The London Conoco [oil company] Friday-pubbing group decided to hire a self-drive mini-bus and take off to Exmoor in Devon, S.W. England, for a (ahem, before dark only) healthy weekend horse riding.
Step One on the first morning involved getting us paired up with our own horses. The smallest horse they could find for me was a mare called Duchess. There was something about her that made me a bit nervous, particularly the look in her eyes.
She was still a little too big for me: they had to get me a stool to stand on just to get my foot into the stirrup. Even then, one of the grooms had to give my derrière a shove to heave me up into the saddle.
We were taught the rudiments: how to hold the reins; how to raise our backsides — up down, up down, up down — in time with the horse’s clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop, which is hard work, requiring strong leg muscles.
Finally, we were ready to leave the stable yard, led by a groom. Within no time at all, we left the open road and entered a forested area.
I very soon found out that Duchess was a mare in more ways than one.
While the other horses followed the path between the pine trees, Duchess decided to show me who was boss. (She must’ve sensed my nervousness in the stable yard. I understand that animals can sense, or smell, that you’re afraid of them.)
She took me through the trees, with branches sticking out horizontally, some coming down to my face level. Branches she’d walked through (and thus pushed forward) would whip back and scratch my face.
Worse (because of the cost factor, especially if the lens got scratched), I had around my neck a Pentax camera with a metal lens cap, unfortunately not attached by a cord — like how skis are to the ankles, in case one falls over and the skis unclip, so that they don’t go careering down the slopes. One of those pine tree branches also whipped it off, so I lost that for good, as I couldn’t go back for it unaided (to get me off the horse, then back on). Besides, the others were some distance ahead by then, so I was already lagging behind.
At the end of that wooded section, we emerged into an open field. One of the riders suddenly spurred his horse on, and went into a gallop. All the other horses immediately followed suit, including Duchess.
Problem was: I’d only been taught a short while back how to stay in the saddle at a walking pace, and was just about managing that.
As Duchess charged forth to keep up with the other horses, I clung on to the horn of the saddle with all my life.
All of a sudden, Duchess came to a dead halt, which nearly catapulted me over her head. Lurching forward, my face was almost buried in her mane. I managed not to fall off by grasping big handfuls of hair — hers, not mine.
Then, she lowered her head as if to nibble at the grass on the ground, pitching me even further forwards.
Just as I was congratulating myself for not sliding down her neck, she turned her head round to face my left foot, and bared her teeth just inches away from my toes.
That was when I gave up trying to be brave, and cried out, “Help me, help me!” Duchess looked up and gave me a withering look, “What are you on about, you silly mare!”
It turned out she was only trying to scratch an itch in that part of her neck.
I am convinced, though, to this day that she knew how scared I was of her right from the start, and decided to have some fun with this total wimp of a novice.
(Devon, England, 1977)
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