TRAVEL
PAMELA WADE LEARNS A FEW TREKS OF THE TRADE IN ICELAND
Lesson number one: they’re not ponies, they’re horses. These stocky mounts with their luxuriant manes and tails might be under the official height for horses in the rest of the world, but here in Iceland it’s not height that matters, it’s heart. And with a millennium’s worth of history assisting their human partners to survive in one of the world’s harshest climates, Icelandic horses have earned respect and honour.
So, not ponies.
Fortunately, being such small, er, horses, means they’re easier to climb onto, especially when you’re kitted out in a thickly padded boiler suit and gumboots. I thought I’d brought
the right gear for this afternoon ride at Ishestar Stables, a short drive out of Reykjavik, but the nice receptionist disagreed.
“The weather isn’t getting any better,” he said. “You won’t regret it.” Lesson number two: in Iceland, always prepare for the worst weather-wise.
It was July and summer, but it wasn’t sunny or hot, and he was right – three hours riding over open lava fields with snowcapped volcanoes on the horizon and occasional showers sweeping past meant I truly was glad of the padding, and didn’t feel sorry I’d chosen this activity over spending the afternoon in the thermally heated waters of the famous Blue Lagoon.
Icelandic horses are special. Since the Vikings brought them here in the 9th century, they’ve been kept strictly pure and protected. No other horses are allowed into the country – and any that leave can never return. They’re calm and intelligent, and are unique in having two gaits unknown in other horses.
Their “flying pace” sounded a bit challenging, but even the non-riders I shared the shuttle bus with were excited about trying the tölt (in between a trot and a canter, smooth and fast). The video we all watched made it seem easy and they went off happily for their short ride while I joined another group for a proper trek through the nearby nature reserve.
Lesson number three: don’t even try to pronounce Icelandic. Fortunately, my pretty little mare had an English translation of her name and I was sure Sleeping Beauty and I would get along just fine. Like all the others, she was keen but relaxed and there was no jostling to get in front, no biting or kicking or flattened ears. It meant I had plenty of attention left for enjoying the scenery – groves of flowering rowan trees, huge sheets of purple lupins and long stretches of lava rock, blanketed with mossy lichen. Linking them all was a track made especially for riders, runners and bikers. Even under a grey sky, it was a delight and especially so when our leader decided we were all ready for the tölt.
At first, as our horses trotted at high speed, we all bounced and jolted in the saddle. Then they moved into the tölt and, as long as we relaxed our bottoms – to be honest, never a problem for me – it was smooth and comfortable, an efficient pace for covering long distances.
Sooner than seemed possible, three hours passed and we were back at the stables. Everyone dismounted reluctantly and said goodbye to our horses. We knew now that’s what they were. Ponies? Never!