
Sometimes, Bent ended up with too many horses, and I helped him sell some, even after I moved to Sweden. His horses were large, beautiful, and always easy to sell.
Then everything changed. His wife fell ill and passed away from cancer. The loss was devastating, and without her, it became difficult for Bent to continue his carriage-driving business—he had no one to help him. He started selling off his carriages and donated some to a museum. That was when I bought my gig from him.
One day, he asked me to help him find new homes for his remaining horses. He admitted it was getting harder and harder for him to keep up. He had undergone hip surgery and could no longer run—something that clashed with his entire way of life. Bent was used to things moving at 190 km/h, but now everything was slowing down. Too slow.
Two weeks after I had picked up the last of his horses, I received the news that Bent had chosen to leave this world.
He never wanted to be a burden to anyone, and in true Bent fashion, he made sure things happened on his own terms—just as he always had.
It hurts to think about, but one thing I know for sure: Bent lived more in his lifetime than most people do in twice the time. I will never forget him.
