This is the third time we have been out riding in the cart. Emily and Drago pull us along the rock strewn torrente, where the floodwaters would flow. Now the river meanders sparkling in the sunlight friendly and tame.
There is more to driving a pair of horses than meets the eye. Especially two that are pulling a long cart behind them. I don't know how much I am learning. I have watched and now would know how to hitch the pair to the cart, but slowly.
Emily is very frisky and protests, but her eyes tell me her protest is not out of fear. It seems more like a bad habit.
I learned today that the horse that has the most trouble pulling is always placed on the right. I was once told that a horse on the right must always be on the right and the horse on the left must always pull in that position. Our guide tells us this is not necessarily so. I have also been told that a horse that is used to pull a cart or a carriage must not be ridden, but these horses are ridden.
Our guide tells us that he has noticed how the horses improve by riding them, how they seem to enjoy the comparative freedom of galloping, of drinking from the river with the fly weight of the rider on top.
These horses are twice the size of my own Appaloosa. They are a little taller, but seem shorter and built low to the ground. They are deep chested and short legged. Their hooves are huge and heavy. Today I brush the young male, he lowers his head and neck as I comb out his mane. I notice later that I have left a line of dust all the way down the middle of his back because I am not tall enough to see what I am doing. Reaching up, I use a cloth to clean him off. This works better than the brush I had been using.
Out in the cart, I am lulled by the movement, the sound of the harness and the horses hooves on the ground as the cart is pulled over the rocks. I have tried to take photographs but we bump over the rough ground and I am not sure if I would be taking a photo of the backs of the horses or the blue sky overhead. At one point we are beside a small wood that runs alongside the river bank. The plants growing beneath the trees are wild garlic. This week they are in bloom, their white flowers scenting the air with the pleasing perfume of fresh garlic. The leaves on the trees are beginning to unfurl reminding me of a pointillist painting.
I imagine taking the reins in my hands, but I can see that there is more to guiding these large creatures. There is something about how you must turn them down a slope so that you do not tip the cart in the process. Our guide has told us that we can come out with him driving when ever we want, but if we really want to learn how to drive a carriage and pair and enter competitions we must take lessons from someone else.
I realize with a sinking heart that our guide has been driving these horses since he was a boy. Then I am heartened by another thought. A friend in Bracciano began to drive a horse and buggy in his late fifties. Another took up the challenge in his seventies because his doctor told him he could no longer ride. So now he rides around the back roads around Bracciano, his horse clips along at a spanking trot tail flying drawing a light carriage with my friend on top smiling serenely. So, there is hope.
We pass more people down by the river now that the weather is better. Some are gathering plants for their lunch. I am told they are gathering a white flowered plant, which makes a fine risotto, but I am not familiar with the name. On the way back through the narrow lanes mothers stand holding their children by the shoulders. One boy is lifted into the air, his legs are still running. His mother has stopped him in mid flight drawn, as if by a strong magnet, towards the horses and the rattling cart. A man and woman in their vegetable garden stand and wave and I wave back.
This is an uncommon feeling, being carried through a town on the back of a cart. I don't know what the protocol is. I suppose it would be best to wave at the people as we go by. I do not know how I feel about this. Shy? Humbled? If I was standing on the road watching a cart drawn by two huge horses would I want the passengers to wave at me? Or would I prefer to be left to my own dreams? Would the person standing beside me suddenly need to reach out to hold me back as I lifted off the ground and started to float upwards towards the passing horses and their cart, lost in my reverie?
I have decided that the next time we go out I will wave at people and discover what happens. I am sure that the boy who is lifted while running towards the horses and cart will wave back. And the girl with the long plaits, her mother holding her shoulders, as though afraid she will float out of her reach and onto the back of the cart, will also wave back at me with a tentatively raised hand.
Tomorrow picking up bee equipment.
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