When I was eight, living in Whalley Range in Manchester, two sisters from up the road would take me on the bus across town to the leafy suburb of Whitefield, where there were horse‑riding stables.
The pony I learned to ride was a little one called Champion. I can still remember hanging on for dear life as we cantered, and spending hours mucking out and grooming.
When I reached my teenage years, we’d moved to Withington. A group of us would walk all the way to Heaton Mersey, about an hour or so, where a man rented out horses for 50p an hour. No saddles, just bridles, and the freedom of the countryside. Occasionally, I’d even bring the horse home to show my mum. The roads were much quieter back then, something unthinkable now.
Later, when my children were born, I went riding on holiday through the Welsh hills, and it was wonderful—so many happy, funny memories.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped riding. I’ve always felt sad that I never fulfilled my dream of cantering along a beach beside the sea. Age has caught up with me now, and I know I’ll never ride a horse again. But I still love horses, and I wish I’d kept it up.
Recently, I discovered that riders wear cameras on their hats as they travel along leafy lanes. When the paths open out, the horses break into a gallop. I get to experience not only the view from the saddle, but the sound of hooves, the rush of wind and breath. It’s the closest I’ll get now, and I’ll take it—it’s wonderful.
I only ever had one photo of me on a horse, and to my continued annoyance, I somehow lost it. But with the help of AI, I now have a photo of me riding my favourite palomino horse by the sea.
I enjoy a chat every now and again. If you go to blog on the menu you came see what other things I talk about.
World of Stories 