I have now ridden an Icelandic horse through lava-riddled Icelandic tundra.
I would like to tell you that my pony and I bonded — that from the moment we saw each other, my pony recognized me for the quality person that I am, that he nuzzled me gently, that his spirit melded with mine, and that he shed a little horsey tear when the time came for us to part.
It would not be so.
Don’t get me wrong. I really enjoyed my time on the Icelandic horses, and, if you’re going to take an excursion like this one, you really should do it with Sveinn Gunnarsson of TheIcelandicHorse.is.
Sveinn has the sort of gentle spirit and wealth of patience required of those who are going to take city boys like me on a ninety-minute horse ride through 4000-year old lava fields on the outskirts of Reykjavik. His quiet way reassures the horses and passengers alike, including the red-faced, gray-haired, egg-shaped fellow on our tour who jumped on his pony and fell right back off again. If you are going to ride horses here, by all means, do it with Sveinn.
That said: back to my relationship with my horse. I fancied myself a sort of horse whisperer at heart … that my innate kinship with dogs and cats would extend itself to the equine order, and that I would have an almost psychic link to Elsinnir, or whatever the heck my horse’s name was.
Instead, I think Elsinnir regarded me as just another burden to be borne. He has his routine, you see — loading up on passengers, loading up on water, riding to the meadow with the tasty grass, grazing during the photo shoot, riding back. He does all of this with far more grace than anyone could or should expect. He is sure-footed. He is tolerant. He is stable.
But he was not particularly friendly. Elsinnir regarded me mostly as some kind of large, water-filled sack — something to be carried here, nosed into position there. When I came between him and a particularly tasty-looking patch of wildflowers, he stepped on my foot without hesitation. When I tried to gently guide him by the reins in one direction, he would nose me out of the way and go wherever his passions were leading at the moment.
During the ride, he was well-behaved (except for his habit of biting other horses on the rear) and never a moment’s trouble. But … there was no bonding. I’ve had more bonding with taxi drivers in New York City.
And, perhaps, one should not expect bonding to occur in situations like this one. If Elsinnir were soft-hearted, if he gave himself too easily to this rider or that, he would suffer broken heart after broken heart, many times a day, on a daily basis. It is too much to ask of a horse, I think, and it must be enough, I believe, to be conveyed safely from A to B, and to experience the trip in the open air on a cool morning on a sunny Icelandic autumn morning.
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