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Riding in Spain by Jim Keeble
‘Imagine you’re having sex,’ shouts Mick.
I try not to think too deeply about this, given that my partner is a large brown
horse. But I do start to rise and fall in time with the trotting. It’s not
exactly sex, more survival, but it is a lot more comfortable than before.
I love horse riding. The only problem is, I’ve not done it enough and I’m not as
good as I’d like. Which is why I’ve decided to head to the Garrotxa region in
the Spanish Pyrenees and ride in the hills for a week. Arriving at the lodge, a
restored 15th century farmhouse half an hour up a narrow track on the crest of
an oak-clad ridge, I feel a little intimidated. Everyone else in the
seven-person group seems to ride every weekend, and often during the week.
Before breakfast.
On the first night I drink to calm my nerves, consuming a little more than my
share of the excellent local red wine. I awake to mist pirouetting up the
valley, and the naying of horses eager for my blood. Mick Peters comes into the
breakfast room.
‘We ride,’ he proclaims, as Genghis Khan must have done to the Mongol hordes.
Mick is an ex-farmer from the UK and he’s been in Spain for
eighteen years. He has the patience of a saint and looks a little like Butch
Cassidy, which might explain why the women in the group seem to respond
particularly well. Most of his guests are English, German and Dutch. The
Spanish, he says, don’t ride much. Riding is still considered an aristocratic
pursuit in Spain, not for the ‘hoi polloi’. We, in contrast, are highly ‘hoi
polloi’. There’s me, Paul Reeder and Denise Clarke from Limehouse, East London,
German nurse Carmen and her daughter Steffi, German physio Karin, and
businessman Helmut.
We’re due at the stables below the house at 10am. And yes, the Germans are there
first, but beyond this observation any nationalism is non-existent. In fact
we’re all getting on very well. They’ve kept quiet about soccer.
Each morning we have to prepare our steeds, check their hooves, talcum powder
them, saddle them and harness them. My horse is called Pulida, which means
‘clean’, although with my amateur coat-brushing she rarely seems to be. Pulida,
as Mick reassures me, is a gentle beast and seems highly sympathetic when I try
to put the saddle on her the wrong way round. Before we set out Mick explains
some important rules.
‘If you drop something and we stop, that’s a bottle of champagne. If you fall
off, that’s a bottle of champagne.’
I ready myself to buy a case. 
The countryside we ride into is gently spectacular. These ancient volcanic
foothills are thickly wooded, laced with medieval villages and countless paths
devoid of people. Garrotxa means ‘land difficult to walk upon’ but the horses,
born and raised in the Pyrenees, are as sure-footed as a Riverdance line-up.
Mick keeps us moving. ‘Trot!’ and ‘Canter!’ are words to loosen my sphincter.
But our first day’s ride is relatively easy - three hours in the saddle, taking
in a ruined 13th century monastery where we eat oranges and gaze up at
snow-tipped Pyrenean peaks.
The week is well-planned - a full day’s ride followed by a half day in the
saddle and plenty of time to recover. I find sitting on horseback surprisingly
relaxing, a time for happy contemplation, lulled by clopping hooves. On the
longest day we ride to the medieval village of Besalú, where we tie our horses
by the river and swagger into town like desperadoes to eat sandwiches. In all we
spend seven hours in the saddle and cover 25 kilometers.
‘Como esta tu culo?’, asks Mick’s Spanish wife Rosie on our return. How is your
backside?
Surprisingly, it doesn’t hurt. But my back does. And calves. And knees, and
thighs and arms. My head feels fine though. Until I have another evening on
Mick’s wine. Flushed with equestrian success we sink several bottles and end up
singing by the fire, a demonic Anglo-Germanic choir howling out Elvis Presley
songs until the small hours. There is, I muse over yet another bottle of Vino
Tinto, still hope for a united Europe.
Back in the saddle, my first ever gallop is the most exhilarating thing I’ve
done since riding down two flights of stairs on a plastic tractor aged five. I
even keep my eyes open.
On my last night I sit by the fire feeling more than a little pleased with
myself. I begin to wonder if I might stay on to try the subsequent week long
trail ride, a trip which several members of the group are doing, where you
travel on horseback from the hills, via small hotels, as far as the
Mediterranean.
It can’t be that difficult, I decide. After all, it’s like having sex. For eight
hours a day, every day, for six days.
Maybe next time.
This trip can be booked with Hidden Trails, a specialist in
equestrian vacations all over the world.
You can call toll free at 1-888-9-TRAILS or contact them on Skype at
skype:hiddentrails .
You can also see details on this trip including rates and trip date on their
website at: http://www.hiddentrails.com/tour/spain_catalonia_explorer_ride.aspx
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Automatic Horses by Jasper Winn
It’s rare to come across something totally new in the world of horses. Because
horses are four legged and conservative creatures it’s inevitable that most
riding experiences are going to be variations on the usual
walk-trot-canter-gallop theme, with, maybe, a bit of jumping thrown in. 
But I’d just mounted a Peruano Paso horse, and ridden off
down a sand track. And at the point where there should have been a transition
from walk to trot something unexpected happened. Or rather didn’t happen. With a
touch from my heels, the horse’s speed doubled and then close to trebled but
almost nothing changed under the saddle. There was no trot action, no jerking
around, no two-stroke beat. Just an increase in speed and the very faintest
feeling of the animal undulating across the ground.
The Peruano Paso is famous for its ‘pace,’ and this smooth
gait, I realized, made it the equivalent of a luxury saloon car with independent
suspension, cruise control, automatic gearbox and, for all I knew, quadraphonic
CD-changer and air conditioning.
There are, of course, a number of variations on the ‘extra
pace’ theme. Icelandic horses have the tolt. Some Asian horses are born with a
natural extended walk that can glide them along at the speed of a trotting
horse. Occasionally, too, Barbs in Morocco have an equally smooth extra pace.
Whilst the Americas have the Tennessee Walking Horse, the Missouri Foxtrotter
and the American Saddle Horse.
According to some authorities the natural ability to pace,
tolt, rack, lateral trot, speed walk or whatever the extra gear is packaged as
is passed on genetically. In the case of the Peruano Paso the lateral pace –
with the legs on either side moving together in a smooth and speedy forward
momentum – are the result of three hundred years of selective breeding based on
the Barb, Andaluse and Asturian horses brought from Spain by the conquistadores
and the early Iberian colonists. Peruanos were prized for their ability to cover
long distances at speeds averaging 18 kph and – still in the paso pace – up to
21 kph, and with almost no effort required from the rider. 
The Estancia Sierra Chicas in Argentina’s province of Cordoba
is part of a history going back to the region’s first settlers in 1573, the
farms of the Jesuit missions, and the silver mines of the Andes. The area was
famous for breeding the large, pack mules used to carry the silver across the
Andes to the coast. The 6,000 acres of the estancia are used for raising cattle
and four generations of the Begg family have used Peruano Pasos for overseeing
their stock and directing the work of the estancia’s gauchos. They also run
riding holidays from the colonial estancia’s main house with its flagged floors,
hunting prints on the walls and bedrooms furnished with antiques.
