Fried potatoes. Spanish soap opera. Chicken. Bread. Beer. Got asked if I was Catholic. Surprised reactions all around at my response in the negative. All parties shared stories about times they went to England. All parties agreed that they liked Buckingham (Book-ee-hang) Palace, but not Camden Market. Guillermo’s family approve of our horse-loving queen.
After a brief siesta, I was to go back to the stables at 6. Given that my legs were barely able to carry me over there, I was glad to find the place completely empty (save for the 35 horses, of course). Soon, Guillermo’s father, Antonio, appeared and got me lungeing another horse. He was careful to point out that the intention here wasn’t to train the horse.
“We’re just trying to make the horse sweat, so he can have a shower.”
I don’t understand the logic there at all. Can’t we just brush him? If he already needs a shower, why do we need to make him sweat? On top of all this, it still makes me laugh that the Spanish use the same word whether you’re showering a horse or a human.
There were two girls in the stable yard getting their horses ready. One was using an English saddle, although I could swear there was something not quite right about it. When Guillermo and his girlfriend Marta turned up, we tacked up two more horses to join them. Guillermo stayed behind, and all four girls set off together. Guillermo was careful to give us strict instructions about where we were to go, and when we ought to begin cantering, and when we ought to stop. Marta didn’t seem to take a great deal of notice, and we changed our plan in a matter of minutes anyway.
She led us up a hill and, by the time we begun to wind our way through rows of olive trees, the sun was beginning to set. The distant palm trees were dark against the sky. As we came over the brow of the hill, we could see all the surrounding farms. The varying patches of land were all striped with planting, or spotted with horses and donkeys. The occasional little white building punctuated the fields. Marta shouted, “Esto es Andalucía!”, and we cantered on.
Eventually we came to the edge of Sanlucar, and negotiated traffic, dogs and cyclists without much difficulty. At some point we pulled into a parking space, Marta hopped off her horse and began arranging us all in a line. I thought this was some kind of photo opportunity until she asked me what I wanted to drink. I then realised that we were outside a bar, and all the horse-choreography was about fitting our bottoms inside the parking space. Marta nipped inside and got four beers.
The bar was on the corner of a road that suddenly became very busy. As Marta lit her cigarette, two cars tried to pass behind us. One driver told the other to stop being a coward and pass the horses, the other driver shouted something at us and our horses, then drove off angrily and at some speed. This angry driver drove into the metal barrels outside the bar, dented her car, and became even more angry. A sassy face-off developed outside the tapas bar, between two Spanish women, one of whom was on horseback whilst holding a beer and a cigarette. To correct Marta’s earlier statement; this is Andalucía.
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