The tack shops are all open-air and the fine leather smell wafts around them and everywhere you look (and you’d better look!) are those athletes, those Lusitanos, those brilliant war horses. They are unquestionably noble.
Eighteen-wheeled horse vans park right in the middle of whatever street they choose and the town happily re-routes the foot, equine and motor traffic flow to fit what needs to be done. It’s a ten day celebration, principally of the Lusitano Horse, but there’s the odd mule team or two and perhaps a Friesian here and there mixed in for perspective.
Have you ever noted the resigned dignity that resides in mules? And of course the gypsies with their ponies ripping dangerously through the crowd. But back to the Lusitanos…I’ve been around horses most of my life and have rubbed against some storied quarter horses as a youngster, but in all the rodeos, horse auctions, parades and horse shows in my experience, never have I seen such splendid horse-flesh as these Lusitanos.
Hundreds of horses compete in various classes and each one seems more beautiful than the last. Riders too are tacked up for the event in flat hats, capes and gleaming boots, a few of the working horsemen in hair-on chaps riding disdainfully among the grandees. Wandering the stalls and stands, dashing across the track so as not to be run down, drinking a glass of wine leaning on the rail with my Norwegie..these were two of the best days of my life.
