A LADY AT LEISURE


‘The nasty steed took one look and bolted, wild-eyed and frothing, with a posse of excited Nigerians trying to catch its tail as it charged by’


A lady at leisure I


WORDS FIONA ARMSTRONG ILLUSTRATION BOB DEWAR


am rung up by a TV company who are making a history programme. They will be travelling across the Scottish borderlands


visiting ancient castles and battle sites and would like me to take part. Being an Armstrong and the descendant of a reiver, the excitement mounts. I, too, have made films on these lawless men, and know a great deal about the riders and raiders who once terrorised the border. Unfortunately, they also want to know if I


can ride a horse. The thing is: how much do I want this series? Yes, I have sat on said creatures – unwillingly, it has to be admitted – but cheer- fully going fifty miles on one, all the while talking to a camera, is a very different proposition. It was the same some years ago when I


made a half-hour programme with Raymond Blanc. Filming in the Oxfordshire kitchens of Le Manoir aux Quat’ Saisons was easy as pie. Joining the chef at his hobby – horse riding – was not such a savoury experience: it’s hard to interview someone when you’re hanging around a nag’s head. No, riding is not my thing. Put me


in the middle of a river with a bag of worms around my neck, or in a field


up to my knees in mud with cartridges raining down on my head, but please, not on a horse. It stems from a childhood experience in Africa. I was about eight years old when my mother insisted I learn to ride. She had her reasons – so that when we returned home to Britain after a decade in the tropics I would be able to hold my head up in even the most pukka pony club. Well, they put me on the animal’s back and


gave me the reins. Then the nasty steed took one look and bolted through the village, wild- eyed and frothing, with a posse of excitable Nigerians trying to catch its tail as it charged by. Somehow being caught in the stirrups kept me hanging on, but when we finally came to a stop in some distant desert, I don’t know who was more exhausted – me, or the wretched creature. The rest is history. I don’t like them. They certainly don’t like me. Which I know is sacrilege in a country magazine like this. I ask the chief for advice. ‘Never admit to not


being able to do something, especially when it comes to country sports,’ he says knowingly. He cannot handle horses either, and tells the tale of how he was staying at a Scottish stately pile when the mistress of the house suddenly announced at breakfast that they would all go riding. Ex-army, he decided to brave it. Down at the stables he was allotted a grumpy


brown beast, which obviously had him pegged as a novice. First off, it refused to move from its stall, which perplexed the chief and annoyed the rest of the party. ‘Good God, Malcolm, what are you doing? Do get a move on!’ After ten minutes of pulling and pushing,


he finally got the animal out on the flat. By now he was trotting along slowly at the back of the group and concentrating hard. But just as it seemed as if he might be able to bluff his way out of things, the hostess announced that they were now ready to ‘really exercise’ the horses. Off the house party galloped, shrieking excitedly over ditches and dykes. I believe the MacGregor fell at the first fence. I think I’ll make that call tomorrow. They can have a foot soldier, but not the cavalry.


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Some people don’t like horses. And some horses really don’t like people. Put one of each together, and you end up with what can only be described as a nightmare


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