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In May, I arrived in Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, in the south of France, for the Camargue’s annual pilgrimage. Amongst a crowd of hundreds, I waded into the sea as the relics of the saints, Mary Jacobé and Mary Salomé, were carried beyond the surf for their blessing. And I met a number of the Camargue’s ‘cowboys’ - gardians – who, mounted on their white horses, lances in hand and dressed in smart moleskin suits, had escorted the saints on their processions through the town and far out into the sea.

“But you’ll really see what our horses can do,” I was told, “if you stay on for the ‘day of the Marquis de Baroncelli.’” Early in the 20th century, the Marquis de Baroncelli-Javon, a landed bull-breeder, had championed the traditions of the gardians. In honour of this aristocrat turned French-cowboy, un journée à la mémoire du Marquis de Baroncelli had been established. There would be horse games and the Provençal form of bullfighting. As well as music, dancing and drinking. Naturally, I decided to stay on. Not least as I wanted to put in some Camargue horse saddle time.

The history of the gardians, and that of their horses, precedes the Marquis de Baroncelli of course and by centuries. The Confrérie de Gardians de Taureaux et du Cheveaux Camargue – the brotherhood of the horsemen who worked these lands – was founded in 1512. From the earliest of records local men used the white steeds to work the cattle raised on the marginal pastures of the Camargue. Even now, in modern times, it’s still a harsh environment. In summer squadrons of vicious mosquitoes fill the air, relentlessly attacking anything that carries blood, and the hot sun glares down on and reflects back off the waters of the salt lagoons. In the winter the freezing mistral wind cuts across the flats like a blade. For the horses, which traditionally live in stallion-led herds, the grazing is poor, the water is brackish and there are hidden ditches, tidal races and treacherous marshes to navigate.

The horses, most likely of predominantly North Africa Barb origin, have been long enough in the Camargue to have evolved into a definite type. Though rarely more than 14.2 hh, their qualities are hardiness, stamina, and a steady temperament leavened with plenty of ‘go’ when needed. Though born dark, by four years old they have lightened, becoming ever more ‘white’ – never ‘grey’ - with passing years. Manes and tails are left long and natural. Their hooves are particularly strong and the horses are rarely shod. Camargue horses are ideal for rounding-up and driving the local ‘fighting’ cattle.

Camargue bullfighting is very different from the Spanish version. Thus, in the arenas of the concourse provençal, the bulls have small rosettes tied to their horns, which local men – razeteurs – try and pluck from them, in mid-charge, whilst avoiding being gored. Rather than dying in the arena, the Camargue bulls are pampered and honoured athletes who perform season after season, spending their free time in grazing and producing the next generation of bad-tempered and agile taureaux. And it’s the bulls’ names which are printed large on the posters. The names of the lads who actually risk their lives in the ring get a mere second billing, in small print, at the bottom.

The first part of any concourse is the abrivado, when the bulls are driven through the host town’s streets to the arena. We were still drinking an early glass of wine when Saintes-Marie began filling with people. The bulls were coming. Bars pulled their shutters down. The wise had already removed their parked cars from the route. I stood at the last sharp turn that led into the straight that ran to the arena. Suddenly, there was rapid movement in the crowd far up the street and then the four-time beat of unshod hooves as a tight-packed phalanx of horsemen galloped hard down the street through the crowd. Eight or so gardians, their horses pressed shoulder to shoulder, their tridents held like lances, their stirrups clanging one against the other, formed a solid frontline. Tight behind them other riders pressed in at the sides. Only by dropping down low could I see that in between the flashing white pasterns and fetlocks, boxed between the horses, was a troop of the black fighting bulls being hustled along to the toril – the holding pen – at the back of the arena.

As the sun lost some of its heat, we joined the locals climbing up to the tiers of concrete seats around the ring. The sand had been carefully raked and hosed down. There was a fanfare of music, a gate swung open and a line of women and girls in lace mob caps, long dresses and carrying baskets of flowers walked in and began a stately dance to the sound of a single drum and flute. They danced solemnly in hops and skips and curtsies, until through the gate two teams of gardians galloped in. The gaudy-shirted cavalry circled the arena in a short, choppy gallop, before pulling their mounts to sand-scattering halts in front of the line of women who had retreated to one end of the ring. What followed was a sort of pony club games for teams of grown men.

First the gardians took it in turns to thunder around the arena, horses canted hard over in the rush of speed, and the riders leaning out to pluck – if they were skilful – one orange after another from plates held out by nervous girls, before tossing each fruit grabbed up into the watching crowds. Another game involved trying to snatch a ribbon tied around ones opponent’s arm, whilst protecting one’s own ribbon from being captured. And that was followed by cavalry style charges and contests to pull off the most spectacularly dramatic halts and spin-turns.

