There are fools and there are fools. And then, way off the scale of
foolishness, there’s me. So it was that, somewhere in the terrifying blur of
the first hard gallop across the sands, as I clung onto the saddle with all
the elegance of a limpet on a rock, the phrase “breakneck speed” came
suddenly to mind, and what flashed before my eyes was not my life, but the
online questionnaire I’d filled out back in London.
There had been a jolly little row of statements and “yes/no” boxes to inform
the travel company about my equine abilities. How were they to know that
I’ve got a bit of a phobia about filling in forms of any kind, and a stupid
pride that means I can’t admit when I can’t do something?
Combine these two and you’ll see how I could cheerfully tick “yes” to “can
control horse at a gallop”, when the truth was closer to “can barely control
donkey at a standstill”. Yup, I thought grimly, as the ground sped past at
hundreds of miles an hour, this was all my own fault.
I hadn’t completely lied. I had ridden before – on Saturday mornings as a
child, and on various holidays since, in the States and South America. I had
even galloped, twice, very fast, across the Patagonian plain. But not
recently.
In fact, I’d last been in the saddle five years ago. I admit that I was
stretching the definition of “a fit rider” – a requirement for the trip – a
little far. But, I’d thought, feeling rather cavalier, that I’d be fine: I
had purchased an enormous pair of pants to keep me out of trouble.
Pants really do not come much bigger than this. A thick, shiny blend of nylon
and cotton, white, tight, high-waisted – and halfway to my knees. With
special padding underneath and around the rear, and no seams in the wrong
places, hence their cosy name, which had clearly been dreamt up with your
average home-counties horsey lady in mind: Comfy Rumps. These were not pants
in which to go out on the pull. If all you wanted to ride was a horse,
however, they were pretty damn hot.
I also had my trusty tub of Vaseline, recommended earnestly by a friend as
essential for preventing chafing – I was going from zero hours of riding per
day to six, after all – and a tube of arnica cream for bruising.
On top of the vast pants were all too obviously brand-new jodhpurs, a pair of
not-quite-riding boots borrowed from a friend, an old shirt and a white
scarf that looked unfortunately like a bandage, as if I’d sustained some
kind of dreadful neck injury before my foot had even touched the stirrup.
Topping off this ensemble was a borrowed riding hat, for that Lego-man
touch.
Hélène, who was in charge, looked a little worried as all the horses came
breathlessly to a stop and I found myself amazingly still alive, and
grinning like a loon to conceal my panic. “You rode well,” she said
encouragingly. But you can’t kid a horse. Half an hour later, the
four-year-old Arab mare I’d been assigned tried her very best to throw me
off, bucking for all her worth while I gripped her mane stubbornly.
I couldn’t blame her – I’d have thrown me off too. All that bouncing around
must have been really irritating. “I haven’t fallen off yet,” I chortled to
the others, utterly embarrassed by my inept display. They looked concerned.
My fellow travellers were Geneviève and Stéphane, a charming French couple in
their late forties, and Manuel, a half-French, half-Spanish man of 65 who
looked 50. Naturally, they were all fit riders. They could control a horse
at a gallop. Their jodhpurs were not new and they had no need for big pants.
(Manuel said that he preferred to go without.) They were spectacularly kind
and offered tips in French, Spanish and English.
Finally, we were allowed to dismount. My legs were shaking. I was close to
tears.
The jet lag didn’t help, of course. I’d arrived in the middle of the night and
seen Petra, which was genuinely amazing, on five hours’ sleep. Then I’d been
driven to Wadi Rum to meet Hélène, her Bedouin husband, Saleem, and her
brother-in-law, Salem. The three of them run Jordan Tracks, offering riding,
Jeep tours, climbing and trekking in their back yard. Which happens to be
one of the best places in the world, if you’re happy to forsake luxury for
freedom.
Vast open spaces, dunes and canyons, mountains and plains and endless
perspective – it’s not dissimilar to the Grand Canyon, but without the
hundreds of American tourists craning to get a view from their coach
windows. The sort of place where a shower is a bucket of water, and there’s
only the odd rock dove or beetle to see you naked.
Where you can climb a sandstone mountain and sit undisturbed, watching the sun
rise, with no demands on you whatsoever beyond having a good time. No phone
calls, e-mails, shopping, children. No rush. Where you sleep close to a
campfire and drift off to the sound of flickering flames and horses
munching.
All the clichés about Bedouin hospitality are true, from the endlessly
refilled tiny glasses of hot, sweet, sage-flavoured tea to the cushions that
would miraculously appear under your shoulder just when you were feeling
tired. Our hosts were genuinely thoughtful, solicitous but not prying,
blessed with an easy, attractive self-assurance.
