Horsing Around

So we thought this trip to the Hunter Valley we would do what every brochure suggests: horseback-riding (far more comfortable than horse-front riding). Tanja had ridden several times before, but my experience was limited. By limited, I might add, I mean that once at the Fredericton Exhibition I was led around in a circle on a pony named Marshmallow. I was 5. So I approached this morning with trepidation.
We, and three other couples (all three women were blonde. Strange) were given our horses and saddled up. Tanja got a grey dapple, and I got a gold/strawberry blonde gelding with, erm, an attitude. Not a bad attitude, per se, but just the sort of manner where he'd decide to stop and then not move. Or slow down and down and down until Tanja's horse behind me was nearly nose-to-tail with mine. Essentially, the horse was trying it on whenever he could, and if he could get away with it? All the better. According to the head rider (who needed to readjust my saddle as my horse had “puffed hisself up when the girth was tightened, then relaxed so youse'll slide around”), this particular horse needed me to keep an eye on him, as he's “cunninger than a shithouse rat, he is”. I dubbed him Smartarse. He did eventually settle down; the head rider gave me a tip to wallop the horse with the reins and “give him a kick in the belly” when he dawdled. After my first tentative attempt, the head rider piped up with “'At's a half-ton 'a horse! You're not gonna hurt 'im! Give 'im a whack!” And I did. And he, contrary to what I thought he would do (buck me over a nearby fence, trample me to death, go to tea), he responded. Go figure.
So Smartarse and I travelled along. Tanja spoke later about how she had to adjust her mind from driving a car to riding on living creature. As I've never driven or rode before, my issue was learning to communicate with Smartarse. Mostly, I spoke to him the way I was speaking to a dog I was trying to cajole. Now, before I come off as the Horse Whisperer, I have no idea if this was having any effect. Essentially, I found horse riding to be similar to sailing or driving a motorboat; you're constantly over-steering and then steering back, always making minor adjustments to keep on a general straight line. How people can do this with just their knees eludes me.
About 45 minutes into the ride, and after Smartarse and negotiated a short trot (we trotted for about 15 seconds, then he stumbled, snorted, slowed down, and returned to a walk, snorting again if I tried to move him faster. Alrighty then) it started to rain. A slight drizzle at first, which didn't bother us. We all had jackets or hoodies on, and the helmets kept off the worst of it. Then it started to pour. And pour. Then the wind picked up. We, and by default, the horses, became quickly drenched from head to toe/hoof. At one point, when the downpour became even heavier, Smartarse turned, against the reins, and put his head towards a nearby fence. I looked up, and without a signal or a sound, all the other horses were pointed the same way, parallel to Smartarse. They had put their, and by default, our, backs to the storm.
While we waited, I had the bright idea to pull up my hood over the helmet. This made sense, bar one fact. A well-woven hood is, in essence, a cup made of fabric. This cup had been hanging down my back during our ride. And it was full. You know the feeling when you're so soaked you can't get any more soaked? Rubbish. There is always more,and colder, soaked to get.
We trekked onwards in the rain, until the head rider called a halt. He said that we were turning back early due to the inclement weather. We had no complaints for the lost 25 minutes or so, as we had all noticed the horses stumbling, snorting, and generally feeling miserable. So back we went.
My one near fall came on the dismount, when a slippery stirrup had me scrambling for a second, but that was the closest I came. Tanja and I hopped into the non-alive vehicle we had brought, drove home with the heater on (the rain had of course, stopped at this point). We arrived back at the cottage, left the doors open to air out the soaked seats, and went inside to a hot bath*. Afterwards, we got dressed in dry clothes and went for lunch about as relaxed as we'd ever been. So good day.
*Said bath was briefly interrupted when we heard the ran start again. Say what you want for gender politics and chivalry in a post-feminist world, it was yours truly who had to throw on a towel, run out into the rain, slam he car doors and run back inside. Sir Walter bloody Raleigh, I am.