Checking back in after the Wales horse-riding experience...

It has been painfully brought home to me that to enjoy horse-riding you've actually got to really like horses, not just be indifferent or ambivalent about them. It's not that I don't like the blasted things, I do feel a kind of objective respect for them-- after all they can run, jump and shit better than I ever could-- it's just that I don't have the necessary tenderness and sensitivity to animals in order to ride them well.

Riding is a very psychological exercise. You must like the horse and the horse must like you. This means maintaining a continuous stream of encouragement like 'Good boy, Snowball', 'C'mon boy' and 'Very good, Snowball!' I cannot bring myself to talk to a horse. The most I can say is, 'please please stop eating grass and let's move!' You must pat it, stroke it, yet keep a tight rein and your heels around the thing to show it who's master. You must dig your heels into its ribs repeatedly, and learn to tell when it is peeing or shitting so you can stand clear.

Something I wasn't very good at.

It is surprisingly difficult to tell if a horse is resting, stopping to shit, or just plain being stubborn because, being mounted, you obviously cannot see the bottom of the horse. The sudden blast of country fragrance following the pause is the only way to tell. If I seem to be overemphasising a certain bodily function let me assure that the one thing horse movies/books don't mention is how bloody often they do it. And how much of it there is.

The countryside was very pretty, but more P.G.Wodehouse than J.R.R. Tolkien. No waterfalls this time round, but we did 'ford' some babbling brooks and rushing streams. It was a rugged trail and the horse (Snowball) spent more time picking its way past the stone-littered climbing paths (somewhat reluctantly I thought, but then I'm no horse psychologist) than cantering past magnificent views. We did see some rolling hills and dales and fields and pretty stone churches and many many sheep. I did more trotting than cantering and no galloping at all (what do you think I am, Liv Tyler?) and after 5 hours, I'm happy I didn't go any faster-- as it is I could barely sit the next day.

Two hours in the hot tub at the cottage soon cured that (maybe the jugs of Pimms helped too), and here I am in London, £155 lighter, and all country-ed out. The company was pleasant overall, and the food fantastic. The guy who runs the place is a former chef. All in all, a moderately enjoyable weekend. But I'm not a big fan of horseriding-- I probably wouldn't do it again unless I bring Gloria next time.

Oh yes, and I did fall off once. But it didn't hurt. I landed with a soft squelch.