Classy horses, feudal landlords and a Robin Hood wannabe

“In Spain we have well-behaved horses and badly-behaved children,” he said, glancing over his shoulder and smiling. My mind flitted back to the snotty-nosed ten-year-old I had had the misfortune to encounter on the metro the week before. Shouting “hija de puta” (“son of a bitch”) at the top of her voice, an entire carriageful of commuters had recoiled into their seats from her screams. As if to illustrate his point further, he popped his horse into a short, bouncy canter, travelling no more than 5m before halting abruptly and executing a neat pirouette to unlock the gate. His horse, a wispy black mare wearing an elaborately knotted coloured cloth on her forehead (the traditional answer to fly repellant spray), was obediently attentive to his every move. Delicately playing with the bit in her mouth, the long, metal shanks on either side clinking gently as she did so, she spun easily on her haunches as he swung open the gate and held it open for me to pass.

He was immaculately turned out, wearing a sharp, broad-brimmed hat and an elegant brown suit. Cut in the traditional style, the jacket was short-bodied and the trousers high-waisted, belted with a coloured scarf that had been fastened around his middle like a cumberbund. On his boots, recently shined and resting in large, bucket-style stirrups, he sported some fearsome looking metal spurs that bent unforgivingly towards his horses flanks. Sat easily in the deep curves of a Western saddle padded with thick sheepskins, he held the reins casually in one hand, the other hanging loosely at his side. In short, a picture of Spanish equitation. A sorry comparison, I was wearing stone-washed jeans and an unglamourously oversized Adidas waterproof: notably scruffy.

I had long since given up the hope of finding any affordable riding options in Spain, and as such could hardly believe my luck when I found myself astride a classy, Hanoverian gelding in the midst of the Sierra last Friday. The result of a curious series of chance encounters, I have now enjoyed three such horseback excursions. It began a few weeks ago when, somewhat optimistically, I gave my number to a man-on-a-horse in the hope of securing a stable-based summer job. To my surprise, a few days, later one of his acquaintances rang to invite me on a four hour trip through the outlying valleys of Madrid - an unforgettable outing that led to two further trips (and a long afternoon spent writing about it).

Though at first glance, the horses seem rather skinny and shrunken compared to the fleshy specimens I´m used to in England, there can be no doubt that the Spanish breed and raise a special class of horses. Versatile and suprisingly hardy, they climbed up steep, rocky inclines and slid down sharp drops laced with tree roots without once stumbling, crossed rivers and jumped ditches without batting an eyelid and slalomed through pine tree forests at a measured in-hand canter just as easily as they lengthened their stride to a ground-covering gallop in the clearings. As fresh and spirited after four hours as they were at the start, I felt like I was sitting on a very narrow, explosively energetic goldmine. I found myself alongside this exemplar of Spanish equitation when, following a horsebox malfunction, we had to abandon the planned mountain excursion and reroute to a closer location. It was only on being informed that the well-dressed horseman beside me was the owner of the estate on which we were riding that I realised that I was rubbing shoulders with the aristocracy - the Marquess  Patoso del Arco to be precise (otherwise known as Jaime).

When, after initial introductions, he justified his extravagant garb by explaining that he had been hunting wild pigs the day before and didn´t want to dirty two suits, I assumed he was joking. However, it soon became apparent that, bizarre as it seemed, Jaime was speaking in all seriousness. As we rode, he indicated the borders of his territory with casual sweeps of his arm that seemed to cover entire swathes of the mountainside (just one estate of many scattered throughout Spain of course) and regaled me with fantastical tales of his ancesters adventures in England in the 1500s. Occasionally he would draw to a sharp halt and swoop down easily from his saddle to snatch a handful of grasses and offer me a generous bunch of sweet-smelling lavendar or thyme. Needless to say, it was a surreal experience cantering behind such a character through his meadows of long grass flecked with white, purple and yellow flowers.

One such meadow was home to numerous horses running free across the valley - the yearlings he had bred last spring. Like a scene out of Black Beauty, we were rapidly surrounded by the young, inquisitive noses and excited snorts of three of four youngsters, all shooed away by Jaime with a firm “yah” and unconcerned flick of his stick when they came too close. In the valley beyond we passed the outer shell of a grand stable block pendant in mid-construction. Large enough to house 20 horses and equipped with two arenas, it was suitably stylish, decked with a fitting plaque that read: “Por Necessidad Batallo, Y Cuando Puesto en mi Silla, Voy Ensanchando mis Castillas, Encima de un Caballo" (For necessity I battle, and Once in my Throne, I will Widen my Castles on Horseback).

