Jesus, a Marching Band and the KKK

by JuanedcSemana Santa. Holy week. When I think of the places I want to spend Holy Week in, I would automatically think that Italy would be the best place to do so. However, having spent a disappointing Ash Wednesday at St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican City, I decided to give Spain a fair chance. After all, I do live here now, right?

Semana Santa, as it’s called here, blew the Pope’s socks off – and I generally like the Pope’s socks. I headed to Vejer de la Fronterra for one of the nights of Semana Santa where they were actively participating in the procession. You see, each village in Spain with a main cathedral has processions. During the month and a half of Lent, each church puts together a giant statue, or paso of one of the stations of the cross, or of a saint or something else significant to the particular church. These pasos are put on giant pedistals for the Lenten season on display inside the church.

by Fernand0During Semana Santa, each of the pasos are laden with fresh flowers. Women come in and spend days decorating them with roses, carnations, wildflowers. They each end up looking a bit like a float off the rose parade. Then one at a time, each church marches their paso up to the main cathedral in town. Traditionally, the pasos are carried by men who have penance that needs to be served, called costaleros. They are covered by a drape that drags to the ground on all four sides of the paso and the men must carry it on their shoulders in bare feet usually for a couple miles. Sometimes, the men even wear shackles if they've been particularly bad.

by JuanedcThose men who did not behave as badly during lent (or whatever you had to do to deserve 6 hours of holding a 3 ton statue on your shoulders) wear large robes called capirote which are the robes that inspired the traditional garb of the KKK. You know, the ones with the pointy hats. Each of the robes is a different color depending on what church you come from and the men march alongside the statues with large grim reaper type canes and torches of fire. If you had told me we had been transported back in time to some sort of Neo Nazi ritual, I honestly wouldn’t have been too surprised. In addition, each church has its own marching band that walks in front or behind the statue beating out the slow rhythm to which the statue sways down the city streets.

by ~ZitaNow, if these streets were wide, I’m not sure there would be too much fuss. Walk a statue, for example, from St. Monica’s in Los Angeles up Wilshire and you’re not going to have too much trouble navigating. Traffic would likely not even stop. However, the statues themselves, being at least 8 feet wide, on cobble city streets that are barely 12 feet wide and navigating hairpin corners ON A 12% INCLINE, is not an easy feat. Add three rows of people on either side of the sidewalk whose feet you’re trying to not step on and I’m not sure what kind of forgiveness would be enough to volunteer me for that job.  

by CrucconeOn the final day of Semana Santa, all of the pasos are marched out from the main cathedral. Each church is represented and depending on how many churches or groups you have in a given town, the procession can last 7 or 8 hours beginning at 10 PM (Spanish time, which really just means that it will happen sometime after 10 – in this case, it started at 11:30). We stayed in our spots for about 2 hours and only saw 2 statues march past. There were at least 8 in the church before the procession began.

Needless to say, the only way this whole experience can really be shared is in video, which you can thank your lucky stars, I happen to have. So here is the not-so-short video I took of one of the statues passing by at the Semana Santa procession in Vejer de la Fronterra, Spain on April 1, 2010. Make sure and look for the KKK, they’re there, I promise, but they’re difficult to find (as the KKK should be – can’t be flaunting all that white power around these days). Also notice the 1534 point turn it takes for the statue just to turn down a relatively obtuse angled street.

Also, if you want to read more, the procession I saw was very similar to the ones that take place in Sevilla. You can read more on the wiki article here.

Losing my virginity to a Spanish stallion

When I first arrived in Spain, I was surprised to learn that since my last visit here back in 2008, Rachel and Andrew had conjured up a new type of riding holiday geered towards those who were more serious about improving their riding ability. Coming to the rescue is Antonio Corrales, friend, co-worker and… Oh ya! World Renowned classical and cowboy dressage horse trainer/whisperer extraordinaire (woah – spell check just let me know I had absolutely NO idea how to spell extraordinaire). Antonio was schooled at the Royal School of Equestrian Art in Jerez and has trained horses that have competed literally up to the Olympic level. Unlike many horse enthusiasts in the area, Antonio makes his living off of riding and training horses and a fine living, he does make.