We were a mixed group, all of us come to ride with brothers
Robin and Kevin Begg for a weekend. Piotr was an experienced horseman from
Poland, Florencia from Buenos Aires was a friend of the family, whilst Jenny
from England was checking out luxury estancias across Argentina for a travel
company. Kate and Aine from Cork had never ridden before, but were assured that
Argentina was the best place to start.
We had arrived at an opportune moment, just in time for the
annual yerra, the branding of the year’s crop of steers. Even as we breakfasted
our horses, most Criollo but with a trio of Peruano Paso amongst them, were
driven in and lined up along the yard wall. The horses were saddled with
English-style cavalry saddles each overlaid with a thick sheepskin in the
Argentine way.
“The most important thing to remember is these horses have
very soft mouths, so they neck rein, and you need almost no contact,” Robin
stressed to Kate and Aine. As we rode out to branding, a few miles away across
the hills, I rode beside Robin who explained how they kept the horses for the
guests well schooled. “We rotate them through the gauchos, so they spend as much
time working cattle and being ridden by our riders as they do with guests and
that keeps them right.” 
We tied the horses up in the shade of the trees beside the
corral. Many of the gauchos were neighbors who had ridden over for a day of
helping in the lassoing in exchange for the pleasure of a barbeque, with plenty
of wine and singing. Working on foot each man had swung a braided rawhide lasso.
As a black steer was driven out into the stone walled corral one gaucho or
another would step forward and as it ran past flick out a loop and – as often as
not – neatly rope the animal’s two front legs, rolling the bullock neatly over
and allowing other men to run in and hold it down whilst it was branded with the
sizzling sound and acrid smell of burning hair.
The men worked through the cattle at a spanking rate, despite
the hot sun. Robin and Kevin’s father had arrived to oversee the branding.
Having welcomed his visiting neighbors, and seeing that things were going well
he suggested that we ride a tour of the outlying country of the estancia. A
group of us rode off across the Sierra, through the scrubby paja brava grass.
The land rolled and tumbled like the Wicklow hills as we paced along with Mr
Begg pointing out landmarks and recounting the history of the region or pausing
to identify a far-off bird. “We’ve got condors here, and humming birds, too and
there are deer and boar and puma, and fox of course.”
Our return to the yerra was well timed. The gauchos had
marked the last bullock, and there were great plates of meat – steaks, sausages,
ribs, black puddings – being carried from the fire to the white clothed tables
set up under the trees. Bottles of Los Potreros’ own label wine were uncorked.
The air of fiesta continued after we had ridden back to the
farm and swum and taken a siesta. Aine and Kate were ecstatic at having become
riders. Ambling along beside them at various times during the day I’d
sympathized with their agonized demands as to why holding the reins correctly
had to be so complicated. And I’d encouraged them on through the agonies of
learning to trot, (the Peruanos were too valuable to be demoted to schoolmasters
and so both girls were mounted on patient and well schooled Criollos).
Kevin and Robin put in time to give them subtle tuition on a
need to know basis, so that as complete beginners they were able to ride along
with the group at the groups pace, even if at some cost to dignity and comfort
when trotting. Kate and Aine’s joy at having seen the countryside from on top of
a horse, and the group’s general happiness spilled over into an evening of
singing and then tango dancing across the rugs and wooden floor of the elegant
sitting room in the main house. The hunting prints on the walls shook and
trembled in time to stamping feet. And there were Polish hunting songs and Irish
ballads and Argentine folk poems. 
Despite the late night there was an early start next morning
when Kevin, Piotr and I saddled up just past dawn to go on an extended ride
across wilder neighboring lands, and deep into the Sierra Chicas. The girls
contemplated a day by the swimming pool and a shorter ride out with one of the
gauchos. This ability to provide activities for groups of very different
abilities was a strong point, I suggested to Kevin as we rode over the hills to
meet with a gaucho from the neighboring estancia who was going to guide us
through a maze of valleys, woods and steep hills. Between them the Begg family
had worked out that riding holidays run in a distant part of the world needed to
offer variety and unique attractions. So once a year they ran a two week riding
holiday aimed at beginners. For experienced riders they had come up with idea of
polo treks. “Rather than sitting around in a polo school waiting to get a brief
period on a horse, we ride around neighboring estancias where they play polo and
have a game– even beginner ball and stickers, can play – and then we ride on,”
explained Kevin, “so that you get much more time in the saddle.”
At other times of the year they run camping and estancia stay
trips for those keen to do long distance. And in the middle of summer – January
in the southern hemisphere - at the time of the full moon horses are saddled
after dark and riders head out into the moonlight. Whilst another ride each May
takes guests across the mountains by horse to find vantage points above the
route used by the annual world rally primes to give a grandstand view of the
cars hurtling along the precipitous dirt tracks.
We’d ridden throughout the morning, with a good gallop across
broken country when our gaucho guide’s pack of dogs set off in pursuit of
something unseen - puma, boar or deer - in the thick scrub and copses of a deep
valley. We’d ridden along a ridge between two remote estancias as the same
gaucho described a late night gun fight between cattle rustlers and stockmen. In
the middle of the day we rode down from the hills to a remote bar, and tied up
the horses under a tree and ordered up ice cold beers. We still had a long ride
to get back to the estancia, but with the estancia’s horses the difference was
between setting off to drive across Ireland in a rattle trap car on the edge of
breakdown and with non existent suspension, or setting off on the same journey
in a touring coupe with all you could ask in the way of modern comfort. Except,
in the case of the Peruano Paso horse, it’s everything you could ask in the way
of the ancient comfort produced by generations of breeding and a life time of
good schooling.
This trip can be booked with Hidden Trails, a specialist in
equestrian vacations all over the world.
You can call toll free at 1-888-9-TRAILS or contact them on Skype at
skype:hiddentrails .
You can also see details on this trip including rates and trip date on their
website at: http://www.hiddentrails.com/tour/argentina_sierra_chicas_estancia.aspx
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Across the Andes by Horse by Jasper Winn
“The first thing we’ve got to do is bring in the horses,”
Jane told us over early morning coffee on the veranda. That sounded
straightforward. Grab a few headcollars, nip out to the field, rattle a
feed-bucket and we’d have them in and saddled up in twenty minutes or so. No?
Well, no, not in Argentina’s northern Patagonia. Not when the ‘field’ was the
hundreds of acres of rough country behind us, where the estancia’s horses were
turned out to graze. In fact we’d have to take other horses just to be able to
go out and round up the mounts we actually wanted to use for the coming days.
