Ger-eat!

My legs hurt, my back hurts, my bum hurts, my kneecaps hurt (there's a muscle there I didn't know I had) and my hands hurt. And I didn't even fall off.

I'd persuaded Mum to spend two days in Mongolia horse-riding. After all, that is what Mongolia is for. Mum wasn't so keen and my original plans of days and days racing across steppes had to be modified. We got collected on Wednesday by a Mongolian in a minibus. Neither were in particularly good condition with the man looking rather battered from years of sun, wind and cold and the car looking pretty much the same. It smelt of horse.

We bumped and bounced to collect a couple of other guys before heading out on what counts as a motorway here before turning off up a dirt track and ending up in a collection of gers on a hillside.

The population of the ger camp was thus: me and Mum, who has taken to saying "mother and daughter" everytime we meet someone new so they don't think we are a lesbian couple as we don't look related, some guys with beards planning solo treks, a tough Australian, Mongol women who stayed pretty much all the time in one ger cooking, Mongol children who spent their time either wrestling or hanging off ponies, Mongol men wandering around, a group of public school girls out "developing their personalities" and their no nonsense teachers and "safety" guy.

The last group annoyed me intensely. The girls kept saying OMIGOD and the guy, as always with facial hair, was full of bullshit about what his job was. The teachers twittered on about the girls being independent and making decisions and having responsibilty and working as a team. They seemed to think their school holiday to Mongolia and China was some sort of gruelling expedition/humanitarian aid mission. They'd taught English for an afternoon and apparently sometimes similar groups paint classrooms and build climbing frames. As though Mongolians can't do that themselves or the UK has no classrooms that need painting. I can guarantee those girls going to Braunstone to build climbing frames would get a bigger culture shock. I'm not convinced you need an extra guy to tell you about "safety". This ain't Mogadishu.

When I was 17 I got a job in a summer camp in Spain looking after oodles of spoilt brats. That bloody well developed my personality I can tell you-and I didn't pay £3000 for the privelege.

That night there weren't very many clouds and I saw so many stars it was like a different sky. Thousands and thousands. I could see the Milky Way and shooting stars. It was like God had knocked over his glitter box.

Mongolian ponies and Mongolian humans have a different relationship to that of me and the Exmoors I normally ride. We spend ages and pots of money on hoof care, dental work, tack, hay in winter, grooming etc. The Mongolian horse gets none of that. He wanders around on his steppe with his mates and is occasionally lassooed, bits of string tied around his face, a wooden saddle plonked on his back, shortly followed by a Mongolian kid who gallops him around whilst hanging off the side waving things. When the kid has finished, he gets tied to a washing line, still with saddle, and left overnight until needed again. No pats or polos for him. He doesn't even get a name. This makes them rather contemptuous of humans.

Mine was a sandy coloured pony with a clipped ear. When I nervously approached, him he watched me out of the corner of his eye. I clambered aboard and a Mongol led me around while I got used to it all. Then the Mongol let me go and Mum, an American with huge eyes called Madeleine and some Mongols set off over the hill. Mum's pony was dark brown and and of the plodding kind. I called him Basil, after an Exmoor of a similar character. Mine I called Flower and he has resented me ever since.