Where do you feel "right" in the world?

The Aussie Stock horse - a hardy breed noted for its
endurance, agility and predominantly good temperament.

My kingdom for a horse

My partner - James, has a friend - Bob, who has a daughter - Tiffany, who has a horse - Chev.

After approximately 4 months of blissful ownership by Tiffany, one day, Chev decides that he'd rather be up there in the corner of the paddock near where his mates are grouped together and peering at him with varying interest, rather than down here on the flat where Tiffany is coaxing him in 20m circles at a brisk trot. An ex-polo pony and registered Australian Stock Horse, Chev can get himself moving post-haste, at high speed. Tiffany has around 5 years of riding experience, and this doesn't include a bolt. Halfway to the paddock corner at a speedy canter, Tiffany sees the barbed wire fence looming rapidly, decides to bail, lands with one leg askew, and fractures a heel. That'll be 6 weeks in a cast, and no riding for you, young lady.

So, now Bob is on the phone to James, who had his own beloved horse many a decade previously and became quite the accomplished eventer in his day.

"Can you please come and ride this horse so he doesn't go feral before Tiff can resume charge?"

"Yes, I could do that; as happy to ride, as not," declares James.

I've been following - with not inconsiderable nostalgia and envy - Tiffany's progress over the past 4 years, through various phases of continually nagging her parents for the right to own a horse, researching and then sourcing "the one", and then negotiating the trials and tribulations of first-horse-ownership. Whereas childhood me never succeeded in breaking through my parent's resolve to keep our household a horse-ownership-free zone, Tiffany found more convincing means of wearing her parents down.

They smell so sweet!

We arrive at the stable in darkness. It's a mid-winter evening and the outside temperature is flat-lining around the 5^oC mark. As the task of exercising Chev has been allocated only to James, my intention is to play the innocent (and ever-hopeful) bystander.

James is impressively kitted out, replete with moleskin pants, brown leather boots and chaps, and suitably dirt-stained crash cap. I've swung by on my cycle-commute home from work, so looking rather like a misplaced circus performer in a rodeo - multicoloured leotards, cleated cycle shoes, and fluorescent orange jersey.

Chev is comfortably ensconced his stall and Tiffany's mother is giving directions, under Tiffany's watchful eye, about where to find his grooming kit and tack. James arms himself with a body brush and hands me another, and I suddenly find myself once again in close proximity to one of these magical, awesome equine beings.

It's been such along time!

I can smell horse; I can feel strong, firm muscle under warm, silky hair; I follow those enchantingly beautiful curves with the brush and feel Chev leaning in towards me, responding with relish to my ministration. It's not often that I feel at home in this world, and I'm acutely aware of how deeply comforting this space is to me.

Not me, but you get the gist... and that does look like Chev.

As I'm standing on Chev's near side, Tiffany's mother hands me his bridle. The deft movements haven't left my fingers at all, even after a 35+ year break, in holding the bit spread out and gently squeezing Chev's jaw open with my left hand while carefully pulling the bridle strap over his ears with my right.

Dang, I think - I forgot to shove the bit into my pocket whilst brushing, so as to warm it up a little from its mid-winter chill. Chev chomps uncomfortably on the cold, steel bit.

For convenience, James has thrown the saddle on from the off-side, where he's standing. I can see it's in need of re-positioning a good deal forward; funny how these details become so ingrained, even after so many years of non-use.

Tiffany's mother slides opens the stall door and I find myself in the lead, with Chev in tow, heading for the indoor arena. I'm hobbling along in my bike shoes, cleats clattering on the concrete stable floors, leotards and jersey liberally covered with short, brown horse hair, and hands smelling sweetly of horse. There's an eager horse following closely on my heals.

And it Just. Feels. Right.