I have been told that if anyone might have been mistaken for having been born on the back of a horse, it would have been me. There are few things I love more than going a full gallop and clearing a fence. My Uncle Angus McLeod would have sworn up and down that the story of me having been born on the back of the horse is was at least partially true.
I spurred my white Arabian mare toward home. There was a vast expanse of stone fence between me and my goal. There was a single, breathless moment as we were hurtling toward the fence line, when I could feel every muscle in the horse beneath me gather herself, her muscles tense and poised. I took in a sharp breath, not daring to imagine what could possibly happen if we did not make it over the barrier. In a heartbeat we sailed over the fence like a swallow. With a flick of her tail and a snort, the mare picked up her pace and we rode the rest of the way through the open range toward the village of Dunnlauden.
To me riding is like flying. There are few women that really understand and appreciate horses as I do. Make no mistake, I had been raised to know the proper way a lady sat a horse, as well as the attire that went along with it. Truth be told, out here in Scotland, there is little reason to do much that falls under the heading of ‘proper’. Everything here must be done in accordance to functionality. Aesthetics and courtly sensibilities do not carry as much weight with me. And this is especially true in the Highlands.