roberto carlos

Each of us is given a horse to ride. It’s only the third time in my life I’ve ridden. The first, as a child on a Northampton farm, I was thrown. The second was thirty years later, when a tearaway Uruguayan filly frothed at the mouth and tried to remove both saddle and rider. This time the horse is more accommodating. We strike up a good relationship, cantering across the campo, spotting macaws and what look like flamingos but are not. The horse bobs and weaves and swerves with grace. As is only appropriate given the horse’s name.