I certainly was when I got home last night. Severe bruising to the ego, in particular. My first outing with a different hunt on different country, a joint meet with the Kimblewick, did not exactly go as planned. We'd been going from strength to strength, the Very Large Mare and I, every outing this season a resounding joy and success, a lovely clear round at the last 3ft cross-country. One felt invincible. So we decided it was time to go visiting.
Yes, both the mare and I got there on time and looked sparklingly smart at the meet. Yes, she drew the usual compliments from passing strangers. But then things started to go awry. I spilled my port all over the saddle while dismounting to get rid of slippery mud on the soles of my boots. A bad omen? No, I thought, let's say it's for luck.
We moved off at a fast trot along a tarmac road, quite a novelty for me to be riding through a village on a hunting day. She bounced and cantered sideways, mostly, so I knew it was going to be a challenging day. As we turned into a field, I barely had time to admire the beautiful new scenery, and then there it was, the first jump of the day, a small log. Really I should have known better and allowed her time to settle and let off some steam before attempting a jump. Hindsight is a wonderfully useless thing. Instead I went for it, only to be jumped clean out of the saddle, landed on her neck and finished off with an indignant buck. She does not suffer fools gladly and made her point by galloping off, presumably in search of a better rider.
I was left burrowing in the mud for my stick and what remained of my dignity. It was not much. The staff sergeant who runs the yard (impossibly tall, a brilliant rider and always on top form, in sharp contrast to my disshevelled and humble predicament) dashed off and retrieved the mare for me. Not one to be deterred easily (this was my special day out after all) I scrambled on again, popped another small log, stayed on and felt the natural order of things had returned... The next fence was, well, large. And hedge-ish. We could have gone round (dear old hindsight again) but I thought I'd better go for it so as to recover my jumping nerve. She over-jumped what was already a considerable obstacle and I found myself searching for said nerve in the mud. There are no words to describe the sense of utter, utter incompetence, failure and shame. My usual question and beacon of guidance in a spot of bother, 'What Would Audrey Hepburn Do?' (WWAHD), did not shed any light. I literally wanted to dig a hole and bury myself in it, but reminded myself just in time to be careful what I wished for. This time I never found my stick.
And then I was offered that most humiliating of things, the one that (along with daft, avoidable falls) you'd like to think only happens to other people: a horse swap. It was the right thing to do, of course. This is how I came to spend my visiting day on Alfie the ex-pointer, instead of the Very Large Mare. What kept me going was that liberating feeling of knowing the worst has already happened, so what the hell. My hairnet was lost in combat and by this point I had a trail of unruly red hair and no means to control it. Someone said I looked like something out of Pirates of the Caribbean. I hope they meant Keira Knightley, but somehow I doubt it.
I sat out the first couple of fences while my head was still spinning, but after that we popped everything: rails, ditches, brush fences, the lot. Including some bristly enormities I would usually flinch at back home. The sun was shining, Alfie was flying smoothly along, and although scent was poor I felt privileged to be out in this lovely part of the world, on a handsome, mannerly thoroughbred. His only misdemeanour was getting upset when having to stand still, all hemmed in, in a lane. He plunged through the waiting field and past the master, who accepted my mumbled apologies and allowed me to take him off for a walk. I couldn't possibly sink any lower so I enjoyed the rest of the day enormously, knowing that nothing much would be expected of me now, anything above staying alive and in one piece with the horse being a bonus.
This I managed, and was cheered for staying till the bitter end. We all piled into Irish Joe's tiny kitchen for tea. Every hunt should have an amiable older Irishman with a red nose. We have one too. They have this knack to make you feel everything is fine. 'Are you the lady who fell off twice?', I was asked by all, not as a put-down but in a friendly spirit of camaraderie, born of the shared knowledge that it may well be your turn next time. And for some, it probably was the time before.
Today is a day of rest, pills and (medicinal) booze. I have got off lightly, with nothing more than aches and pains. My first tumble out hunting, the thing I dreaded most, is now out of the way. Will I let this spoil one of the things in life I enjoy most? Certainly not, but it may be some time before we feel buoyant and invincible again. The quest for elegance, grace and poise continues. Watch this (bedraggled) space!