I have to say, I felt as if I had been teleported back to the fifteenth century. Jaime was the model of decorum and propriety, holding open gates (when on horseback) and doors (when on foot), helping me to put my jacket on and insisting on addressing me in English when possible. In exchange, I had to make a concerted effort to use the polite “you” form when speaking to him – an unexpected test for my spanish. Predictably he was also ultra-conservative, and more than once the conversation veered onto passionate rants about council restrictions and the interference of conservationalists on his land. Combined with a few toe-curling moments of political incorrectness, I spent a large part of the day biting my tongue or feigning incomprehension.

Naive as it sounds, I didn´t realise that such families still existed - the whole thing had a slightly feudal feel to it. In fact, I frequently found myself imagining Jaime to be the infamous Sheriff of Nottingham, insatiably greedy, ruthlessly squeezing every last penny from the commoners in the village and on occasions when I found myself cantering more or less on my own, it was all too easy to picture myself as the female equivalent of Robin Hood galloping through the territory of the enemy. All I needed was a bow and arrow... and perhaps a catapult.
 

Spinning it out...

It´s now June and it is apparent that the Spanish revolution that exploded on the 15th May (dubbed 15-M) has no inclination of pettering out gradually. On the contrary, the protesters´ camp in Puerta del Sol is showing all the signs of permanence and longevity: the motley conglomeration of tents has been slowly multiplying, an efficient rubbish collection system and street cleaning rotation has developed and the temporary rest zones have become increasingly well-furnished. Weaving through the paraphernalia that constitutes a resident makeshift village is now a daily normality.

One can´t help but admire its staying power. Two weeks on from the initial outburst and Sol still becomes a congested hotspot every evening, each night built around a structured program of talks. At different hours, various speakers are encircled by a mass of spaniards. Some sitting on the concrete listening avidly, others watching avidly from scaffolding erected on the roadside, they all periodically they raise their arms in the air, waving their fingers in a spirit-fingered-style salute or jingling a bunch of keys to show their appreciation or agreement (an unobtrusive tactic employed, somewhat ironically, to minimise disturbances and noise pollution).

However, though it is undoubtedly refreshing to see a society shaken out of indifference and roused to indignant action, I can´t help but think that the impact of 15-M, two weeks on, is starting to fade. Though developed as intentionally broad and non-political - an all-encompassing protest against a worn-out system - for being so directionless it seems to be losing its way. In fact, as far as I can tell, it has become a forum for anything remotely alternative. The signs bemoaning unemployment and political corruption are now interspersed with an array or irrelevancies – accusing exclamations unveiling the 11th Sept conspiracy, optimistic calls to repeal the anti-tobacco laws and, of course, the standard slaughter house horror stories from animal rights activists. Surely it would have packed more punch if it had been cleared up before it spiralled into a vague hippie protest about everything. Surely using the momentum of the initial demonstration to take steps towards achievable changes would have been much more constructive.

On reflection, spinning things out beyond a reasonable timeframe seems to be something of a Spanish characteristic. The prolonged parties of my housemates, for example, seem to follow an extended timetable that is beyond all reason: their return home at around 10am after an all-night party has become a common-place event about twice a week. Most recently, they have inaugurated “Sunday, the day of Fiesta”: a file of hard-core party-goers storm into the flat and Sunday morning is assaulted by repeats of Shakira and Rihanna played at full volume. Showing incredible staying power, the party often continues until gone midnight that night. In comparison, on the occasions when I roll home after sunrise, I usually just manage a slice of pizza and a pint of water before crashing out - Sunday lost to sporadic snoozes and general inactivity.

Their party-stamina is a physical feat that I could never hope to achieve – not that it is an ambition I particularly aspire to. Indeed, I imagine that the perpetual party is fairly reliant on a dirty white powder. Even so, what is perhaps most surprising about “The day of the Fiesta” is that, dubious choice of music aside, it seems a fairly civilised affair. No-one seems particularly drunk, rowdy or out-of-hand. Consisting largely of babbling chatter, music videos and periodic trips to the shops to stock up on cigarettes and drinks, it´s a far cry from the war zone that appears outside English chippies at 3am on a Saturday night.

I suppose that using my housemates´ party endurance (undeniably extreme in every sense of the word) to make sweeping generalisations about the Spanish as a nation is a slightly flawed technique. Similarly, considering the longevity of 15-M (an angry outburst triggered by an acute economic crisis) as a reflection of the Spanish character can hardly be described as accurate. Even so, I can´t imagine many English people losing more or less three days in a sleepless party-continuum. Neither can I imagine a makeshift revolutionary camp becoming an indefinite resident in Trafalgar Square.

Then again, given that I´m from Surrey and that most of my friends now live in Clapham, perhaps it is simply that I don´t move in the equivalent circles in England.