Village bread oven

Village art lesson

As usual, we started our trip with a visit to the Hippodrome to see the Sunday races. It augured well that the owner of the first race winner was also owner of the stud farm where we were to ride later. And then we were delighted to see the daughter of one of the mares we rode on previous visits running in a later race, even if she was not a winner. We were joined by her owner, who provided the mounts for our first rides in the mountains, together with Anton, who had led these trips. It is one of the joys of this country to be able to meet up with these friends in later years.

Race winner

This time our riding was in two sections. The next day we set off for Katya’s stables, where Melechep, the golden stallion Justin Tait used to ride when he was at the British Embassy in Ashgabat, still resides. As there were threatening clouds, we were advised to stay overnight at the farm rather than camp by the river where we had first ridden in 2001.

New Turkmen carpets!

After making friends with kittens, foals, a cow and calf, and even a donkey, we rode out of the yard straight up into the hills: the landscape was still quite green, it seems that in these days of global warming early May can be quite wet in this part of the world! We were mounted on unshod, surefooted mares, with one of the guides on a stallion. The guides, used to taking out expat weekenders, were more than pleased to lead us in many canters up the hills, which we then slithered down, indeed one descent seemed almost vertical. From time to time we came upon a plateau where we let the horses have their heads. Their hooves unlocked the scents of spring flowers and herbs.

My horse "Music"

The second day took us in a different direction: we had missed the best of the spring flowers but the smells of wild herbs were again divine. Apart from one village and the occasional flock of sheep and cattle these mountains are very empty. Stark rock formations have a strange beauty, with slopes of scrub and scree, streams or rivers being few and far between. From one viewpoint we could look down on Geok Tepe and its lake, near to our next destination.

Desert stop

Despite having a picnic on the edge of an escarpment, with a fierce sheepdog below daring us to approach his sheep, we were given a huge lunch on our return to the farm, where we said our farewells. We returned to Ashgabat via a new mosque, with the President’s family mausoleum beside it. It is a huge, dignified building, built by a French contractor, but with materials from many countries: white marble from Italy, doors of gold and marquetry from Syria, light fittings from Britain. In the centre was an eight pointed star shaped carpet, made in the factory of the owner of the horses we were about to ride. This was surrounded by seven doors, with an archway, the entrance to heaven, at the eighth point. Quotations from the Koran and the Rukhnama encircled the cupola above. The building, which is beautifully light, holds twenty thousand, but we had the mosque to ourselves that afternoon.

Desert picnic

The next day, after a night disturbed by a tremendous thunderstorm, we headed west from Ashgabat for the second part of our ride, near the town of Geok Depe. While lunch was being prepared we were shown round the owner’s carpet factory. The women worked on traditional looms on the floor, but the designs (any designs we liked!) were produced with the help of modern technology. We saw a woven picture of Van Gogh’s ‘Sunflowers’ surrounded by a traditional Turkmen border!

Carpet weaving

After yet another enormous lunch under a bamboo awning, we were joined by a beautiful Tazi, a Turkmen hunting dog, rather similar to a Saluki. She had been found abandoned in the desert, surprising as they are rare and highly prized. They hunt their prey with falcons. Then we were shown the owner’s pride and joy, his horses. First the mares and foals, and the youngsters, all very friendly and inquisitive: afterwards the grooms proudly brought out the racing stallions, which were leaping and showing off as only Akhal Teke’s can. We saw Sunday’s race winner, holding his head particularly high. Another ride returned, mostly Swiss and Germans, riding golden, cremello and dun stallions.

Camel milking

Then we changed and prepared for a late afternoon ride. Our horses were dark stallions, Bridget’s a lively bay she had ridden before, our guide on a black, and Debo on another black, a rangy three year old, tall for an Akhal Teke. These were all racetrack horses: Trevor and I were mounted on dark bay marathon horses, mine was called Mukhan, Turkmen for music. Mukhan had a most uncomfortable trot, but with little urging would break into the most comfortable flowing canter I have ever ridden.

Camel milk stop

The desert was a great contrast to the mountains, though far from being all sand. We were glad not be going far as we could see thunderclouds and lightning all around us, until the inevitable happened and the heavens opened. Big hailstones cracking on our hats startled the horses, but they soon knuckled down into a very long canter all the way home, so we all ended up soaked to the skin. In view of the weather we stayed indoors in recently constructed hotel rooms instead of the yurts where we had had lunch. After a delicious supper of fish caught in the local lake, washed down with plenty of vodka, we had a good night’s sleep and rose early the following day.

AT young stock

We set out on the horses under clouds, but the temperature is perfect with a pleasant breeze. We follow a reed banked river for a while, to the accompaniment of croaking frogs and the rather incongruous sound of a cuckoo! We see a number of larks and hawks. My little horse has muscles of steel, shiny and sleek: the lightest touch of my legs brings instant acceleration. We ride on sandy tracks: a lorry passes with a camel in the back. After three hours we meet up with our lumbering Russian lorry: an awning stretches from it under which we lunch on lamb stew and salad. Time for the horses to eat and us to sleep. Then we are off into the wilds of the desert. It is far from flat, and we enjoy long, long canters, twisting and turning round bushes and switchbacking over the dunes, better than any fairground ride. We stop for a drink of camel milk with some shepherds, then gallop over three sun baked flat pans, with sandy hillocks between them. Our host comes to meet us to make sure all is well.

AT mare and foals

We arrive at the outskirts of a village where we set up camp by a school building. After unsaddling the horses we lead them out of their compound for a blissful roll in the sand — sadly the three year old could not understand what he was expected to do, and just watched with a puzzled expression on his face! The campsite, on a hill, affords a good view of the village, and we walk down to see the camels in the centre. We meet a family that Bridget had met on previous trips: we are taken to see their camels being milked, then we are offered camel cheese

Artists model, Hippodrome

and given camel hair bracelets — for luck. We bring gifts of sketch pads, crayons and stickers, and artist Bridget holds an impromptu art class. Then we visit the next village, where we are plied with camel milk, and we make small purchases of slippers and purses. On the return journey our lorry shepherds a herd of camels it could not overtake — a splendid sight silhouetted against the setting sun.

Trevor

We sleep outside on felts — in the early hours of the morning we realise the significance of the nearby school building as we are woken by huge lightning flashes, and we hurry inside with our sleeping bags before the rain starts pelting down. But it is dry by morning: we make an early start and several long canters and thirty seven kilometres later we are back at the farm before midday, despite having a tea stop. The horses are unsaddled — Mukhan’s back is clean and smooth, without a single white

Debo near Sekizyab

hair, and his legs are clean as a whistle. We finish our stay with cognacs and lunch — the owner’s wife appears with many dishes, mutton soup, plov, bread and salads. Its like a wedding feast, says our host, and we do not disagree.

The remainder of holiday is spent at exhibitions and concerts, visiting friends from previous trips. Bridget holds an art class for children at the hippodrome, with the daughter of one of our original horses as a model. We finish with a trip to the new hippodrome. It is set in the hills outside Ashgabat. We start our tour in the main grandstand, spacious and light, with the rooms behind furnished with chandeliers, paintings and huge carpets. We look through glass onto the

Bridget and Debo

racecourse, where a few horses are being exercised, and the grass is being watered. We drive across to the horse barns, where the President’s horses, including Yanardag and Pyada, in splendid condition, live in spacious opulence. There are horse walkers, veterinary blocks, everything a horse might need, but the whole place is spectacularly empty. As usual, Turkmenistan does not cease to amaze.