But I'm sad because I can't ride my horse on the new, improved version. Her feet are too big. She'd mess up the surface. She's banned.
So last weekend before the lime went down and my horse's banishment began, I saddled up and went for one last ride along the stopbank.
I rode up the bank where, over 29 years, first myself and then my two daughters' horses and ponies have worn a little path.
I rode along and over the tarsealed bit where a horse we called Ivan the Terrible once ran me over when I was leading him ... I thought we were going to the river. He thought he'd rather stay home. In an argument with a half-tonne half-Clydesdale, the Clyde usually wins. Ivan went home and I followed, limping and grazed.
Further along is the spot where the girls' short fat Shetland pony, Knee-High, decided she was missing her foal (it was her first outing since she'd had him and he'd been left at home). With one small girl on board there was no stopping "Kneesie" as she whirled and called to her baby (who wasn't missing her in the least) and shot off as fast as her stumpy black-and-white legs could carry her. Which was fractionally faster than my gumbooted legs could run. She neighed and she galloped and her rider screamed and I shouted and ran after them. Until Kneesie got to the gate and we all stopped in a heap, me gasping for breath, and the tiny rider turned, grinned and said "Did I gallop? That was fun. Can I gallop again?"
Yes, but the next time she was older. We had gone out together, me on a big orange horse called Floyd and she on her matching pony, Bonnie. We'd gone for miles along the stopbank and hadn't noticed the big black cloud. Until we heard the thunder. We headed for home at a trot, then a canter, then as the rain came down and the lightning struck close by, the horses spooked and we were off. Galloping homewards, weather-lashed and rain-blinded and trusting the horses at least knew where they were going. I was hanging on for dear life and only now will I confess - when we got home and 10-year-old daughter said "that was fun" and I agreed I was lying.
I remember one other speedy trip down that stony old stopbank, aboard an immense grey horse called Jumbo. I'd only just broken him in. I'd ridden for longer than intended and, turning for home, realised my husband could be worried. So I'd taken out my cellphone and tried to call him. No answer. Never mind I'd just head home. Five minutes later he rang back and Jumbo, having never heard a phone ring before, was terrified by the sudden sound. Straightaway he went from Jumbo the elephant to Jumbo jet. I would never have guessed such a lump could go so fast. There was no stopping him, there was a ringing in his ears and he was on the run ... he went and went until, thankfully, my husband hung up. Whew. I slumped in the saddle and drew breath and ... hubby phoned back. Quickest trip back from a ride I ever had.
It hasn't been all mishaps. No, there's the spot where we found a half-drowned lamb in a drain, flinging it over my saddle and carrying it home. The farmer let us keep it as a pet and we called him Baaart Swimson. And we rode to splash in the river and there's the bit where the fantails follow to get the insects our horses' hooves kick up.
By stopbank rides, it's been fun. Now to tackle the new improved version ... where did I last see my mountain bike?
Rachel Wise is a lifestyle-block owner and community newspaper editor
