We set out to meet the horses at the first campsite near Bakharden, west of Ashgabat. Imagine our delight when we set eyes on the mares we rode last year, plus two foals! The black stallion which accompanied us then had been busy. The next morning we saddled up (with more comfortable saddles purchased from Iran through Louise) and set off up a river gorge. We were not to venture far that day. An hour on we arrived at a checkpoint manned by young soldiers. Our Russian horseman and guide, Anton, had explored a route for us through land that had long been closed to foreigners, running parallel to the Iranian border. The travel firm had moved heaven and earth to get the required permits — alas the young soldiers were not convinced! We talked, waited, officers came and went, we could not proceed. Realising we would not make our camp that evening, we turned round and headed for the nearest signs of habitation.

Without seeming to bat an eyelid, the owner of the small farm that we, eight humans, ten horses and four foals, descended upon, welcomed us with open arms. The horses were put in a compound, the humans were fed and bedded down on carpets under the stars in front of the little mud and straw house. The next morning we had to wait for our travel agent to arrive and sort the situation out — we were not sure who was entertained more, us looking at remains of buildings ruined by Ghengis Khan, helping with the onion harvest, playing cats cradle with the children, and watching carpet weaving, or the family and their friends and relatives, intrigued by these strange westerners. Such unplanned events often turn out to be high points of visits to these faraway places. After lunch and many toasts in vodka, we tried again. This time the guards were all smiles as we ventured into the unknown.

As we followed the river further, we could see the results of the earlier floods. For hours we descended steep gorges, waded through the fast flowing water, scrambled up the far banks, crossing and recrossing the rerouted river many times. We saw huge boulders that had been dislodged, trees that had been uprooted; and our unshod horses patiently carried us over all this devastation. Dusk fell as we left the river. It was late at night when we fell into our camp, having ridden the last few kilometres in magical moonlight. When we finally woke the next morning we found ourselves under walnut trees, with nightingales singing, little waterfalls to wash in, and a delightful Turkmen sitting cross legged, in his pin striped suit, on a dun stallion, to guide us for the next few days!

In contrast to the stark dry mountains we rode in last year, most of this ride was in lush greenery. We lunched in a gently rolling grassy valley, sitting comfortably on springy turf. We trotted and cantered over hillsides dotted with juniper trees. We shared campsites with cattle , sheep and goats, the only passing traffic being men and boys on horses and donkeys. One day we arrived at a turquoise blue lake. After Anton’s stallion had sat down in it, we humans took up the idea and went for a blissfully cool swim.

Now we rode into paradise. First a handful of scarlet poppies were scattered around us, the numbers increased as we rode. We stopped for a breather amongst the poppies, having time to discover daisies, cornflowers, wild gladioli, gentians and many other species. Then the poppies were replaced by hillsides of yellow, of pink, of white, we rode over this ungrazed and uncultivated land for hours. Finally we descended a gentle slope of blue forgetmenots, larks singing overhead, our guide Mehmet singing at the front of our little caravan, as if for eternity. Surely this must be Trapalanda, horse heaven. We were rudely awakened from our reveries by a steep drop into a river gorge, a descent which our sure footed horses took us safely down. Then we followed the river Sumbar to our camp which had been set up near a high waterfall. Who needs shower facilities in places like this?!

The waterfall was a popular picnic spot for Turkmen — we spent a delightful rest day while children brought us flowers, adults invited us for meals, we took photographs, Bridget painted and even gave painting lessons! We rode for another day on a high grassy ridge, then descended to drier land and camped between a mosque and a graveyard, again sharing the spring water supply with a huge flock of goats. As we headed further west our lush greenery gave way to strange moon-like hills of green rock and flat scrubland. We bade the horses farewell and drove over this flat land along the border fence to Kyzil Etrek, where we were to cross into Iran.

After much waiting and many checks that are a feature of these border crossings, we were delighted to meet up with Kheder, Louise’s right hand man, who drove us to Garah Tappeh Sheikh. This was to be an adventure for Louise as well, we were to ride east to Jargalan, close to the Turkmenistan border. Louise had driven there many times, but never made the journey on horseback. We spent that evening meeting the horses, tethered stallions, mares and foals, and an assortment of Turkoman horses that Louise is buying locally both for her treks and to save them from the meat trade or being sold to Tehran.

