We chose our ponies, ones with feathery feet and moustached upper lips, all looking mightily displeased to be going out in such a storm. I was looking forward to just sitting there, not worrying if my pony was going to spook or buck or leap - my fat, hairy trekker surely had no such spirit in her.
We whooped and hollered out of the drive, being badly behaved adults giggling madly with excitement and the weather. The stink of the sweaty steam started to arise from the dirty ponies coats, their ears pricked and their gaits quickened as they could feel they had riders on their backs and not novice holiday makers. We galloped up stony tracks where Fletch would have winced in pain, his feet a lot more delicate, we jig-jogged through the villages, she spooked at an umbrella and even bucked when we picked up speed. We were all having a thoroughly good time despite being so wet I could wring my knickers out.
And once up the top of the hill, E's pony started to buckle, her legs started to collapse and we all screamed to E to jump off, while the pony had a roll - in the mud - in the rain. The mud and grass stuck comically out of her bridle and saddle as she shook herself off and E remounted. I thought I was going to be sick I was laughing so hard.
"I'm so sorry," said the escort rider "they are never usually this naughty!"
I'm so glad that they were, whenever I feel down I will think of that ride in the Cornish storms and giggle - giggle hard.