I had selected a private ride, which I hoped meant there would be fewer witnesses.
My husband thought it meant we would have a quieter afternoon.
We were both looking forward to it for our own reasons.
The booking had moved from Saturday to Sunday. I checked the new date, the arrival time and the route. Then I checked them again, in case the horse had received a different email.
There is a particular confidence that arrives just after you book something and disappears when you meet the equipment.
In this case, someone was looking back at me.
The horse was considerably taller than he had been on my laptop. He moved one ear in my direction and continued doing whatever horses do when they are deciding whether you are worth interrupting a thought for.
“Hello,” I said, in the voice I use when I would like a situation to proceed professionally.
He breathed out.
My husband had the decency to look away before smiling.
I had dressed as practically as possible. This had taken some time because I also wanted to look as though dressing practically came naturally to me.
The confirmation had been useful. I had read the instructions about arriving early and put the updated date in the calendar. There was comfort in having at least part of the afternoon organised.
Once we were moving, I discovered that being carried is not the same as sitting still.
My shoulders had apparently volunteered to help steer. I lowered them. They immediately reapplied for the position.
The guide checked how I was doing.
“Fine,” I said, before considering whether this was useful information.
Ahead of us, the path curved between the trees.
For a moment, I imagined the little map I had studied at home spread beneath us, enormous now: a tidy pale rectangle laid across the woodland floor.
The horse reached its edge and kept going.
“Excuse me,” I said.
He placed another hoof beyond the paper.
The trees continued. So did the sky. Apparently the afternoon was not obliged to fit inside the version I had prepared.
Behind me, my husband asked whether I was enjoying myself.
“I’m gathering information.”
“About?”
“Several things.”
At home, I am usually the person who knows where we are going, what time we need to leave and which confirmation contains the correct address.
Here, I was trying to remember a simple instruction while sitting on someone who had four legs and a different opinion about the speed of the conversation.
I wanted to be good at it immediately. Not impressive. Just good enough that nobody needed to make allowances.
Then we paused on the trail.
There was nothing dramatic about it. We simply occupied one patch of afternoon for a moment. Leaves moved above us. Somewhere behind me, a buckle made a small sound.
I stopped preparing to move and looked around.
I had studied the route. I had barely noticed the trees.
When we started again, I noticed the rhythm a little more and my own performance a little less. I still needed instructions. “Can we go over that again?” I asked. “I was concentrating on staying on.”
The guide went through the instruction again. No sigh. No surprise. Apparently beginners were entirely ordinary.
This was an enormous relief.
Later, we were in the shallows. Small waves folded around the horses’ legs. From the saddle, I could see the dark line of mane in front of me and the water moving past it.
For once, I had nothing to check.
My husband was beside me. The horses seemed entirely comfortable with this arrangement. I was beginning to catch up.
Afterwards, my husband asked whether I would do it again.
I was busy reacquainting myself with the ground. It seemed very dependable. I wished I had appreciated it more before we left.
“Probably.”
“You liked it.”
“I said probably.”
He handed me some water and waited for me to finish pretending.
The horse stood nearby, unconcerned with whether I would describe the afternoon accurately later. He had not once asked to see my confirmation email.
I looked back at him before we left.
“Thank you,” I said.
One ear turned towards me.
I decided that counted.