Four of us – Ed, Helen, Isabelle and I – downed a last swig of coffee. Ed had
worked, in a past life, as a ranch manager in Venezuela and rode well. Isabelle
travelled for work across South America and was an enthusiastic convert to horse
travel. Helen played polo in the north of England and hunted through the winter,
making her a natural when it came to horsing around in Argentina. We were
preparing to leave on a 360-kms ride, led by Jane Williams, across the Andes.
Starting from the wide plains of Argentina we’d climb through forests of monkey
puzzle trees to cross the world’s longest mountain range under the cones of
snow-dusted volcanoes before riding into steep valleys and switchback tracks on
the Chilean side.
Jane owns the 6,000 hectares of the estancia in Patagonia’s remote Lake
District. Originally from London, she married an Argentine and, after her
husband’s death in an accident, continues to run the family estate. It’s a hard,
frontier life, dependent on gauchos - mounted on horses and expert with lassos -
to work the estancia’s 700-head of cattle. It’s a land where the comforts of the
‘big house,’ with its china tea-sets and bustling kitchens and carefully tended
gardens are overshadowed by the vastness of the surrounding steppe country and
the extremes of weather. Behind the farm condors roost on the towering cliffs.
Wild boars root up the lawns at night. A puma, one of the Mapuche Indian cowboys
reported as I ate breakfast, had been seen earlier in the herbaceous border.
Jane’s rides are a by-word for good horses, plenty of fast riding and lots of
fun. Especially fun. In Europe – in Ireland – it’s becoming more and more
difficult to have good, rip-roaring fun on horses; there’s too much traffic on
our roads, and too little access to off-road riding land. And there are too many
concerns about safety and insurance and vets’ bills to get in the way of plain
in the saddle ‘fun’ fun. But in Argentina, and particularly on this estancia,
experienced riders can still get a kick out of taking their own line at speed
across country, or helping out on the day-to-day work of rounding up cattle and
horses. There’s often the chance of putting up a wild boar and - if the dogs are
on the ball – getting a two or three kilometre run in its wake. Or you can ride
across the Andes.
Early the next morning we saddled up the horses we’d
rounded-up the previous day. We filled our saddle-bags and tied them behind the
Argentine-style saddles with their two cinch-girths, leather panels and thick
cushioning of sheepskins. “There’s a poncho – they’re wool, rainproof – for each
of you, and, also…” Jane eyed us sternly, “…a tin mug. Look after it, because
you’ll need if for coffee, wine, water, and there are no spares.”
We left the estancia along a sand track shaded by trees mature enough to measure
the time back to when the Bariloche region was first settled by Europeans in the
late 19th century. The trees were certainly older than the peace treaty signed
with the local Mapuche Indians in the early 20th century. Jane’s head horseman,
Juan, who rode with us, and the other gauchos working on the estancia, were all
Mapuche.
The land opened up before us. A stiff Patagonian wind blew up the dust from
under our horses’ hooves. I’d been given Huilipan, a 15.3 or so, bay, Criollo-cross
gelding. “He’s named after the Indian I bought him off,” Jane had told me, “he’s
23 years old, but nobody’s told him that.” She was right. Under me, Huilipan had
the feel of a good eventer in the prime of life. Active walk, a good sharp trot,
and – when Jane, as was her wont, suddenly broke into a canter and we
accelerated to keep up – a fast pace across the broken ground with a handy fifth
leg to skip him over holes and sudden drops and anything else the landscape
threw up.
Our first day started us on exactly the fun, whooping and hollering kind of
riding that Argentina does so well. But made even crazier by the increasing
strength of the wind the higher we climbed. As we crested the highest hills and
looked west to the distant Andes the wind snapped and banged at our hat brims,
and tugged our horses’ manes and tails straight out to the side. Galloping into
the gale’s teeth made it seem as if one was riding at twice one’s actual speed.
We got to our first campsite late in the afternoon. Horses were unsaddled and
loosed to graze. A tarpaulin was stretched between two stunted trees as a
windbreak. A fire lit, and steaks put to cook. The camp-master, Domingo, had set
up tents and stools. We drank wine – from our tin mugs – as we warmed ourselves
by the fire. Sasha, Jane’s Great Dane, who had quartered the ground ahead of us
for the whole 40kms of riding lay exhausted at our feet. Tired, too, we slept
that night in sleeping bags lain on top of the sheepskins from our saddles.
The routine of a long distance ride comes quickly, so natural does it feel. I
woke to the smell of coffee brewing in a billy-can on the fire. The wind had
died and it was dead calm. I pulled on some clothes and splashed cold water into
my face. We all stood around the fire, with plates full of bacon and eggs. Tin
mugs were filled with coffee. We stuffed our kit into the saddle-bags. Tacked
up. And, whilst the morning was still cool, rode on.
On that second day we rode across flat land, fording wide, tumbling rivers,
taking long canters, and jogging along through scrub. It was a social way to
travel, with time to talk, or just ride in companionable silence. Jane pointed
out caracaras foraging the grasslands and condors high above us. She dived off
her horse at one point to pluck up a hairy armadillo from the bushes and show it
to us before letting it free again. Midmorning we were joined by Manuel, a local
policeman and horse-breaker. Much of his tack was hand-braided and decorated, as
was his belt. His horse was a well-broken Criollo. Law-keeping in the hinterland
of San Martin de Los Andes could, apparently, look after itself for a few days
whilst he chose to ride along with us.
Jane’s trump card in running long distance rides lay in her good relations with
the neighboring estancia owners, the Mapuche Indian villagers and numerous
working gauchos for hundreds of kilometers around. Not only were we able to
cross private estancia land, but our progress – important on this path-finding
route across the Andes - was aided by locals who saddled up to guide our band
across the land.
At this height nights were cold and mornings frosty. Shots of whiskey were added
to our tin mugs’ contents. But days were blue-skied and warm. For the actual
climb over the Tres Picos pass that marked our highest point, in crossing the
Andes we were led by an Indian cacique – chief – on a small tough Criollo pony.
He threaded us through a dark forest of lofty monkey puzzle trees - where Manuel
gathered up pocketfuls of their piñon nuts to cook for supper - and then out
onto a high ridge. Ahead of us lay Lanin volcano and the Chilean border,
seemingly close, but still a long ride away. We arrived at the Chilean border at
a canter, with volcanoes – one streaming smoke like a distant factory chimney -
to both sides of us.
Even in South America taking horses back and forth across borders is difficult
and time-consuming. So, at the frontier Jane’s horses turned back to Huechahue,
driven as tight herd in front of Juan and Manuel, whilst we had our passports
stamped before crossing over into Chile. Local horseman, and Jane’s friend,
Rodolpho Coombs was waiting with a mob of Chileno horses for us. The change in
the landscape was spectacular. Where the Argentina had been mainly flat and
empty with long, open slopes to the Andes, on the Chilean side the landscape was
steeper, and thickly wooded with narrow tracks threading between the trees and
through cane breaks. The horses matched the landscape; smaller and
closer-coupled, with saddles with high pommels and cantles. We were given big-rowelled
spurs in Chilean style. The reins to the curb bits were thick ropes, ending in a
wide strip of leather to be used as a crop.
