Vaya-ing Con Dios

The last few days have passed in a blur of Christmas cheer-ing and anticipation. As things wound down, I now realise that I was busily— quietly— winding myself up. Not in the Irish sense [teasing] but rather in the American sense [obsessing].

I do believe I’m nervous.

Not Quite Adios…

FIVE DAYS TO SPAIN Well, I started packing on Saturday. I got excited.

As well as liking to be as organised as possible. I ordered new jodhs from the UK that actually arrived yesterday, so I won’t disgrace myself— my favourite pair is going from broken-in to just broken. There’s one last mend in them, and then they’re goners. I think I may save them, though, a talisman against the purchase of a horse. I imagine myself mucking out in these old faithfuls, too holey to ride in, but sacred nevertheless.

There I go again, investing magical powers in inanimate objects.

I’ve got a new whip, a brand new one, not a found object, although I’ll be bringing that one, too. Should I bring both pair of boots? Long- and short-sleeved shirts, and my lightweight anorak. Every pair of knickers I own. I need to buy more socks today… And this is not to mention the civvies, I think we’re taking excursions into Seville, and there may be handsome single men on this trip.

Bwahahahahahahahaha.

But then you never know, and it would serve me right.

I tend to travel light. I can go to the States— and have done— with a seriously compact wheelie bag, for a fortnight. The bag has gotten bigger, though, since I’ve started bringing my riding clobber along. This will be the biggest bag yet, as my hat is included, and oh! they have a pool! Not that a swimming costume will tip the balance, but there’s the swim hat, the goggles, my water-proof iPod case, water-proof headphones…

How’d I get so high maintenance?

Yup. It Works.

‘You rode Rebel really well last week!’ One of the eight-year-olds beamed up at me. I beamed down at her. Today was raw, the sky low and grey, but there was a thrilling lack of gale force winds, and having had a break on Tuesday, I was looking forward to Reb and trying out my new skill.

When he was given to someone else, I knew what was coming.

Reeking of Sentiment

All the petty annoyances of the day— from the moment I set foot on the pavement in the morning, to the traffic on the road to the stable that evening— every single one disintegrated from the first whiff of the yard, that acrid bouquet of mud, shit and piss clearing them all away.

Is she serious?

Mind and Matter

I’m still thinking about Saturday.

I can still see it happening: coming round at the A end, Bounty just ahead, and yup, there she goes, dancing to the right, and here we go, Rebel leaping, skitting, starting to buck, maybe bucking, and somewhere between the skit and the all-but-buck, I sat back. I can still feel it my body: my leg was on, I didn’t shift a millimetre when we jumped to the right, my hands were down, and I can still feel that click, that shift, of my pelvis and seat.

I admit I am keen to try it again. I don’t know that one is meant to be keen to experience the bucking of a horse, but I’m so used to Rebel now– and sure, they’re not mighty, his bucks, it’s not like Tango bucking [which is craaaazzeeee]— I’m so used to him that I’d very much like to have the opportunity to do that again, to sit back again, to feel that centredness and power again.

Ah.

We’re all starting to wonder when the winds are going to die down. I woke to rain and gales— and living as I do on the coast of Dublin Bay, the elements are that much closer for inspection— and for the first time in sixteen months I wondered, Will I give it a miss?

A thought horrific enough to get me up out of that bed. How bad could it be?

Oh, The Pain, The Pain

THAT WHICH DOESN’T KILL YOU… The wind was blowing again last night, less strenuously, and Rebel was either less bothered by it, or inured. He was shaking his head a lot, still adjusting to his fancy new bridle— it’s always something with this guy— and everything was fine…

I had said to Nikki, before the lesson, that I was certain that my circles were getting worse. We’ve begun fine tuning our actions— hands, legs, seat— and all this new knowledge was, I was certain, resulting in my utter inability to do them right. It’s one thing letting the horse do it himself; another thing entirely to start actively crafting the bend.

An Ill Wind

It’s been months since I’ve had to walk up the long, long road to the yard. I can summon a fairly robust nostalgia for it, that walk, I can remember the very first day I walked it, the mounting excitement [and by excitement, I mean 'fear'], the uncertainty of direction, the first few strides up the drive to the yard, fields and horses on both sides, the overwhelming feeling of daring, adventure, of what-the-fuck-am-I-doing, that greets me at the outset of every big, seemingly crazy thing I do in life. I liked sloping up the road, my big bag of riding stuff slung over my shoulder, liked getting the occasional lift from a yard-bound mum or dad, liked seeing the indoor arena perched on the rise of the hill.

Did I say hill? It really is kind of like a mountain. The equestrian centre is in fact in the middle of the Dublin mountains. In fact, during the summer ride outs, when we galloped up the hill in the top field, we could see straight to Howth, all the way over across Dublin Bay, on the north side.

The view is miraculous. The protection from the elements… not so much.