Chapter Six: Blazing Saddles

In 1999 rom-com Notting Hill, Hugh Grant's William Thacker must pose as a journalist in order to see Julia Roberts' Anna Scott at a press junket. His magazine of choice, it transpires, is middle-class cornerstone 'Horse and Hound', and so it seems logical that if I am ever going to get in with famous people I am going to have to be able to pass for an equine journalist. It all makes sense. With this in mind, I took a golden opportunity and accepted an offer to join newfound friend Charlotte for a weekend of riding and shooting on her farm in Stokenchurch, a small village in Buckinghamshire with an amazing Nepalese restaurant, a heinous pebble-dashed church and not much else. As we drove down to the farm, pheasants darted across the conker-screwn road and we turned into the most picturesque valley I've ever seen, complete with rustic farmhouse (they have an AGA! Swoon!) and stables for four horses. After a quick cup of tea I changed into her mother's jodpurs (is it awful that I'm contemplating a pair for everyday use?) and, having previously acquired some tweed, I was ready to ride. Charlotte introduced me to Bigwig, the strapping chestnut horse that I would be riding, and she gave me some quick pointers to keep a mind. The most important thing to remember about horses is that they are animals and not machines, and that riding them is about negotiation rather than dictation. If a horse feels forced into doing something then they're not going to like you very much, and when you're sitting on top of something that can throw you off at twenty five miles an hour, you want to keep on their good side.
With that in mind we led Bigwig into the arena, and I hauled myself up (you're supposed to almost swing into the saddle in one graceful swoop, but as samba taught me I have very little grace) to get started. Having learnt the basics of rein-holding and foot-placement we set off in a slow circle around the pen, giving me some time to dispel the fear of impending death from my mind. Having absolutely nailed the slow walk (by which I mean 'having let the horse walk around') we moved along to figures of eight and circled routes, and while so far we hadn't gone beyond the simplistic, I was really feeling more comfortable with Bigwig. There was one thing that I was still finding difficult though; imagine you meet a lovely new friend with beautiful chestnut hair and big brown eyes. Then imagine repeatedly kicking said friend in the ribcage. It's all a little bit awkward, and however much you tell yourself that horses have stronger skeletal structures and thick skin, you can't help but feel a little guilty. Aversion to S&M aside though, we made quick progress and moved on to the final task of the day; the rising trot.
The rising trot involves, unsurprisingly, rising from the horse, standing up in the stirrups before sitting back down in a repetive motion which complements and encourages the horse's trot. Watching Charlotte's demonstration I was certain that it was going to be easy enough, but as I held on to Bigwig for dear life, the last thing on my mind was an action that made falling off more likely. After bouncing up and down for a while I realised that it wasn't working, but soon enough I was managing fairly well. I may feel a little violated by the repetitive thwacking of the motion (so so sore right now), but next time I find myself pretending to be from 'Horse and Hound', at least I can teach Julia Roberts the rising trot.
The next day I awoke ready for shooting. Considering my reluctance to kick a horse, I was relieved to be informed that no birds were to be harmed in the making of this blog. Charlotte and her father took me and the guns into the woods surrounding the farm (again, I'm being very trusting with this project!) and we set up the clay pigeon rig. Shooting a fast-moving object, strangely enough, isn't about speed, but precision. By following the tail of the clay's path with the barrell of the gun you get used to the velocity, before levelling it with the target and pulling the trigger. It is initially difficult to not just go for it all guns blazing (chortle), but once you get used to the tennis-racket like movement of the shot (a single sweeping one rather than the erratic batting of my own technique. If anyone can teach me tennis by the way it would be greatly appreciated!) then it becomes strangely enjoyable. Watching the clay practically shatter into dust mid-air felt completely exhilirating, and after a few tries I had improved on my precision and the stroke of the shot. I have never been a violent person, but holding a smoking gun and watching tiny pieces of debris spin through the air brought out the OJ Simpson in me. It's probably best that we ran out of shells, I may have got a little too excited and shot Charlotte.
And so I returned to London, jodpurs off but tweed still intact. My weekend in the country had been great fun and I'd learnt the basics of two very twee skills, but the fact that I found the rifle so bizarrely alluring perhaps hints at a very successful career in armed robbery in London. With a little bit of practice, I may be able to make my getaway on Bigwig.