Not a whip of straw in sight.

It was like nothing I had ever experienced before. Used to English yards, full of Thelwell ponies and passionate little girls, with the only males in sight being either the ponies or the resigned fathers of their riders, I was taken aback to find a yard which was run entirely by men. My first lesson was that, by and large, riding in Portugal is a male activity, it is professional and it is serious.

The yard contained some 30 horses, most of them pure or part-bred Lusitanos, most of them greys, and most of them stallions. Some of the horses belonged to Jorge and his then partner, Alberto Dias, while others were in livery or were youngsters being schooled for clients. The horses were stabled in loose boxes arranged around two sides of a square, with one door to each box overlooking the square and the other side opening in to the interior of the stable block. In between the two rows of boxes, on the third side of the square, was an indoor school with whitewashed walls, mirrors, beautiful Portuguese tiling depicting Classical Masters and a glassed in gallery at one end. There was not a wisp of straw in sight. It was impressive.

A view of the 'square' of the yard.

It was here that I had my first lesson. Jorge had several working pupils at the yard and I had been watching them schooling the young horses. I was feeling a little apprehensive but I had talked to Jorge about my level the previous day and had explained that in my view I was a 'false beginner'. 'OK, we'll see. If we find the wrong horse to begin with, don't worry. We can change'.

I never knew the name of my first horse. Our acquaintance didn't prove long enough for it to be necessary. He was a lovely bright chestnut, quite tall but finely built, and looked sympathetic. He was being ridden in a double bridle, which was new experience number one (for me at least; I can't answer for him) and I was asked to carry a whip (new experience number two). I was shown how to hold the reins, assured I would be fine, and then Jorge and the pupils stood back to watch. 'Just show me what you're used to doing so I can see your balance, your rhythm and so on'.

I don't think the Chestnut and I actually completed a circuit of the school.

Dezemfado.

. After several attempts on my part to uproot him from the spot we lurched forward, halted as I dropped at least three of the reins, lurched forward again and then moved in a crablike fashion towards the long side as I tried to urge the horse forward while at the same time trying to prevent the whip escaping from the palm of my hand. We continued in similar fashion for about five minutes or so while Jorge and the boys looked on, bug-eyed with disbelief. I could not understand why this horse did not seem to respond to any of the aids I was applying. Was it because he was Portuguese? Did he really speak a different language? Finally, having realised that I didn't in fact have any balance or rhythm, Jorge rescued me. 'Thank you , Christine. That was fine. Now I have seen your way of going we can decide. I think we'll use a different horse for you. That one is a little bit too young, he doesn't have enough balance for you (!!), we'll try one who is more mature'.

Enter Dezemfado. He was not a very big horse, only about 15 hands, but he was absolutely perfect. His coat was dun but darkly dappled on the quarters, his back was soft and round, and he was a schoolmaster. In a class with an advanced rider I once saw him perform shoulder-in, half-pass, travers, renvers, piaffe and passage, with such ease and grace that it made the hairs lift on the back of your neck. I, however, was not at that point. We started the lesson again. After the horses I had been used to riding in England the difference was probably something akin to the difference between driving a family saloon and driving a Jaguar XJS. If I asked him to go forward he was halfway down the long side while I, mentally at least, was still at F; if I asked him to halt I had to lever myself back into the saddle from the position I'd taken up somewhere around his ears; we weaved our way up the three-quarter lines like a drunk in a police station on a Saturday night. I wish I could tell you that by the end of the week I was performing canter pirouettes with abandon, but no. I was still very nervous, and Dezemfado picked up every worried heartbeat. He spooked once, he spooked twice, by the third lesson (with Alberto on this occasion) he was spooking every ten minutes or so. Alberto called a halt. 'The horse is just playing with you, Christine'. I knew what he wanted to say and it had more to do with acts of a lavatorial nature than playing, but either Alberto was a diplomat or his English wasn't up to the challenge.

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