Going Gaucho

Standing frozen with fear in the middle of a field, as men on horses charge towards me swinging mallets, I begin to wonder if participating in a polo match was the best way to reignite my equestrian career.

Until today, I hadn’t ridden a horse in 10 years. I’d given up riding at university, preferring late nights to early starts at horse shows. I tried getting on a friend’s thoroughbred three years ago, but got a severe case of vertigo putting my foot in the stirrup and fell off the other side. I’d had no desire to get back on since.

That is, until I read about Estancia Los Potreros. A working cattle ranch run by Kevin and Louisa Begg in the foothills of Córdoba, Argentina, it promised stylish accommodation and long, sun-soaked days of walking, trotting and cantering through the country’s most beautiful landscape. Lou’s confident assurance that even total beginners can canter on her impeccably trained horses made me feel even better. It would be the perfect way to get back in the saddle.

Of course, I never expected to be playing polo, a notoriously difficult equestrian sport. But Argentina is polo country and after a quick explanation of the rules (“there are hundreds of rules, I’m teaching you five”), Kevin had convinced me to have a go.

Now, as I hear my teammates booming my name, pointing excitedly in my horse’s direction, something unfortunate happens. The polo ball lands at our feet.

In sport, my usual tactic is to run away from the ball and subsequent tangle, but even I know that’s not going to work – I’m the only person with any chance of hitting it. Plus, Tractor is getting cross, twitching his ears and stamping his feet. He’s an expert polo pony, and I don’t want to ruin his reputation.

Grasping my wooden polo mallet the way Kevin taught us that morning, I prepare to go into battle. Polo was adopted by the British Army in India as a way to train cavalry officers in the art of horsemanship, and many of the nuances date back to that period. That is why I’m resting my polo mallet on my shoulder; in the old days this is where the officers would rest their sabre.

We find our seats – based on the placing of the silver napkin ring with one of the estancia’s horses’ name on it (mine is Margarita) – at the wooden dining table on the veranda. It’s a warm day, the silver cutlery gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. Kevin and Lou’s black Labrador snoozes by the kitchen door, their cat Boomerang curled up in a ball beside him. There’s a convivial atmosphere, and after raising a glass to welcome today’s new guests, everyone falls into an easy chatter, laughter floating out into the garden where the chef is roasting meat and a chestnut-coloured foal is chewing on the newly blooming flower patch.

Today I’m sitting beside Kevin. The estancia has been in his family for generations. Born in Argentina, he was educated and worked in England as a banker until a job gave him the chance to move back to South America. When the project was pulled, he decided to stay.

The Begg family history is sketched across the ranch. In the living room, framed sepia photos show Kevin’s grandfather at the estancia; he lived nearby and would spend weekends visiting his friends on the ranch.

Kevin’s grandfather is even on my placemat – a laminated black and white picture of a man wearing a monocle and a perfectly pressed suit, with friends and horses. Eventually, the Beggs bought the houses and land surrounding the property; today the estancia is made up of quite a few homes across 6,500 acres.

But it’s not just the Begg family who are invested here. They’ve had a steady run of chefs, for example, who come from the same Peruvian town.

“When the first woman left, she told us she had a friend back in Peru who could replace her,” says Kevin, refilling our glasses. “After that, there were always friends and relatives ready to pick up where the last chef had left off.”

It’s a similar story with the gauchos. The cattle manager spent his whole life on the property; now his son and grandson work there, too. “We also select our guides carefully,” says Kevin, referring to the horse-mad girls who work for months at a time, helping guests, cooking breakfasts, cleaning saddles and riding horses.

“We do phone interviews with them before they arrive, but if they don’t fit in once they’re here we have to tell them to go – it’s better for them, it’s better for the guests and it’s better for us. We’re inviting them into our home. The guests are like family and everyone else who works here needs to be, too.”

Yet it’s the fond smiles and brisk nods when the discussion turns to horses that show where Kevin’s great love really lies. Most of the estancia’s horses are bred on the property, others are selected by Kevin and Lou, for the horses, too are part of the family.

Lunch is finished; we move to the garden chairs where tea and coffee is served, exchanging tales of our horse’s brave tactics from the morning’s polo match.

“Lobuno, was great, he knew what to do before I did,” says Jakob, pouring himself a cup of lemon balm tea.

“Agapito is a legend,” adds Sam.

“He’s the best cattle horse on the ranch,” replies Kevin. “We don’t use him for polo, but if we did, he’d be one of the best at that as well.”

“What about Tractor?” I ask. “He didn’t want to move.”

I get the feeling we could sit here all afternoon exchanging tales about every one of Kevin and Lou’s 140 horses. But today our hosts have business to tend to, accounts to be settled. As the tea cups go dry, everyone drifts away; Jakob to the swimming pool, Sam to the living room with a book and I head to my room for a siesta. It’s been a long day and it’s not yet over. Afternoon tea will be served at 5pm, with the second ride of the day leaving not long after. 

My chaps are on, my helmet’s buckled, the horses are saddled and ready to go. For this afternoon’s outing, I’m riding a Peruvian Paso, a special breed of horse from Peru with five gaits instead of four. At first, I worry this means more, unexpected ways for me to fall off, but then Lou assures me the extra gait is a mix between a walk and a trot – not fast enough to cause any consternation.

On our horses, we obediently follow our gaucho, Jose Luis, down a cactus-lined path towards the far end of the property. Here the earth is cracked and the grass is dry, burnt from years of sun and little rain.

Sol’s kicking out his front feet, swinging his legs high, as if he’s splashing through a swimming pool. It’s so flashy I wish we weren’t at the back and had more people to admire us. I finally feel comfortable on a horse again; confident that I can stay on, even gallop across fields for hours if I want.

We cross a trickling stream, trot up a few hills and slide our way down rocky slopes. Hidden by trees and big rocks is the biggest surprise of the afternoon: a crystal clear natural pool in the middle of the foothills. While the guides put the horses in the shade, everyone else clambers down the rocks and jumps into the water. Squealing and shrieking in the ice-cold water, we scramble out, preferring to devour the picnic of sandwiches, lemonade and cookies laid out for us under the trees instead.

No one speaks much on the ride back home, the gossip of the early afternoon replaced by a tired, contented quiet as the day slowly descends into evening.

With that, he’s off and so are we, flying across fields, cantering past cattle, thundering towards the estancia, knowing an evening of homemade meals, good conversation and plenty of laughs await us.