RAWHIDE

My Mum tells a story about my Dad’s first time on a horse, the punch line of which is that the man who is so adept at so many of the things he tries, could only get the animal to go in reverse.

The ability to back a horse up is apparently a difficult skill to acquire but unfortunately for the old boy it isn’t so highly prized when not allied to a similar deftness in making the horse operate in the forward gear settings.

I relate this tale not to show Dad up but to demonstrate that horsemanship is not something that runs in the Atkinson bloodlines. This is perhaps unsurprising considering that we descend from Irish peasants, whose experience of equine stock was probably limited to the occasional trampling beneath the hooves of the squire’s horse.

Sadly, on yesterday’s evidence it would seem that genetic inheritance goes beyond the mere transference of physical traits and, along with my slightly ginger hair and slender physique, I appear to have acquired my father’s ability to instruct a mount to completely ignore my instructions and do whatever the hell it likes, something I thoroughly demonstrated through my ability to get the horse to munch on grass and bite my foot.

Despite my best efforts to make my bloody animal behave in the same predictable and civilized manner as everyone else’s, my pony just wouldn’t be told. That I didn’t know what to tell it was possibly a contributing factor but it came as no surprise when, thirty minutes into the ride, the gelding stumbling twice and developed a heavy stoop over the left forelock. We clearly weren’t getting along.

I drew this to the attention of the guide who studied Moro’s gait for a second before motioning for me to pull up and dismount.

“Lame?” I said.

“Si” the guide said in return.

Whether he was referring to the horse’s leg or my riding ability wasn’t clear.

Either way, he felt compelled to swap mounts, something that was warmly and mutually welcomed if my horse’s Lazarus-like recovery was any indication.

My second pony, a sleepy looking bay mare, proved to be a better fed and less cantankerous animal and we got along just fine. By the end of five-hour ride I cold even nudge her into a canter without feeling the urge to cling onto the saddle post with both hands, so perhaps genetic pre-dispositions can be overcome.

Having previously dismissed as expensive folly any form of non-work-related equine activity that doesn’t involve the placement of a wager, I am now pleased to announce that horse riding is, wait for it… okay. Subsequently, I will remove trail-riding, three day evening and even pony-clubbing (and by pony-clubbing I am not referring to the activity of clubbing ponies, which I neither condone nor encourage) from my list of things to ridicule.

For me, a day in the saddle of a bicycle still beats a day in the saddle on a horse, but not by as much as previously projected and I can now say that I understand why little girls love their ponies. That said, Alan’s love for the equine species is still something of a mystery but the kid’s certainly got chops when it comes to riding horses. He’d only been on a horse once before but that didn’t stop him spending the day acting like Breaker Morant (minus the priest shooting obviously). The bloke’s a natural to the point where if the Village People eventually reform, he’s a walk-up start to be the cowboy.

Actually, speaking of cowboys, perhaps Alan’s equine management skills are not such a mystery given his enthusiasm for six-guns blazing, shoot-em-up Westerns. You can’t be brought up on a diet of Eastwood and Wayne without picking up a few tips on how to handle a horse.

A few weeks ago, back in Puerto Madryn, we were discussing our favourite films and bonded over a shared nostalgia for the Gary Cooper classic, High Noon. It’s obviously slightly perverse that a film made in 1952 should be a point of common interest between two people born roughly thirty years after it was released, but from such patches the fabric of childhood is constructed.

It was a disposable conversation and aside from the fact I couldn’t shift the film’s theme tune from my head I didn’t think much more of it until a few days later when wandering the isles of the Puerto Madryn supermarket on the hunt for snacks. I was evaluating the respective merits of chocolate chip cookies as opposed to Pringles when, to my general surprise and delight, I found myself in front of the DVD rack, fixed in the strong and silent gaze of Gary Cooper.

I grabbed the DVD and ran to Alan. He too was delighted, but being a sound head on steady shoulders he resisted the temptation. A backpacker, he reasoned, shouldn’t waste cash and valuable luggage-space on impulse DVD purchases, even if the DVD in question was slender and retailing for less than £5. High Noon could wait until the return to London.

But some itches cannot be satisfied with the promise of future scratches and, in less than 24 hours, Alan had invented a pretext to return to the supermarket to claim the DVD. Sadly, High Noon is a classic. And classics, like the forward motion of time itself, do not wait on man. On his return, the DVD was gone.

What followed was two days of self-flagellation and despair. “I should have bought it when I had the chance” he’d say as a pod of sealions playfully swept beneath his sea-kayak. “It won four Oscars in ‘52” he’d mope as another meal of exquisitely prepared seafood was laid before him. “Maybe I can get the deluxe edition when I get back to London. It comes in a gold-trim case and features a separate audio CD containing the film soundtrack” he’d gush optimistically while repairing yet another mechanical failure on his bike. He’d absentmindedly hum the theme tune while walking down the street. A man in a broad brimmed hat would walk past and he’d instinctively make finger-pistols with his hands. The preoccupation was rapidly becoming an obsession.

Three days after the first discovery of the now absent DVD and we were back in the supermarket. Superficially we were there to buy a new set of flip-flops but we both knew the real reason for our return. We would leave Puerto Madryn the next day. This was our last chance to secure High Noon.

Excited by the possibility that it might be there but too scared to check in case we merely confirmed its absence, we avoided the DVD aisle. Alan looked at the toothbrushes. I selected an apple. Alan looked at the hand towels. I compared the price of cookware. After forty minutes of procrastination I’d had enough. I simply had to know. I walked to the aisle I now knew so well and, with my eyes closed in insulation against thwarted expectation, I arranged myself in front of the rack. My breathing was shallow and my heartbeat rapid as I slowly opened my eyes. The glare of the neon strip-lights momentarily blinded me. As my retinas adjusted to the light I thought for a second they were playing tricks on me. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t possibly be.

It was.

There, just where it had been three days before when I first laid eyes on it, sat High Noon. I grabbed the cover, lifted it high above my head, and ran to where Alan stood comparing brands of dental floss in the personal hygiene aisle.

He let out a cry as I came near. “You’re kidding!” he said.

But I wasn’t.

Thirty-six pesos later it was ours. Unforsaken and unmistakable ours.

That is all,

Dale Atkinson