The annual Badminton pleasure ride took place in the middle of September. This is a 10-mile ride around the Duke's estate, with about 60 optional jumps thrown in. Most of the jumps are between 2'6" and 3 foot; nothing too serious. Over 1300 riders took part over a 5-hour period; plenty of opportunity for equine mayhem. People are allowed to go in groups of up to 4 or 5, with a two-minute interval between them. The problem is that there are the walkers and trotters, the gallopers, and horses like me who are gallopers with no brakes. Saturday had been a perfect English autumn day; heavy dew on the ground, a clear blue sky, no wind and a temperature in the mid-60s. Sunday however gave us the benefit of a mega-low pressure off Iceland, with strong winds, and low grey clouds intermittently depositing their best efforts on us. Spuds knew that if he wore waterproof clothes then he'd sweat worse than us horses; if he didn't then he'd get wet. He opted to get wet.

We were flagged off by the Duke's Stud Groom who had sold me to Spuds a few months previously.

"How's he going then?. I could have sold him five times since you bought him. You got a bargain you know."

"I know, I know" said Spuds. We departed with this final exhortation ringing in our ears; "Don't forget to give him a double dose of wormer before you bring him in". Really!

Over a few jumps, then the first serious obstacle-the famous Badminton lake. Naturally this is crowded with photographers, as well as riders-some dithering, some doing, some done, and some involuntary dismounted in the water ho ho. In the middle of the lake is a jump; a big log with two broken-off branches stuck up vertically. No problems here for our group. Out of the water, and the next feature is a flat-out gallop down the full mile length of the avenue; a magnificent approach to the lovely stately home. A few more log jumps present no problem either. At the end of the avenue, the course disappears off into a plantation, and at this point the heavens open; it pours down for about 10 minutes then just as quickly a blue sky and sunlight reappear. At this point both Spuds and me are steaming nicely.

The next few miles take us around the various paths within the plantation. All of the jumps are optional, but the problem with this course is that the bypass route is in fact the straight-ahead way, and if you want to jump then you have to divert. This can be quite tricky for a big strong bold boy like me. I enjoy jumping, and get faster and faster as they come at me. On a number of occasions we came cannoning out of a side-route onto the main ride, fortunately not colliding with anyone. This happened only once, when a group of riders were hanging around just around a blind right-angle bend. Negotiating the bend was hard enough-the alternative was a bramble bush, but stopping as well was too much. 16.2 hh of horseflesh came slithering round the bend, scattered the lurkers, and disappeared with a cheery cry of "Sorry. Young horse-no brakes".

The next part of the course was about 2 miles across open country, with just a few low hurdles put in for fun. At this point I noticed a curious thing. We had started off as a group of 4, but two had gone on ahead (chestnut mare; two paces, walk and bolt). Spuds was attempting to hold me back in order that I don't burn myself out too young, so this left me (a 16.2h hunter), and a small 10-year old girl on her tiny pony called Squiggle. Now wherever I went, and whatever I did, whatever jumps tackled or paces used, Squiggle was always there. 10 yards behind me like a faithful dog, little legs going like hell, her young rider confidently astride her pony just watching the countryside go past. It was like a cartoon event. Even when I cried enough, and slowed for a walk, little Squiggle trotted alongside apparently unconcerned by the efforts exerted. I wish I knew what she was on.

Eventually we came to the end, and collected our rosettes. We walked past the queue to start the event; we had been an early starter. There was at least 100 riders in the queue; I just don't know how people keep an excited horse quiet in a line like that for up to half an hour. We got back to the horsebox, and the heavens opened once again. After sponging off us horses and giving us our haynets, Spuds and his friends opened their own picnic. Spuds was scolded because he'd brought along French wine; this is supposed to be boycotted in protest against their A-bomb tests in the Pacific. He got away with it by pointing out that the vintage pre-dated the tests, so was exempt. Anyway, they weren't going to let him drink it on his own.

By the time they'd eaten, the professional photographers had on display the photos of the early riders, and ours was there. Spuds has a lovely picture of us jumping the log in the lake, an expression of grim determination on my face. The lady in front of him in the queue also had a picture in her hand; she showed it to the assistant and asked if she could have the photo for free. Spuds looked at it; it showed a lovely white horse in the middle of the lake, and a huge splash just by the side of it; no rider was visible. "That was my daughter", she said. "I'll keep this and bring it out again when she comes of age". She got it for free.

Then it rained some more.