Bartolin snorts, his impressive platinum fringe rippling in the morning breeze. As he paws the dusty earth with a hoof the size of a kettlebell, a jolt of nervousness runs through me. I’ll just say it: I’ve never really liked horses. There’s something brittle, so easily spooked about these glossy giants that I find unsettling. Perhaps it’s the amount of horse-mad girls I grew up with who had prominent scars from being kicked, or had suffered spells of unconsciousness after being thrown by their equine “best friend”.
“He is so gentle,” soothes Paloma, the 23-year-old equestrian centre staffer in chestnut jodhpurs — the same colour as her plaited hair, and Bartolin’s monogrammed saddle. Hoisting my wobbly legs into the stirrups, I pat Bart’s creamy white, grey-speckled shoulder and feel his soft mane. Within minutes, Paloma teaches me how to nudge him to walk, steer him left or right, and stop. Far from my nightmare scenario of cantering off into the Andalusian hills, my new friend seems so chilled as to be horizontal. I soon see that he’s far more likely to grind to a stubborn halt than to dash off, especially if he finds a nice patch of shade.
