My magical mystery tour of Mongolia

this week’s winner, pines for the vast open landscapes, camaraderie – and Beatles songs – of her recent trip

Today I was woken by the rumble of traffic, rather than the sounds of the river and the gentle tink, clunk, rustle of Tulga, dressed in her full-length quilted red silk-trimmed deel, sneaking into my ger tent to set the fire, before delivering a cup of tea.

There was no need to pull on my hiking boots and check the weather before hiking over the meadow to “check the horse” and visit the lavatory tent, where I could enjoy an uninterrupted view of yaks wandering freely beneath craggy cliffs.

My commute today was less than a mile and a world away from our expedition to the Khovsgol region of northern Mongolia. Between the regional capital of Moron and the Russian border, a drive of several hours over unsigned tracks, the landscape transformed from the vast grassy steppe, through pine-clad and flower-filled meadows of the foothills, to the granite mountain ranges whose geological strata painted the history of millennia of seismic activity.

Herds of sheep, yak and wild horses roamed on the steppe unfettered by fences; the meadows were alive with dancing butterflies; golden marmots peeped up from the rocky slopes; eagles and vultures ascended above the cliffs over our ger base-camp on a bend in the Delgermoron river.

Tents, equipment, food and drink were loaded on to the beguiling camels, as we met the herders and their semiwild horses and were given strict instructions only to approach the horses from the left, and not to pat them or make distracting movements.

There was much laughter from our caravan of Mongolian guides, camp staff and herders as we ambled up the steep slopes and along the crests of the hills overlooking the river. I kept straining to see a bird of prey that I thought I could hear, to find that the

keening was coming from a silky black goat kid hidden in my guide’s postbag.

There was a great deal of singing. The traditional Mongolian song book is full of ballads about journeys, horses, family and love, to which we could do little more than add a few harmonies. In contrast, they knew nearly all the lyrics of the Beatles and the Eagles.

We hiked, rafted, fished and camped our way back down the river over several days, seeing more animals than people. One visitor was the river warden, funded to protect the rare and mythical taimen fish, checking that hooks conformed to rules and all fish were being returned. We were not even allowed a small trout for the pot.

Allowing too many tourists can be devastating, particularly to this fragile ecology, so it was a privilege to see how Mongolia is striking the delicate balance between generating tourism revenue in a country with few natural resources, and protecting a rare and valuable landscape, its flora and fauna.

Sue Bramall, The traditional song book is full of ballads about journeys, horses, family and love

PEOPLE LIKE YOU

TICKLED PINK The French village of Lautrec celebrates its pink garlic with an annual festival in August