A cowboy just rode through my garden.
No, I’ve not been on the red wine, it's only 10.00 in the morning. About eight horses and riders have just trotted through my garden. The guy leading them was dressed as a cowboy, Stetson and all.
There is a chemin rural (a public right of way) through our property. It is rarely used, maybe one tractor a year and the occasional hiker. It always catches me by surprise when someone passes through. During the summer there is an equestrian cross country endurance event in the local area. Over the weekend about a hundred and fifty horses and riders will pass through. The first ones to arrive are the keen, competitive guys, galloping through at high speed. Then there are the Pony Club girlies. You can hear them chattering miles away before they trot through looking chic in their knee high boots and their pony tails switching away in tempo with the horses’ tails.
Some riders are just out for a pleasant day’s ride. They stop to admire the garden or have a chat about the house. Later in the day the family groups plod through, Papa leading on his old grey mare, followed by the kids on an assortment of ponies, and Maman wearily bringing up the rear on a hairy old cob.