Successful Novelist Tami Hoag Trains in Spain
The upper-level rider and best-selling writer takes a dressage vacation to train with Juan Matute.
By Tami Hoag • Photos by Linda Weiss
I arrived in Madrid last October with two good friends and my trusty suitcase, Bagzilla. The three of us had, of course, over-packed to the point of needing a sherpa to accompany us from Customs to our hotel. But, intrepid travelers all of us, we managed to wrestle our luggage into submission and down a harrowing flight of stairs to the rooms where we would try to sleep for a few hours before our Spanish adventure began the following day.
I had been threatening for years to take an honest-to-goodness vacation. A trip which would not involve book signing parties with media coverage and getting up at 4 in the morning to get to the airport to get to the next city to do an interview on an AM drive-time radio show. I make my living writing gritty crime novels. The annual author publicity tour has accounted for most of my travel in the last decade. Most people believe an author tour is a glamorous romp across the country. Wrong. Tour is a grueling marathon, a city a day, hopscotching across time zones. Up at dawn, “on” until well past dusk; little food and lots of coffee. By the start of the second week I don’t know where I am. By the end of the third week I don’t know who I am. A vacation would be a welcome change, one might think. But I am a driven type-A workaholic. The idea of going somewhere with no agenda and no goal is enough to make me break out in a cold sweat. Having a vivid imagination, I could easily picture myself sitting on some piazza in Italy trying to figure out how to relax, becoming morose at my inability to do so and drinking wine until I fell into an historic fountain and drowned.
I need structure. I need goals. I am a dressage rider.
Then one April afternoon I was paging through Dressage Today when an ad caught my eye: dressage training in Spain with Olympian Juan Matute. The ad for Cross Country International also promised trail rides through the Spanish countryside—a setting dotted with castle ruins, walled medieval villages and aqueducts built in Roman times. A stay in a marvelous centuries-old house, gourmet cuisine, fine Spanish wines—now this was a vacation I could get behind. The idea of spending time in a wonderful place I had never been with like-minded horse folk and a world-renown trainer appealed to me very much. The mental image of sitting by myself on the piazza was quickly replaced by thoughts of sitting the trot on a nice Spanish horse or sitting at a lovely dinner talking with fellow riders about the sport that is my passion.
I went to the barn the next day and announced that I would be going to Spain and did anyone want to come with me. My friend Linda said no before I could finish the sentence. Linda has a dread fear of riding strange horses. My friend Lynn, the anti-traveler, who also doesn’t like riding unknown animals, said maybe. And so began the planning stage of the adventure, which could not have been easier or more hassle-free. We were given a list of the things we should take: gloves, helmet, rain jacket, etc. We were even given coupons from Dover Saddlery to help out making those purchases. Being adult amateur competitors with multiple horses, my friends and I needed nothing. Of course, we wouldn’t let that stop us from shopping. As the summer wore on and Lynn and I began talking about the great time we were going to have, Linda caved in and joined up.
We flew to Madrid a day ahead of schedule, hoping to adjust to having crossed half a dozen time zones and not be too jet-lagged to enjoy ourselves once we reached our final destination. The next morning we wrestled our luggage back up the flight of stairs at the hotel and out onto the sidewalk to await the arrival of our host for the week.
All we knew was his name—Salvador Fabregas. But the moment he arrived he was our friend. A solidly built man with a rugged, lived-in face and a rakish crooked grin, Salvador greeted us like long-lost family. It was as if we had just walked into the middle of a conversation we had started long ago and never finished. We had learned our first lesson: In Spain there are no strangers, only friends who have yet to meet. Our budding friendship stalled briefly as Salvador looked at our luggage, then looked at his van and announced that we still had to pick up two more guests. We shrugged. We could only hope the next guests were luggage minimalists. Of course, they were not.
Tracy—a novice event rider and mother of two from southeastern Minnesota (coincidentally very near where I grew up)—was a slip of a thing with bright eyes and a ready smile. Her family had given her this vacation as a gift. For Kathy—a trainer from South Africa who was possibly the tallest woman I have ever met, this was her second time to take this trip. She had come not only for training, but also to look for horses for her clients. We all hit it off straight away, all of us exhausted from the trip in but excited to be in Spain at last. Salvador wedged their luggage into the back, and we were off, climbing into the mountains north of Madrid.
As soon as we were on the road, Salvador began delightedly quoting lines from Dark Horse, my suspense novel set in the winter horse show world of Wellington, Florida. He is a man of insatiable curiosity, a student of the world. In his heyday, he was an accomplished event rider and even did a stint as chef d’equipe to Spain’s Olympic three-day team.