I was lucky enough to ride Jamal for the third year running, Louise had ‘reserved’ for me. She is dark brown, about 16hh, pure Turkoman with Akhal Teke blood — her father’s father was an Akhal Teke from Moscow. We made an early start on the first day so that we rode over the hot dusty wheat plains before the full heat of midday. Then we began climbing to a ridge, having to find a different track as the one I had ridden up previously had been washed away by the rains in early May. We camped in a cool forest with excellent washing facilities: springs, streams, pools and waterfalls!

On this side of the border every possible piece of land is cultivated. Wheat and cumin were much in evidence. The tops of spurs were flattened to make planting possible, making the landscape appear to have been carved by a giant chisel. We would skirt fields with sheer drops to one side — wild flowers were much in evidence, but along the tracks rather than over whole hillsides. The second campsite had a stream flowing through the valley and a wooded hillside as a backdrop.

Our planned guide on horseback failed to make an appearance, but two wheels took the place of four legs as a guide appeared on a motorbike. After a couple of days riding along ridges with spectacular views of the hills on either side, we found ourselves looking down at the wide Etrek valley. This river flows on to become part of the border between Turkmenistan and Iran. As we descended the land became drier and dustier, and we crossed the river near a bridge, giving the horses a long, welcome drink.

We camped on the far side of the next village. We had several invitations to stay in the village — one from a man who said he did not often get the chance to meet foreigners, another from the head man who was concerned that we females should not be subjected to such conditions! — or, as Louise suspected, they were worried about our female honour!

On leaving camp, we were climbing again. We were back in a green land, even some woodland, a land, as we christened it, of troglodytes. Every so often we would come across what looked like mud huts by the fields, although they were in fact substantially built of wood and then covered with mud. These were summer quarters for villagers to stay in while they gathered their harvests. We were to camp by a couple of abandoned ones, and as we found when we used one as a dining room they were very warm in the cool evening. One of our party made friends with the inhabitant of one, a 62 year old woman who was desperate to have a photograph. Louise said that as the post rarely made it even to her this could be impossible. However, we had an artist in our midst, and in no time at all the woman was the proud possessor of one of Bridget’s watercolours!

Now we left the temperate lands, and as we approached Jargalan the tracks were hard and dry. At one point to the north we could see a mountain only a few kilometres away, close to where we had last camped in Turkmenistan. If only there were no borders….! Many of the mud covered houses in the villages had attractive wooden verandahs. At one it was carpet cleaning day — the women were all out shaking their carpets. By another a felt covered racing stallion was tethered. The people of Jargalan are mostly Tekke Turkmen, still retaining many of their ancient customs.

We made our way for many kilometres along a near dry river bed, the horses enjoying gallops despite having been on the move for many hours. The bright turquoise of beeeaters flashed past. After a week’s riding we arrived at Yekke Sud, the village where Louise’s colleague, Dr Ghiadi, lives. This amazing man is devoting his life to this area forgotten by the government. A Turkoman himself, he moved there about eight years ago. He is a medical doctor, and has set up a clinic for the local people.. He kindly invited us to lunch, and after we had all had welcome showers, we tucked into a feast cooked by his wife and family. As we ate, he would frequently be called to the clinic to attend to patients. Over the past few years he has managed to bring roads and electricity to this impoverished area. But there is still much to be done, mainly in the area of the people being able to earn a living. Now he is trying to set up cooperatives to make it possible for the people to sell their carpets and textiles, at the same time as trying to get governments to ease border and export restrictions. He wishes to encourage tourism — horses are still bred here (Louise says they do better here than in her own area, although nobody knows why) and used for racing, transport and farm work. Traditional races for occasions like weddings and circumcisions are still held, and the Doctor feels these could attract tourists.

