sixteen hands between my legs
God I miss horses. It’s a bloody evil addiction which sneaks up on you when you’re not looking. I’ve been delivering no1 daughter to riding school for four weeks now and I can tell there’s no point in fighting this.
Off she went this morning and the urge to grab the (perfectly suitable for me, 15 hands cob) horse from her and jump on was overwhelming. Then she was pootling round the indoor school and I (ex-riding instructor) was hissing ‘heels DOWN’ every time she came past and willing her to tighten her reins.
Fortunately logic gave me a poke in the ribs (well, Rory started yelling loudly that THIS PLACE SMELLS AN AWFUL LOT LIKE POO) and I realised this is her time, not mine, and I made a silent exit from the viewing gallery to daydream over the following.
If you didn’t get bitten with the pony bug as a child, the sight of a wheelbarrow and a muck heap is unlikely to do it for you. But for those of you who remember weekends spent doing anything, anything to help and feel important at riding school, and for those of you blessed with a horse filled childhood, you’ll get this.
I’m booking myself on a beach ride next week. Photos to follow. (Yippee)