This part of Spain is a study in contrasts—from glorious green meadows to forests of golden fall foliage to rocky hard-scrabble terrain where it is difficult to imagine farmers eking out a living, but they do. The people here are hardy and practical and make no excuses. But one has only to say “Hola!” to see them light up with pleasure. I don’t speak Spanish, but smiling and nodding seemed sufficient to hold up my end of dialogue.
Salvador’s farm—the Molino Equestrian Center—is a picture postcard nestled into the wooded hills near Pedraza. The name molino refers to what is now the house on this property—a water-powered mill that dates back to the 16th century. In its last working incarnation, the mill was used to generate electricity for the farm. A thick, glass panel set into the floor of the great room allows guests to view the inner workings of the mill itself. Converted now to a gracious country house, the Molino has been featured in Architectural Digest and is filled with art and antiques collected by Salvador and Augusta, his love of 20-plus years.
Augusta is an Italian woman, a slender wand of elegance with a wild head of hair and a character as strong and joyfully opinionated as they come. She has served as interior decorator to the likes of Sting, but during the season when guests come to the Molino, Augusta sets aside her star-studded client list to become the heart and soul of the operation. A gracious hostess, Augusta not only cooks the incredible gourmet meals served there, she grows much of the food herself in her organic vegetable garden. Every morning she could be seen in a wide straw hat with a basket on her arm as she chose her ingredients for the day’s meals. On our first evening at the Molino, however, we were all invited to dine at the home of friends of Salvador and Augusta who had restored one of the ancient stone houses in the area as a weekend getaway from Madrid. I personally couldn’t imagine people inviting a pack of strangers to their home for dinner, but then we didn’t feel like strangers for very long.
At the end of the evening, Salvador drove us home. Tracy and Kathy had rooms at the Molino. Lynn, Linda and I opted to stay in the wonderful small hotel in Pedraza, a walled medieval city that has changed little over the centuries. Built entirely of stone, Pedraza appears to grow right up out of the mountain it crowns. The narrow, cobbled streets grudgingly allow enough space for one car to pass.
On our first trail ride, Salvador guided us over hill and dale, through a pasture of cows with calves destined for the bullfighting ring and on into the streets of Pedraza where children ran out to wave at us as we wandered past. The clomp of hooves on the cobblestones made it easy to picture dashing knights and ladies draped in velvet riding through the city’s only gate on magnificent Andalusian horses. Descendants of those horses stand in the stables at the Molino.
Our mornings were devoted to our individual training sessions with Matute—sessions that were both intense and great fun. Juan has the kind of magnetism that sells igloos to Eskimos and probably allowed him to steal more than his fair share out of the cookie jar as a boy. Charming, upbeat, enthusiastic about helping his students to better their skills, he is well-suited to his task of working with riders of many different skill levels with many different goals.
I was preparing for my first season of international competition at Grand Prix. My goal for the week was to smooth out my transitions and to be pushed up to a new level of competitive focus. Lynn’s goal was to ride a variety of horses and work on developing her feel for what each horse needed from her. Linda’s goal was to get on horses she didn’t know and overcome her nerves enough to enjoy the experience. By the end of the week, we had each done what we set out to do.
Meanwhile, our lone three-day rider, Tracy, spent her lesson time with Salvador, doing flat work and going over fences. One afternoon, an old friend of Salvador’s dropped by and generously offered to give her an extra lesson over the jump course. He turned out to be a past Olympian on Spain’s three-day event team.
Afternoons were for trail riding or long walks with Otto the yellow Labrador retriever and Vito the Jack Russell, the real boss of the operation. One chilly, rainy afternoon, Salvador chauffeured us to Segovia, giving us a tour of the old walled city complete with an impressive history of the place. He then exhibited the patience of a saint as he stood back and watched us shop at a local tack store—more stuff to overload the luggage.
What started out as a trip with structure and goals to satisfy my Type-A personality became a marvelous life experience I would repeat in a heartbeat. Parting was indeed sweet sorrow with hugs and tears and promises to keep in touch.
I fell in love with Spain and with the warm, welcoming people there. More than 10 steps of great passage, the perfect transition from piaffe and a super line of clean one tempi’s, the memories of the beauty of the country and the people I met in Spain will truly be the memories I will treasure most. I went to Spain with two friends for an equestrian vacation. I came home with new friends I can’t wait to see again. And even as I bask in the memories of Spain, my eye is wandering over the catalog of equestrian vacations all over the globe. I am a convert. I could get into this vacation thing. And seeing the world from the back of a horse sounds like a wonderful place to start.
This article was first published in Dressage Today magazine. The Web site is www.DressageToday.com.
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