Why I walk the cross-country course twice

Cross-country is the phase of eventing where a neat dressage test and a careful show-jumping round have to become one forward, committed effort. The fences may look familiar on a plan, yet the real course changes as soon as I see it on foot: the slope is steeper than expected, the landing is shorter, or a brush fence hides a turn that seemed obvious from the map.

That is why I always walk the cross-country course twice before competition day. The first walk helps me understand the designer’s questions and the shape of the terrain. The second lets me check the details with a calmer mind, match the route to Archie’s way of going, and turn a long string of obstacles into a rideable sequence.

The first walk gives me the shape of the day

My first course walk is about gathering information rather than making final decisions. I start at the beginning box and follow the numbered flags in order, even when I can see a tempting shortcut across the grass. Eventing courses are designed to create a rhythm, and walking every turn shows me where the forward pace begins, where it needs to shorten, and where I will need to rebalance before a question.

I pay attention to the land between fences. A cross-country course is not simply a collection of jumps placed in a field. A downhill approach can make Archie feel faster, while an uphill run can quietly take energy from his stride. A cambered track may encourage him to drift towards the lower side. The distance between obstacles, the direction of the sun, and the position of a gate or road crossing all influence how the course will feel from the saddle.

At venues outside Melbourne, Sydney or Brisbane, the ground can also be very different from what I have at home. Some Australian properties have hard, dry surfaces after weeks without rain; others become slippery after a sudden storm. Seeing the whole course lets me think about the likely going, rather than relying on a glossy course map or a quick glance from the lorry park.

Archie reads the ground before I ask for speed

Walking twice gives me a better picture of how Archie might meet each question. He is brave, but he is also observant. He notices changes in footing, shadows under trees and unusual fence materials. If I ride into a combination with a vague plan, he can sense that uncertainty in my body. A clear route and consistent rhythm make it easier for him to trust my decisions.

On the first walk, I look at the fences through a rider’s eyes. On the second, I try to imagine Archie’s view. A solid timber fence may be straightforward for me, while a narrow brush fence beside a dark patch of water could require a more direct line. A drop into water may look inviting from the ground, yet the exit bank can become the real question. I picture his ears, his stride and the point where his attention is likely to sharpen.

That mental rehearsal affects how I school before the start. If there is a related distance that needs a strong, positive ride, I want to establish the right balance in warm-up rather than discover it at fence eight. If the course contains a long gallop before a technical complex, I make sure Archie is in front of my leg without allowing him to run flat or lose his shape.

A second look catches what nerves hide

The first time around, I am usually carrying a lot of information. I have checked the start time, listened to the briefing, watched other riders, and tried to remember every number. It is easy to walk past a small detail because my mind is busy building a general picture of the course. The second walk acts as a filter.

I check the numbered flags carefully and make sure I understand which element comes first in every combination. I look for the correct side of trees, rails, markers and obstacles that might affect the line. I also notice where a fence disappears from view. A course can feel simple when I see all its elements from a distance, but a blind turn or hidden landing deserves attention before I am travelling at speed.

This is particularly useful when a venue has several loops through the same paddocks. Australian eventing grounds can be expansive, and the course may cross open pasture, wooded areas and temporary lanes in one round. At a large property near Sydney or in regional Victoria, I do not want a vague memory of “the next fence near the trees.” I want a precise visual cue and a clear route.

I mark the questions that matter

Walking the course twice does not mean treating every fence as a crisis. It helps me separate the ordinary fences from the ones that need a specific plan. A straightforward table on a forward line may simply require rhythm and a straight approach. A narrow brush, angled rails, water, a coffin or a related combination may require a decision about pace, line and preparation.

I like to describe each significant question in plain language. For example, I might tell myself, “Stay straight to the brush, keep the leg on, then turn left after the landing.” That is more useful than carrying a vague thought such as “this section looks tricky.” Clear instructions are easier to remember when my heart rate is up and Archie is full of energy.

The second walk is also when I check whether my planned line is realistic for us. The fastest route is not always the best route if it leaves no room for a correction. I consider whether the turn will support Archie’s balance, whether I can see the next flag early enough, and whether a slightly longer line will give us a better chance of jumping cleanly. Time matters, but a confident, accurate round matters more than chasing seconds with a careless approach.

Walking changes with Australian weather

Weather has a major influence on how I read a cross-country course. In an Australian summer, a walk in the cool morning can give a very different impression from a round held later in the day. Dry grass may become loose on top, exposed ground may harden, and the heat can affect both horse and rider. I think about shade, water points and the length of the galloping sections, as well as the fences themselves.

At some venues, especially in Queensland or inland New South Wales, the sun can be intense even when the temperature seems manageable early in the morning. I pay attention to where the glare may affect my view of a dark fence or a downhill landing. In wetter parts of Victoria or Tasmania, I look for areas that could become greasy and for slopes where the footing may change after rain. These are not abstract concerns; they shape the pace and balance I will need.

I also use the second walk to notice any changes made by the ground crew. A flag may have been adjusted, a take-off area may have been repaired, or a section of the course may have been marked more clearly. The final briefing and the official course information remain the authority. My walk helps me connect that information with the physical ground, rather than relying on memory from the previous evening.

The route becomes a shared plan

I rarely walk alone on the second circuit. My coach or a trusted supporter may see something I have missed, and talking through the route helps me test whether my plan makes sense. Explaining the approach to someone else often exposes gaps in my thinking. If I cannot describe the turn after a fence or the number of strides I expect in a combination, I probably need another look.

This shared planning is valuable with Archie because I know his individual habits. He can be strong after a big effort, look at a new filler, or lose a little focus when the course moves from open ground into trees. My coach can remind me to keep my upper body quiet, maintain the canter, or avoid taking a big pull when a forward ride is needed. The course walk turns those general reminders into specific moments.

Practical preparation matters too. At Australian events, travel between home and the venue can take hours, particularly when a competition is held in a regional area rather than near Melbourne or Sydney. I check the accepted paperwork, arrival instructions and horse-health requirements early. State biosecurity rules differ, and obligations under legislation such as the NSW Biosecurity Act 2015 can affect horse movement and property access. Knowing that the administrative details are settled leaves more attention for the course.

The second walk settles my competition mind

There is a psychological benefit to returning to the course. The first walk often makes the event feel bigger. I see the height of a fence, the distance across a water complex and the long stretch from one section to the next. By the second walk, the course has become a series of manageable jobs. I know where I need to breathe, where I need to ride positively and where I can allow Archie to travel.

I also use the second circuit to rehearse the start and finish. I picture leaving the start box, finding the first fence, and establishing a balanced gallop before the course begins to ask harder questions. At the finish, I imagine pulling up gradually, checking Archie and giving him time to recover. Cross-country preparation includes looking after the horse after the round, particularly on a hot day when cooling, water and shade are essential.

Australian eventing has its own practical pressures, from long distances and variable weather to the cost of fuel, entry fees and routine horse care. The local saddlery and second-hand equipment market can help riders manage expenses, but no purchase substitutes for knowing the course and understanding the horse wearing the gear. My most reliable preparation remains simple: arrive organised, listen to the officials, walk carefully and make decisions that suit Archie.

By competition morning, the second walk has given me something more useful than memorised fence numbers. It has given me a rhythm, a route and a set of choices I can trust. When Archie comes out of the start box, I am not trying to solve the whole course at once. I am riding the next line, then the next, with the ground and the questions already familiar beneath us.