More Equestrian Events

My pet-loving, cuddly toy obsessed seven year old announced he wanted to learn to ride. I rashly agreed to go too, wondering as I did, why in four years of living in London we had never taken advantage of either Richmond Park or Wimbledon Common to get him on a horse. It all seemed so urban at the time but now we know that horses love skyscrapers, Hong Kong is an obvious place to start.

Riding is one hell of a kit sport. We traipsed to Kowloon in search of a tiny saddlery shop tucked away on the 17th floor of one more skyscraper. I needed jodhpurs and was inclined to insist on lightweight ones. I eventually found some which are, I suspect, produced for the local market as they only reach to mid-calf on me but under boots who’s to know.

More surprising than the length is the effect they have on my “seat” (technical riding term of course) when I sit down. A seam which runs up the back of my thigh (think seamed stockings, on second thoughts, don't) then dissects my behind and returns down the other thigh. This has the bizarre and not entirely comfortable effect of dividing my butt into its more and less fleshy parts thereby creating a natural cushion. I was under the impression my backside was fleshy enough but this was clearly not the case and, courtesy of my eye-wateringly expensive new jodhpurs, I now have an additional padded area made up on my own excessive and malleable spare flesh on which to sit. I’m not quite sure if it is I or the horse who benefits from all this but if it is the horse I think he might offer to help out with the expense.

We met at school, I already feeling very conspicuous in too short, bum-dividing jodhpurs. Fortunately we found the right bus, snuck on and sat down. What a comfortable bus, I thought. But no, it was my own redistributed padding I was benefiting from whilst everyone else sat on hard seats. I must remember to wear my new jodhpurs when we next go on a picnic.

We set off. There were a number of young girls asking each other if they could canter. I can but thought perhaps I wouldn't admit to it just yet. Then again, when they spot my jodhpurs they’ll doubtless assume I’ve turned up late for the Olympics. Or else that I’m one of those, all-the-gear-no-idea-types you see on the ski-slopes, like, well, like me in fact.

The bus took us almost to China. Just short of the Lok Ma Chau crossing to Shenzhen we drew into the Lo Wu Saddle Club. Our mounts were ready for us. I’d been told they were mostly ex-race horses, one time property of the Hong Kong Jockey Club and in view of our recent outing to Happy Valley I was not convinced I was ready to be raced over the border to Guangdong. Besides, I hadn’t bought my passport.

Ben’s was called Abo. Mine was called Prodigy. Ben’s was the oldest pony in Hong Kong. Mine was surely the most stubborn, prodigiously stubborn in fact. Nor was he in the least impressed by my jodhpurs and told me he certainly wouldn’t consider contributing to the cost.

Ben loved it and wants to come again. He did “round the world” and rode without a leading rein. I am reserving judgement, as are those leg muscles which have spent the last four years in retirement. Ask me tomorrow.