I don’t know where Guillermo went this afternoon. He put one very long stick, two horses, two saddles, four bridles, and five flatcaps into his trailer, and he was off. That left me in the stables with Ivan and a springy Colombian guy called Sergio.
Sergio’s got high cheekbones and a spark in his eye. As soon as Guillermo was gone, he heads to stable number 4, which I’ve never seen opened before. It’s the only stable which has it’s door double-secured with a thick chain as well as a latch. Sergio leads out a dark bay stallion with a broad chest and Arabic ears that point inwards at the tips. He releases it into the schooling ring. The stallion bolts around the sand school, snorting, bucking, and tossing his head. Soon he spots a good-looking mare tied up to the fence. He touches his huge nose to hers, snorts, and begins lifting his bulky knees over the wall and through the fence to try and get to her. He’d have to break the fence before he’d have any chance of getting through it, but I wouldn’t put it past him.
The mare was moved elsewhere, and Sergio slips through the fence. He starts leaping around with his horse as if it was a dog. The stallion was in on the game, and started darting back and forth with Sergio. They’d chase each other around, with side-steps and quick turns to avoid getting caught by the other. I wasn’t sure how ‘play’ this fighting was when the stallion tried to bite Sergio, then directed a hefty buck at him. Sergio took it all as a laugh. His girlfriend leant against the railings next to me. Sergio winked at us, grabbed a chunk of the stallion’s mane, and pulled himself on-board. The power-balance had shifted, but the fun continued. Without reins, a saddle, or a bridle, he used only his weight and his voice to direct the horse.
He eventually grabbed a chain and led his stallion to the wash-down. He never did ‘go riding’. He just came to mess around with his horse. Sergio grabbed the fairy liquid and started scrubbing the stallion’s dark coat. His girlfriend smiled and shook her head.
“He’s horse mad. He had twenty horses in Colombia and sold them all just so he could bring this one to Europe.”
The stallion is carries the blood of a rare Colombian breed. They’re strong, agile, and above all, brave.
“They’ve got to be brave,” she added, “so they don’t run from the bulls.”
This mad and silent game was the dance of daredevil unity between a rejoneador and his bull-fighting horse. The girlfriend showed me photos of Sergio and the stallion in the bullring. “The people love this horse for the emotion in his face.” His Arabic ears and his deep black eyes were fixed on the bull in front of him while he arched his strong neck and whipped his body out of the way.
They left me to lunge a young chestnut in the now empty sand school, and went on their way. The stable yard seemed quiet and uneventful with stable number 4 chained shut again. I wished I had remembered to turn the radio on. Nobody’s heard of Radio 4 but at least the Spanish stations play English music. The arrival of my newfound friend, Santi, livened things up a bit.
I first met Santi on Friday evening. I had been exercising Number Three, my favourite stallion, when a man I didn’t know came into the stable yard. Santi is tall and lean, and wears smart but well-used riding boots. I stick out like a sore thumb here, so he knew who I was, and offered to take me out into the country. I relaxed a bit while we rode along towards the neighbouring town, Villanueva, and immediately regretted it. “Look, you’ve got to will the horse forwards to get him walking well.” I start to wonder how many little errors people spot while you’re riding and chatting at the same time.
Today he started teaching me in earnest. We began with a little paseo, across the train-tracks, and out onto the winding dusty paths. While my horse walked along comfortably, Santi was training his in any number of little exercises. He’d canter ever so slowly next to me, or have his horse raise its knees high as it walked. Damn, this guy rides really well. I kept a close eye on getting Number Three just to walk properly. I explained that I’d had to read an awful lot at Uni, so I hadn’t had time to ride. He explained that he’s a picador, so he hasn’t had time to read.
“A picador?”
“Look.”
He shows me a photo of a man in black and gold costume, riding an armoured horse. The man is holding a colourful spear high in the air. The horse is wearing a blindfold. A bull is hurtling towards them.
“That’s me.”
“Joder. (F*ck.)”
I suddenly didn’t feel so embarrassed. I am one of a great many people who are worse riders than Santi. I’m sure he’s used to it.
“Aren’t you scared?”
“Yeah. A bit. One of the other picadors at the bullfight this weekend got a horn in his femoral artery.”
Santi showed me a photo.
“Joder.”
We got back as dark set in, but the day at the picadero doesn’t end when the sun sets. “We’re going to do a lunging lesson,” he announced. The lights of the schooling-ring blinked on, and it was my turn to be at the other end of the lunge rope. Santi tied up my reins so that I was left without anything to hold. He’s standing in the middle of the schooling ring, with Number Three and me trotting around him.
“Keep your hands out in front of you, and keep them still. This is about balance.”
It was easier than I thought, to begin with. Weight back, hands forward, legs steady. Up, down, up, down, in a rising trot.
“Faster.”
Well, this is going to be difficult. I forgot to put on spurs. I kick. My stubby little legs don’t reach the horse’s belly. I kick harder.
“Use your caderas.”
“My what? What are caderas?”
Hips, it turns out. I trot along for a minute before realising I have no idea how to get my hips involved in willing Three to trot faster. Santi looks down at the floor, smiles, blushes, looks up at the ceiling, and then begins to demonstrate. Thrusting one’s hips looks a bit different when you’re on foot. Eventually I get Number Three going as he’s meant to, and then its time to canter. I thought it would be scary, without anything to hold, but ultimately I was too busy with everything else to remember about that.
When we switched places so Santi could demonstrate, I noticed that his feet reached the horse’s belly before he’d even begun to think about kicking. I can get stronger, and I can get better, but at 21, my legs aren’t going to get longer. I tried in my best feminist heart not to wish I was a man. A poor workman blames her tools. I thought back to Alba Fernández, the under-18 champion of Andalucía, and realised I had no excuse. When I got home, I skipped The Great British Bake Off. Studying seemed like a sensible next move. I looked for YouTube videos about dressage and Doma Vaquera instead. You can take a girl out of the library, but you can’t take the library out of the girl.
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