With slower riding over the first few days, there was even more time for
talking. Rodolpho and his horseman, Joel, both rode blacks with Andaluse-type
heads. “Conquistadore’s horses,” Rodolpho pointed out, “because here in Chile
our horses and our horsemanship are different from across the border in
Argentina. There they have all the space of the pampas to breed horses, so a
gaucho might have ten or twenty or a hundred horses. But here we have less land,
so a huaso – a Chilean cowboy – will have only a few horses, and so we must work
harder with what we have.” His horses were well-schooled, working off the leg,
and on the bit. And this schooling, perhaps, not only because of his Chilean
background. Because in the 1970s Rodolpho was an international showjumper and
then chef d’equipe to the Spanish showjumping team. “I was in Ireland many times
buying horses, and off course we came to Dublin horse show often. Tiempos Buenos
- good times.”
Here, on the Chilean side, the villages of the Mapuche Indians were more
frequent and busier. We rode past small fields cleared from amongst the trees.
There were orchards. And the sound of hewing of wood into planks and beams for
corrals and barns and water troughs. There were more rivers to cross, too, and
being deeper and faster we rode the horses across swaying, narrow suspension
bridges, one at a time. But in the valley bottoms amongst the trees there were
long flats, like parkland, where we could give the Chileno horses their heads.
Helen regularly wore her poncho, the thick, water- and wind-proof, black manta
castilla. The rest of us took to calling her la furtiva – the outlaw. La Furtiva
was a wild starter of races, and much given to riding-off in polo fashion to
liven the same races up. Fun! Good horse fun.
Here in Chile our nights were spent in tents around the remote farm-houses where
we dined by candle light. There were long swims in clear alpine lakes in the
heat of the day. There was birdsong and stands of the native fuschia. And a
sudden end to the ride. Just as we had ridden out of Huechahue eight days before
and into the wilderness, so we rode back down a track, through a field of
horses, and out in front of Rodolpho's house. We dismounted at the stables and
unsaddled. Under a tree there was a jug of pisco sour, Chile’s potent national
drink, waiting. “I hope,” said Jane, “you’ve all got your tin mugs still.”
This trip can be booked with Hidden Trails, a specialist in
equestrian vacations all over the world. You can call toll free at
1-888-9-TRAILS or contact them on Skype at skype:hiddentrails .
You can also see details on this trip including rates and trip date on their
website at:
http://www.hiddentrails.com/tour/argentina_andes_crossing.aspx
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An amateur dressage rider from Wyoming finds a clinic in
Spain with Olympian Rafael Soto
By Darlene Vaughn
After a lifetime of dressage lessons, this was just one more.
Or was it? I was mounted on a wonderfully well-trained Andalusian gelding, and I
was in a foreign country listening to an Olympic medalist giving me riding
instruction. As this realization hit, I caught my breath and tried to grab and
hold every detail of what was happening.
As an amateur dressage enthusiast, I am part of the largest group pursuing the
sport, and I have worked hard, taking lessons, going to shows, buying the
correct tack and finding the horses that suited my level of expertise. Through
Hidden Trails we discovered a wonderful riding center near Seville. Epona (named
for an ancient Celtic goddess) is a family owned and operated equestrian center
with dressage as one of its specialties. We both fell in love with the setting,
the horses, the Garcia family and the great staff. After a number of visits
“across the pond,” we also feel like family.
The winter of 2006 – 2007 offered an opportunity I could not resist, even though
I would be travelling alone. Epona was hosting four dressage clinics with Rafael
Soto, an Olympic silver medalist. He and his Andalusian stallion, Invasor, have
been a crowd favorite with the international dressage community over the last
decade. Rafael is a dedicated horseman living in southern Spain and spending
most of his time at the Royal Andalusian School of Equestrian Art in Jerez
teaching and training. He has been to the United States only a few times to
teach clinics, since he prefers to be at home with his family.
The second Sunday in February of last year found me with four other gals
unpacking our riding clothes after traveling from Wyoming, Michigan,
Pennsylvania, Wales and Malaga, Spain. We each had our own comfortable room in
the hacienda on the grounds of Epona. Fernando Garcia, our host and one of the
school’s owners and directors, loaded us quickly into a van and we were on our
way to a typical Spanish restaurant in Carmona to get to know each other over a
great meal. I learned Fernando’s riding resume included show jumping. 
Preparation
Monday morning we began a marathon of preparation for our lessons with Rafael.
We each had a private longe lesson and then small group lessons with head
instructor Caty Garcia in the covered arena. The longe horses were so solid and
rhythmic that we had only to pay strict attention to our positions and
transitional cues.
One of the goals was to match each rider with the perfect horse for the week. I
drew one of my favorites, Trajano, a bay Andalusian I had ridden on previous
visits. With the number of highly trained horses among the 60 that are available
at Epona, all of us were well-mounted in no time.
Caty is a talented and experienced instructor who has worked with many
international competitors and holds some of the most coveted certifications in
Europe. She was able to quickly discern our strengths and weaknesses as riders
and, beginning with the basic gaits and a snaffle bridle, we climbed through the
ladder of relaxation, obedience, lateral movements and, finally, collected work.
We are not upper-level riders, so it was a steep learning curve, impossible
without these horses. Using leg yield and shoulder-in exercises to help us get a
better feel for the connection of the hand to bit and supporting leg on the
horse, we understood much clearer the concept of teamwork between horse and
rider. Caty was persistent and committed that all work was done properly and in
a manner that kept our horses and us happy and working toward the goal of
Rafael’s lessons later that week. Most American riders do not get this
opportunity, and I marveled at the huge steps forward we all made in our riding
skills in such a short time. 
Higher Education
The other director of the school, Jane, Fernando’s wife, used her marvelous
culinary skills and served us a delicious luncheon, after which we observed the
traditional Spanish siesta time. Jane is another talented rider and instructor
herself. Although she leaves most of that to her daughters now, she was just as
excited as we were about our progress during the week. After another lesson in
the early evening and another wonderful meal, we retired for the night a bit
sore but totally satisfied in the food department. This was to be duplicated for
the entire stay.
Tuesday we traveled to Jerez and the Royal Andalusian School of Equestrian Art
(Real Escuela Andaluza del Arte Ecuestre) to watch a performance by the
professors and students. It brought tears to our eyes. Applications for
admission come from all over the world, but few students are accepted each year
at this government supported school. Vivi Gracia, Caty’s sister (Fernando and
Jane’s other daughter) has juts completed four years there. A bit of Jerez’s
famous sherry made for a sleepy ride home, but soon we were back on the horses
with more lessons.
