The Valley

*Warning: this piece contains graphic images and content.*

I didn’t lunge a single horse today. It was wonderful.

Marta invited me into the house for a coffee while she made a toastie with packet cheese and packet ham for breakfast. I thought about the jamón iberico they make at her mother’s farm. We tacked up her horse and the one out of stable 14. Hers bears the Murube brand on its flank; Fourteen is a fly-spotted grey with a cropped tail. It’s the same one that Guillermo calls bruto, pig-headed, for its refusal to canter on the left leg. After heading to the next village, Villanueva, on the right leg, we switched horses so she could work Fourteen. I hadn’t been able to get him going on his left. Still. This is killing me – never before have I been so committed and so inept at once.

I hopped on Marta’s horse. He was a dream; you barely have to touch him with your right heel and off he goes on his left leg. Just to check that this was really happening, I stopped him, and got him to canter on his right leg. I wanted to make sure that there was definitely a difference. There was. My right hip started to move forward with the horse’s right shoulder. I switched him to the left again. I had done it. I had definitely done it. We cantered all the way down the long, straight path next to the railway, past the orange farm, and carried on home.

Next, it was time to tack up Three, el Peralta. It seems that Three’s not called Peralta, but his owner is, or maybe it’s the finca he comes from. I’m not sure, but I still don’t know Three’s real name. Nobody seems much concerned. The whiteboard in the stableyard lists only the owners’ names under Montar (to ride), Herrer, (to shoe), and – my favourite – peluqería (hairdressing). Like with showering, the Spanish use the same word for hairdressing horses and people. Marta was busy on the phone, so I took Three to the outside schooling ring. Hang on – spurs. One thing that my riding lesson with Santi yesterday really hammered home was that spurs are essential. Okay. Off we go. I was on my own, so I used the time to practice the things I find most difficult in peace and quiet.

Sitting trot. Got it.

Right leg canter. Got it.

“HO.” I called, leaning back. Three pulled to a sharp halt. It wasn’t a professional parada by any means, but it was fun nonetheless.

Left leg canter. I braced myself. Left leg canter? Three obliged, his heavy feet thumping the ground with a pulse-like rhythm; ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum. I grinned and looked around. Oh for Christ’s sake. The scene was completely empty. Of course there’s no one here for this, but they’re always here to see me mess up. A voice in my head reminded me that probably was messing up, I just didn’t know how.

Soon Ivan drove the ancient orange dumper past the schooling ring, into the little field. I proudly set off cantering on the left leg. He didn’t notice. Fine. I’ll just enjoy this in private. I cantered on. Suddenly something squealed and bolted across the paddock. The orange dumper was in there, next to the hayrick. One of the greys was standing, wide eyed, with a dash of red across its thigh. The other was eating the hay out of the dumper. Ivan went to catch the wounded horse, and led it back to the stable yard. It had spooked and tried to run between the dumper and the hayrick. A section of skin the size of my hand was hanging off its thigh in a bloody flap, staining its white leg red. It looked remarkably unconcerned as it stood tied-up in the wash down.

When Santi arrived, I took him to see the drama.

“Oh.” He looked unimpressed. “Eso no pasa nada. (That doesn’t matter.) It’s only skin.”

I remembered he was a bullfighter, and realised I had probably made myself look like a squeamish wimp. Good good. Someone put betadine, purple wound powder, and a bandage on the wound. I was put-out to miss it. I need to learn about dressing wounds if I’m going to ride across Spain solo. I’m hoping I’ll never have to put my learning into practice.

In the afternoon, Santi took me on a long paseo to what’s only known as el valle, the valley. When we were well out of Sanlúcar, we came over the crest of a shady hill, and into the sunlight. Hundreds of olive trees stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. You could just about see Olivares in the distance, flanked by some dark hills. We dipped down into a valley. The loose earth made it difficult for the horses to keep their grip. Santi was riding a foal. “Good training,” he said, “but next time I’ll take a different horse and I’ll show you the river.”

In Santi’s words, our route went por la manzana; ‘by the apple’. It means we went sort of ‘around the mulberry bush’, and in a big loop home. We passed a massive solar power plant.

“Do you know what that is?” Santi asked. My horse certainly didn’t, and looked most concerned.

“Well,” he said, sitting a little further upright, “it’s a good place for it. Out of the whole of Europe, this is the area with the most hours of sunlight. That’s why the Moors used to call Sanlúcar the Town of Light.”

Even in Sanlúcar, we’re feeling the winter evenings coming on. It was almost dark when we got back. Guillermo was training Number 25 in Doma Vaquera. Marta smoked a cigarette while a little group of us sat at the plastic table and chairs next to the schooling ring, and looked on.

“You burnt your nose today,” said Marta. I blushed, and made it worse.

“Ugh. And there I was thinking I was becoming Andaluz.”

My ‘tan’ washed off in the shower; turns out I was just dirty. Damn. There was no washing off my bright red nose.

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