London (Not)Calling

Going back to London mid-way through my trip wasn’t a part of my plan, not that I had much of one. But I had some inkling that I wanted some distance away from the Grey City aka the Home of Cold and Emotionally-distant Grumps. And it had only been five months. But I needed a physiotherapist who knew horses and riders, and I couldn’t find that in Malaysia.

July in London was as perfect weather-wise as you were going to get, and I took advantage of every moment of it doing whatever riding I could, walking along the Southbank, and reading on my favourite bench by the riverside close to Gabriel’s Wharf by the OXO tower. Experiencing London as a tourist of sorts rather than the perpetually stressed and bothered commuter attempting to navigate ‘the Global Hub’ was a welcome change of pace. I strolled with the best of them, struck up conversations with perfect strangers on park benches (not as creepy as it sounds) and market vendors selling gluten-free brownies and Mauritian ‘street-food’, and sank into a state of being replete with multiple attendances of the National’s production of Small Island and assurances from both the physiotherapist and one of my old coaches that I was recovering well.

Before I knew it five weeks had gone by, and I was getting myself into the frame of mind I needed for Argentina. I was at the end of my prescribed recovery and rehab time. After the physio and pilates, and a few ‘re-entry’ sessions on horseback – I was good to go.


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