Pedro stands patiently at the fence as I saddle him up. His beautiful chestnut coat glimmers in the sunlight, but I barely notice through the tears. All I want to do it get him saddled up before she follows me to the paddock, to continue the argument I walked out on. Part of me wishes she would, to show she cares, to finish the discussion I finally felt brave enough to raise with her, but I know it will be facing me when I get home, and right now, I just can’t bear it. It is bad enough being bullied at school every day, to come home to a mother who is just the same as them.
I fling the heavy Australian stock saddle over Pedro’s back. He is so much taller than me and the saddle is so much heavier than the ones I normally ride in. Pedro is a mountain horse, and while he will put up with me riding in an English saddle, my body moving all about the place, today I want to head out to the furthest point of the Island, and I know he will be happier with what he knows. I do up the girth tightly and lead him over to the milk crate. I pop my left foot in the stirrup and on my right leg I hop, hop, hop, hop until I am up, swinging my right leg over the saddle. As soon as my bum contacts the seat, we are off before I can even find my right stirrup.
Pedro walks out enthusiastically, brave and forward. He has been my horse for three short months, but one I have ridden in the mountains every school holidays for the last two years. His move from the mountains to the seaside, and a busier existence, has perplexed him. He is used to droving cattle through the bush, bringing sheep back in with the herd, sturdy footing under him, despite the many hills and valleys, rocks and twigs. He is not used to walking along the beach, the waves coming at him, the sand giving way under his strong hooves. But mountain horses are brave, and with a little encouragement, he always steps forward, one foot under the other.
We ride along the beach for miles. The roar of the waves, the seagulls skimming the top of the water, playing along in the wind. Eventually the tide starts to come further and towards the land, and I ask Pedro to start making his way up the narrow, steep path up the hill. His body relaxes as he steps onto firm land, steep hills feel like home to him, and he ambles up the pathway, his flaxen mane bobbing up and down. As we reach the top, I ask him to halt, and I dismount. I tie him loosely to a tree so he can have a rest and enjoy the grass and I take a seat on a fallen log.
I decide to sit a while, knowing the minute I get back on, I have to start making my way home. Home, whatever that is. I want to stay here forever, no one to bother me, no one to tell me I am stupid, unloved. I stare out across the water to the mainland, and I wonder what people are doing there – the city. I ponder if it is a place I can be more invisible, where I can pursue my dreams, where I can perhaps belong. I turn 17 in two months’ time, the age where I can legally leave home and live on my own as an adult. I realise that perhaps, running away from home is actually the answer.
We make our way back through the bush and along the roads. We’ve been out all afternoon, the sun is setting, the hues matching Pedro’s coat, his mane. I am so grateful for this horse, the one constant who never judges me, who always lifts me up. When we arrive back to the paddock, I unsaddle him, and gently brush his coat as he enjoys a bucket of oats. Once he finishes, I give him a carrot – slightly broken from being in my pocket all day and kiss him on the nose. I walk home, ready to finish the discussion I was too afraid of before, but with courage and a plan.