I mean, look.
But I found out today that I don't like its horses, or certainly one of them.
Amidst lots of genuinely stunningly sightseeing, we thought we were taking the kids ponytrekking. But the woman in charge said they were horses, so horsetrekking it is.
Charlotte's horse was called Reagan.
She was guided by that renowned horsewoman, Vanessa White.
Meanwhile, Jamie's mount went by the name of Winston.
He was guided by me.
You can already tell by the look on his face when I first yanked his girlie pink chain that he didn't like me.
And things went pretty much downhill after that.
When he stood on me for the first time, I concede that I was mildly disappointed in him.
When it happened a second time, a sense of resentment was beginning to build.
It was only really when he kicked me that I wanted to eat him in a bap.
X marks the spot.
Such was the level of breakdown in our man and horse relationship that another dad was eventually dispatched to finish a job that, on reflection, I was never really suited to.
Damn you Welsh Winston. You've let your great nation down.