The joy of riding

I went for an evening ride last night – my first of the year, now that the days are longer. I only went out for an hour, but what a perfect ride. Blue behaved herself beautifully, and deigned to temporarily forget that she’s scared of leaves, rabbits, white lines and carrier bags. The hedges were so thick with creamy may flowers that it felt like riding between snow banks, and the air was heavy with the scent of honeysuckle and the droning of blissed-out bees. Every single driver I met slowed down for me, and most waved or smiled when I thanked them. It was such a relief to be riding in a T-shirt instead of being muffled up in winter coats, boots, sweaters and gloves, and to trot along verges that weren’t slick with mud.

Every year, as I spend the winter months picking ice off water troughs, trying to dry out sodden rugs and trying to find a brand of hand cream that soothes my raw, chapped fingers, I struggle to remember why I do it. But every so often, I have a perfect ride – and then I remember.

Now I remember – it’s supposed to be fun!