The last game, though, was pure chivalry. In turn each man accepted a bouquet from a chosen woman, and then rode up to shake it in the faces of the other team, challenging someone to spur his horse out to give chase. All honour, of course, lay in keeping ones sweethearts’ bouquet intact in hand for the requisite time. The game was serious. Riders stood high in their stirrups, or swung down behind their horse’s necks, spun their mounts around within a single horse’s length or rode the other man off into the barriers. Anything to keep the flowers intact. And nearly all the bunches were returned safely, the gardian dismounting and bowing and his woman curtseying as she accepted her battle-shredded and petal-poor flowers back. Riders and dancers finally left the ring, hand-in-hand, the horses reined back to the speed of the walking women. And in came the first bull.

Camargue bullfighting is a joyful, sometime slapstick but always risky affair. The bulls’ horns are unprotected, gunmetal blue bayonets, and after several seasons in the ring the animals learn to second-guess the razeteurs’ actions. More the bulls seem to enjoy chasing and, even better, catching the fleet-footed rosette-snatchers, in the same way that some horses love to jump. Jumping was something the bulls could also do. There was a four-feet-high barrier around the ring which, in theory, the razeteurs could vault behind for protection, but many of the bulls jumped straight after them and kept pursuing them around the inner corridor until let back into the ring again. By the end of the afternoon injuries amongst the men were adding up, and one had been ambulanced off with a couple of holes punched through him by a pleased looking bull. The lads had snatched a few rosettes, but not many. My respect for any horses that worked these fast and assassin-tempered bulls had risen.

There’s no shortage of horses to ride in the Camargue. It’s been suggested that there are more horses per square km there than anywhere else in Europe. They line the roads and yards in their tens, ready saddled and standing patiently at hitching rails, waiting for tourists. Whether in shorts and sandals or wearing a whole, newly-bought gardian costume, it’s a must-do for every French tourist to ride un cheval blanc - a white horse – even if only for half an hour of slow walk.

Finding good horses to ride off the beaten-track, though, is a bit more difficult. But I had an introduction Brenda Gatti, who came to the Camargue from Hertfordshire some thirty years before. She had managed the remarkable feat of earning acceptance, through her horsemanship, into the tight-knit community of the Camargue. Remarkable, because though welcoming, and happy to show off their skills, to the numerous tourists who arrive each summer, the Camarguise jealously guard their privacy and their true traditions from outsiders. Brenda had her own brand mark, in itself a unique sign of acceptance for somebody not born in the Camargue, and her own manade of horses led by her stallion ‘Cadeau de St Georges.’ From her centre, the Mas St Georges, Brenda ran trips for able riders to the remotest and most starkly beautiful parts of the Camargue.

When I drove up, that week’s riding group - all French - were just finishing breakfast at a table set up outside the farmhouse. They were welcoming towards the ‘drop-in’ irlandaise. One rider, Florence, passed a mug of coffee over to me. I just had time to drink it down before setting off to bring in the horses. We saddled them, not with the gardian saddles, which are made-to-measure to an individual rider’s size, but with light endurance saddles. The horses were loaded into the lorry and we drove to the shore of the Étang dit L’Impérial.

Mounting up we rode away from the road, splashing across the ditches and following a maze of muddy tracks deeper into the marshes, and towards a distant beach. On the horses we slipped easily into the landscape. There was the salt tang off the water. Heat from the sun. The crisp swishing of brittle marsh grasses around the horses’ hooves. A sudden upsurge of hundreds of terns that rose to swirl around our heads. And the flamingoes, of course. There were thousands of these improbable birds in the Camargue. Lanky-legged, in bright scarlets and pinks and with Barry Manilow beaks.

Brenda’s trips were, above all, about the quality of the horses and the fun of riding. Led by Willy and Crystalle, Brenda’s assistants, our group of ten splashed hock-deep across the shallows of the lake, and cut over the dunes onto the Plage Est. There was a soft sifting sound of our hooves in the sand. Then a fast canter through a long, shallow beach pool, sending up curtains of spray. We had passed beyond the tourist beach, and the ‘zone naturist,’ and were on the edge of the sea. The beach was deserted as we rode into the waters of the clear blue Mediterranean.

The horse under me was the epitome of a good working animal. Waiting at the lorry before we mounted he had hung his head, and rested this leg or the other, and had generally conserved his energy. But once in the saddle I could feel him start up under me. His trot smoothed out the rough ground. In canter his head came up, his hoofs drummed the sand and energy sparked from him.

Changing gait, Willy led us back across the marshes, towards the silhouetted church above Saintes-Maries. The French were good riding companions; they kept the small talk for lunchtime, and like me, reveled in the landscape and the horses under us. A distant herd of black bulls grazed under the hot sun. Overhead a ‘V’ of flamingos flapped past like fluttering red ribbons pinned to the blue sky. The horses picked up the pace again. But, when we stopped at an open barn to eat, mine and all the other horses, which only minutes before had been chopping out the miles in spirited competition, immediately dropped their heads into their nosebags and fell back to resting as quietly as beach donkeys. In turn we dropped our heads to our plates and wineglasses. There were jokes, now, and ‘Comment ça va, Jas-per, ton cheval marche bien,’ and ‘plus de vin pour l’irlandais.’ I accepted the wine gratefully. There was still half a day’s ride before us to get back to the Mas St Georges.

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