Exploring the ancient English Ridgeway in the saddle

Imagine an unspoilt wilderness, green hills tumbling away in every direction. A mysterious landscape with links to King Alfred and the legend of St George. The only sounds are the wind, the song of skylarks swirling above—and the thud of horses’ hooves. Remarkably, this remote, expansive idyll lies just 60 miles from London, on the borders of Oxfordshire and Berkshire.

I was there last May as part of a riding expedition led by Rose Cameron, a consummate horsewoman, who began organising rides in Jordan in 2019. During the pandemic, she found inspiration, instead, in England, devising routes along bridleways and arranging accommodation at private historic houses with welcoming hosts. One such, Woolley Park, was our elegant base for the trip, from which we were to explore the beauty of the North Wessex Downs. The ancestral home of our hostess Kirsten Loyd, it exudes effortless English-country-house style—faded chintz, squishy sofas, deep four-poster beds—and, of course, it has a charming resident spaniel. 

Kirsten and Rose welcomed us on the first night with drinks in the library. Over a kitchen supper by the Aga—and some rather good wine—we quickly discovered mutual friends. Most of our party had brought their own horses; a couple were borrowing their mounts. I was to ride Kirsten’s big bay hunter, George. ‘Don’t worry,’ Kirsten’s partner Rhydian Morgan-Jones reassured me, when I confessed how little time I have spent on horseback, with a young family at home. ‘George is as gentle as a baby.’ The first morning, we saddled up and set out towards Uffington Castle, the Iron Age hill fort. At the top of White Horse Hill—the prancing figure familiar from the paintings of Eric Ravilious carved into the escarpment beneath us—Rose reined in her horse. ‘On a clear day like this,’ she said, pointing at the panorama with her whip, ‘you can see six counties.’ We paused, drinking in the scenery until our impatient mounts began to toss their heads and stamp their feet. Rose took us back onto the Ridgeway—the oldest route in Europe—and led us down another of the tracks that criss-cross these chalk uplands. George—true to Rhydian’s word—was a perfect gentleman, responding to the slightest squeeze of the reins. Any nerves dissipated halfway through the first of many exhilarating canters over the springy turf. We had the lonely hills almost to ourselves, save for the odd cyclist or dog-walker, the yellowhammers that flitted across our path and the red kites that soared high over the Ridgeway, looking for their next, unsuspecting meal. 

Lunch was at a farmhouse by Seven Barrows, the ancient burial mounds near Lambourn. Kirsten met us with bottles of chilled rosé, and a groom was on hand to help tether and water the horses. Afterwards, we passed the racing yard of the trainer Nicky Henderson. Sleek racehorses stood swishing their tails beneath the trees, forming compositions reminiscent of a Stubbs painting. Back at Woolley Park, weary and ravenous after a long day in the saddle, it was a joy to discover that massages had been arranged for us. Fully revived after a long soak in a rolltop bath, I dressed for a formal dinner of smoked salmon soufflé, local venison and summer pudding in the grand dining-room, followed by brandy, coffee and chocolates beside the library fire. Rhydian, a great raconteur, entertained us late into the evening with evocative stories.

On the second day, we headed east, through beech woods and pretty downland villages, the hedgerows frothing with Queen Anne’s lace and elderflower. Trotting through Farnborough, we passed the enchanting Old Rectory, once the home of the 20th-century Poet Laureate John Betjeman, whose writing captured the charms and idiosyncrasies of this country, once declaring that for him it stood for ‘eccentric incumbents […] modest village inns, arguments about cow parsley on the altar.’ The third and final morning saw our cavalcade go charging up the hill beside Kirsten’s gallops, where four Derby winners have been trained—a life-affirming experience, after which I slept better than I had done in months. ‘It’s Vitamin H,’ a friend messaged, referring to my four-legged therapist. And I remembered something that Benjamin Disraeli is supposed to have said: ‘A canter is a cure for every evil.’

A three-night stay with Rose Cameron Rides (www.rosecameronrides.com) at Woolley Park, from £1,200 (approx. ₹1,25,900) a person. Hired horses for experienced riders can be arranged for an additional £150 (approx. ₹15,800) a day.

This article first appeared in Harper's Bazaar UK in June 2023