Sorry for the Group Email

Horse riding.

That seems like a good idea, doesn’t it? What, and I mean what could possibly go wrong.

Of course, I should point out that all animals, everywhere, hate me. Passionately. I once went on a camel ride in Morocco, and the bastard animal behind me spent a happy hour and a half trying to bite chunks out of my tempting, fleshy calf. I am growled at by dogs. Even cats, which normally don’t care about much in particular, see a great red mist descend when I amble into view. Spitting and yowling, they hurl themselves at me, claws out and teeth bared, bent on nothing less than shredding me into little strips of ex-human.

Horses don’t even have claws (I think), so how bad can it be?

The great thing about Mongolia is that you can go nearly anywhere. Nomadic families hold no truck with fences and the such, which makes Monglia perhaps the best country in the world for camping. Horse riding, too. You could spend days ambling neatly along the roads, but when thousands of square miles is available for off-roading (is that what horse-riders call it?), you’d be mad not to.

You approach horses from the left. Anything else and they get nervous and start kicking. Given that my horse probably hated me as soon as it saw me, this seemed like good advice. Everything was going to be ok, though, because once I was on the horse, I would look like the man. John Wayne would have nothing on me, as I sat aside my beautiful, shiny steed. I would let out a “yee haw!” and gallop manfully off into the distance, all of Mongolia astonished at my natural ability with animals.

Things started poorly with the helmet, which made me look less like a nineteenth-century cowboy and more like someone who auditioned for the part of policeman with the Village People but was rejected for looking too ridiculous. And the horse was tiny. My feet nearly grazed the ground once I was atop it, which, despite not being that high, was next to impossible. I struggled for what seemed like minutes, one leg parallel with the horse’s spine, the other wriggling uselessly as my foot tried to find the stirrup. Sighing, our Mongolian horse-rider (who was infinitely cooler and more Wayne-like than I could ever hope to be), placed both hands on my arse and heaved. Suddenly, I was up. My horse, doubtless panicked at having such an amateur astride it, shat voluminously. It’s hard to be dignified when you’re sitting on a five-foot high horse that’s relieving itself in front of a group of ten people.

The thing to remember, I suppose, is that horses, like most other animals, have finely-honed survival instincts. They tend not to collapse, or fall over, or wander blindly into trees just because you’re not steering. Even so, my position felt horribly perilous. What if the horse got tired and fell over? What if we hit ice and drowned? Would I be able to get my feet out of the stirrups in time if it decided it was all getting a bit much and decided to buck me off?

I decided I’d probably break bones in almost any event. The only way was to hold very, very, tight and murmour fervent prayers that Horsey (I never learnt its name) would behave.

Trotting was scarey. Cantering was horrifying, and galloping, although smoother than cantering, was extravagantly painful. With every lurch my camera, idiotically suspended around my neck and shoulders, crashed painfully into my sternum. The inside of my thighs, which normally I leave well enough alone, chafed and turned red. My entire weight crashed down on my nads every few seconds.

So here’s the funny thing. It was great. I’d do it again. I’d do it again, in fact, for much longer. By the time we left Mongolia we knew that you could buy a horse for under £100, and that with a bit of care, you could cover hundreds of miles on horseback during the summer. It’s the freedom that appeals. A horse can cover the kind of ground that a four-wheel drive couldn’t hope to negotiate, and if you get desperate, you look a lot less silly talking to a horse than you do chatting to a Land Rover.

Of course, if I actually gave horse riding in Mongolia a real try, I suspect I’d turn up dead after a few days, my thighs reddened, my kit lost, and my horse happily chewing through my remains. Animals hate me, you see.

Dave has almost recovered. Please don’t make me ride any more animals.