Then he took us to see his own breeding stock, including a fine stallion bred by Louise. Mares, young stock and stallions were in superb condition. The Tekke people here may breed Tekke horses, but not the Akhal Tekes as in the closed stud book. Other strains are also used, most of Dr Ghiadi’s mares were Yomuds. We visited other villages to see carpets, textiles and traditional clothes, of course making some purchases. This was the end of our Iranian trip. The horses were trucked back home, we returned to Ashgabat to fly back home.

I can hardly envisage a year now without a trip to Central Asia. Sadly, this year, no tourist visas for Turkmenistan were being issued because of the outbreak of SARS. I had hoped to join the artist, Bridget Tempest - who was already out there showing art students in Ashgabat how to use the lithography press she had sent out — to ride with her for a week or so, but this was not to be. This time I flew to Iran, and Bridget joined the rest of us for a few days, with Justin Tait from the British Embassy in Ashgabat, a keen horseman, who had come on last year’s ride.

I was pleasantly surprised at our treatment at Tehran airport — on my first visit in 1999 everyone’s luggage was thoroughly searched, and my pockets were turned out by stern veiled women. This time there was no such hassle: we were able to walk straight out with no hold ups, and were met by the charming Maziar, a young colleague of Louise, who rides some of Louise’s young horses in Tehran as well as his own show jumpers. He was to drive us to Louise’s farm, a journey of some eight hours, and accompany us on the ride. We were pleased to find he spoke excellent English!

As we approached the Caspian Sea, and then turned east onto the Gorgan Plain, I could not fail to notice that the landscape was still very green. In former years this has been harvest time (the end of May), but not this year. There had been almost continuous rain for the first five months of the year, something unheard of in years gone by, and indeed it had been raining heavily the day before our arrival.

We were greeted on our arrival at GTS (Garah Tapeh Sheikh, Louise’s village) by the blissful sight of mares and foals, and hens with chicks of various ages. Louise welcomed us with open arms, then set about preparing a supper of sturgeon kebabs and homegrown peas and salad — another result of the recent rains. Bridget and Justin drove over from Ashgabat, and we were to do some local riding as they were only with us for a couple of days.

Our first ride was along Alexander’s Wall (probably later than the time of Alexander the Great — it stretched from the Caspian Sea possibly as far as Afghanistan, but is now no more than a bank) to Garah Tapeh, the Black Hill from which the village takes its name. We rode over plains and wheat, and dropped down steep hills into river valleys. The ‘hill’ is a man made mound, many centuries old, built up to be easily defended from marauding hordes. Its steep sides are criss crossed with the tracks of sheep and goats. There are not even any ruins remaining from the many communities which have lived there over the ages, but we rode over many shards of pottery, there were jug handles and bricks appearing in the earth on the hill sides. It would make an archaeologist’s paradise.

My mount for this day was a small grey Turkoman mare called Omid, fast, tireless and a pacer. These Turkoman horses still have to be all-purpose, used for transport, agriculture, and, on occasions, racing. Indeed, a race meeting was in the offing. Pashei, a village an hour’s ride away, had a flat piece of grassland beside it deemed suitable for a gallop, so the next day we rode over to check it out. Now I was mounted on my old friend Jamal, who is the mother of a race winner. Our horses needed no urging to test the track! Afterwards we visited the nearby village of Sufyan where they manufacture horse rugs — Bridget wanted one for her horse back home in England. After the purchase had been made we were ushered to what looked like a large garage. The doors opened to reveal a huge mound covered in cardboard. The villagers lifted the card to reveal a mass of fat white silkworms, busily chewing on mulberry leaves. We had noticed that every mulberry tree was bereft of leaves — the locals gather them to feed the worms till they turn into cocoons and are sold on to be spun into silk. Then on to the town of Gonbad and Louise’s local tack shop. I could not resist purchasing a Turkoman saddle — a pity it does not fit the Shire horses I am currently riding! While tucking into sturgeon kebabs, a gentleman asked if we would like to see his mares and foals. We were expecting to drive out of town, but he took us a couple of streets away, where indeed were two mares with their foals in his garden!

