Tough self-love
Two days into my much-needed holiday and the rain is running rivers down the back of my neck as I limp to the pharmacy. I buy blister plasters, cold packs, ibuprofen and knee supports – before returning to the pub that I’m staying in and eating like I’ve never seen food before.
That afternoon, I galloped an extraordinary horse through wild mountain terrain. The wind and water whipped through my too-thin jacket and every›muscle›protested the six hours in the saddle. Half convinced that the clouds rolling in over Offa’s Dyke on the England-Wales border would be the last thing I saw before plunging to my death, I was exhilarated and terrified in equal measures.
Six months earlier, I realised
