Jason and I
are up early and grab breakfast, groggy but giddy about the morning's activity:
Icelandic horseback riding.
 |
| Riding through the Red Hills |
We're
picked up in the lobby by Sveinn, who helps run Islenski Hesturinn (The Icelandic
Horse) with his wife, Begga. Our hotel
is the last stop for the small shuttle bus, already filled with a few others
who were picked up elsewhere in Reykjavik.
We converse with an English couple sitting in front of us, sharing our
travels and anticipation for the activity ahead.
Begga is
warm and welcoming when we arrive. In the main room just off the stable,
pictures on the wall depict the strong, elegant horses, and small stuffed toys
perch on a nearby shelf, peering down on us with
furry, curious equine faces. Here we get about
45 minutes of instruction on how to ride, including use of the reins,
proper saddle posture (demonstrated by plunking the saddle down on a metal
barrel "horse"), plus a general
history of Icelandic horses.
Two special
gaits are genetically unique to the Icelandic horse - the tölt and the flying pace. Today we get to experience the walk and the tölt
(a flying pace is much too fast for beginners, and in many cases, the
horses can tölt or flying pace, but not both - the most desirable show
horses can do both).
Another point of pride is the breed's
purity. These horses haven't changed
much since they arrived with the Vikings.
Moreover, Icelandic horses which leave the country are not allowed to
return, other horses are not permitted to enter the country, and equestrians
with horse gear aren't allowed to bring it with them unless it's been properly
sterilized, since none of the horses are vaccinated.
Introducing disease would be disastrous to the horse population.
Done with
instruction, we gear up in provided waterproof jackets, pants, gloves, and
helmets, then head outside to meet our mounts.
First we practice riding in circles, guiding the horses with our knees and the reins, stopping, and
starting up again. Then, we set off in
the direction of the Red Hills - a cratered area named so
for the deep reddish color of the volcanically rocks and soil.
Whether advertently or not,
our horses seem to have been chosen to suit our own temperaments - mine, as I
have been warned, has a penchant for wanting to be near the front, and sure
enough, as soon as we're off he gently but firmly makes his way until we're
immediately behind Begga and Sveinn.
Jason, on the other hand, is near the back. His horse, as Begga put it, "tends to need a bit of
encouragement".
On the very
first straightaway, we take the slouched, "relaxing on a couch"
posture Begga instructed us to, taking up a bit of slack in the reins. Smooth as butter, my horse slips into the tölt,
and the pendulous motion of the walk melts away. Were I to close my eyes, I'd hardly know I
was riding a horse. I could see what
Begga meant when she described the gait as beautiful; when you're sitting in a
classroom looking at a saddled barrel, it's
hard to imagine what a beautiful gait might be. But, experiencing it and seeing the other
horses tölting, I was a believer. They're gorgeous.
Riding in
and around the craters of the Red Hills, we took in distant
snowy mountaintops and got our fair share of temperamental Icelandic weather
shifts - from sun, to rain, to hail, then back
to sun and rainbows, all throughout the hour
and a half ride.
We finished
up our excursion with a splashing romp through a shallow crater lake, and then made our way back to the
stable.
Dismounting, I gave my horse a
hug and patted his neck - he nibbled at my jeans as he was unsaddled.
All of us exited the ring and, upon turning
around, were surprised and delighted to see the horses rolling around on their
backs, more like cats reveling in a warm patch of sun
than horses. "They do every time after a ride," Begga lamented wryly.
"You see why we have so much trouble keeping them clean?"
Sveinn
transported us back to the hotel to get cleaned up. John and Audrey had made a leisurely morning
of it, spending time at the hotel hot tubs (which are inclusive of a brief but
wonderful shoulder massage).
Once we
were all cleaned up, we hailed a cab from the lineup outside and told the
driver where we wanted to go.
"The Phallological Museum, please."
He looked
at us blankly. "The what?"
Audrey and
I looked at each other perplexedly. Were
we saying it correctly?
"The,
erm, Phallological Museum." I tried
again, pointing at the location on the map, hoping it would be clearer this
time, because I was certainly out of ways to describe it without blushing.
"Oh,
the DICK museum!" He exclaimed in a
sudden epiphany, and so we were off and on our way.
---
Photos courtesy of Islenski Hesturinn.
No comments:
Post a Comment