Cony de puta, but he curses these pants. The D&G may look nice, riding low, but codpieces were the smarter design. Wincing, he shifts his weight, tries to get a better feel for the surprisingly strong back. Ngh. No reins. Holding on to the mane... no. That's not only wimpy and uncouth but also, he feels, bad form.
He tentatively nudges the horse with his knees, and very nearly falls off when it starts forward, then wheels toward the beach.
Santa Maria, mare de Déu, traffic. Back home, everybody would have jumped to clear the way for a rider, especially armed and wearing a certain colour, but here... horse & rider appear to be lower on the food chain. The horse seems to sense that, ohthankyoumotherofgod, and makes for the dunes. By the time they hit the sand, he's got his arms wrapped around the crest, mane whipping his face.