By Wednesday, Caty had us graduate to full bridles, and we began to attempt some
of the finer movements of our capable horses. This meant complete instruction in
how to hold the double reins and the different uses of the snaffle and curb
bits. For those who have never ridden a passage, piaffe or flying change, the
experience can be overwhelming – lots of smiles, laughs and even shouts of joy.
Thursday morning, we had another lesson but, that afternoon, we went into
Seville to discover a Spanish tack store and to enjoy the art of Flamenco
dancing. After four days of intense training, we were all glad to have some time
off.
Clinic with Rafael Soto
Friday was the day Rafael was coming. Each student had two scheduled private
lessons with him on Friday and again on Saturday. This was his fourth clinic at
Epona, but you could feel the excitement in the air. The Gracia family and the
other staff members at Epona are very respectful of Rafael for his riding,
training and instructing accomplishments. Needless to say, the five of us were
excited and more than a bit apprehensive. Would we be good enough? Would we be
able to follow his instruction? Would our horses listen to us? We had our boots
polished and the staff had our horses groomed, tacked and ready to go.
As we had been told, Rafael was a wonderful clinician, speaking fine English for
those of us knowing only that language and explaining in Spanish for our gal
from Malaga. He talked us though the basics. Then, as the lessons progressed, he
allowed us to try our hand at the upper-level movements. He also concentrated on
lateral movements to engage our horses. Rafael directed us to do a bit of walk,
then a forward trot, using leg yield and shoulder-in. After concentrating on
straightness on the long sides, bending correctly on the corners and many
transitions within the gaits, we did our canter work, using counter canter as a
gauge for our riding.
Toward the end of the lesson, we were encouraged in the upper-level movements. I
was particularly impressed by how much preparation time was used for any change
a rider requested. The shoulder-ins began at the end of the short side, which
made the transition much smoother and easier for the horse. By Saturday
afternoon, we were all doing flying changes on a serpentine topped off by a few
steps of passage and piaffe and, of course, we had to do the Spanish walk with
our Andalusians. We all felt like real dressage riders and cheered each other on
throughout the sessions.
I was honored to sit with the family and our distinguished instructor at lunch
on Saturday. “I think you could not find better horses in the world for our
lessons here at Epona,” Rafael told us. “Without them, I could not do my job,
and it would be impossible to do this kind of training.”
We ended our lessons with a ceremony and diplomas for the five of us. We were oh
so tired but oh so happy that we had had an experience we will never forget. I
treasure the week, the good friends I made and the excellent dressage
instruction. I brought home so many new training tools to use with my own horse.
I also understand the optimum method of rider education is the importance of
learning on a trained mount before trying to transfer that schooling to a less
experienced horse.
You can book this riding clinic with Hidden Trails, a specialist in equestrian
vacations worldwide.
Call toll free at 1-888-9-TRAILS – or check out this trip
on their website at:
http://www.hiddentrails.com/tour/spain_andalusia_epona_clinic.aspx
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Nestled in the Saskatchewan River valley, along the shores of Lake
Diefenbaker, is a working ranch, where city folk can trade in their suits and
cars for a cowboy hat and a horse. ![]() 
"It's everybody's dream to be a cowboy or play a cowboy for a time," says George
Gaber, who bought the cattle ranch in 1996 and opened it up to visitors from
around the world.
A typical day at the ranch starts with breakfast, "a really hearty meal," at
about 9 a.m., then it's time to saddle up the horses and hit the trails. It's
about 8 miles up and down the hills of the river valley to reach the cattle west
of the guest ranch, says Gaber.
"It's quite a ways to go," says Gaber. "We're out there almost for six, seven
hours, depends on the riders."
"We find the cattle. We have to check them, sometimes we have to rope them and
treat them."
There are times when fences need to be repaired or posts need to pounded back
into the ground. In June, the cattle is rounded up on horseback for branding.
Gaber says everyone has the chance to learn how to rope and wrestle the calves.
On Oct. 10, Gaber says the fall roundup will start. That's when the cattle are
rounded up on horseback and brought from the summer pastures to the main ranch.
It's the true cowboy way of life, says Gaber, and if you don't know how to ride,
he'll teach you.
"It doesn't take very long and you're going to love it," he says.
If you think it sounds a bit like the 1991 Billy Crystal movie "City Slickers,"
where three friends spend their holiday driving cattle from New Mexico to
Colorado, you'd be right.
In fact, the movie was an inspiration for Gaber, who was born and raised on a
farm in Germany.
"I was looking myself into this kind of holiday, after I watched the movie 'City
Slickers,' that's how everything got started," he recalls. "That how I actually
ended up here in Saskatchewan."
It was 1995 when he visited Canada and fell in love with the country,
"especially with the southwest, with the Prairie and wide open space."
A year later, Gaber bought the ranch. It's just over 1,780 hectares, with more
than 8 miles of waterfront along Lake Diefenbaker and about 100 pairs in a
cow-calf operation.
In addition to riding the range, there's swimming, boating, canoeing and
fishing. The largest rainbow trout in the world, weighing in at 19.78 kilograms,
was caught in Lake Diefenbaker in 2007, although that could fall to another
rainbow caught in Diefenbaker earlier this month. The latest weighs in at a
hefty 21.77 kilograms and is waiting to be certified as the record.
The evenings end with a campfire under the stars. If roasting marshmallows isn't
your thing, there's also a saloon on the ranch.
Gaber says there's no set program.
"You're on holiday, you're supposed to relax and supposed to get out of this
day-to-day hectic life," he says.
"People get all excited to come here and they ask 'What's now, what's going on
next, what do we do now.' Second day they slow down and third day . . . they're
really relaxed. After three or four days you have to wake them up in the morning
or they're not going to be there in time for breakfast," he laughs. -
You can book this working ranch vacation via Hidden Trails - an agency
specializing in equestrian vacations all over the world.
Call toll free 1-888-9-TRAILS or have a look on their website at
http://www.hiddentrails.com/tour/sk_river_valley_ranch.aspx
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By Judy Armstrong
A golden tower of honeycomb stone, a lush meadow blushing with poppies, an
arched bridge, lumpy hills, rushing river. The train is moving slower as it
approaches medieval Gourdon. Now the window shows a pristine sky, swooping
swallows, a steep-pitched barn roof.
Five hours after sliding away from Paris, the train stops. I emerge into the
warm air, the soft sun, the gentle ambience of the Lot. Hans Vroom, a Dutchman
who fell in love with, then moved to, this area seven years ago with his family,
greets me by the station steps. “We visited France by car and motorbike, spent
a lot of time here,” he says.
“We loved the climate and the places of historic and tourist interest. We also
had horses, so we decided to combine our two passions, by taking guests to
explore the Lot on horseback.”So, this is why I am here. Travelling by human
power is the ultimate in eco-friendly travel, but moving through wooded
landscape on a grass-fuelled animal is surely as green as it gets. And while
travel for its own sake is a joy, having a focus makes it even better.