One of these such “Train and Ride” weeks came up quickly once I moved here and I was immediately thrown headfirst into the world of classical dressage. My riding background consists 90% of show jumping with a small amount of clinic dressage and leisure cross-country thrown in there. For those of you non-riders, this would be like if someone saw you playing football well and then assumed since you know what a “ball” is and know how to “handle” it (he… hehe) that you automatically are just as good at basketball or rugby. Not the case, my friends, not the case. But being that I was an employee, especially, I was expected to, more or less, instantly know everything about the dressage he was teaching. And not only that, but to understand it in Spanish and in English (as Antonio speaks absolutely no English – or as he puts it, “I do know English; I know how to say, ‘No’” which for those of you who are not retarded, is the same in Spanish and English).

To say the learning curve was steep would be a gross understatement, but rather than whine about it, I took this as an opportunity to not only drastically improve my Spanish skills, but my dressage as well. On a Train and Ride holiday, the guests are given hour long lessons on Monday, Wednesday and Friday with afternoon hacks back at Los Alamos and whole day hacks on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. It’s a full week of riding and quite an intense holiday. However, the experience you gain is invaluable as you learn everything from basic circles, shoulder in and half-pass to traverse, Spanish walk, piaff and cantering turn on the haunches.

On top of learning how to do cool shit, the horses you get to ride are really where the amazing part of Antonio’s yard come into play. My first experience with such a horse came within my first couple of weeks working here. Rachel had introduced me to Antonio, but that was the extent. He had never seen me ride, never watched me hack out. We went to his yard one afternoon with our riding clothes in the car “just in case.” Upon showing up at the barn, Antonio proclaimed that we were going out for a hack, to get changed and he’d get the horses ready. As he walked out of the barn with the most stunning horse I had ever seen in my life, I assumed it was for him. I had never seen an animal so beautiful. He was a charcoal grey, large fleabitten blaze about 15.2. He was a stallion with the large crested neck that only comes with the amount of testosterone flowing through the blood of a horse with his balls intact.

Dormilon.Antonio motioned me over and I did the comical look over my shoulder to see if anyone was behind me. There’s no way he’s calling to me. But he was. “This is your horse, Dormilon. He is only three so you will need to ride him carefully.” Um. What? So you don’t want to see me ride first to, oh, I don’t know, SEE IF I CAN RIDE? Apparently, Rachel’s word was enough. She said I could ride anything, so Antonio had brought me, well, anything. I took Dormilon into the arena and played around a bit. The horse did anything and everything I asked him. I could lightly shift my weight to the right and he would immediately turn. When trotting, shifting my weight a tiny bit to the back resulted in an instant hault. It was incredible. I had never ridden something so well trained, and I have ridden some incredible horses.

Antonio never second guessed me, never doubted my ability. He corrected me once and other than that let me get on my own way. He told me at the end of the ride I could ride anything he owned. “My horses are your horses,” he said. And horses, he has plenty. The main barn itself, houses only stallions, of which there are about 20. He has two other barns separate which each hold another 20 or so. He has a few geldings and mares which are mostly horses that have been sent to him to be trained.  Most of his horses though, his babies, are stallions. Expensive, hot-blooded, gorgeous stallions.

Expensive, hot-blooded, gorgeous stallions that are now at my disposal. Sorry mom, it doesn’t look like I’ll be coming home for a while.

The Ferias of Andalucia: Barbate

The feria in Barbate is much more like I had originally expected out of a fair. The only reason for this was that it was, more or less, similar to any we would have back in the states. I actually spent a couple of days at the feria.

The first was with a bunch of friends and two of their young children. Very typical fair experience including riding rides, eating way too much candy and trying our luck shooting cans off a wall and throwing darts at balloons. All of the fair rides are constantly screaming loud obnoxious music. Some of it is discotech type music, brit pop and rap, but some of it is obnoxious Spanish techno which makes me want to claw my eyes out. It is generally blasting so loud that you cannot hear your own thoughts, let alone the person standing next to you speaking in a foreign language.

One of the rides we rode on was a typical train goes around a track and into a mountain tunnel ride made for the kids. Only, rather than having a nice quiet riding experience, a clown armed with a large hand broom beats you everytime you come around the track. Yes you read that correctly, the clown beats you with a broom while you are on the ride. It is hilarious. Don’t believe me? Check out this video of my friend Antonio trying to steal the broom from clown man.

