The Final Ride

I was in tears today.

The horse ride has lasted a week. There are seven other riders, including the lead guide, Marc, and his adjutant Carlos who brings up the rear of the file. Two of the riders I've ridden with before: Sharon in Turkey and Susan in both Turkey and Mongolia. Endurance riding in foreign countries is kind of a niche thing to do, so there aren't that many organising outfits and inevitably you meet up with some of the same people again, even ten years later. 

As always, I'm the least experienced rider. Horse people tend to be dedicated to the lifestyle, for reasons beyond me and the scope of a blog post, but not least because it is no small effort to own and care for a horse. In any case, I'd estimate my hours in the saddle at about a hundred. None of the other riders would be able to count theirs.

So I'm always open to and asking for tips. This is a tricky business, because horse riding is quite a subtle exercise and all the things you need to do are remembered in different ways by different people, who find some tips more meaningful than others. Do you keep your heels down or your toes up? Do you balance in the canter with your knees or your thighs? Is manipulating the bit with the reins like cradling a bird or like squeezing an avocado in the shop? Learning is parsing what people tell you and deciding whether or not to take it on board. You can't listen to everything because some of it seems to contradict, there are different styles of riding (Western vs English, for example) and indeed different riders will have different ideas. I've even heard some horse people described as bitchy; you can imagine conflicts of opinion over something they care deeply about. 

Not these riders, though. We are a team. All week I've been accruing tips from the others, and the last day would be our biggest ride—8-9 hours in the saddle. Marc warned me it would be a tough day, even for the experienced riders, but he had confidence I could do it. There were a few things I needed to be mindful of, such as my balance in the canter and my posting in the trot as we'd be covering a lot of ground, but I could do it.

We were up at 6am with the crowing roosters to hit the trail by eight. Our first day riding (not counting familiarisation time with our horses, mine being the hardy Criollo paint El Greco) was almost as long as this one would be, perhaps seven hours, but was a bit gentler with more time out of the saddle leading the horses on foot over steep terrain. 

At the end of that day my right ankle was really sore. This is a strange place to be sore from riding and led us to consider my stirrup length. Different riders are different shapes with different length legs and different riding preferences (not to mention different tack on different horses), so adjusting stirrup length is routine. But for seven hours of ignorance I unknowingly rode with not only my stirrups too short but one shorter than the other. This was easily resolved on the second day with a length that relieved my long legs and gave me much better contact with the horse, but I suffered the recovering ankle for the rest of the ride. 

Like every other day we ride single file, out of rural towns along the road edge where countless restaurants and cafes abut the road—there is no kerb or pedestrian space—where dogs constantly harangue our well-trained horses that never spook; into thick jungle that encroaches on the road, sometimes nearly taking it over; up constructed horse trails amid coffee plantations and into the slick Andean jungle proper. 

Then we hit our first big hill. To take us to the top we tackle it with a canter to gather momentum. This would be my test, a culmination of all the things I've learned and the tips I've collected, my chance to prove Marc's faith in me and to give back to the team with my competence to keep up with them. Not that this is my first canter, nor ours as a team, but it's my least practised gait. 

Everything shifts into a different position and up we go. I keep my heels aligned below my ears to maintain balance in the saddle, while simultaneously pitching my weight gently forward over the withers so not to deadweight the horse. I'm last in the file but for Carlos, and the clatter of hooves in front of me tattoos a satisfying rhythm in the jungle, urging us on. "Come on, Greco! Yah, yah!" I encourage. He gives so much. We keep up, I keep up, clatta-ta clatta-ta clatta-ta, pressing, spurring him on... and then, halfway up the long, steep hill, I tip forward and our balance goes off. His canter breaks. The rest of the team races away as El Greco is reduced by gravity to a walk.

I'm devastated. The hill is so steep I can't get him back up, even into a trot. Carlos stays with me, but we step, step, step up the long grade with the sound ahead of racing hooves disappearing away into silence. It's awful. I've cruelled the pitch. Events overtake me.

