Somehow the wild gray horses of the Camargue had worked their way into my head years ago; I have no idea why. But I had started talking about riding horses in the Camargue before I left Austria. It had been a long time since I had been in the saddle. I wanted to see if I still had it in me, and the idea of being out on the marsh on horseback held a certain romantic appeal. The horses are an ancient breed – one of the oldest breeds in the world – indigenous to the region, and ridden by gardians, the cowboys of the Camargue. Maybe that was it. They’re iconic – a big part of the branding for the place. Riding one of these horses seemed like something worth doing. But I had no idea what to expect. Would it be beginners in tow, nose-to-rump on a Disneyland-like tromp along well-beaten paths? Or something a bit more exhilarating?
Auberge Cavalière du Pont des Bannes, where I had booked my balade à cheval, makes for a beautiful setting. I pulled off the road to pass through a narrow gate in a white-plastered wall to find a collection of rough adobe buildings, red-tiled roofs, the small hotel’s guests seated outside having breakfast. I had made an early start from the village near Orange where I’m staying and arrived early. Once parked and outside in the sea-cleansed air, I relaxed. The sky was cloudless; the wind was already up. The sun gently warmed my skin. I got the feeling I was in the right place.
Young women began to lead Camargue horses into a low-walled corral to be saddled and bridled. Their pace was unhurried. The horses moved in languid steps; only a few ears were flat back, but only briefly. They were cool and as yet unridden that day. No flies could withstand the stiff breeze to cause them aggravation. I didn’t get the sense that the column of horse flesh that lined the inner wall were weary tour horses but fresh and content examples of the breed. And they came in various sizes. I’m on the tall side. The two tallest stood out to me, and I felt the first quiver of anticipation. This could be good.
I was the first to get fitted for the obligatory helmet and was asked if I ride. Then I stood in the shade of the low-slung stables, watching the last of the horses get saddled when the other riders began to wander in. Once everyone had helmets, instruction began in French. One of the two young ladies who would escort our group of eight explained how to mount as she mounted one of the two tallest horses. She then gave a brief overview of the basics. My familiarity with how to ride helped me more than my familiarity with spoken French. She dismounted. After a quick scan of the group, she handed the reins to me.
We were led single-file out of the corral to a nearby ring. Once inside, we mounted under watchful eyes, in case anyone needed a boost. After everyone was onboard, we filed out of the ring, single-file, with the loping gait of a wagon train. But that was to be expected. Just the sensation of being in a saddle again, being on horseback, watching the ears work, neck muscles quiver beneath the skin, to hold knotted leather reins in my hands again, breathe in the scent of horse hide – it raised distant memories of previous times on horseback and tickled that rustic part of my soul.
It was only a short distance along a deeply rutted path adjacent to the main road before we were into the flat marshland. Thick reeds stood saddle-high. Shallow pools of water shimmered in the rising sun. The paths we followed were dusty grooves between broad patches of caked muck – all of it gouged by many hooves. The horses maintained a strict line, nose to rump, plodding along the known route with bobbing heads at a pleasant pace. We crossed narrow bridges over brown moving streams, seeing the occasional heron but no pink flamingos, until we arrived at the station of sorts along a barbed-wire fence where we could view a small manade – herd – of Camargue black bulls standing in the distance. This was the photo opportunity where all of us who wanted it had our pictures taken. Then we were back in the wagon train, following a narrow twisting path until we came to the sea.
On our way back, a few of us were invited to go for a gallop. We three were led to the front before being launched into a gallop down a straight strip of pathway. It lasted for a few moments. The young ladies ahead of me did well, while I managed to stay in the saddle. We let the horses help themselves to the reeds while we waited for the group to rejoin us.
Once inside the corral, we dismounted and handed over the reins. Before attempting a step, I needed a moment steadied by the horse to reestablish my equilibrium on solid ground. It had been too long since I had been on a horse, too long since I used some of those muscles. But the subtle joy of being on horseback had resurfaced. Lungs filled with briny air and skin drawn tight by the gentle sun and wind, this morning ride on a Camargue horse had left an indelible impression.
Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer is the epicenter for tours and treks on horseback, with many stables to choose from. I booked a two-hour morning ride at Auberge Cavalière du Pont des Bannes. Sunset rides are also available.