My second day at the feria was spent savoring the more gastronomic side. Barbate is known worldwide for their tuna and every year, when the tuna “run” from the Mediterranean Sea out to the Atlantic Ocean, the whole town comes alive with fisherman who still wrestle these thousand pound fish to the surface by hand. The tuna feria (as it’s known) has tents full of tapas made from the famous fish and most also offer tasters for those passing by. There was even a booth where once a day, a tuna was brought in live, chopped to pieces in front of you and served up raw for anyone crazy enough to stand in the queue for a half hour.

To wrap up my feria experience, I thought I needed to see it by the light of the moon. Knowing I could count on him for a good time, I phoned up my good friend Fran to show me the best time. When he offered to pick me up for dinner at 9, I trembled at the thought of the night only beginning that early. When we found ourselves strolling up the Paseo del Maritimo in Barbate to stall while we waited for the rest of his friends to arrive at 12:30, I really started to panic. “The tents we’re going to aren’t open until 2,” he assured me, “don’t worry, the night is young.” Ya, well… the morning will also be young when I wake up for work at 7.

After rounding up all the troops, we drove to the feria, parked and did what every fair experience began like back in Oklahoma: we drank in the parking lot. Only, so was everyone else. Like EVERYONE else. Hundreds of people with car music blaring, cups full of mixed drinks and kegs. Finally, at about 3:30, we headed to the main event, which was a large seemingly deserted tent in the middle of the feria grounds. We ordered some beers, stepped out on the dance floor and spent the next 2 or so hours dancing, chatting and partying. When I finally realized it was 6 AM and that I had to be at work in an hour, I begged Fran to take me home. As I looked around, I realized the party was just now in full swing, with our tent jam packed with people of all ages and all of the other tents similar to ours lined up along the side of a dirt path just as packed. There were several thousand people still dancing and drinking like it was just past sunset. But unfortunately for me, I had no time to spare.

So Fran dropped me off at home, I changed into my riding clothes and I stepped out of my front door only minutes before Rachel showed up to pick me up. When I hopped in the car, she took one look at me and asked, “Rough night?”

You have no idea, boss. No idea.

The Ferias of Andalucia: Jerez de la Frontera

After spending the day in Los Naveros at the horse feria there, I thought I knew everything about how this whole feria thing works. But I was completely wrong. As could be expected, since Jerez de la Frontera has more than 200,000 people, the feria here was much larger than that in Los Naveros. But this was the complete opposite extreme as far as I could tell. The streets of Jerez are wide, and they were lined with booth after booth of restaurants serving tapas and sherry. Everyone was dressed in their finest flamenco dresses and the men were boasting their full vaquero show attire.

In the show arena, men were showing their horses. In hand, you could see yearlings all the way up to aged stallions. You could watch as one man on one beautiful black stallion navigated 12 spotless white mares without so much as a rope connecting them. You could watch full doma vaquera competitions, classical dressage, foals being shown at their mother’s sides. It was amazing. We watched Antonio show a yearling owned by one of our friends Paco. I wandered aisle after aisle of tiny baby horses, some looking like they were no more than a couple weeks old.

Outside of the main show arena, crowding the streets were thousands of Spaniards ready for a good party. Even though it was early in the day, the bars were packed and the streets overflowing with group after group of all ages of people swaying, singing, dancing and drinking. Then there were the horses, some organized, some not. There were carriages for hire with up to ten horses dressed in full regalia with bells, pom poms and giant headdresses carrying people up and down the streets. There were hundreds of free standing horses, ridden by mostly men and children (some of whom looked as young as 3 and 4).

Dispersed in between the hundreds of horses were the parades of flamenco dancers. Twenty or thirty women would walk arm in arm dressed from head to toe in fancy flamenco costumes inclusive of head pieces, bright makeup and matching high heeled shoes. Every 50 or so yards, one of the matriarchs in the group would begin a song and most of the group would start to dance. Sometimes it was organized, with a few girls dancing in the Sevillana in the middle of a circle, but more often than that, it was just a few women dancing and everyone singing and cheering in unison.  Each group had at least a couple girls in strollers (but still dressed as lavishly as the rest) and each group had at least one woman who looked like if she took another step she may keel over. We’re talking hunchback grandma Maria who looked about 95.

