Jaggy Jam

When I was 14 years old, my sister left home - and juvenile escapades - to embark on her own family adventures, leaving just Mum and I at home, as my father had been out of the picture for some time.

We weren’t a wealthy family… hell, there was only one pay cheque each month, but Mum had the knack of s-t-r-e-t-c-h-i-n-g a dollar, and in my sixteenth summer, booked us a holiday to Morocco.  Way back then, package deals were still in their infancy, and package deals to Morocco were embryonic!  As far as I recall, this was the first experience of flying in an aeroplane for both of us, and we were excited about the prospect of an exotic vacation.

photo credit: placid casual

A day or two after we arrived, I mentioned that I’d like to go horse riding to explore the beautiful countryside bordering the Atlas mountains, and Mum selflessly, nay (neigh?), heroically, agreed to accompany me.

The hotel recommended a reputable stables, called a taxi to drive us there, and we arranged to be collected later in the afternoon.  The 20 minute drive to the mountains alone was worth it, but as the cab progressed along the track to the stables, our jaws slackened, and we gawped at the resplendent establishment sprawled before us.

It was like something from a James Bond movie set, with the glistening whitewashed walls of simple but elegant low-rise buildings shimmering in the late afternoon sun, set amidst acres of lush, landscaped gardens. I wish I could recall its name, but it was such a long time ago – almost in another lifetime.

The name of the guy who accompanied us on that first ride also escapes my memory, but I do recollect him telling us that he was studying to be a diplomat, and I can’t help wondering where life’s trail has taken him.

My mount was a magnificent grey gelding, named Vaticano, and way too tall for me to clamber aboard without the booster of a mounting block.  Vaticano had an unfortunate habit of taking off like a rocket whenever another horse and rider overtook him!  If you weren’t paying attention, it could be quite a bracing experience, and you’d best hang on tight!

As we’re enjoying the beauty of the Moroccan mountainside — the guy from the stables, me and my Mum bringing up the rear — my reverie was broken by terrified screams of, “help, Help, HELP!”.

I glanced behind me and saw Mum hanging on for grim death, as her horse had taken a fancy to the windfallen apples in the orchards bounding the track, and had taken her off on an excursion of his own! Mum wasn’t an experienced rider and animals pick up on these things, and the nag was enjoying chomping his stolen booty far too much to heed Mum yanking at the reins and trying to spoil his fun!

The excited behaviour of the weather-beaten rustic tending the orchard made matters worse, as he dashed hither and thither frenetically waving his arms about - with his hat in one hand - shouting in Arabic. The horse remained placidly oblivious to all the fuss… those apples weren’t going to eat themselves!

I reined-in, turning my own horse 180 degrees, and kicking his flanks, raced back to rescue Mum, and her horse, from the slapstick pantomime unfolding before my eyes.  When I reached the orchard, Mum was still safely on board her horse, so I grabbed the reins, and led them back to the track, remaining by Mum’s side for the remainder of our equestrian adventure, until we were back at the stables.

Curiously, Mum elected not to accompany me on future horseback rides!

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