The Mane Attraction - Travel Publication

I did a very European thing recently. I did away with the excitement and pseudo adventure of Venice's murky canals, the pickpockets of Buenos Aires and the rabid dogs of India. I did what many Europeans want to do and went to Australasia. That other part, Australia. To ride. Not to ride camels in Broome or the white sea horses of Seychelles, but the Arab horses of the Lorne Valley on the New South Wales coast.

Europeans and Americans come in their droves to ride these magnificent horses, with their highly held heads, dished faces, large intelligent eyes, snorting flared nostrils and swishy tails.

Horses that are ridden by the public on tours and treks are often either too fat or have corrugated sides, dull and non-commutative, apart from swiping chunks out of you when you're not on full alert. Seemingly concreted to the ground, they won't budge, and if by chance they do, it's one slow deliberate, resentful hoof after another. Dried mud clots intermingle with old sweat-saddle marks along with gnarly mouth and gnarly bridles. 

But these beauties from Lorne are forward-going Lamborghinis of the equine world, some with burnished copper glistering coats, others marbled and mottled cloud grey. No nasty bites, mean looks and wayward kicks here, just gentle nuzzles of their mossy muzzles and tickles of long lashes from gentle wistful eyes.

The week consisted of day-long horse rides through the Kerewong State Forest and beyond, up and over undulating, almost lime-green countryside and galloping along smooth beaches. 

The sun-bleached sand rolled on forever, with deep rumbling waves breaking into frothy suds and Charley, the glossy chestnut, who in  past life had been a dolphin, had a hypnotic urge to swim ocean wards. Feisty Charley and I bonded well.

The trekking company's modern lodge sits in horseshoe-shaped bottle-green hills, overlooking horse paddocks and stables with bouncing wallabies, warbling kookaburra's and primary coloured parakeets. 

There is accommodation for four or five, a roaring fire, shelves of books and enough wine for the palates of ecstatically weary riders. Nothing to look over shoulders for, no stomach upsets over suspect fodder, and no lumpy, buggy horse hair beds.   

For those wanting more privacy there is a tastefully furnished small abode which sits on a knoll, away from the main building, up quaint wooden steps, where sometimes tiny frogs make their way up the pipes into the toilet bowl. The main decision of the day, to flush or not to flush? 

When out on a day's ride, the owner, Kathy, a gracious and pragmatic string-bean Dutch girl with a champagne personality, rode with us relating rib-tickling tales.

Come lunch time, Rainer, her German partner, would arrive in his jeep, picnic on board, along with a fold-up table and chairs. He had typical farrier shoulders, broad and muscly, and he did a commendable job of laying the table cloth and setting the table.   

There we were, the four of us, sitting in the bush, chomping a scrumptious feast of pates, dips, chunky grainy breads, salmon and salads. Bliss. 

The horses, fed and watered, wandered untethered. 

At one stage, high on a plateau, the wind was whistling, and we had our coffee beak, Kathy peeled off her windbreaker and placed it over her horse's rump so as to protect it's kidneys. If that ain't love for your hoss, what is?

There is a prerequisite to ride to a reasonable standard. Most people who have learnt to ride as kids stat with a quiet plodding pony. Like many things in my life, I was the opposite. For my eighth birthday I was fortunate to be given a Shetland pony, a wide red ribbon wrapped around its ample girth. 

He was extremely cute, with minute hooves and a forelock that almost touched its nose, but things got worse from there on in. He had the unfortunate name of Dickie and, like a boat, it's not considered good luck to change names, so Dickie was Dickie by name and dicky by nature. 

Like a rodeo horse, Dickie's life goal was not to carry a human for too long. He would run alongside fences knowingly selecting barbed wire, rider on board, ripping fabric and leg. He had the mathematical ability to judge the height of my shoulders and the lowest branches of the densest tree, and he knew the difference between angry gorse and soft willow.

When I rode him down our long drive and out of sight of the house, he would sit down on his hindquarters as a dog and I was forced to slide off. On attempting to re-mount he would promptly sit again.

It was always a teary me who was doing the trotting home, dragging a delighted smiling pony besides me.

He had been bought from a farm where he lay by the kitchen's coal range with a couple of sheep dogs which is probably where he had learnt such habits. Within months he was sold. I do hope Dickie didn't end up in the food bins of those he was trying to imitate.  

After that, I owned wonderful ponies and horses, grateful for stress-free riding though that little Shetland being one of the craftiest set me up for riding with resilience. 

My favourite was Pharos, a proud, fast and beautiful Arab who was bought from a Dunedin stockyard. She was not named, so we called her after the lighthouse in Alexandria, Egypt, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. 

She had endured a harsh cruel background, her sides being riddled with scars along with a real fear of people, especially males. It took me a year to win her trust and I loved her dearly. So when my friend suggested we ride the Arabs of the Lorne how could I resist?

The 6 hour train ride from Sydney to Kendall, with it's plush comfortable seats, is something to savour. The Hawkesbury River roamed and meandered lazily around soft bends, we passed small enclaves of timber houses, scattered through the bush as if dropped from the skies by the handful, tumbling downwards to the water's edge.  

Kendall came almost too soon and after a 20 minute drive to Lorne we were in horse heaven. Those of you who have ridden a Shetland, go trot off to Sydney's hinterlands and ride its regal cousin. It'll be a breeze. 

Forgo the usual tourist traps, the department stores and boutiques, art galleries and the harbour bridge, the pollution of the city and the handbag clutching. Yawn. 

Ride to the wineries and the macadamia plantation, take in the jaw-dropping views from a horse's back and you'll be happy you're alive. You won't need to sleep for a week to get over your holiday. Thanks Charley.