And the party didn’t stop. We arrived in Jerez around 9 AM and when we did, there were people who were just going home from the night before.  The word fiesta should not be taken lightly here.

The Ferias of Andalucia: Los Naveros

I’ve grown up around fairs. In fact, I’ve spent a lot of time at some of the most country fairs that exist in the little backcountry towns of Oklahoma. Nothing could have ever prepared me for this kind of fair. From April to November every year, each small town in southern Spain takes its turn hosting a fair, or feria in Spanish. Most ferias are typical American type fairs with a procession of dinky fair rides, chocked full of calorie fair food and carnies.  Only, there are small differences, and at some feria’s, these differences are much more evident than at others. My first feria experience was in Los Naveros, a small town about 18 miles away from San Ambrosio.

I knew we were riding to the feria, but I really had no idea what to expect.  I had seen the townsmen riding to other ferias in prior weeks and I knew it involved a lot of booze and many hours in the saddle.

We started the procession. Rachel, Vinny, Jose and I left our barn about 8:30 AM and headed towards Los Naveros, knowing we were about to partake in about a 4 hour journey. As we passed by Paco’s house, Paco (and his son, Paco) both came out to join us on two of their stallions. As we passed by Braulio’s house, Braulio joined us on his purebred Spanish mare. As we rode past house after house, man after purebred Spanish man would come bounding down his driveway on his purebred Spanish steed.  And after about a half an hour riding through San Ambrosio, we had acquired about 40 horses and their riders. Rachel and I were the only women, but we were told it was ok because we weren’t Spanish. Even though we picked up another 200 or so horses on the way to Navarro, we remained the only women in the procession.

We rode for hours through the countryside. I learned quickly that my Spanish was going to have to improve if I were to survive this day at all. About 11 AM, we pulled up to a field where there were 3 or 4 tractor trailers waiting for us with all of the women in the back. They had cooked us breakfast: tortillas, chorizo, manchego, bread and (naturally) sherry; lots of sherry. From here, the tractors led us – our own personal moving bar & grill. Fully stocked with gin & tonic, beer, sherry, summer wine and anything else you could fancy to drink. And drink we did.

We arrived at a gate at about 12:30 which was unlocked and opened by a man in a golf cart. He ushered the 100 or so horses in the gate and closed it behind it to lock us in as he rushed ahead about a mile to open the corresponding gate on the other side of the field. Suddenly, I realized why we were locked in, as I glanced to my right and spotted a herd of about 100 fighting bulls about 100 meters away. “Put on my jacket,” Paco demanded, “you’re wearing red and the bulls are trained to run to it.” Are you serious? They could see me from that far away? “Well, you’re more than welcome to chance it, if you’d like.” No thanks, I’ll take the jacket. About 20 minutes later, as the bulls slowly began walking towards us, I asked Antonio what we should do if the bulls start running towards us. “You run as fast as you can towards that gate, let the men take care of it,” he casually responded. Great plan.

So I can’t really relay to you the amount of panic that ensued, when a couple of minutes later I hear thundering hooves coming from behind me and a man screaming. I turned around to see a man on a beautiful stallion barreling full speed from about a quarter of a mile away. He was screaming in Spanish but I had no idea what.  He was coming right for me, but I had nowhere to move – and I have a feeling if I had moved, he would have moved with me. Because this stud was after one thing and one thing only: my mare. The next thing I know, the horse runs right into me and all I see is hooves as he attempts to mount my horse while I am still on her. Naturally (good girl) she kicks out at him and he runs off to his next victim, which happened to be anything and everything in front of him: four or five other horses, one of the tractor trailers and eventually the ground  as his poor rider gets tossed to all ends of the world. All the while, the bulls are standing about 50 yards away just watching, wondering whether to charge or not, and all of us are praying that they stay put; which fortunately, as we picked up the pieces of horse, rider and tack, they did.

Next on our agenda was our parade. A procession of our now just over 100 horses trotting through the streets of town after town while families poured out of their houses to take pictures, throw confetti and cheer us on. And then we were there. We came upon a field with several flagged areas set up, a couple rides and many tents. We all dismounted, grabbed a beer and a bite to eat out of the trailer and stood around with our ponies for the next 3 or 4 hours drinking, chatting and watching the amazing caliber of horses that seemed to emerge out of the sticks of Southern Spain. We saw display after display of horses trained to lay down with their riders on board, horses walking on their back legs, horses doing cabrioles in any empty space and tons of horse related feria activities which included ribbon races, dancing, obedience and then traditional doma vaquera. It was incredible. Here we started to see a couple other women riding, but only on the back of the horse, sitting sideways in flamenco dresses while their significant others rode up front.

