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Poncho was content to stay in his apple orchard, tethered by a long rope to a tree. Seventeen years old, an active stallion, never panics if he gets tangled in the rope - he knows someone will be along to sort it out.

The hotel at Buoux was at the foot of the cliffs. This golden - stoned building was my room for the first night. A tiled floor, high white-washed ceiling with exposed beams hung with dried herbs. Sun-drenched steps to the dining room - baguettes handed around the table: tear off a chunk and pass it along, silent dogs catch the crumbs; five exquisite courses, local wine, laughter and pungent cigarette smoke.

The world as seen through the ears of Poncho.

The first night on our journey was spent by
an autumn-tinted vineyard at the foot of
the Luberon.

The church of Saints Mary-Jacoby and Mary-Salome. Saint Sarah, their servant and patron of the Gitans is also honoured here.

Poncho, knows how to get the most out of life - behave like a gentleman,  be the best you can be at what you do, then enjoy your leisure and your work with a clear conscience. Add a succulent leaf, a bit of shade, some sand to roll in and new sights and adventures every day - what more can one ask for?

Text and photographs © Jean Morris
Reproduction of either the text or photographs is prohibited without express permission of copyright owner.

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White Stallions and Pink Flamingoes
by Jean Morris

Provence - from the mountainous Luberon, through the marshy Camargue to the Mediterranean sea; past vineyards and olive groves, Roman remains and van Gogh landscapes, white horses, black bulls and pink flamingoes. What better way to view it all than from the back of a white stallion in a company of riders led by a particularly charming and resourceful Frenchman?

The stallion was Poncho – half Andalucian, half French Trotter – with a fine Spanish head on a lean endurance-type body. A true gentleman, he would serenade and strut for the ladies, but never let his passion override his good manners. If crowded, he would kick the offender in the gentlest possible way. He managed (just) to restrain himself when one of the mares in the group, a shocking hussy, got loose and flaunted herself at him in a most unbecoming manner. Bruno, the Frenchman, was adored by his horses and clients alike. He was professional and friendly, genuinely interested in people and highly competent. He has travelled by horse in many parts of the world and was prepared for any emergency. His compact saddlebags seemed bottomless. Maps, mosquito repellent, rain jacket and a battered water bottle were just the start.

A leather-work kit appeared to repair a broken rein. Poncho’s loose shoe was reset with the farrier tools by the side of a canal. By the time someone was stung by a bee, it came as no surprise that a bee sting removal device was part of his standard equipment!

We departed from Buoux at the base of towering cliffs in the Luberon, east of Avignon. Eight amazing days later, we arrived at Beauduc, a shantytown on the coast of the Mediterranean. In between, we traversed wooded hills with views to nestling villages and clopped over cobbled streets between pinkish-gold stone houses.

We passed orchards of cherry, apple and pear trees, to the wide Durance river, which we crossed in the face of the mistral – the infamous wind which buffeted us and our horses as they waded belly deep through the fast-flowing water. On a grassy knoll, the 1000-year-old chapel of St. Sixt was set against a cold blue sky with cloud formations like stacked flying saucers.

Vineyards and scattered olive trees led to the Roman wall and arch at Glanum, very close to the Saint-Paul de Mausole Asylum in Saint-Remy de Provence, where Vincent van Gogh spent several months, painting his tormented world of thrashing cypress trees, sun-burnished fields and contorted skies.

The horses drank from a Roman reservoir before surmounting the Alpilles mountains. Here we galloped flat out in the face of the mistral along a path edging the mountain around a horseshoe - shaped valley. We dropped past the medieval citadel of Les Baux - de - Provence, through olive groves silver and mysterious in the fading light. The plain near Arles was achieved in the near dark and we had a grand gallop – even faster than in the Alpilles – the horses racing to their lodging – an unused bullfight pen.

We rode through Arles, keeping our toes in to avoid striking car side-mirrors and carefully climbing broad steps to pose outside the Roman arena. Then we crossed the Rhone to arrive in the Camargue, a marshy area at the mouth of the Rhone river, famous for the white horses, black bulls of the Tauromachie (French bullfight in which only the humans are ever injured), flamingoes and mosquitoes. 

Poncho, undaunted by six days of strenuous travel, was in his element, prancing and calling to the herds of pretty little mares. We saw the small but fiesty black bulls in the distance (the best place to see them on the whole!). We galloped through stretches of water just inland of the Mediterranean amongst flocks of flamingos.

At Aigues-Mortes we exchanged greetings with the Gitans (the Spanish branch of the same nomadic people as the Gypsies) and lunched below the 500-year-old ramparts of the one-time departure port for the Crusades.

Our last night was at Les Saintes-Maries de la Mer, a place of pilgrimage for the Gitans. We ate at a seafood restaurant with a décor devoted entirely to Black Labradors. Sprawled in the middle of the aisle was the resident Lab – totally unperturbed by the Gitans music and the sole waitress who stepped neatly over him dozens of times an hour. Instead of the menu, we were shown the pedigree of the owner’s beloved pet.

Then, as the Gitans performed on their guitars, a woman diner started to sing in the harsh and compelling voice of Edith Piaf. The room fell silent and the Gitans, after one startled glance, recognized a kindred spirit and accompanied her with heightened feeling. The diners listened in silence, moved by the intense emotion of the moment. Later in the evening, finding the music too rhythmic to resist, the waitress put down her tray and spontaneously danced for five minutes, before neatly adjusting her tight skirt, picking up her tray and carrying on with her duties. The evening was a fitting end to our journey.

Provence is a small, miraculous part of the world, full of warmth, friendship, courage and joie de vivre, epitomized by the beautiful, courageous and gentlemanly Poncho.

The mistral tossed the cypress trees as we prepared to cross the Alpilles mountain range. Four riders gave up before the end of that long day, but for the rest of us it was a never-to-be forgotten thrill to gallop into the face of the mistral along a mountain path.

Our camp at the foot of the Aigues-Mortes ramparts. Aigues-Mortes (Dead Water) was once a port, but the sea retreated, leaving only stagnant water. We later visited the Pompiers (fire department) to water the horses.

The Camargue horses wandered loose on the
sand at our last lunch stop. Poncho never tired
of expressing his admiration of these lovely
white mares.

The Mediterranean Sea at Les Saintes-Maries
de la Mer. Our last enchanted evening.