It's ages before we see the top of the hill where all have stopped to wait for me. I'm crushed low to see them. I'm so disappointed in myself and I've let the team down. I'm apologetic. I try to explain.

Of course, no one thinks anything of it but it's a good hour before I manage to regain my composure. I keep back in the queue and pull up my bandana to mask my face and my welling eyes. This upsurge of emotion surprises me. It's been a hard week, this is a hard day, we've all been through so much together, and I am really trying. I've let Greco down; he can do it, but I can't. 

Down the other side of the mountain we descend, leaning back in the saddle to shift our weight for the horses. It's so steep it's precarious, but Greco is sensible and the horses are sure-footed, despite the occasional slip. 

After half an hour of this we level out and rejoin a trafficked rural road. The occasional vehicle lumbers past us, tooting its horn, and intermittent motorcycles race behind them. But suddenly we approach them again from behind, backed up, with drivers out of their trucks milling about, looking down over a lip where the road falls away. It's a washout. The road is gone. The mountainside has taken it out. It seems an ongoing battle between constructed roads and sodden mountains here. As we get close to the edge we see down into the maw of the abyss (as we all afterwards refer to it); looking back at us is a truck stuck on the rise, driver's head out the window. No one believes that the five or six men (locals, it turns out, there for the afternoon entertainment) on a half-inch rope tied to the front of the truck are going to accomplish anything. But with it over their shoulders like the winning leg of a tug-of-war, they crest the lip of the abyss at a run, big smiles on all their faces. Up comes the truck. 

For horses, it's no problem. We dismount, guide them through the throng of vehicles and people, ably aided by Pete from our logistical support crew who turns up in the work truck looking authoritative in orange vest wielding a "PASEO" (slow) sign.

An hour or two later in a sudden but regular late afternoon rain we finally arrive at the stables where we will say goodbye to our horses. We dismount, untack, and Marc approaches me... to congratulate me on my performance. I lament to him my failure on the hill and he reassures me; he says even he, with all his experience, sometimes loses his balance in a canter. I didn't let down anyone. I kept up, controlled my horse, and we arrived on time. I should be pleased, he says, at the day's accomplishment. It was a hard ride, even for the experienced.

I go to say goodbye to Greco. I wrap my arms around his neck and I can barely keep from blubbering. They give so much, Marc says, and he's right. Greco worked so hard, for me, for what I asked him to do. You really forge a bond because of the hard work you do together. After all, the zenith of good riding is to become one with the horse.

I go to my room, get in the shower stall, turn on the water and, in my first moments alone, it all comes out: all I can do is bawl. A full release of the whole day's emotions. I'm proud of myself, humbled by the challenge, relieved at the success and sad it's all over... it's all too much. My sobbing tears merge with the water streaming down my face.

I did it.

Horse riding is hard

I'm not a beginner at this. I've done it before—endurance riding in Turkey and Mongolia, a week or two each time. Eight years has elapsed since then, so in preparation for Colombia this time I kept up my running fitness and got some practice in the ring to rebuild my confidence. 

It's important to have confidence on a horse. The horse needs to know you're the boss. And the first thing it will typically do is find out if you are. It will try to do what it wants rather than what you want, by going slow, eating grass, or choosing the direction. This is the first test of firm and just confidence.

Engage the horse. It is not a car. You're not a passenger. This is not a pony ride at the Easter Show. If you're not engaging with the horse on every single step then you're not riding. When you drive, do you take your hands off the wheel and your feet off the pedals? Riding horses needs a similar amount of attention, and actually more. 

The horse's bit (that piece of hinged metal in its mouth) should always be engaged, gently, with the reins. Just like keeping a car in gear; coasting in neutral is dangerous, isn't it? But more than this, horses are not machines. They are individuals with personalities as varied as dogs and people, are of different ages with different energies, and they are social creatures with a dynamic language between them that you need to read—language that includes kicking and biting. 