Here we sat and got pretty much trashed. By about 5 PM when it was time to start back to home, I thought I was going to have to sleep the whole way back. I’d kicked back at least a 12 pack and a half bottle of sherry. And there was no end in sight as even when the trailer’s booze supply ran out, the men mysteriously produced hip flasks and saddle flasks full of cool dry sherry – full with accompanying glasses and everything. When I politely declined a pour from Antonio explaining that I didn’t have a glass, he shook his head and produced a spare out of his saddle bag, “Don’t worry,” he said, “I always carry an extra.” Of course you do.

So we stumbled (or rather, our horses did) slowly back to the house. At this point, I thought my knees might dislocate. I was no longer drunk, but hungover. It was dark (we didn’t get home until almost midnight) and we were trusting that our horses could see in the pale moonlight. Vinny and I were cursing profusely at our heads, stomachs and aching bodies as we slid off back at the yard, threw our saddles in the van, and then poured ourselves into bed.

But all pain was forgotten the next morning as we recounted the best day in any of our lives and plans were already being made to do the ride again the following year, with a bit more preparation.  And as I retell the story week after week for the new guests that come in, I still can’t believe the day actually happened. And I count down the days to submit myself to such misery again next year.

The Best Job in the World

A little over a year ago, I was soliciting the help of most of you to help me win a contest that I’m sure I was not alone in entering: The Best Job in the World. It was a contest to be employed by the department of tourism in Queensland Australia as a sort of “mascot” if you will, for tourism in the area.  Needless to say, I was devastated when through a sequence of events, my application was not considered for the position. Though I listened to my mothers advice, “it wasn’t meant to be, something else will come along!” I didn’t really want to hear it.

But now, I realize that although the job on Hamilton Island would have been amazing, it is not the last opportunity I will have to work a dream job and is rather, just one of many jobs I’m sure I will hold over the next 20 years. 

I have found the best job in the world – for me. I work at a riding holiday called Los Alamos where every day I wake up, do what I love, spend time with amazing people and fall asleep knowing that life doesn’t get much better than this.  If you need to catch up on what a riding holiday is, read my post from last week. If you’re caught up, let me give you a glimpse of my typical workday.

8:00 AM – Alarm goes off, time to get up

8:10 AM – stumble out of my bedroom door and into the Red VW van already running and ready for me to drive up to the horses

8:15 AM – arrive at horses and tack them up with Jose and Rachel for the days ride. Sometimes Mitch or Jesus (the two forest guards or guardabosques) will stop by on their stallions for a chat or to help out with the horses.

9:15 AM – back to the Jacaranda (the name of our house) for breakfast. Tea, orange juice, muesli and a banana for me. Sometimes a Sprite or a Coke as well if I’m especially in need of caffeine.

10:00 AM – back up to the horses to meet the guests for the day’s ride, mount my steed and head out for the day’s ride. I usually ride backup, at the very back of our little procession watching for problems and communicating with the lead if we need to stop for any reason – it’s a relatively uneventful position to be in and I generally pass the time chatting with guests or studying up my Spanish on my iPhone.

1:00 PM – we arrive at lunch somewhere in the forest or on the beach. I sit the guests down, order drinks and food and then help wait the table. While I’m not doing that, I am chatting with Jose and the bar owners, eating my meal and having a couple glasses of Tinto de Verano.

2:00 PM – back on the horses to head home

3:00 PM – arrive at the field, untack the horses, hose them down and wipe down the bridles.

3:30 PM – as fast as possible, change from my riding clothes into a swimsuit and run straight to the pool to jump in. Spend the afternoon laying out, reading a book, drinking a beer.

5:30 PM – Siesta.

8:00 PM – set the dinner table and eat dinner w/ the guests.

9:15 PM – finish dinner up, walk to Miguel’s for a couple after work brews.

11:30 PM – in bed, ready for another day.