Recently, I was invited to visit Rocamadour, one of France’s most popular
destinations for pilgrims and tourists. The churches, the chapels and castles
crammed onto a rock face looked beautiful, fascinating, unique – but I dislike
arriving by car, staring at a ‘sight’, ticking the box and departing.
Countryside Saunter
Hans, through his North America representatives Hidden Trails, soon solved
this sight-seeing dilemma. One of the trail rides through the Lot has
Rocamadour as its heart: we would saunter through the countryside to this holy
shrine, pay our respects and ride away. By travelling upon narrow wooded paths,
through complex woodland, via a jigsaw of lanes, streams and meadows, we would
also breath, smell and feel the Lot as a car-tourist never can.
The riding center, home to Hans, Hermina and their seven year old daughter
Soleil, is a short drive from Gourdon, near the border of the Lot and Dordogne.
It is fresh off the page of a calendar, with a honey-colored stone farmhouse and
gîtes, vivid with roses, crimson shutters and grape vines. In the fields around
the house, 18 horses graze; in the cobblestone yard, two Great Danes doze.
The gîtes are often occupied by families who don’t ride at all – the area is
rich in interest, from cave paintings to châteaux. But mostly, the center
attracts people who want to combine gastronomy – this is the land of frois gras,
walnuts, duck and truffles – with exploration on horseback.
“On a horse, you have time to absorb the landscape,” says Hans, pouring
chilled rosé. “Last week we were cantering along and in front of my nose, a
deer crossed the track. It looked, my horse looked, I looked, and everyone
continued happily. It was quite wonderful.” Hermina joins us on the sun-warm
terrace. She is pretty and feels like everyone’s best friend within minutes of
arriving. Hans is hearty and happy, with a pencil-thin strip of a beard; he
competes in endurance rides up to 55 miles long and is as fit as his horses.
Soleil is a wild, woodland creature: pale, fast-moving, with a wide smile. I
don’t have them to myself for long. Soon Tom, a Norwegian celebrating his 50th
birthday, arrives and we talk long into the night. This is Tom’s first trip to
France and he is already overwhelmed by the beauty and diversity. Hans laughs.
“Our guests arrive from all over the world, and most of them come back. A week
in the Lot is never enough. So think of this as an introduction, not a
once-in-a-lifetime experience.” Tom agrees with him. Hans has matched him to
Pegasos, a gentle grey giant who takes to Tom like a child to chocolate. They
quickly become inseparable and by the end of the week Tom, having reluctantly
abandoned his plans top smuggle Pegasos home in his hand luggage, is planning a
return visit.
One night, sitting on blue chairs in the shade of vines, he sighs, “I have a
friend at work who, when I said I was coming to the Lot, described exactly
this. Exactly. Golden stone, vines, flowers, peace, silence. It’s perfect.”
For two days we ride from the center with Hans’ French friends and on our
own. We visit the nearby village of Lantis with its 12th-century château; swim
the horses in the local lake and gallop through meadows and orchid-rich woods.
Tom is in heaven: “Riding holidays make me feel alive. It’s the contrast
between sitting in an office tapping at a computer, and galloping through
woodland. It’s amazing. I love it.”
On the Road
A major factor in this is Hans’ horsemanship. Instructions, tack (the
saddles are Stubbens!), horses and their care – it’s all of the highest quality,
with Hans inspiring confidence in beginners and experts alike.
The night before departure, we are joined by Americans Liz and Stephen, in
France for a fortnight. “Some time ago I joined a horse-riding holiday in the
Loire Valley, and I really wanted Stephen to experience something similar, to
feel part of the history,” says Liz. “Oh, we are happy to be here. And to have
sunshine! If you’d seen the rain in Paris…”
There is excitement in the morning as we prepare to leave. Cooling gel pads
are placed under the horses’ saddles for comfort in the heat and water bottles
are filled. Hermina will meet us with lunch, but we have a far distance to
travel first.
Hans leads our little cavalcade out of the hamlet, past red poppies and hay
meadows, past Lantis and the château. It’s like riding through an Impressionist
painting. Soon we are on new ground, in oak woods thick with orchids and
honeysuckle. Panache, my beautiful chocolate-colored horse, swings along
sweetly, ears forward, enjoying the journey. I check my watch, then realize it
is irrelevant. We’re on equine time now.
And so we ride to Rocamadour. Flowering broom and wild roses create swathes
of yellow, flashes of pink. Most rivers have watermills – some converted,
others derelict. Across valleys we glimpse sturdy churches and everywhere are
pigeonniers. “Because it was once so poor, this is the only region in France
where every peasant was allowed a pigeon tower,” explains Hans. Many have been
rebuilt or absorbed into houses, retaining their form, but not their function.
The pale stone reflects the light, making even dark corners feel sun-filled.
Gariottes, the beehive-like stone shelters for shepards, flank ancient paths;
we ride sunken roads and duck under branches uncleared because few pass this
way. There are 900 miles of bridleways in the Lot, with another 1500 miles in
the Dordogne. With Hans, we’ll ride 150 miles this week, leaving plenty more
trails to explore. 
Nature’s Table
This first day, Hermina meets us at the lake Écoute s’il Pleut, near
Gourdon. She has set up a picnic table by the bank of yellow iris; from the
opposite shore, two fisherman stare in bewilderment. We take the horses into
the lake to splash and drink, then cool down ourselves with a chilled beer.
Local tomme cheese, cured meat, home-made terrine, eggs from Herrmina’s hens –
it’s a feast.
While each day, each lunch, each night stop is different, they follow a
similar theme; mellow countryside, varied riding, isolated hamlets, friendly
faces. People are surprised to see us, happy to wish us bonne route, bonne
courage. Gates are opened, traffic is stopped, horses are patted and
photographed.
Accommodation is quirky. Le Moulin de Planiol, a converted watermill run by
a Belgian couple, has donkeys, a swimming pool and haute cuisine with fine local
wine. From La Gardelle, a sympathetic conversion of stables and barns near
Rocamadour, we share a glorious dinner of duck with four French walkers, eating
outside with a view over the valleys. In the evening, cicadas chirp and in the
morning hot air balloons waft overhead. At Le Vieux Couvent, we are invited to
a flower strewn banquet with a group of Canadian artists, and wander through a
garden of herbs, pools and secret corners.
On route, as in the convent’s garden, flowers abound. Our horses’ hooves
swish through wild thyme and mint, wild iris fill streambeds. We ride through
woods of oak, chestnut and silver birch, up steep trails to walnut orchards,
past beds ripe with strawberries. We see thousands of butterflies, a handful of
deer and, to my horror, a snake. Hans is highly amused: I am more scared than
Panache.
