It was a dark and stormy night

This is one of the pieces I wrote for the wonderful writing group, the Inkslingers in May 2019. Richard the horse was an enormous chestnut hunter with four white socks and a white "wonky" blaze. He was an Irish draught crossed with a thoroughbred. He could go like the wind and jump anything in his path. He was a gentleman in all ways except one - he had no brakes. He died at the grand old age of 27 in 2005 and was cremated. His ashes are on Dunnet Head, the most northerly point of the UK mainland. I still have a cushion with his hair in it, embroidered by a friend.