It was more than a decade since Philippa Collinshad last ridden a horse. So pony-trekking in Africa was quite a way to spend a holiday
I NEVER THOUGHT I'd wish I had packed a parachute to go pony-trekking. Looking down to the river bed, an enormous drop below, it seemed impossible that I, my pony and my belongings were going to make it down in one piece.
The path was scarily steep, dropping down the valley in a series of violent switchbacks. In most places it was strewn with loose boulders; where it wasn't, great plates of rock stretched downwards, seeming to offer nothing for little hooves to grip. Surely nobody could walk down this, let alone ride down it.
It was about 17 years since I had last ridden a horse, and although I had been warned that this would be "extreme" pony-trekking, I had no idea what I was letting myself in for. Sitting astride dobbin as we meandered around a few gentle lanes this was not.
Our group of five - me; my other half, Andy; Zacharia, our local guide; and a German couple - maintained a slow but steady pace. Dropping down the valley was part of a two-day trek from Malealea Lodge to Ribaneng waterfall, in Lesotho, a tiny, beautiful country entirely surrounded by South Africa. Two days in the saddle, a night in a remote village and some of the most dramatic scenery you'll ever see.
You have to get through a mental barrier and trust your pony. Most of the time it's a case of closing your eyes, hanging on and remembering that these incredibly tough animals have taken this route 1,000 times and know what to do.
The only instructions you get before setting out are to lean backwards when going downhill and forwards when going uphill. Oh, and keep a loose rein downhill, as you could pull both of you over backwards.
The ponies all have personalities, and once I'd established that mine was actually the boss we got on fine.
We had left the comfort of our en-suite rondavel, or hut, at Malealea Lodge at 9am. Feeling like early pioneers, we passed farmers who had already been in their fields for hours and smiling groups of children on their way to school.
As we left the village limits the dirt tracks stretched out before us, towards the mountains that have given Lesotho its reputation as a kingdom in the sky.
As the sun rose, the countryside warmed up just enough to make us glad of hats - helmets are optional - and long-sleeved T-shirts.
Sustained conversation was difficult, as the ponies weren't as keen on socialising as their riders. Andy's pony refused to be overtaken and sped up as soon as I attempted to catch up (well, that's what he said). Any efforts to impose our will could have enraged the ponies and spoiled the relaxed ambiance, so we travelled with our own thoughts in the amazing silence of Lesotho, punctuated only by the snorts of the ponies, the gentle clop of their hooves and the clicking of our cameras, which don't seem quite able to capture what we are seeing.
This is not a barren, uninhabited land - far from it. Around every corner and in the remotest valleys are signs of life. Children running and shouting alongside heralded our arrival in every village. You feel as if you've stepped back in time. Even out on the wide, deserted plains there always seems to be a faraway tinkle of cowbells, as cattle are driven to new grazing land.
It's both relaxing and exhilarating. The landscape changes from cardboard-cut-out African village, complete with stream and tidy huts, to violent ravine containing an angry river that dares you to cross it. And we were riding through all of it, a pack horse carrying our camping gear, our saddlebags full of emergency snacks.
About seven hours into the journey, as the sun sank ever lower, we reached a picture-book village where we were to spend the night. The huts, rented from villagers, are equipped with mattresses, gas cookers, very basic pots and pans and a bucket of spring water. There is no electricity. It's billed as the real Africa. It isn't an experience manufactured for tourists. It really is . . . real.
Hens clucked around us and villagers cooked in big witch's cauldrons over open fires. Zacharia, the guide, turned the ponies loose and then, as if the day hadn't been gruelling enough, suggested a two-hour hike to see Ribaneng waterfall. After a day on a horse, it was a relief to regain the use of my backside, and I think it probably offset a lot of the stiffness I would otherwise have been in for the next day.
We scrambled over rocks in a riverbed and there it was: Ribaneng, tumbling down 100m with mesmerising rainbows of spray swirling around its base. We sat for a while, hypnotised and, yes, exhausted, before filling up our water bottles and heading back to cook dinner.