 

The idea is not to allow this or foment it, and to prevent it with awareness by not crowding them. Be the boss to whom the horse listens. And to be that you need to be competent and confident, and also kind, not brutal. If you bond with the horse and be likeable so it likes you, it will give all you ask of it. Perhaps some cruel riders could disagree on that point and insist you can dominate a horse with discipline—which indeed is also necessary—but to my mind (and to most riders) the horse will give more when asked to a kindly rider than to one that whips it with a riding crop.

This is the third and hardest endurance ride I've done. Every ride is different, for so many factors, but what makes this one so hard is the control. Unlike in Mongolia, where the horses are half wild and the landscape is a wide and vast steppe that invites wandering recces, this is a very controlled ride—up steep mountains and down into narrow valleys, single file on narrow jungle paths and rural road edges, not uncommonly with cars or motorcycles passing within feet and dogs shooting out randomly, barking and snapping.

You need correct posture and to adjust it with the terrain; to be aware of your shoulders, which will turn the horse; to control the pace and not allow the horse to decide it; and to maintain tight contact with the horse through your legs, your pelvis, and the bit.

And this is all just at a walk. At a trot you need to post—rhythmically rising in the saddle with the gait—and you need to time this with the horse's pace so you don't stall the trot. (The exception here is with the Colombian Paso Fino blooded horses, ridden by some more experienced riders in the group, which have a different gait that smooths the trot and eliminates the need to post.) At a canter you need to be up out of the saddle and rolling fluidly with the horse, holding yourself in position and balancing with bent knees as the horse "rolls" under you like a sea swell.

It is a workout. You need to be fit, with strong core muscles and strong leg muscles, the latter of which are a different set than a human seems to usually use. This, to beginners, is a sore and surprising discovery the following day. 

And actually, not only to beginners.

Mongolian horses

As Jenya the Mongol was thrown from the horse, tumbling onto his back into the river, I caught an embarrassed smirk on his face. Just this morning this descendent of Genghis Khan's people had warned us: "Mongolian horses are half wild."

It is just our second day on horseback. Yesterday we didn't make any distance but just took a short ride, local to our cedar glen campsite by the wide river, to get acquainted with the horses. There are a few important differences between this stout, short-legged breed and domesticated hot-bloods like Arabs and Thoroughbreds. Never approach the horse from its right side. Control it by neck-reining. Don't jump when dismounting or you'll startle it (at 13 hands you can step off)! Stirrups tend to be ridden short and a rawhide lead is always attached to the bridle, even while riding, which should be held in the non-reining hand (the idea is that if you come off the horse the lead will trail so the horse can be caught, as it will make for the hills). It is like riding a semi-mustang. To ride Mongolian horses is to challenge yourself as a rider.

At camp I tried to feed my horse an apple, an otherwise universal equine delicacy, but he wouldn't touch it. Mongolian horses eat nought but grass and don't understand hand-feeding. The entire year they live outdoors, through the harsh -40°C winter, finding their own food. They are hardy animals with miles of stamina. During World War II, three thousand were pressed into pulling Soviet cannon when the winter temperatures were so low that diesel coagulated in the engines. Most of them died at Leningrad. Six made it to Berlin.

All we are demanding of our nameless beasts today is to pull us out of the river, the second of numerous streams to cross where the horses are sometimes belly-deep with our knees acutely bent to keep our feet dry. Most manage effortlessly but Jenya's horse has found itself in a hole. As it thrashes he decides it's safer to bail, and over he goes, clothes and pride thoroughly damped.

"You guys go on," he says, standing sheepishly in mid-stream. "I'll catch up with the support truck to get some dry clothes." In mid-June the temperatures here are in just the low twenties and the water is cold. Jenya hauls his sodden legs out of the water, remounts and, with a smile, rides off.

