The alarm went off at some ungodly hour to enable us to get ready for three days of pain on the back of a horse. Why we are such gluttons for punishment I don't know, but we wanted at least a good hot shower before heading off to the more simple yurt lifestyle. Coming downstairs we were greeted by Tursan with the bad news: "ha" she cackled "my house, no shower" instead offering us her next door neighbour's sauna. We politely declined with it being so damned early in the morning and enough people having been inconvenienced. What would one more day without a wash mean in the greater scheme of things?.

“Taxi will come at nine. OK?” she added as an after thought. Nine? The night before she’d told us 8am, hence why we were standing before her, half undressed, at 6am. But there was nothing we could do, 9am it was to be. I still wasn’t sure as to how capable she actually was of organising the whole trek.

In fact our “taxi” turned out to be nothing more than her husband driving an old Mercedes. Perhaps he was too lazy to get up at 6am to drive us and had postponed departure. Actually it turned out that Tursan had realised the shops wouldn't eb open that early in the morning to buy our supplies before heading to the last village before Tash Rabat, Kazibek, some 35km away.

But our problems started before we even got there as the car broke down. We waited 20 minutes as Tursan's husband tried to start the car in vain. She began to look nervous whilst complaining bitterly about 100 som that the shop had short changed her. Her maths had been so appalling so far that it was with some amusement that we found out later she had been in fact a maths teacher! By now 6 people had gathered around the open car bonnet all peering into the engine but seemingly not being much help at all. Half an hour later, and just as I was losing patience, the car magically started and we were off again.

It was 10.30 by the time we arrived at Kazibek village and there was no sign of our horses, let alone a guide. Tursan sent her husband off to investigate and we were left stranded just outside the village wondering how long this would take, being tamely assured by Tursan that all would be well.

Finally, 3 horses appeared over the horizon and our spirits were raised siginificantly. In no time we were  sat in the saddle and away we went. We knew it was going to be a long day. Our guide was 22 year old Norsultan whose name we decided was far too complicated to remember so he became Heinz and our horses Pomme and Fritz for lack of anything more imaginative. Tom and I really were two city slickers heading off on  a trek after riding horses only once before (what with Tom living in Hamburg and me in London). Being totally unprepared, we must have cast an amusing sight as we trotted along the broad plain into the mountains. Fortunately our horses were responsive enough to novice riders. We spent most of the time amusing oursleves by riding up to eachother's horse and whipping it, which would send it off into a gallop immediately. The only probelm being however that afet a while my horse learned that whenever it saw Tom behind it knew what was coming and so would gallop off without any command at all providing much amusement to one and all!

We stopped for lunch by a small stream in what were almost perfect conditions. It was warm, the sun was shining on the mountains and Heinz began to prepare out picnic lunch. Suddenly a man called Narynbeck pooped almost from nowhere and sauntered over, a spade carried over one shoulder. He seemed pleasant enough and so we invited him to have lunch with us. He spoke only Kyrgz and Russian so conversation was a little tricky but we managed and afterwards he invited us over to meet his family and see his yurt. He also wanted us to stay and have supper, even offering to slaughter a sheep in our honour. We decided to spare the sheep's life a little longer but did accept his original offer.

He was clearly proud to show us his territory and was ordering us to take photographs - quite amusing since normally it is the tourist who shyly asks permission! It was another wonderful glimpse into life on the jailoos and so totally unexpected. We chatted, made jokes, made fools of ourselves and laughed. I explained that Switzerland was in many ways similar to Kygyzstan but without the Yurts. Narynbeck didn't quite understand my description of how the Swiss live nor the idea of a wood chalet, but never mind.

As we were leaving, I spotted a donkey grazing outside and thought the opportunity was just too good to miss! I asked him if he wouldn't mind if I try riding it around. He willingly agreed, but the donkey ended up riding me around despite my best attempts to control it. Meanwhile Narynbeck turned his attention elsewhere and left me ending up in the cows' pen riding into a haystack.

As we continued to ride the plain along the foot of the mountain rainge, the sky was beginnin got darken and the coering clouds gave us some respite from the heat. We crossed a dry river bed to the sound of whistling groundhogs occasionally popping up from their burrows to see what was going on before disappearing again as soon as we approached. At around teatime another nomadic farmer came out to greet us and offered us what I thought to be tea. It sounded perfect so we galdly accepted.

The tea turned out to be more kymys (fermented mare's milk) and I am sadly rather tired of the stuff. It's rather sour and unpleasant if truth be told, but I politely accepted a cup and drank it slowly hoping not to offend our new host. I was ordered to drink up and did so. Tom had passed out from exhaustion and it was down to me to hold the fort. Before I could protest he'd filled it up and we drank another toast which I had to down, and then another. Fortunately I stopped him on the fourth one, feeling as though I might not be able to keep it down and suggested that it was time to move on! He wasn't keen that we should move, I suppose visitors are hard to come by in such an isolated environment as this.

35km by horse seemed a long way and as the plain slowly turned into a never-ending snake path thorugh the mountain valleys we wondered if we would even arrive before dark. The darkening clouds had actually turned into a thunderstorm and since we hadn't even brought a change of cloths now was not the time to get wet!

Finally the long-awaited Tash Rabat Caravanserai came into view and it was as much of a relife to use as it must have been to the silk road caravans centuries earlier. Just next door was a small encampment of yurts where we woudl stay the night. We collapsed on arrival and after a short dinner prepared by the local family headed to bed, knackered!

On horseback by the Tash Rabat Caravanserai (3530m)