By the time we got back to our mud hut, tiredness really was setting in, albeit a happy tiredness. The Germans were organised enough to bring camping food, a good idea after the long day. It took them minutes to cook a pasta meal. In contrast, we'd run to a shop in Malealea at the last minute for provisions, and as the surrounding mountains turned a rich red, and the sun disappeared behind the peaks, we waited patiently for our meal to cook. Baked beans and mash never tasted so good.
The spectacular sunset was replaced by even more spectacular stars and a full moon. We settled into our sleeping bags, blew out our candles and fell asleep to the sound of gently snuffling cattle in the pen outside.
Morning broke at 6am. The village woke up before we did, with cocks crowing and buckets clanking as people went to draw water from the stream.
Zacharia had already saddled the horses, and another guide had appeared to take the Germans on a different route, as they were leaving us to complete a five-day trek.
Our route back to Malealea Lodge that day was completely different, with one exception: the enormous valley we'd negotiated the day before. This time it looked even more awesome. But as we'd learned on the way out, trust the ponies.
They take clever little steps and seem to plan their routes well in advance, with very little stumbling. It was like watching a chess grand master at work. When they occasionally wobble, they seem to regain their composure immediately. I dismounted to walk down beside them, to see how they did it, and decided that they made it look very easy while I scrambled along, losing my footing.
Malealea Lodge, a former trading post in the mountains of southern Lesotho, has been around since 1905. Mick and Di Jones - both born in Lesotho - bought it in the 1980s. After striking deals with local horse owners, they started running the trekking business.
The lodge keeps the nearby villagers involved in lots of ways - a local choir sings most evenings around the camp fire, the trekking and walking guides all live in and around Malealea and the horses are still supplied by locals.
They're not the chunky, shiny-coated dobbins I'm used to; they're smallish ponies, strong as oxen and well used to picking their way over the rugged terrain, often with a large westerner perched on their backs.
No riding experience is necessary, but I think it's fair to say that, whatever your level, there will be some saddle-soreness. Malealea outings range from one hour to six days or longer. It's up to you.
As the scenery started to become more familiar, and the ponies picked up their pace, we saw the lodge perched on a ledge in the distance. We could pick out the blue roof of the old trading post among the trees and fancied we could almost hear the crackle of a cold beer being poured.
We could also hear something else: the ominous rumble of thunder. We'd read about the dramatic thunderstorms of Lesotho, spectacular lightning displays rattling around the mountains, torrential sheets of rain and deafening thunder. We'd taken a detour in South Africa to stock up on heavy-duty farmer's waterproofs precisely for that reason. The sky was darkening at an alarming rate, and Zacharia, being without said waterproofs, certainly wasn't going to get stuck in it.
The ponies were encouraged to quicken, and suddenly I was taken straight back to the riding lessons of my teens, struggling to master the rising trot.
After two days of being in a saddle, there's nothing I would have welcomed more than a gentle amble back to Malealea, but it wasn't to be. The thunder was getting nearer, and we could see the mountains behind us disappearing beneath thick clumps of rain.
I'd like to be able to say that we made an elegant entrance to the yard at the lodge, but after many kilometres of uncomfortable, ungainly trotting, and with the storm about to unleash its worst, we dived off the ponies and on to the porch in a very inelegant display of horsemanship.
And as the storm really got going, we got to drink that cold beer and reminisce about our fantastic journey, all the while enjoying the lightning show the way it's meant to be enjoyed - from the comfort of the terrace. As for the ponies, they tucked into some well-deserved hay. Just another day for them.
Go there
First fly to Johannesburg. British Airways, BMI, SAA, KLM, Virgin, Etihad, Lufthansa, Swiss and Air France all have daily services with fares of €660-€990. Book a through ticket from Ireland, as you save on airport taxes and service charges. Then rent a car and cross into Lesotho at Maseru, its capital. You can stay there or head straight to Malealea Lodge (about 30km away), 500km from Joburg. See www.malealea.co.ls.