I eat dinner w/ the guests three days a week, that’s it. The rest of the days, I am finished with work at 3:30 and spend the afternoons at the beach, down at the bar, shopping in Barbate or if I had a considerably rough evening at Miguel’s the night before, a REALLY long siesta.

I have Wednesday’s off. That means sleeping in, laying out all day, doing basically nothing.

Thursday’s, when the guests are in Jerez, I feed the horses in the morning, ride out for an hour or two  if I feel like it, help Rhiannon clean rooms if she needs it (which she generally does not) and feed the horses again in the afternoon.  Same on Sunday when one group of guests leaves and the other returns. I have so much free time, it’s ridiculous. I read the entire twilight series in 10 days. I’ve seen more movies in the past 3 months than I have in 3 years. I study Spanish, I go to the beach, I sew clothes, I’m redesigning the Los Alamos website. I have so much time to think about what I ACTUALLY want to do that I’m getting spoiled on always doing what I want to, when I want to.

But I don’t care. Because now I know that this is possible, so I refuse to ever work a job where I am not happy 95% of the time ever again.

Riding Holidays for Dummies

This post may seem like an endorsement and that is because it is just that. I am not getting “paid” by Los Alamos to write said post, but since I do live/work here, I have a feeling I will get some extra dessert or maybe first choice on horses next week. I would write this regardless.

Riding Holiday (ˈrī•dēng 'häl•i•dā)
-noun
a freaking amazing place where you go on vacation for a set period of time, ride horses everyday, drink a lot, eat a lot and do other fun vacation stuff.

Ok, so maybe that didn’t come RIGHT out of the dictionary. The point is, if you had asked me 5 years ago what a riding holiday was, I would have laughed and asked if it was some codeword for a honeymoon or something equally as juvenile.  But now that I have been enlightened to the glory that is the riding holiday, I am compelled to share this information with anyone and everyone who will listen.

You will be especially interested in this post if you ride horses, and not like “oh, one time I sat on a pony at the Jonesboro County Fair and it was AWESOME” kind of riding. For those of you finding yourselves short on equestrian talent, maybe this is inspiration to get out there and take some lessons – and then come visit me :)

So I’m going to speak generally about riding holidays here, but really I’m mostly talking about my riding holiday, which is Los Alamos Equestrian Holidays in San Ambrosio, Spain.

The general premise of a riding holiday is that you pay for, say, a week of all-inclusive vacation.  What you get with this payment is all the normal all-inclusive benefits (think unlimited food and booze) but with an equestrian twist. Here is the typical schedule for one of our normal Sunday to Sunday holidays.

Sunday

Pick up at the airport, lunch on the patio at Los Alamos, intro to horses, afternoon by the pool

Monday

4 hour ride in the morning around the amazingly gorgeous pine forest around our house including a stop at the Torre de Meca an old Moorish lookout tower and the Trafalger Mirador a lookout from the top of a cliff out over Cabo de Trafalger and the Los Caños lighthouse. Tie the horses outside of Venta Los Majales del Sol in the forest for lunch, a bar who only cooks food for us, usually Spanish style tortillas and fresh asparagus, tomato and tuna salad accompanied by a big jug of Tinto de Verano or “Summer Wine,” a Sangria type wine cocktail. Naturally capped off with an authentic and amazing Spanish coffee.  Dinner tonight, as with every night, is back at Los Alamos, either on the patio or inside the large common room and includes three courses of delicious Spanish and English dishes. As well as unlimited booze. Is anyone surprised I’ve gained 15 pounds since moving here?

Tuesday

4 hour ride in the morning down to the beaches in Los Caños de Mecca with long canters in the sand dunes, a couple canters on the beach and if the tide is right, an impossibly long full out gallop along the Playa de Zahora. Tie up the horses at a bank of trees near one of the dunes and lunch is at Las Dunas, an adorable hippie bar/restaurant on the beach serving up the best Olives in the world and simple but delicious sandwiches. Maybe today, we try a Rebojito, which is sherry’s response to the Tinto de Verano, a white wine sherry (fino) spritzer. And duh… coffee.

Wednesday

My day off, how am I supposed to know what they do? Ok, just kidding. Another 4 hour ride in the morning around the forest, past the old San Ambrosio hermitage, the view of the windmills (both old and new), past the largest dovecote in the world and a stop at Venta Canuto’s (Miguel’s) bar for lunch. The ride (like it does everyday) arrives back in San Ambrosio around 2:30 and the rest of the afternoon is yours to lay out by the pool, go to the beach, walk to the Dove Cote bar for a gin & tonic or take a siesta with the rest of Spain.

