Horses and I share an on and off relationship. I get on and they toss me off. It began when I was twelve and a Shetland Pony, called Bluey, didn’t like it when my friend hit him with a thorn twig to encourage him to move forward. He moved all right — once he was rid of me. I fell like two inches or maybe even a little more and landed on my right arm. When I stood up, my arm was swinging in the space between my elbow and shoulder. That’s when I knew there was no love lost between me and horses of any kind.

After a mad rush from the town emergency room to Pocatello for a larger hospital and a specialist and after two weeks in traction, then who knows how long in a cast, and finally a physical therapy routine that generally required that I walk the hospital corridors with a bucket of rocks, I tried to get on a horse again. This was a bigger horse, so when it projected me over its head, I had more time to think about how to land. I ended up with a bruised tailbone, but no breaks. And thus began the dreaded phrase I would hear through the years, “But he/she is normally so gentle!”

The guides at Glacier Park put me on the slowest, dullest nag. This was a horse that was more docile than the ones they placed my children on. This horse was so ingrained in the tourist caravan that it might have been made of plastic and swaying in gentle motion as if it were on a merry-go-round. It decided to stop and eat. “You must be firm with your horse,” the guide instructed. “Pull her head up so she knows she cannot eat”. I yanked her head up. She turned her head with an “are you kidding me” kind of look and proceeded to rub me off on a tree. That’s pretty much how the rest of the ride went.

So when I realized the annual Riding of the Marches involved 270+ horses, not bicycles, I wondered why I was sitting on a concrete wall near the Scottish Parliament waiting to greet the procession. What can I say? I’m a sucker for pageantry. And I had my escape route planned – just a dive into the pool behind me and I could hug the wall and avoid any errant hooves. Scottish horses appear to have better manners than their American cousins. But, then again, I was holding to our agreement. I don’t get on and they don’t buck me off.

According to the website EdinburghGuide.com, the first record of The Riding of the Marches was in 1579, with riders covering the common land of the city. It continued until 1718. The website, calendarcustoms.com, explains the ride was also a commemoration to the Flodden Wall, built after the defeat of King James IV in 1513 at the Battle of Flodden where 10,000 Scotsmen died, including the king. In 2009, the Edinburgh March Riding Association (EMRA) reinstated the event as a charity re-enactment of the ride. This year’s ride supports the veterans organization Poppyscotland and commemorates the outbreak of World War I, when, according to edinburghspotlight.com, 6000 horsemen and 35,000 horses died in the conflict. Over 300 riders and horses were scheduled to participate this year.

A number of riders did not make it to the Royal Mile finish and I’m guessing under 200 passed by the Parliament, yet it was still quite moving to see the different riding clubs joining together with poppies attached to the horses and on the rider’s lapels. People cheered and clapped as the riders passed by, not unlike the entrance of the Tour de France into Paris, even though it was more subdued. Hikers climbing to Arthur’s Seat stopped along the trail to watch as the horses entered Holyrood Park. I sat next to a Scottish family and the young kilt-clad girls beside me said they were more excited to see the horses than they were to see Mickey Mouse. They told me about their own riding event coming up. They will parade and perform in costumes, the oldest dressing up as “the mean cat”.

I forgot, as promised in my last post, to look for Queen Elizabeths today. I certainly forgot to look for yellow butterflies. But, of course, I didn’t expect to see around 200 horses clip-clopping along the Royal Mile.