Horse Attack
Let me set the stage. We’ve rented a beach-side apartment for the weekend in a tiny little village in Sicily. The place is so serene that the few birds and the waves are the loudest sounds you hear. We’ve invited our friend Janelle and her two children, Trenton, age 10, and Miranda, age 5, to drive the hour down to come to the beach with us.
The beach has no other people on it. A few fishermen line the rocks on either side of the beach casting their lines or fishing nets into the sea. We spend some time watching a young man waiting patiently, net in hand then stealthily creeping up to throw his net on unsuspecting fish as Peter, James or John might have in Bible times. Surprisingly to us, he was actually catching fish.
There’s a small fresh-water stream flowing to the sea between the road and the beach and to get to the beach it you have to wade across the stream. No problem for us. We had gladly gone through to have our precious time on what seemed to us to be our own private beach.
We had enjoyed watching the fishermen, the boats on the sea, and now we saw two men riding a small cart pulled by a beautiful dark, almost black, horse. They came down to the area where the stream was and our thoughts were they were going to let the horse have a drink. The horse was acting a bit nervous so he was probably tired and a drink would help him. But, no. One man got off and prodded the horse to cross the stream. Still, no worry, they had plenty of room to go around us.
The horse didn’t want to go into the stream but finally rushed through only to stop just two feet from where we were to show these men he didn’t want to go any further, especially through the soft sand that he and the cart were sinking into. We, of course backed off, but were unable to get our things out of the way before he really threw a fit, jumping around as frightened horses do, his feet tossing our blankets, chairs, books and drinks everywhere. We, with our quick thinking (or lack thereof), just stood there hoping we didn’t get hit by flying hooves or objects. (Don’t ever hire any of us adults as secret service agents because we never once thought, “Jump in front of the children.” We all just stood there dumbfounded.)
The men finally got him settled down and rode off down the beach, hooves and wheels sinking all the way. And we began the job of cleanup. What was their intention? Were they training him for something? Were they mad? We’ll never know but it was the only time I’ve gone to the beach to get attacked by a horse.-------------and my camera was back at the apartment.
The beach has no other people on it. A few fishermen line the rocks on either side of the beach casting their lines or fishing nets into the sea. We spend some time watching a young man waiting patiently, net in hand then stealthily creeping up to throw his net on unsuspecting fish as Peter, James or John might have in Bible times. Surprisingly to us, he was actually catching fish.
There’s a small fresh-water stream flowing to the sea between the road and the beach and to get to the beach it you have to wade across the stream. No problem for us. We had gladly gone through to have our precious time on what seemed to us to be our own private beach.
We had enjoyed watching the fishermen, the boats on the sea, and now we saw two men riding a small cart pulled by a beautiful dark, almost black, horse. They came down to the area where the stream was and our thoughts were they were going to let the horse have a drink. The horse was acting a bit nervous so he was probably tired and a drink would help him. But, no. One man got off and prodded the horse to cross the stream. Still, no worry, they had plenty of room to go around us.
The horse didn’t want to go into the stream but finally rushed through only to stop just two feet from where we were to show these men he didn’t want to go any further, especially through the soft sand that he and the cart were sinking into. We, of course backed off, but were unable to get our things out of the way before he really threw a fit, jumping around as frightened horses do, his feet tossing our blankets, chairs, books and drinks everywhere. We, with our quick thinking (or lack thereof), just stood there hoping we didn’t get hit by flying hooves or objects. (Don’t ever hire any of us adults as secret service agents because we never once thought, “Jump in front of the children.” We all just stood there dumbfounded.)
The men finally got him settled down and rode off down the beach, hooves and wheels sinking all the way. And we began the job of cleanup. What was their intention? Were they training him for something? Were they mad? We’ll never know but it was the only time I’ve gone to the beach to get attacked by a horse.-------------and my camera was back at the apartment.
posted by Bob and Marianne at 7:52 PM
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