Jerez next to Cádiz holds an annual Fería de los Caballos - Horse Festival - every May. These horses boast pure Persian lineage and are very fine. Horseman and horse walk with immense dignity through the sherry and orange tree lined streets, horses quivering in the excitement of the moment, Flamenco guitars emanating from bars and balconies.

Horse riding through the Sierra and Natural Park is more intimate and can be what you make it: an hour, una mañana sola, an afternoon, or an entire day. This is a fabulous experience. It is also personal and you are not grouped in with a tourist package. Let's be clear that Zahara de la Sierra is not crammed with tourists - ever, there are just a handful of new faces that arrive every day.

The guide - El Caballero - is called Santiago who looks and dresses the part - dark, bristly, cheekily dressed in a waistcoat, leather belt and cowboy boots, sombrero in his hand, or round his neck.

He is flexible about routes, hours, prices and generally a well humoured chap. He prepares sandwiches for the trip, if it's a day's excursion, along with a leather bag containing local young wine - mostro.

When I went with him he took me along the edges of the embalse, we then began to climb a luscious green valley with mountain springs, palmas reales, fruit trees, Spanish caña and olivares. At the top we crossed over a mountain flank and dropped into the ancient Pinsapar forest.

Here the density of the forest and wind in the trees caused the mood to change, talking ceased overtaken by thoughts, the rhythm of the horse's hooves and the overhead cries of los buitres leonados: a true wonder.

Here we saw wild bulls, eagles, an owl, millions of wild irises - los lirios, circling vultures and mountain deer on treacherous scree. This is where we stopped to eat and I produced a bottle of La Rioja vino tinto - this is when Santiago's eyes lit up.

He soon polished off his mostro, filling his mouth with jets of the violet coloured liquid squeezed from his leather wine pouch. And most of La Rioja thereafter. He then declared that we should change course, head for Grazalema, drink more and let the horses take us home over the Pinsapar ridge, dropping from 2000 metres to Zahara, guided by moon and starlight. "They know the route," he assured me.

The extended hours came at no further cost. "Vamos amigos," he declared and mounted before a reply was offered.

Up yet further we went.

The whole day, evening and into the early hours on horseback forced me to tread with caution the following day. But riding at night through the Pinsapar toward an Arabic hilltop village made me feel like Butch and Sundance all in one - and they are my greatest heroes ever.

Last time that I visited Zahara, Santiago was boasting his new poster, business card, web site and e-mail. But I do not remember him ever muttering a word of English, so bear that in mind. This is a fantastic experience and had at no great expense.