On horseback in the autumn hills

It had been a long time that I had not had any exercise, because of a broken rib and various vicissitudes that as is often the case create a good excuse for staying at home.

“Come and have a ride on Sunday,” Clio suggested to me with his usual smile.

“But I haven’t ridden a horse for years,” I replied.

“Ok then, I’ll come here with the horses to pick you up.” Clio is like that. He almost never listens to one’s answers. I met him with his two horses in front of the door one mid-afternoon on a Sunday. “Come on, let's go.”

When I climb into the saddle of “Baby”, I realise that time has stood still between us. The white mare recognises me and lets me ride quietly. We head towards the small strip of woodland between Collerumiz and Collalto, leaving behind the “howls” of my dogs, angry because we are not taking them with us. After a few steps, to see if I still remember how to ride, I decide to leave the trail and enter the meadow on the left, abandoning “Lord Byron”, the big bay in front of us. I spur Baby into a gallop. Clio shouts something, but I feel his horse starting to gallop behind me.

The green meadows fly under the hooves and the fresh air brushes our face. Baby and Byron gallop up to the top of the hill. Almost side by side, they stop. I smile looking at Clio. Various peaks –  the Cjampeon, the Cuarnan, the Chiampon – stand in a row like soldiers looking back at us from afar and behind the Bernadia, the Musi also peeps at us. The ancient mountains framing “my” Tarcento seem to be smiling quietly with us. We descend the small hill and enter the fields through the hedges. The docile mare obeys. I feel her muscles under the saddle, her eyes alert and ready. We pass fields of soy and corn ready for the harvest. An old farmer on his rumbling tractor brings home the last hay bales. The bell tower of Collalto chimes five o’clock. It looks almost like a photograph from many years ago, a removed from today’s world of frenzy and modernity.

But in fact we are just a step from the busy Pontebbana and a couple of miles from the ruins of the “Ciscjelat”, which dominates Tarcento from above Coia. The horses climb up. We let them take a long gallop over the green meadows as far as the big oak near the vineyard and finally return gently back to the stables next to the station. I leave Clio to tend to the horses and walk back home taking a short cut through the woods. The smell of autumn envelopes me as the evening draws in.

From above the hill, I look at the meadows alternating with small woods, which are already of another colour. The moon rises up to reveal the dark tops of the trees. An unexpected serenity wraps me, even though I’m just around the corner from home. But you do not have to go far in this piece of real land.