Thursday

A day off for the horses. Andrew takes the whole lot to Jerez de la Frontera for a day trip. After a traditional Spanish breakfast you head to the carriage driving museum, to the stables to look at the carriage driving horses at the Royal Andalusian School of Equestrian Art and then take in a show at the Royal School of their stallions doing Doma Vaquera, Doma Classica both in hand and ridden as well as a carriage driving show. It’s absolutely amazing. After the show, you head to a local sherry man for some sherry tasting.

Friday

Another beach ride, similar to Tuesday but giving us a little leg room if the tides are better on one day or the other. Whichever day is better, the ride extends past the wildflower field out to El Palmar beach and we spend a solid 2 hours in the sand before lunch back at Las Dunas again.  Dinner tonight is special, as Rachel and I take the group back to Los Majales where one of Antonio’s cousins (who happens to be a professional flamenco singer) puts on a show with Antonio’s sister, Conchi, Rachel, myself and any other flamenco dancing passersby dance after a huge feast of fried chili peppers, chicken paella and an amazing assortment of local chorizo and ham.

Saturday

Last day of riding. We take a bit of a shorter ride this day to a look out of the Porto de Barbate and then walk a half a mile up an old Roman Road up the coast of Barbate from the beach up to another Moorish lookout tower and one of the most spectacular views of Morocco (less than 8 miles away from us at this point) you can get from this area.  Lunch today is a Venta Luis in San Ambrosio and includes a feast of Calamari, Grilled Vegetables, Garlic Chicken, Russian Salad and Garlic Pork. After this we do a quick ride back home possibly including a stop at the Corkscrew, if the group is up for it, an intense downhill gallop on one of the many firebreaks in the area. This is not for the faint of heart.

This ain’t your grandmamma’s trailride. This is fast paced long distance riding. I’ve ridden horses competitively my whole life and when I first came out here, it took me a couple of days before I was truly adjusted. Each day has at least 5 or 6 long and difficult canters or gallops including the Corkscrew (mentioned above), the Rollercoaster – a similar downhill firebreak canter, as well as many full out firebreak gallops and wiggly forest canters. People riding here have to be in complete control at all times and are encouraged to pave their own way rather than follow nose to but with the horse in front of them.

In addition, the horses we have are amazing. Yes we have some quieter horses for people who need a bit more confidence; but not many. Most of our horses are lively, spirited and absolutely love to run. Several of the horses are classically trained dressage horses coming to us from Antonio, our best friend horse whisperer and amazing dressage trainer in Vejer. We have a 4 year old filly Andalucian/Cob cross who is one of our most popular rides, a dozen or so full bred Andalucian horses with papers, and 3 horses who are bred out of the Spanish National Champion Doma Vaquera stud. 

I’m not really sure why we don’t embrace this more in American culture, but the holiday I’m on here is not that unique. These places exist all over the world, and Brits are taking advantage of them every day. If you are a rider, or know someone who is, I highly encourage you to take a look at some of these and try them out. Some cool sites to check out are:

In the Saddle
Riding Holidays
Far and Ride
Equitour
Equitours
Los Alamos

Finding "campera" to be less of an insult everyday

Welcome to the campo. The Spanish countryside. The veins and capillaries in the extremities of this large county that keep everything working, that keep us aware of why this country is so great. Welcome to San Ambrosio: my home. My tiny 400 or so person town somewhere in the forest between Barbate and Vejer de la Frontera. Never heard of those “cities” either? How about half way between Cadiz and Tarifa? Hmm… those cities not striking a bell either? Look at a map. Find the southernmost tip of Spain, the part that almost touches Morocco. Now move your finger up the coast to the left an hour’s worth of driving. That’s me.

I live 20 minutes drive from the nearest grocery store, 20 minutes drive from the nearest bank, an hour drive from the nearest “department store”, an hour and a half drive to the nearest airport, 2 and a half hours drive to the nearest train station. If this isn’t remote, I don’t know what is. But despite my distance from most of the amenities I would have previously considered important, I have everything I need and rarely find the need to go to any of the aforementioned places. Why do you need a bank when you don’t use money? Why do you need a grocery store when you grow your food yourself? Why do you need a department store when sew your own clothes? Why do you need and airport or train station when you have absolutely no intention of leaving?

