The white-washed village looked like a ghost town. Or the set of a spaghetti western, perhaps. Any minute now tumbleweed would blow across the dusty square, followed by a gringo dressed in black, six-gun in hand, twitching for a fight.
A creaking door signalled the arrival of a lone figure. Our horses stopped instinctively, pricking up their ears. The thick wooden door opened and out of the darkness peered a little old lady, bedecked in floral tabard and slippers, her face softly creased like a walnut. "Fino? Cerveza?" It was only 11am but we'd finally found the bar.
Navahermosa is no different to a hundred other tiny hamlets that nestle in the rolling hills of Andalucia's Sierra de Aracena, Spain's most glorious national park. Except that as a tourist you're unlikely to stumble across such a charming village with its blue-and-white-tiled church spire. Or be welcomed to share a tapas of marinated broad beans and ice-cold fino with a huddle of local farmers. Unless, that is, you arrive on horseback. You get to see, do and taste a million and one things you'd never otherwise experience when you travel on four legs instead of four wheels.
Just as you'd want an open-top Cadillac to best appreciate the California coastline, the only way to ride in Spain is astride an andaluz. These high-stepping horses are bred to cope with everything from fiery fiestas to working cattle. Forward going and sure footed, their temperament is ideal for the rugged and varied terrain of the Sierra. But it's no good riding an andaluz if you can't whistle. Being among the best-schooled horses in the world, they can turn on a sixpence and respond instantly to a quick tap of the heels. Forget trotting. It's either rockinghorse canter or full throttle gallop. Which is why you need to know how to stop - hence learning to whistle like a leery builder.
It's as well to remember a few other essentials before embarking on a five-day stint in the saddle, during which you'll cover 126km of sweeping countryside, riding for up to six hours a day. First is the sheepskin cover, which goes across the vaquero saddle (smaller but similar to the classic American western-style) and acts as your shock absorber. Next comes the Ibuprofen gel (for aching muscles that even a sheepskin cover just can't dampen out). And don't forget the broad-brimmed hat to keep the sun off your face (but mostly to pose for pictures in).
My horse, Calcetin (Socks), a magnificent mahogany bay, appeared to roll his big brown eyes suspiciously as I explained my riding history to Hermione Tudor, leader of the seven-strong trekking party at her farm, Finca el Moro, in Huelva. I'd had my own horse until I was 17. Then came boys and exams, and somehow horses slipped off the agenda. I'd prepared for this trip, billed as being "ideal for fit but rusty" riders, with a series of hourly dressage lessons in north London's Elstree riding school.
Whether Cal' could sense my nerves or understand English, I'll never know, but somehow he had me down as a passenger looking for a smooth ride. No sooner had Hermione explained the traditional Spanish way of way of riding one handed - a technique clearly designed for rounding up cattle, but more useful these days for facilitating photography or a cold bottle of beer - than we were off. One hundred kilometres to the south lay the city of Seville; to the west, Portugal.
Hermione and husband Nick have spent the past 12 years uncovering secret mule runs, old drover paths and farm tracks known only to locals, and planning circular riding treks taking in the best of the undulating countryside. Bags are sent ahead to comfortable village inns along the route, leaving you unencumbered to enjoy the scenery.
And pretty spectacular scenery it is, too. The trek starts off in cork plantations and takes in ancient olive groves, chestnut woods and passes through oak forests, where basking black pigs are startled into sudden movement, squealing over stone walls as they flee strangers.
Pork is vital to the local economy in this overlooked nook of southern Europe, and these herds of famed Sierra Morena pigs spend the summer baking before gorging in the autumn on acorns beaten down from the oaks by their keepers. The acorns give the meat - cured in the dry mountain air and served in wafer thin slices - a distinctly sweet and nutty flavour. In this neck of the woods, every tapas bar has at least one huge leg of jamon serrano hanging from the ceiling. At Jabugo, the most famous ham-producing town in the region, the best joint is graded from one to five jotas - cinco jotas jamon carrying a very high price.
