It is adult camp week at the barn, and one of those times of year when I realize that despite living in a sleepy corner of Vermont, I actually board at a high-powered dressage barn. (The other times include when they load the rig to go to Wellington for the winter, and the going-away party for same.)
The adult campers are generally lovely people, and they look like they’re having a ton of fun! That said, they are mostly (though not all) of the socioeconomic background that means they can take a week with their horse to drive to Vermont for a pricey adult horse camp. They are all impeccably put together and have very nice horses and I usually spend the week sort of sneaking around the edges. My inner rebel often feels the need to ride in ratty breeches, half-chaps, Ariat sneakers, and bareback all week.
Last night, I took Tris out for a relatively short field hack, mixing it up with some short stretches of trot. (Side note: Endomondo said we topped out at 20mph last night, which seems absolutely absurd unless it was sensitive enough to track the swing of my arm while we trotted up the big hill?)
When I brought him out to the wash stall to hose him off for a minute or two, I saw two adult camp riders leaning over one’s cell phone and overheard the following statement, which I swear to you I am repeating verbatim:
“So that’s our house in Montauk…ignore the construction, we’re having some updates done.”