Physical highlights include the sculpted limestone gorge and silken stream of
L’Ouysse; the scramble down the scree past sunken fountains, set to ease the
thirst of pilgrims on their way to the sacred city; and the exhilarating climb
up the steep cliffs of the Alzou canyon, opposite Rocamadour. The fortified
14th-century watermill of Cougnaguet, the churches and distant châteaux, the
sleepy villages and woodland cabins, the busy rivers and placid pools - they
ease the Lot into our blood, hearts and minds.
 Awe-inspiring Sights
Of course, we visit our destination, Rocamadour. After a long day’s ride,
we arrive in the late afternoon, when most of the tourists have gone home. Just
as the travel brochures say, it’s truly extraordinary. We follow wide, stone
stairs to the arched entrance, file silently through the soaring church and
chapels, admire the Black Madonna and Child and listen, rapt, to Hans’
explanation of the sword in the rock.
We then read about the miracles on plentiful plaques, tiptoe over exquisite
mosaic floors, smell the hot scent of the votive candles. Hans asks Stephen:
“Do you have anything like this in America?” Stephen says, “Is that a trick
question? And if we did, we’d probably turn it into a parking lot. It’s
hilarious, and it breaks the spell. We buy ice-cream, laugh some more and
return to the horses at La Gardelle.
We ride, we chat, we absorb the scenery. And by the time we arrive, four
days later, back at the riding center, we realize something important.
Rocamadour was the reason we came, but the star of this journey was not the
churches on the rock. It was the horses, the people and, of course, the Lot
itself.
Predictably, the week is over too soon. Tom is emotional as he pets Pegasos
good-bye; I stroke Panache’s fine face and he stares back with deep black eyes.
“This is the best horse and the best riding I have ever experienced,” declares
Tom, still watching his new friend in the field. “Now I have to decide when to
come back.”
The next morning, I share a final breakfast with Hermina. “You should stay,”
she says, “Stay and help us with the horses, explore more tracks, spend the
summer here.” I look at her, and am twisted with the thought. I should,
Hermina, I should.
You can book this holiday with Hidden Trails -- Phone 1-888-9TRAILS or check
the website at
Ride to Rocamador
Hidden Trails offer over 400 equestrian vacations worldwide.
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Written by Shanie
If learning about the culture and history of your travel destination is
important to you, then partaking in a guided horseback trip with Carol Jones is
going to be an unforgettable experience. A person that exudes a warm and caring
persona right off the bat, Carol has the makings for an excellent guide.
First, her knowledge of the area is in her blood. She is the granddaughter of
United States Patagonian founding father, Jarred Jones. A character that ran
with the likes of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Grandpa Jones was the
beginning of generations of familial bonding with the Patagonian Steppe.
Second, the woman knows the area like the back of her hand. She is able to take
her guests on amazing adventures into areas that are only seen by her and those
she has invited. Her intimacy is immediately apparent in how she flows with the
changing topography and chooses a place to rest.
Third, as a part of the trip, she and her ranch hands provide a truly authentic
“gaucho experience”. You are able to tour her family’s farm, interact with the
animals and get involved with the Argentine asado (BBQ), if you like.
Carol takes clients on multi-, full- and half-day trips. She is very adept at
reading your abilities and level of comfort upon the horse and directs the day
to fit the vibe accordingly. Experiencing Patagonia on horseback with Carol is
an amazing adventure of animal interaction, historical stories and authentic
culture.
Carol took the time to sit down and talk about her life, Patagonia and what a
guided trip is all about. This is what she had to say:
SM: What brought you to wanting to guide originally?
Carol: I never planned it really. It has been my way of life through having
lots of friends on the ranch and my mother helping me to realize that I could do
it as a job. My father was the one that lent me my first horses.
SM: You have spent your entire life with horses, do you think there is a
special quality about the animals that allows them to bond well with people?
Carol: Yes, I started riding when I was five or six. Then I used to go with
the gauchos when they had to do the work. Moving cows, sheep, repairing fences
to remote areas, etc. always with horses. I do not have much experience with
other breeds, but I would say that the Criollo horse, the Quarter horse and the
Noruegean Fiord go well with people. I am sure the Percherones, the big calm
horses do a great job as well. But I do not have much experience with the
Peruanos. Arab horses, I think, are a one-person type of horse.
SM: What does one of your multi-day trips entail?
Carol: We get up at seven in the morning, make a good breakfast, saddle up
the horses and ride for three or four hours. Then a good lunch, a short siesta
of a half hour, saddle again and ride for two or three hours. Then build a cozy
camp with tents, get dinner ready and by 10:30, more or less, to bed. Every day
goes pretty much like this, depending on the weather, riders, how many days, the
horses, the pack horses, etc.
SM: What aspects go into being a good guide?
Carol: When you are the guide, you need to know the area, know how to pack a
pack horse, how to saddle them, of course. You need to know where is the water,
the wood, the grass for the horses. And always being aware of checking saddles
and seeing that everybody is fine are extremely important too. Knowing how to
build a fire is vital, not to mention how to put it out well. You need to have
common sense for any situation, things can happen with horses and people. A
great guide knows how to make the best decisions for the group to secure a
spectacular trip overall.
SM: Do you have a favorite memory from a guiding trip?
Carol: I have so many great memories but some that stick out have to do with
storms, with rain, snow etc. One story shines because we had people in the group
who could play the guitar. I always have a special fondness to the memories
created out of discovering new trails.
SM: What type of horses do you ride?
Carol: I do most of my rides with Criollos. I also have a Thoroughbred, one
Fiord, one half-Fiord and two Frisones.
SM: What do you suggest to those thinking of going on a guided horse trip?
Carol: I would suggest to come with an open mind, not only to ride, ride,
ride like crazy, but also to be open to spending time with the horse — studying
them when they are riding, resting, eating. The nice thing about our rides is
that we have time to take in the experience. The time to be with the horses —
understanding the riding or when they are eating, finding the best places for
them, moving them if it is necessary. etc.
SM: What is your favorite part about working with horses?
Carol: I like to be with them, to saddle them, to move with them. And when I
ride, to study them — how they choose trails, how they go on difficult trails,
when they hear something what they do, there is always lots of things to learn
from them. They are always right. If something wrong happens it is due to humans
making the wrong choice and not being observant of what the horse is telling us,
always.
SM: How has your family history helped you to create your guide service?
Carol: My family’s history has helped me because we have a good reputation
throughout the entire area. Specifically my grandfather, and father, as well. My
grandfather was always very good with horses. He was a super cowboy! He and my
father were very nice, respectful and considerate people.
SM: Do you have any advice for travelers coming to Bariloche?
Carol: My advice to them would be to stay longer than three days. And
whatever their wish is to do, to look for it because there are a lot of options.
Just keep asking and insist for what you want and what you like. We Argentines
are very accommodating people.
Carol's wilderness rides can be booked via Hidden Trails, a company that
specializes in equestrian holidays worldwide.