You can get to San Ambrosio from the three nearest “towns”: Los Caños de Meca, Vejer de la Frontera and Barbate. But no matter which direction you come from, you will have to drive on an unpaved road at some point. Once you’re in town, there are two main “streets.” One, Zarzadilla, has most of the resident homes, the vacation homes, the full time residents and the farms. The other, what I refer to as the Yellow Brick Road, because it is just that… a yellow brick road… boasts the towns two fine dining establishments, amply named Luis and Miguel’s. These are also the town’s two pubs. Luis food is amazing and seasonal. If he kills a boar in the forest, we get boar for a couple weeks, if he finds some exotic fish at the market; we get exotic fish for a week or so. He always has chicken, pork, the most amazing Russian Salad and the best French fries I’ve probably ever had in my life. Miguel’s menu is a bit simpler, but just as impressive. His chicken ka-bob’s rival the best of them and he cooks a dogfish that makes me water at the mouth. 

Miguel's as seen from my back porch.Miguel’s is less than 50 yards from my backdoor. One day, while I was laying out by the pool, I heard someone shouting my name – it was Miguel. He was standing on the back porch of the bar and was wondering why I wasn’t watching the US world cup football game, which I had completely forgot about. “Hurry up and come over here,” he said “and I’ll turn on the game for you.” Because of proximity (and my now amazing friendship with the owner) I find myself at Miguel’s almost every night. He closes the bar when me and my other friends leave, not a minute earlier, not a minute later – sometimes that’s 11 PM, sometimes it’s 4:30 AM. It’s just friends hanging out at someone’s house for all I’m concerned. 

Every morning, I am woken up by the roosters next door. They’re a bit overzealous and tent to crow from about 6 AM until about 9 AM, just to make sure. I call it a built in snooze button. But they’re persistent at least, seeming to gawk around until everyone in town is awake. All of my neighbors have their own chickens, pigs, turkeys, ducks and cows. Every morning, Paco, one of my neighbors, walks his cows from his garden out to grazing land down the street right by my window.  And everyone has horses. The men here parade their horses around like fancy cars, and these horses are fancy. We’re talking purebred Andalucian stallions that Braulio and Paco ride to Miguel’s, Luis or Antonio’s (another bar deeper in the forest). We’re talking stallions that rival the talent of Lippizaner stallions and who can dance on command, half-pass across an open field and rear up on command. 

This place is like a throwback in time. The other day, the water out at the horses seemed to be turned off, so I walked over to Paco’s to ask him what was going on and if his water was off as well. He said he was watering his garden and must be taking up all the pressure. He apologized and sent me off with three grocery bags full of fresh produce – a peace offering. I marched back to my house with heads of fresh romaine lettuce, eggplant, zucchini, potatoes and fresh tomatoes. Today while I was trying to take my daily siesta at about 3 PM, I hear a man on a loudspeaker. It’s the chicken guy – who comes to bring the chickens. “Get your chickens ladies, I’ve got brown ones, white ones, old ones, young ones, ones that can be next month’s dinner, ones that can be tonight’s dinner.” He drives around town and all the women in town march down to the truck and get their live chickens which then get each get placed in their own little chicken coop either for eggs, dinner or for making more chickens. I saw a woman trade him a goat one time for two chickens.

Yesterday, I went to the beach with one of my friends Vicky, and she can’t drive, so we hitched a ride in a tractor down to the water. Her boyfriend Antonio was going to drive us, but he wanted to take a nap instead, so he yelled out his window at a tractor driving past and asked the man behind the wheel (who happened to be his cousin, because everyone here is related somehow) if he would take us down to the beach. “Of Course!” he said “hop on in.” Uh… ok!

That’s the kind of place I live in right now. A town where people still ride horses to the bars and tie them up outside while they’re in having their drinks. A town where when I stop hearing the turkey gobbling over at Miguel’s, I know to run over there quick to claim some of the white meat before it’s all gone. A town where the mounted forest guard comes to help me feed the horses on Thursday morning’s because he knows I’m going it by myself – without me having to ask.

This is how life should be.