Riders on the storm

Oh yes we did!

Another hack, today with friend and old retired hunter. We hesitated over the dark clouds, but agreed that the weather forecast insisted nothing more than showers, and if we got caught we could take refuge or turn back for home.

It rained while we groomed and tacked up, but we decided to forge ahead and the rain stopped as we mounted up.

The Hunter is a good partner for Max. Older, steadier and much taller, Max respects him and feels at ease. He takes the lead for some of the time (steals the lead, in fact) but when he's had enough, there is no question but that the Hunter will take over without hesitation.

As we left the yard, Max indicated that he did not wish to be leader, so Hunter strode out with confidence, and Max jogged along happily behind, trying to keep up. We climbed to the top of our familiar ridge and debated which way to go, commenting that soon harvest would start and we'd once again have all the stubble fields to play in rather than being limited to the same old bridleways that we are restricted to in the summer months.

I turned to look over my shoulder and saw we were being chased by dark clouds and obvious rain. That made the decision for us, straight ahead to the woods, and hope that we got there before the storm hit.

We almost did.

As we jogged along the path, Max happily snatching at all the long grass that his grass reins could not stop him from snatching, the wind picked up and nipped at our heels, as the first heavy drops of rain began to fall.

"We're not going to make it..."

The sky darkened, a gust blew, and the full force of the rain hit us. The Hunter picked up his pace and Max followed, putting in a big boy buck of defiance at the whirlwind.

I've sat many of Max's little bucks of glee and protest, but this was a proper buck. I could see his back end come up in my peripheral vision, and was lurched forward but sat it with no trouble.

"Whoo!" I cried out in surprise (maybe I sounded like a cowboy? Doubtful!).

"Max! Be sensible!" I then admonished. "This is not a rodeo."

My friend turned to see if I was all right, having heard my cry but not seen what caused it, and seeing that Max was still moving forward and I was laughing, we carried on through a gap in a hedge, and then into the welcoming shelter of the trees.

There we stood for about 20 minutes while the rain lashed down. We talked about gooseberries, Russell Brand, Cornwall, The Jamaica Inn, Jamaica, home made fly spray, brownies, and how strong Max is now that he's fit and mature.

"He's quite a handful, isn't he?" my friend commented.

That he is, strong necked and opinionated, but kind and sane. Usually sane.

The ride home after the storm was uneventful, with wet ground, bright sunshine and that wonderful just rained smell. Max purposefully took the lead, we managed to get past the silage monster without climbing the bank at the side of the road, and then Max had a sponge bath to get the mud off his belly and legs back at the yard.

We started with a buck, and ended with a dignified bow for a carrot in Max's field. As I walked away, the rain fell again.