We continue on without a translator, but it proves not to be a problem. Ercihan, the master Turkish horseman in our group, manages effortless communication with Dondov, the Mongol lead wrangler, despite no common language. Perhaps they both speak equine.

Horses and yaks dot the spectacularly wide glacial valley. Flanked by foothills of cedar forests which rise to mountains still sporting patches of snow in summer, it stretches like a golf course for titans. Underfoot are carpets of white, orange and blue wildflowers. Overhead eagles screech and from the trees cuckoos sound off like broken clocks.

Suddenly we hit some sand and my horse drops to his knees. Any horse likes to roll in sand to scratch its back. I suspect my saddle was rubbing him, but he was about to roll on me. To visualise a horse rolling with your foot in the stirrup, imagine trapping a chicken bone under a rolling pin. Now picture this naïvely oblivious amateur seconds from disaster thinking his horse has a flat tyre.

"Kick it!" Ercihan screams from behind me. "Kick it kick it kick it!"

I kick it.

The horse pops back up onto his feet, the calamity neatly avoided. "Be careful," Ercihan warns me. "Watch your horse in sand." He grins.

Rivers too, I think. These things are half wild.

Horse riding on the Mongolian steppe

The last time I attempted a ride like this was the first time I'd been on a horse. Three years ago on a two-week ride through Cappadocia, Turkey, we rode alternate days and rested in between. On this ride—two weeks in Mongolia, and my second time on a horse—we are riding every day.

Horse riding uses muscles in your legs which you don't seem to use for any other purpose. You have to clamp onto the horse with your inner thighs, turning your toes out and your heels down.

I am in a small group of five riders—two friends I met on the Turkey ride, Susan and Ercihan, and two friends of theirs, Paul and Ann. We also have along a fluent translator, Jenya, who has a background in field anthropology.

From Ulaanbaatar we fly by Fokker 400 to Uliastai in the western province of Zavkhan, where we board a Russian-made furgon—a four-wheel drive van with a quilted interior that looks like a grey bread tin on wheels. The reason for the padded ceiling is soon apparent as we lurch over dusty tracks through vast, vast expanses of grassland, rolling as though on a gale-whipped ocean of scrub, for five hours.

This is nomad land. Dotted here and there like white pinheads stuck in a sprawling map are the traditional Mongolian gers—round tents like little big tops housing families, spilling wafts of smoke from the wood-fired stove's central stack. We pass their herds of goats, of sheep, and of course hundreds and hundreds of horses. But dominating all of this is the land. I have never seen anything so big.

Two hundred kilometres south of the Siberian border we move through the little towns of Telmen and Tosontsengel before meeting up with the ride crew—two wranglers, two kitchen staff and two drivers of support vehicles—and the horses. For the next two weeks it will be day-on-end riding for a hundred kilometres south.

And days on end of sore legs.

Black Wednesday

As usual, people woke within an hour or two of sunrise, stretched their sleepy muscles around camp, and socialised a little over a breakfast table of boiled eggs, olives, fresh tomatoes and cucumber, bread and cheeses, and çay, Turkish tea, before packing up and setting out on the horses.

We rode up through the hillside cobblestones of Bayramhaci and into a spectacular narrow valley flanked by tall straw-coloured stone outcrops atop steep hills of scrub-grass.  It was straight out of a John Ford western.
One of the horses, Megan, was irritated by a saddle sore and had been acting up.  Riding into the last camp she kicked Alexander’s horse as a car was passing him on the road.  Fortunately he’s a well-experienced rider and it was quickly under control.

But on the morning of Black Wednesday it was a different story.  Megan was being ridden behind the lead rider and wrangler, Ercihan, and next to Barbara, one of three inexperienced riders on this trip.  The ride was only an hour old and the horses were fresh, well-spaced and uncrowded, but halfway along the narrow valley Megan suddenly reeled and leapt without any provocation.  Barb, in striking distance, tried to veer away but the cranky mare, out of control of her rider, kicked and landed a shod hoof on Barb’s shin.  With an “oof” we knew she was struck.