Pigs aside, the landscape is teeming with wildlife. No sign of the Spanish lynx rumoured to be slinking around its last native habitat, but eagles circle overhead in the thermals, while dazzling, golden winged bee eaters and hoopoes skim the ground for bugs. Mythical-looking goats with pointy horns wait patiently to be milked, while sheep dyed a deep terracotta from the clay-rich soil relentlessly graze the ground.
As we cantered on for miles, ducking over-hanging branches, white butterflies and dragonflies danced like spirits in our dusty wake. When we stopped to wait for a gate to be opened to take us up on to the rocky cliffs of a mountain gorge, the only sound was a frog chorus from the nearby stream interspersed with the chirping lullaby of a million unseen crickets. There are no cars, no sign of human hand for miles. Out here your thoughts come across as loud.
The days soon took on a comfortable routine. Clambering aboard our horses for a 10am start, dismounting for a fino or coffee at a one-horse town (expanded to a nine-horse town when our party arrived) at 11-ish, picnic lunch at 2pm. The picnics were one of the highlights of the day. While the horses were tied to trees, eating oats from hessian nosebags, we unpacked silver canteens full of homemade treats from our saddle bags. Golden tortilla, goat's-cheese tarts, thick wedges of dark chorizo sausage, plump tomatoes and roasted peppers in lemony oil, and a huge bottle of tinto de verano (summer wine). This local concoction of red wine mixed with lemonade is brilliantly refreshing after a hot morning in the saddle. Lying back on blankets, we listened to Hermione's stories such as the one about her stopping at a tiny bar for a drink, only to emerge 10 minutes later to find a parking ticket stuck to the rump of her horse.
There's nothing she doesn't know about the area, and will happily ride by your side, filling you in on little nuggets of history, pointing out places of interest or the names of flowers that grow in abundance. Unlike England, where every inch of land is managed and cultivated, here acres of farmland lie untouched by plough, allowing blankets of flowers to break through the fertile soil. Alliums, wild gladioli, irises, foxgloves and lavender wave in the breeze, while gigantic aloe vera spurt from stone walls like great green octopus. The hot air is heady with the scent of wild mint, honeysuckle and jasmine.
Life appears to have passed unchanged for centuries - if you overlook the TV sets showing bullfights in the corners of the bars, that is. When we rode into villages, we found women washing their smalls in the square's communal trough and old men sitting side-saddle on ancient-looking donkeys. It felt like a privileged glimpse into a secret, undisturbed world.
Come evening, when the horses were put to bed in local orchards, there was time to explore on foot. The 10th-century mosque and the poppy-strewn bull ring at Almonaster La Real, for instance; the baroque church at Alajar with views that stretch to the Portuguese border followed by a glass of acorn liquor and a plate of patatas bravas at Meson el Corcho, whose interior is almost entirely carved out of cork; the fabulous hand-made belts and saddles in the shops of Aracena, which is also home to the spectacular caves of Gruta de las Maravillas.
Riding deep into the heart of Spain is exhilarating and adventurous, sociable and stimulating. A dream of a holiday and more - a holiday that allows you to dream.
Way to go
Getting there: British Airways (0845 7733377) or Iberia (0845 601 2854, iberia.com) fly direct to Seville from £155pp. You can also fly to Madrid with easyJet (0870 6000000, easyjet.com) from £110, and take the highspeed train (spanishrail.co.uk) to Seville for £65 return.
Activities: Hermione and Nick Tudor, Finca el Moro, Fuenteheridos 21292, Huelva, Spain (tel: +959 501079, fincaelmoro.com, email: fincaelmoro@airtel.net). Six nights in the Sierras with five full days' riding and one night in Seville costs £735 (single supplement £60) includes all transfers, full board in the Sierras, room-only in Seville. Rides start on alternate Sundays February-June and September-November. Non-riding partners can join Nick Tudor's walking holidays, taking shorter routes on similar journeys, and meeting up with riders in the evenings. You do need to be a competent-to-good rider and will be asked to fill in a questionnaire before you arrive.
Further information: Spanish Tourist Office, 22-23 Manchester Square, London W1U 3PX (020-7486 8077, tourspain.co.uk).
Area code: 0034.
Flight time Heathrow-Seville: 2hrs 50mins.
Time difference: GMT +1hr.
£1 = 1.49 euros.
