Walking up a sweat

Plodding around the hills in the summer is poor preparation for a riding lesson, finds Tessa Waugh, who nonetheless improves from "granny crouch" to conjuring a floating trot

BEFORE I got into the arena for a lesson, I had misguidedly considered myself to be riding fit. It was one of those heaven-sent autumn days, blue skies, blazing sunshine, but after just two circuits in walk I had begun to sweat. Two more and I was blowing audibly and begging Karen, the teacher, for a break. It seems that plodding around the hills all summer does not a rider, far less a fit rider, make.

I had forsaken Jim (my usual ride) for Joe the ginger giraffe with the idea of getting a feel for him over some poles.

This plan now seemed wildly ambitious as he peeped and poked his way past the uprights and mirrors placed at intervals around the school, patently terrified of anything that wasn't brown or green.