Unable to bear weight on her leg to balance herself, she slipped out of the saddle onto the rocky trail and rolled over in pain.  Ercihan and Alexander, the ride organisers, were to her in an instant.  It was a sombre and worried mood in the team as she was assessed for a fractured leg.  Her toes were pointing in the right direction but it looked like there was an eggplant under the skin.

Ercihan squatted atop one of the hills and rang an ambulance with his mobile phone.  The rest of us dismounted and pulled our horses into the shade.  When the ambulance came into his sight, he raced down the hill, swung onto his horse, and galloped back up and over the crest to intercept it and lead it to the group.  Within the hour, Barb was stretchered into the ambulance and, with Alexander along, trundled down the track and whisked away.

Bathe, shave, dine and swim

Everyone on the ride had their favourite campsites, and the Bayramhaci camp at the lake was popular.  Ercihan, the outfitter and head horseman, told us we had no permission to swim in the dam but after a five-hour ride in the 30°C+ sun he couldn’t keep a number of us out.  The water was so cool and refreshing I felt reborn.

That evening Ercihan surprised us when his friend Tenzil, a barber in Avanos, arrived at the camp with his straight razor and strong hands.  Turkish barbers are also masseurs, and a Turkish barber experience is essential to know Turkey.  Everyone had a shoulder, neck and head rub and the blokes had a straight razor shave, all with fragrant oils and aftershave like mango and lemon.  Marc, the French Relief Riders photographer, was talked into shaving his head.

We had another beautiful dinner of fresh salads and barbecued lamb with beer and bottles of wine on a terrace with a view of the sunset over the valley lake.  Though it’s only a short walk up the hill from the camp, we were driven up in one of the support vehicles, a minivan.  The terrace sits above hot spring swimming pools, and after dinner we all went for a swim.

After towelling off and returning to the van we learned it wouldn’t start.  We strolled back to the camp in the dark.

It was the eve of Black Wednesday.

Bayramhaci camp

We broke camp and set out at 8.30am in the hot sun.  Along the Red River we had shade, riding through farmland of wheat, squash and melons, of olives and grapes, and the rain from the days before we arrived in Cappadocia settled the dust.  To get to Bayramhaci we had to ride into the hills and over the high ground outside Saridir, a steep climb into grassland and wildflowers: red poppies, white morning glory, yellow euphorbia and blue cornflowers.  I sat tall in the saddle up the slopes and leaned forward, holding Kelebek’s mane.

Descending the mountain was equally steep, and I felt like Tom Burlinson in a tame version of that climactic scene in The Man From Snowy River, leaning back with one hand up for balance as my horse nosed her way down.

We arrived at camp on the shores of a dam-flooded valley lake after five hours.  The hard-working outfitter’s crew had already set up the tents and lunch was under way in the kitchen of the custom-made caravan. 

A special entry for all my Relief Rider friends

Farewell my friends!  I’ve just been dropped at the bus station and am on my own for the first time since meeting you all two weeks ago.  I’m so sad to have said goodbye to everyone, but so pleased to have made such good friends.  I am suddenly missing you, but the end of one adventure marks the beginning of another.

You’ll see, of course, that I’m quite behind on my ride updates (come on Ercihan – hot showers in camp are all well and good, but where’s the Wi-Fi?!)  All subsequent RRI posts are dedicated to you all.

Whirling

After the balloon flight we got under way on the ride proper, I on my dappled grey mare Kelebek, all of we dozen or so riding in a line behind the head horseman Ercihan.