Moumo, a sweet but shy Bedouin boy, cooked up great stews (goat, chicken or
bean), salads and rice; Aboud, a chubby 16-year-old, cheerfully got on with
making sure the horses were fed and watered. There was no fuss, just
everything we needed.
So it started to get better. A lot better. My riding improved, my French
improved, my Spanish improved, I learnt to count to 10 in Arabic and play a
version of solitaire with stones in the sand. We visited Hélène’s
mother-in-law in her goat-hair tent in the desert.
It had four “rooms”: one for receiving guests (where we were treated to
chicory-flavoured coffee and wafer-thin flatbread), a bedroom, a kitchen and
a room for the herd of goats to shelter in at night. They also had a Nissan
Patrol 4WD. Their life was inspiringly uncluttered: they had wisely embraced
the useful bits of modernity without rushing to accumulate stuff they didn’t
need.
Surprisingly quickly, my uptight gallows humour gave way to real enjoyment.
From day two, I had a different horse, Ralia (“precious” in Arabic) – older,
less excitable, but still full of energy. We rode from camp to camp,
stopping to climb up to natural rock arches and to taste the water of a
beautifully cold desert spring.
We chatted about life and love and loss. I slept blissfully under a canopy of
millions of stars. My body ached, but my rump remained comfy.
By the end, I could canter for a long way, pretty well, and felt excitement,
not fear, at the words: “ Un petit galop?” I was even
disappointed when we didn’t.
Kathy Brewis travelled as a guest of Unicorn Trails (01767 600606, www.unicorntrails.com),
which has a 10-day trip, visiting Petra, Wadi Rum and Aqaba, from £1,665pp,
including flights from Heathrow to Amman with Royal Jordanian Airlines,
half-board hotel accommodation in towns, full-board camping, horses, guide,
luggage transfers and entrance fees
JAW-DROPPING JORDAN
Saddle up for five more horsey hols
RANCH HOLIDAYS, America
The Midwest is the spiritual home of the riding holiday. Ranch America (0870
499 0689, www.ranchamerica.co.uk)
has 90 ranch holidays in 11 states – we like its wild-camping trail ride at
Silver Spur, in Idaho, rounding up cattle and driving horses. Six nights,
full-board, start at £1,499pp, including flights and transfers.
RIDING SAFARI, Botswana
A heart-stopping trail ride, camping in a part of the Okavango Delta that
teems with lions, elephants and buffalo, guided by husband-and-wife team PJ
and Barney. “Riders must be able to gallop out of trouble,” the trip notes
state. In the Saddle (01299 272997, www.inthesaddle.co.uk)
has eight-day rides from £3,541pp and 11-day ones from £4,597pp, including
meals, flights and transfers.
ANDALUSIAN RIDE, Spain
Based at Finca el Moro (00 34 959 501079, www.fincaelmoro.com),
a high-altitude farm in the little-visited Sierra de Aracena, Nick and
Hermione Tudor run riding, walking and yoga holidays.
Options include a week of gentle day rides with rustic, rioja- soaked picnic
lunches (£936pp) and five-day trail rides between whitewashed villages
(£1,072pp). Both prices include six nights, full-board, and transfers from
Seville, but not flights; try Ryanair (www.ryanair.com).
GAUCHO GETAWAY, Argentina
Argentina is littered with vast estancias owned by generations of pioneering
farmers, but Estancia Huechahue, 1,000 miles southwest of Buenos Aires, is
one of the best. With Equine Adventures (0845 130 6981, www.equineadventures.co.uk),
seven nights start at £2,220pp, full-board, including flights and transfers.
SLIGO TRAILS, Ireland
Rides along beaches, forest trails and mountain paths are on offer at Horse
Holiday Farm (00 353 71 916 6152, www.horse-holiday-farm.com)
which has four-day self-guided trail rides between farmhouses along the
Sligo coast from £420, B&B, and seven-day rides from £630, B&B.
Experience is essential, as you’ll do your own tacking and grooming.
Did a ride in a jeep, not a horse, in the Jordanian Desert around Jan 2006 - it was as exhilrating. We went across some of the area Lawrence of Arabia lived and rode during WW 1.
Lovely people and very hospitable. Especially the Bedouins !!!
Ian Payne, WALSALL,
Both stupid and dangerous to go riding at a pace you are neither experienced or fit enough to undertake.
Would you have sued if you had been injured?
bix, edinburgh, UK