the ronda ride

It’s very important to me that I find a moment to put on paper the magical experience that was George’s new ride in Ronda. Although no photos, videos or words could ever capture the immense feeling of pure magic and oneness that was felt throughout.

I have been watching George for 2 years create this ride. At first a seed planted by an old friend, and then the next connecting components that seemed to all fall into his lap. He makes it look easy, but behind every element he is there, manifesting and feeling for the right opportunities to arise. He does not force things. Instead, he trusts they will happen when the time is right. And of course, by intuition, untouched trails and remote beautiful locations to make camp seem to come to him like stars in the night. 

The last week leading up to the rides I asked George if he was clear on the trail. He didn’t really respond, instead looked up to the trees as if the answers he was missing would appear to him. There were, of course, moments of uncertainty and parts which he had never seen but he believed in. No GPS, Wikiloc, Garmin or even an old local could have designed this route. They would take you the signposted way that’s littered with fluorescent hikers. George has a determination to take you beyond this, to step out of the world and go into the wild with him. The delivery was unworldly and the landscape staggeringly beautiful, but couldn’t have been harsher. Huge peridotite rocks soared out from steep crevices making pedestals for the Iberian Ibex and an array of predators. Eagles screeched from the top before diving down into the shade of the precipice revealing their clean, glossy, white feathers.

There were moments in the ride when I looked ahead at the enormous cliffs and wondered how on earth we were going to get past them. Somehow, George guided us between them, through a few rusty unhinged gates that hadn’t been opened for decades, and onto deer and mountain goat paths. There, our sure-footed horses calculated every step between the sharp rocks that formed the floor.

At moments we insisted guests should dismount to allow the horses to walk as naturally as possible through the path. Once on foot, it became even more clear the difficult feat the horses had been tasked with all morning. We took Hispano-Arabs and Spanish horses on this trail. It’s imperative they are from the land or have felt terrain like this before. I took a thoroughbred who struggled and his smaller hooves suffered and slipped in the rocks. The rest had bigger and more rounded hooves and clambered with the elegance of mountain goats, unfazed by the cliff drop to our left. After an hour of following this extraordinary path, we suddenly found ourselves in a vast opening plateau that contrasted everything we had previously ridden. The horses trotted out gleefully and the noise of hooves on soft ground was a comforting silence after the scraping, gritting noise of hoof on rock we had been experiencing for the last hour.

Throughout the days, I noticed moments of relief on George’s face when magical gates appeared and landmarks guided him. We rode past cattle and farmhouses accessible only on foot or horseback. When you ride through these trails, the only thing left to be is present. There are no worldly distractions, just silent ruins that echo a simpler past one wishes they could have been part of. We came across a well where we managed to put together an old paint bucket with a spare rein to lower in and refresh our thirsty horses. They lunged at every water source we found.

In other moments, George would dismount and run up a hill to find a trail or get his bearings. We all waited at the bottom, staring at the immense view. In a moment of lostness, a sun-baked farmer in a checked shirt appeared and exclaimed that we were riding through his property, before kindly redirecting us onto the correct path. Later on, George hurried us behind the bushes next to a farmhouse and around a few crops before we were out of sight from the Cortijo, then explained that we didn’t actually have permission to go through there. The excitement escalated until we reached peak isolation in a vast open space. It was just us, our horses, and the huge gritty mountain we had left behind.

Before long, we began to descend towards a blocky, white patch that was nestled into the base of the cliffs. As we came closer, the village of Montejaque formed and we rode through its cobbled streets to find a bar in the centre where men played cards and drank locally made wine. Our ravenous riders drank cold cañas and feasted on tapas of ripe tomatoes with oregano, fresh prawns, warm tortilla and many other classics. Meanwhile, the horses rested in the shade of the olive trees in the square outside. The lunch extended into the late hours of the afternoon to avoid the hottest part of the day. Villagers all stared and chattered as they watched us proudly remount our horses.

Merrily, we rode out of town and onto a thinning track which eventually dissolved when we reached cork forest, wild peonies, grazing deer, and the coo of owls as night fell. Our home for the night was an ancient, whitewashed house lost between hills and century-old cork trees, with no plumbing and a stone floor that had been smoothed and polished by the many steps that had passed over it. The guests showered under warm water in an outdoor bathroom we had made in an old stone corral. Complete with a dressing table, flower vases, a carpeted floor, and candles, the guests took their time and enjoyed washing off the day's dust and brushing their hair in the mirror that hung from the nearby tree. We then settled into a long aperitivo looking over the sunset and of course a candlelit dinner with the shadows of the trees in moonlight as our backdrop.

The guests slept in the silent safety of the house wrapped in cotton sheets and that distinct smell of old Spanish cortijo. George and I lay on Indian futons next to the already sleeping horses and dozed in and out from dreams to an even more dream-like reality of the chewing and crunching of nearby animals.

By breakfast time, the guests had softened into gentler, more contemplative versions of themselves. A small round gingham table had appeared as if by magic, with fresh bread, sliced tomatoes, olive oil, hot coffee, and an overflowing bowl of ripe stone fruit. We dozed around in the warming sun, slowly preparing for the day before riding out. I felt sad to leave our refuge, but soon was distracted by the next challenge ahead. The horses felt more tranquil and continued to guide us through the ever-changing landscape. More rocks and even bigger cliffs than the day before, until a game trail led us to the edge of a deep, calm river which we followed, creating a domino of leaping frogs who jumped into the water for fear of being trampled by the horses. The sun was now strong, and the river made my mouth water. In perfect timing, Gigi appeared with a picnic laid out in the shade on the edge of the river. Thirst-quenching gazpacho and lemonade to sustain us for the rest of the day, along with serranitos, jamón ibérico, and a freshly baked cake. We took the opportunity to cool the horses’ ankles in the flowing river after the arduous, rocky descent they had carried us along, while the guests lay on Moroccan rugs enjoying the loud hum of life that surrounded the river.

It dawned on me that afternoon that there was just one day left. How could it have gone by so quickly? I already wished to do it all over again. After completing another long climb, we stopped to let the horses catch their breath. George pointed to a high plateau isolated from the rest of the landscape by more imposing cliffs. He explained it had once been a Neolithic settlement and that it was where we would camp that night. As we rode closer, the forms of white tents appeared and excitement filled us all as we began to realise quite how enormous the cliffs were. We arrived at what felt like heaven’s waiting room, where the breathtaking view formed the backdrop to an impeccable bar and our comfortable white tents.

This time we showered with views of Grazalema, Zahara de la Sierra, and various other small white mountain villages recognised as some of the most beautiful in Spain. We enjoyed well-earned cocktails and looked out across the 55 kilometres of trail we had covered so far. The golden sun lowered, giving its last shine to the reflective lakes that pooled in the Sierra’s valleys. We slept in handwoven Indian charpoy beds, with the warm breeze flapping our tents and reminding us of the mad cliff we were perched upon.

The next day brought another series of surprises. There were multiple moments during those days when my eyes filled with tears in amazement, joy, and awe of everything George and his incomparable team had created. I challenge anyone to compose such an extraordinarily well-orchestrated symphony as this one.

To see available dates visit georgescottrides.com

All the best,

Héloïse