Riding high

By Samantha Weinberg

We are two hours into the first day of our ride, trotting up a swathe of open heath, when the clouds come down. Instinctively, our horses bunch behind their leader. We turn up our collars and fasten our coats. Out of the mist come two huge dogs who bound towards us, snarling. They wear spiked collars around their necks. Levan calls for us to keep close while Achiko, who has been guarding the rear, keeps the dogs at bay.

I feel my shoulders tense, but my horse, Lurja, keeps trotting on, his neat ears pricked. And then, as if they had been spirited into being, we find ourselves surrounded by a herd of sheep, shaggy-coated goats and cattle, heading purposefully down the hill. For a few minutes we are engulfed, like stones in a rushing stream. The mist starts to clear and we see three figures on rough ponies, chivvying the animals from the edge. Their faces are obscured by woollen hats pulled low over their brows. Levan shouts at them in Georgian and then they are gone.