After several hours, a large square fort made of stone and flying the Turkish flag came into view as we rode up a grassy hill.  We were approaching a 13th-century stone Karavansaray – a caravan outpost – on the Silk Road, just as traders would have done hundreds of years ago.  We tied the horses up outside the eight-metre-high walls, walked through the tall gate into a large open courtyard with a central fountain, and then into the dark belly of the Karavansaray.  It is like a cathedral inside with a cruciform plan and a domed apex.  It was built in the style of the Siena school of architecture, which seems unlikely in Turkey, but this is the route along which all travelled between Italy and Asia for centuries.

In the centre of the dim church we were quietly seated around a square floor.  One by one, five musicians and five dancers, each in a black cloak and a tall beige fez, entered the square, bowed to the audience, and seated themselves on the floor.  These are the sufis.  An eleventh wore a white fez and sat at the head of the group. 

One of the musicians stood and sang Arabic chants in beguiling oriental scales, and then another played a breathy and moving melody on the ney, a Turkish flute.  Another ney played and the other musicians then joined on drums, a zither-like stringed instrument called a kanun, and an oud which is similar to a lute. 

The five dancers rose and walked slowly around the square, bowing to one another repeatedly before removing their black cloaks to reveal white robes beneath.  Slowly they began to spin.  They moved around the square floor to find their positions – four at the corners and one in the centre.  As they spun faster their floor-length robes bloomed and they raised their arms with open hands, one above their heads in receiving and the other outstretched in giving.  The whirling dervishes spin in the same spot to induce a trance.  White Fez would walk onto the floor to rotate them and, still spinning, they would change positions, one moving to the centre and the others rotating corners.  This spinning to the music and rotating positions would go on for ten minutes before they would pause and stand stock-still, not wobbling or dizzy, and then they would begin again.  Some of the sufis had their eyes half open but fixed, never flickering, while others had theirs closed, intuiting their positions on the floor.  For forty-five minutes this went on with precision, and never did they stumble.

At last they finish dancing and seat themselves on the floor again, and White Fez sings a sermon.  Though it is in Arabic, it is surprisingly moving. 

Sufism is not a religion.  It is a way of living.  It is a culture or a sprituality, but there is no institution, no tenets, and no hierarchy.  Sufis are free, liberated intellectuals, philosophers, and they search for a way to find yourself.  The whirling dervishes are the most formulated example of this, but Sufism is about finding your own way.

The Ride

This is how it works.

We set out in the morning on horseback and ride four to six hours along trails through grasslands and hills, along rivers and over mountains.  The Cappadocian landscape is dry, dusty and scrubby grassland (I believe it is classed as desert), and is not dissimilar to country New South Wales except that it is more rocky and hilly.

When we arrive at our designated campsite for the day, our support truck is already there with the outfitter’s crew setting up camp.  They pitch a dozen tents with foam mattresses and sleeping bags, and hang oil lanterns outside each.  These guys work hard to make camping easy for us.  The truck is a mobile kitchen and shower, complete with hot water and decent pressure.  Unbelievable!  It’s bespoke-built by the Turkish outfitter, Ercihan.  There’s power on board for recharging camera batteries and laptops, and a table seating ten folds down from the side of the truck under an awning.  I’ve done a lot of camping, and this is really luxurious compared to boiling a billy on the fire and jumping in a river to wash.

The food is fantastic.  We are eating so well.  Last night was tender and juicy chicken barbecued over the coals next to the campfire, the night before that was barbecued lamb, and before that was trout with garlic, lemon and rosemary.  There’s cucumber and tomato salad, yogourt, olives, and always plenty of bread, and it’s all cooked and cleaned up for us by the crew.  Then we typically finish the night around the campfire drinking beer and wine and raki, known as “lion’s milk,” an aniseed-tasting clear liqueur that turns opaque white when cut with water.