When we returned to GTS, we had visitors. Several Turkomen with their horses, some with saddles like the one I had just purchased. These were some of the race entrants. Word had got round fast. One mare had a foal at foot, and there was much talk of who would race who. They were all back early the next morning, to join our jockeys for the ride to Pashei. Two of Louise’s grooms plus Bridget, Justin and some of the villagers from GTS made up an excited procession to the racetrack. The rest of us piled into jeeps and waited at the village for them to arrive. A few local horses were already there, and the whole village was ready to watch. Dozens of small boys were showing off on their donkeys, and young men whizzed around on motor bikes, clearing sheep from the race area! A young woman escorted a turkey and her brood out of harm’s way!

There was a hiatus while the heats were decided. Only two horses raced at a time, and care had to be taken that they were as evenly matched as possible. All the losers complained they should have been paired with a different horse! Finally the jockeys made their way to the far side of the plain. The village nestled at the base of hills which had been carved out long ago by the river, with the plain extending to hills on the far side of the valley.

The first race took us unawares. We could barely see the start of the race, and were rudely awoken by the first pair of horses thundering past. The finish was marked by two tall sticks pushed into the ground, but, racing into the sun, the riders failed to see them as the crowd frantically tried to direct them. The course was straight, a true point to point, and the riders, especially Bridget and Justin, revelled in giving the horses their heads and flying flat out. These horses, including Louise’s, were not the tall and elegant Akhal Tekes of Ashgabat, but small and wiry, tough jacks of all trades, and with an incredible turn of speed. Bridget and Justin had their own race — Bridget’s horse won with an amazing burst of speed as they neared the finish. All too soon the horse races were over: incredibly there is no betting, the honour and glory of winning is incentive enough to set up a race meeting.

After the horses came the donkeys — one or two ran straight to the finish, but as the animals were a mixture of stallions and mares, at least one of which was in season, the race soon descended into chaos. The young men on motor bikes raced, as did the children on foot. A crowd was gathering — we were ushered to the front of the circle by the villagers, and the wrestling began. Two men tied pieces of cloth round their waists and twisted their wrists through that on their opponent. They then pushed and shoved each other, with much shouting from the crowd and the stick wielding referee, till one was pushed to the ground.

All too soon the festivities were over, before the heat of the day, and we all dispersed back to our respective villages, to sit with cooling tea, nibbling at succulent water melon. Then we were off to Gonbad once more for the real races — sitting in a concrete grandstand waiting for ages while the crowd placed their bets by computer. Thank goodness the course director spotted Louise and invited us in to his office for tea and cakes! The dusty racecourse was in the full glare of the sun, and the jockeys had to walk across the course to the starting stalls while their mounts were led round to them! The race was over in a flash — not nearly as exciting as our village meeting. We retired to an ice cream parlour for cooling refreshments.

The next day Bridget and Justin return to Turkmenistan, and the rest of us set off with Louise, Maziar and her groom for a few days riding by the edges of the forests of the Golestan National Park. Our camps are varied, by a Scythian burial mound, under the trees, by turbulent streams, on hills with spectacular views. We see a robbed burial chamber, find fossil ammonites and our horses are chased by a shepherd’s colt! There has been so much rain during the preceding months that the wild flowers are again spectacular, carpets of poppies and multicoloured hillsides.

All too soon we are back at the farm. We washed down he horses for the last time, cooled off with enormous slices of water melon, and I tried out my saddle on a willing mount round the farm. I was shown how to tie the girth, or chaki, over the saddle, and a second one over a sheepskin.

A combine harvester had moved in on the surrounding fields. As the corn was poured into the lorries, we moved the fences to allow the mares and foals onto the huge area of stubble. Though the spring grass had been good, it had all but been finished, and we watched entranced as the horses picked up their speed when they realised what a treat was in store. Thirty or so animals cantered onto the golden stalks, plunging their heads down to tear at the welcome feast, then everyone, young and old, indulged in a blissful roll. A memorable sight on which to end the holiday.

Turkmenistan travel agent who arranged the first part of the ride in 2002: www.ayan-travel.com (tourist visas are again being issued)

Rides with Louise may be arranged through In the Saddle or by contacting Louise direct: firouz@pinarnet.com