I’ve not been watching much of the Olympic Games because I’m not really a sports sort of person save for ‘Dancing Round the Kitchen When No One Is Watching’, ‘Extreme Gardening’ and ‘Trying Not To Ooof When Getting Up From Lying On The Floor.’ There’s been so much sport on TV recently - football, rugby, cricket, more football, repeats of football from the 1970s, 80s, 90s blah blah blah yaaaaaawn - that I’ve been finding other, far more interesting things to do with my time instead. Things like playing ‘Stick, Ribbon, Feather, Box’ with Bambino, ducking angry swallow parents, and continuing my mission to rid the world of nettles. It’s all important stuff.
However, I have been watching some of the coverage, namely gymnastics (I could do that if I had a bit more boing and a bit less fear of smacking my head on the ground), athletics, swimming and, most recently, horse riding.
Aaah, horse riding! Happy memories. I used to go horse riding as a child. Every Friday evening Mum would take my brother, sister and I to the local stables 5 minutes’ drive up the road where we would be left in the care of Eddie the Riding Instructor for an hour of walking on a horse (comfy), trotting on a horse (relatively comfy provided your thigh grip was secure), cantering on a horse (marginally panic-inducing, yet thrilling at the same time) and performing saddle exercises of enigmatic names such as ‘Around the World’ and ‘Thread the Needle.’ We also had tutoring in ‘Name Bits of the Horse,’ ‘Name Bits of Tack’, and ‘Name Bits of Grooming Equipment’ which I loved because I was, and still am, A Big Girly Swot.
My favourite horse to ride was a brown pony called Windy. He was ace - big hair and erring on the fluffy side - and my heart would soar when I was told he was to be my steed for the next hour. Second best was a large chestnut called Lady. She was gentle but huge. I slid off her once in a very elegant way when we were learning to ride without saddles. Climbing back on a very tall horse without the aid of a saddle is a tricky challenge. I can’t remember if I succeeded alone or if I required a leg up. Probably the latter.
My heart would plummet, though, if I was told to tack up either William or Jester. Jester was one part horse, three parts camel. He’d spend a lot of the lesson with his ears back, begrudgingly doing as he was told most of the time and leaving me feeling tense that occasionally he WOULDN’T do as he was told and something unexpected would happen that I would have to deal with, literally, on the hoof. Riding him always included a frisson of mild terror.
William, on the other hand, was plain lazy. He was a solid, black barrel of a pony and if he didn’t want to do something, like walk, for example, well - he wouldn’t. I remember going out on a hack with him once, part of which was down Easthall Hill which was VERY steep. (A few years ago, before we left Kent, I tried walking up Easthall Hill, for old times’ sake. Nearly died.)
Anyway, there we were, about ten of us, on our ponies (my sister was probably riding Mouse, because she always did, him being small and her being small also; my brother probably on Plum or Eskimo) and I was on William, bringing up the rear. Halfway down Easthall Hill, he stopped, to eat some horse poo, if I remember rightly. Because, yes, not only was he lazy, he was revolting, too. He dug his heels into the road and stopped. I dug my heels into his sides to get him moving. He ignored me. I tried again. He was in poo heaven. I might just have well not been there. Meanwhile the rest of the hack was disappearing down the hill and into the distance leaving me stuck on a fat, lazy and disgusting pony going nowhere fast.
I shouted loudly for help. Eddie the Riding Instructor shouted back up the hill - ‘Use your crop!’ I gave William a couple of cursory smacks on the backside which proved ineffectual because, basically, I didn’t approve of hitting horses to get them to do things. Eventually, Eddie came to my rescue, giving William a wallop which set him off with a start and gave me the most uncomfortable downhill fast trotting experience of my life because, by then, my thighs had lost any semblance of a grip and my legs were flailing in the wind. I hated that horse.
But horrid William aside, I enjoyed our riding lessons. I didn’t enjoy the time when I was putting James (large grey, a bit skittish) back into his stable, walking him in and turning him on wrong side so he squished me like a bug against the stable wall. Wasn’t his fault, though. Yes, horse riding was a good childhood experience. And now that I am thoroughly enjoying watching it on the telly, perhaps I should have another go myself…
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KJ