Carols trip is listed on their website at:
Rio Negro Ride - Las Mellizas
or you can call them toll free from North America at 1-888-987-2457
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– Crete Explorer Ride – self guided option
Take two slightly ditzy girls, one incomprehensive language, and a brace of strange horses and dump them on a Mediterranean Island. Then tell said girls to navigate through 120 miles of impenetrable terrain and come home safely.
Sounds like a recipe for disaster?
Well, perhaps. But I also thought it sounded fun-and had no trouble conscripting my flat mate, Caroline, for the trip (solo travel is never allowed on the unguided Lasithi trail).
I’d never been to Crete and, through I officially hate hacking, one sniff of adventure has me snared. But as the stable manager Manolis handed me some saddlebags and a curious rope attached to a crooked horse shoe before directing me to a pony half my height of my own titchy eventer, my confidence began to waver.
The saddlebags, explained Manolis, heaving them over Macho’s back, contain a 24hr supply of oats, a tetherer (the shoe-rope thing) and three days’ clothes and necessities for ourselves. We just had to follow blue arrows marked on stones along the trail, keep an eye on the map and pitch up at a taverna every evening.
I can get lost in a dressage arena, so I delegated navigating to Caroline, Manolis promised we would find hay and evening oats at each guesthouse, and urged us to let the horses drink wherever we could find water. We exchanged mobile numbers, with his plea that we would call if ever unhappy with one of the ponies-either in temperament or soundness-and he would bring a replacement. With that, he tapped Macho on the rump and waves us off.
We set off in fleeces, heeding the locals’ warnings about the chilliness of the Cretan peaks (1,800m)-they get snowed in during the winter. But just two arrows into our ride, we decided it was bikini time. Amid secluded hectares of olive groves ribboned with rugged mountain paths, only a lone eagle circling ahead, we stripped and changed-just before Manolis’ Jeep purred round the corner. “I forgot your lunch!” he grinned, stuffing hunks of bread, ham and cheese into our bags.
But for most of the trail, we felt far away from any civilization. No two days of the six are the same-one day was spent amid rocky, red and Arizona-esque isolation; another day we rode along a fertile, fruity plateau flecked with quaint white-sailed windmills; one we spent on the balmy southern coastline, another up in the cool Dikti Mountains. Some days we trotted through old men willingly hobbled up from their roadside benches to offer our horses water; other days, the only glint of a community would be the lively chime of a goat’s bell.
As Pony Club camp veterans, Caroline and I thought we’d cruise through six day-long rides, tending to our ponies. Although the Cretans are oblivious to B-tests and conventional stable management, I was struck by quite how Sabine and Manilis, the couple who run the operation and partners with Hidden Trails, care about their horses.
In fact, they once dismissed a rider on day one-not on account of his ability, but for treating his horse like a machine. Manolis admitted to me later that he watches the way his clients throw their bags into his truck at the airport to glean signs about which of their 14 horses would suit them and whether they are caring riders.
But there is no farrier or vet on the island, and consequently some of the horses’ toes were uncomfortably long. And forget all those rally rules about “safe tying up” with baler twine and quick release knots-here we simply attached the horses to trees by the tethers and they ate, slept and rolled as happily as my mollycoddled Pony Club pony. My District Commissioner would have exploded.
Our first day was an eye-opener. From the Gorge of Gonies, we clambered from sea level to 1,100m. Six hours into the ride, and the horses were straining under the effort. Macho’s flea bitten white coat blackened and glistened as he toiled up the craggy path. But Macho, a tough little Berber pony is bred to cope with this sort of vertiginous, rocky terrain. I just had to learn to cope with his way of going. He likes to surge on at a pace, than take a break, panting and looking round rather helplessly.
I couldn’t fathom what he was trying to achieve-he could scarcely go home for a bran mash only 20 miles in. But no sooner had I resigned myself to the idea of tethering him to the nearest olive tree and bedding down for the night than he strutted on again with renewed purpose.
Caroline’s ride, Billy Diamond, was bred for the flat, but less affiliation to a racehorse than a tadpole. He likes to amble along at his own pace, his noble head lobbing metronomically as he slithers down the asphalt tracks and climbs methodically uphill on his long legs.
After a gargantuan effort like this, horses need their R&R, but on a different evening, when we’d only spent a couple of hours meandering through the orchards of the Lasithi plateau in the morning, we decided that a dusk hack was in order.
The horses seemed delighted to be out in the cool of the evening, without their cumbersome saddlebags. While we plucked figs, grapes and pomegranates from the trees fringing the sandy tracks, the horses snuffled around in the dust for windfalls like pigs searching for truffles. It beats my typical blackberry-fueled hack. This carefree attitude abruptly translated into a mad homebound gallop, hurtling round the unfamiliar bends-Macho’s blood-sugar levels had evidently soared due to the over-ripe figs.
On the hottest day of all, warmed by the drying African winds, we rounded off seven long hours in the saddle with a dip in the Libyan Sea. The horses initially seemed reluctant to tackle the breaking surf, but once they were confident we weren’t going to take any contact on the reins, dragging them underwater, they bobbed around happily.
Again and again, these horses surprised me with their versatility. Macho is an all-singing, all-dancing circus pony. The trail winds through sleep whitewashed village, incorporating a descent of 100 chapel steps. Admittedly Diamond got his lanky legs in a twist, but Macho strutted down as if to the manor born.
The guesthouses and villages, like the trails, vary enormously, from hotels and taverns to a family spare room-while the horses are patiently tethered to any nearby tree. The accommodation isn’t exactly salubrious-spartan, clean and with a private bathroom, but far from plush five-star deluxe. But the hosts, without exception, were charming and helpful, despite the insurmountable language barrier.
We ate local Cretan fare-breakfasts of yogurt and honey and suppers invariably incorporating lashings of olive oil, vine leaves, Greek salads, lamb and fresh grilled fish. Every night we would be plied with a carafe of raki-“the Cretan spirit”, ominously translated as firewater-and two shot glasses, often from an anonymous donor at the taverna.
Mercifully, we were warned that is it the height of impropriety to refuse the offer, even if you have no intention of drinking it. And you don’t-raki tastes like tequila mixed with petrol, but possibly rather worse.
At the end of the trip, Manolis and Sabine generously took us you to supper in the bright lights of Heraklion to celebrate our safe return. The sudden immersion into a buzzing tourist city, neon lights, gaudy sarongs and sun burnt Englishmen, pitched a stark contrast with the rustic, peasant-like idyll we’d so enjoyed.
A 120 mile trek is far from a “happy hack”. It was adventurous, challenging and at times remote-with only a good friend and dependant pony as company for an entire week. The rich tapestry of landscapes was compelling, the people delightful and-when each extraordinary day is over-you slept with that smug contentment of time well spent.
Hidden Trails offers a guided version of this trip today – which is probably the better way to go.
Have a look on their website at http://hiddentrails.com/tour/greece_crete_explorer.aspx
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