First ride

Friday afternoon we took our first ride.  It was only an hour, a short ride out and back to the ranch, so that we can release all our built-up nervous anticipation of a fortnight ride, and to get acquainted with our horses and their dynamic together, and our own dynamic as a group.  We are riding English.  I’m pleased with my horse, Kelebek.  She’s smart, sweet-mannered and sensitive.  She hardly needs any leg; I can steer her just with neck rein and shifting my weight.  Towards the end of the ride she slipped, or was bitten by a horsefly and startled, or something.  Her rear leg buckled and she swung her head sharply around to the left and half-collapsed.  It was all in a split-second and was the kind of situation where a rider can come off a horse, but I was pleased to be told by one of the other riders that I was “a natural” for staying on.

Meet the team

I arrived in Nevşehir on Friday morning and met everyone who will be on the ride.  There are a dozen of us in total, five of whom are the organising team.  Of the rest of us, four have limited experience on a horse, so I’m feeling a lot better about being a total novice.

We’ve been getting acquainted with each other and the group is already gelling well, an important thing when you’re going to be camping and riding together for two weeks.  We’re a mixed bag: there’s a 28-year-old ex-US Navy student, a sculptor and painter, a documentary film-maker, a retiree who’s been swimming her way through the Mediterranean, and a veterinarian turned venture capitalist.

The ride organiser, Alexander, is a character.  He and his mate Marc, the team photographer, play off each other with their jokes.  Marc’s a Frenchman; Alexander is American, and speaks four languages.  The others in the organising team are from the ranch supplying the horses – Ercihan, the Turkish ranch owner, and two ride leaders: South African Susan and Brit Alex.

Half chaps and jodhpurs

Well, this is going to be interesting.

Just picked up some riding gear for the trip: a helmet (mandatory) and some half chaps—zippered gaitors that fit snug around the calves.  I told the bloke at the shop I was going on a two-week horse riding trek and am a complete beginner.  His face said it all: "You sucker city slicker.  You're in for a world of hurt."

I told the bloke I just wanted the cheapest.  This ride is getting more and more expensive (fellow city slickers, don't take up riding if you're saving for a house).  The organiser of the ride suggested bringing jodhpurs (tights for horseback, like bike pants), but I told the bloke at the shop I hoped to just get away with jeans.  "An hour in the saddle—fine," he said.  "All day riding for two weeks?  You're going to lose all the hairs on the inside of your legs, saddle sores, ingrown hairs... mate, you will be ready to trade your eye-teeth for jodhpurs."

Maybe he was motivated to make a sale, or maybe he just wanted to see me in tight pants (this is where I mention the bloke was gay), but I was convinced.  Or afraid.  Anyway, I bought the jodhpurs.

First lesson

When I signed up for the horse riding trek, I told the organiser I was a beginner. Only later did he realise what I meant by that.

"Uh...  you better get some lessons," he said.

So, Sunday was my first ride. It was just around the ring, but the instructor said she was very impressed. Years of correct posture and yoga paid dividends and I was trotting comfortably in no time at all. Next week I'll get up to cantering, and in a few weeks' time I'm planning a weekend trail ride and camp.

But for now, I'm getting very well acquainted with some new muscles.

Relief

A few years ago I read about a charity organisation called Relief Riders, which transports medical supplies and expertise into rural areas of India on horseback.  It's funded as a horse riding trek for adventurous travellers looking for something different.  Paying guests volunteer to assist setting up the medical tents and register the villagers, and the medical supplies are subsidised by the cost of the tour.  I didn't have plans to visit India, but always thought if I did I would do the relief ride.

This year Relief Riders announced they will for the first time be riding in Turkey.  General medical care is much better in Turkey than it is in rural India but dental services are lacking.  The relief ride will provide dental treatment in villages in the dramatic region of Cappadocia where, as luck would have it, I was already heading.  Kismet?  So I've signed on.  The ride is from 17-30 June and visits the spectacular volcanic landscape of "fairy chimneys" (known in the US as hoodoos), tall spires of stone into which the Turkish locals fashioned houses from carved caves centuries ago.

I probably should mention that I don't know how to ride a horse.