Hi friend,

I typically write travel posts in a semi-chronological order but then, where is the fun in life if everything is always done in a linear fashion? Why not jump into the middle of Tuscany on a chilly September day of 2023?

This was my dream. My girlfriends and I would ride horseback through the rolling downs of Central Italy while the gentle breezes slid through our hair and a handsome Italian would show us the way. Off to the south would be a stone villa flanked by fields of vineyards while off to the north would be another stone villa flanked by vineyards while off to the… well, you get the idea.

There was one snag. I had forgotten that I would be a hundred feet up in the air on the back of a horse. Not just any horse. Leonie, who despite the grey in her tail, had not given up on torturing erstwhile tourists. Leonie, trained by a German named Clara and used to being firmly told what to do. (No handsome Italian here to take us on a dreamy adventure please and thank you, for Clara was also our guide). Among a few of my less positive traits is a propensity to be soft-hearted when it comes to bits in the horses mouth and this horse was apparently used to a rougher ride than I was prepared to facilitate. Therefore the poor thing had no idea what I wanted her to do half the time, and Clara would call from the front of the line, “Mees Lynette, you must hold the reins more firmly!”

Firmly to her was exhuasting to me. Already my forearms were aching from the tension I was supposed to keep on the reins, and not just tension, but they must be held just exactly so or Leonie would turn in circles.

Which she did, when she was not trying to bite the horse’s butt in front of her. Apparently these two fought. Why are two old horses with grey hairs fighting? And why did the horse in front of me have to keep farting? I had no time to work out the social or digestive problems of horses. I had a thousand-odd pounds of horse flesh under my butt and no idea what to do. Somewhere in my early childhood years it seemed like a good idea to like horses and the idea had carried over into adulthood. Childhood likes and dislikes are tricky like that. You may have decided to dislike a person who is quite nice now, or you may have thought riding horses a good idea and forgotten they are big animals.

However, I was in Italy on a September day to ride a horse through Tuscany and come hell or high water, mostly hell, I was going to make it work. I was excited for the adventure because while a negative trait of mine is to not show a horse who is boss, a good trait of mine is excitement to try things even when I am afraid of them. Psychologists say some people run away from fear, and others charge straight toward it. There ought to be a third category where there is a nervous saunter down Pieve a Salti farm lane to a stable where a line of Very Tall Horses are tied.

See how much smaller they look photographed from the top down? I came approximately to the top of the thigh of some of them.

On went the little helmets, emphasis on little, and up went the American tourists.

We were to walk in a straight line, but not too close. However if you look closely you will see that my horse is edging up on Abby’s horse, because though they were known fighters, this was the only line up we could have. Thanks, Clara.

A word about Clara. She was the woman who managed the horses and she was actually a peach, albeit a German peach to whom everything was no nonsense or no worries, no in-between. She gave Rachel a charming tour of Tuscany which the rest of us could not hear. Honestly I would not have heard her even if I could because it was clear 20 seconds into the ride that Leonie was a high-maintenance horse who would demand all my attention and then whatever else energy I could scrape up leftover from the last twenty years.

Clara kindly offered to take photos, which in retrospect has afforded us so much amusement that we should probably pay her again for the entertainment. Hark this photo and then hark it again, zoomed.

When we saw this photo back at the farmhouse we went into gales of laughter. Rachel and Grace, just sun-beaming away as sunbeams do, Abby with a cute face, and then… me. Note the way I grip the reins. See my hunched posture. I can’t believe eight-year-old me ever wanted to do this.

I am both sad and salty about the ride. It was something I looked forward to for months, and whether it was a badly-trained horse or my inability to boss it, I saw little of the surrounding beauty. The glimpses I did catch or was able to photograph I have stored up like little golden flashes of memory. One sees things riding a horse through the back country of one of the world’s most popular destinations that one does not see ogling from the road.