Backpackers' diaries: horse riding in Mongolia

In Mongolian," Ganbaa explains, "the word for "ride a horse" and "fall off a horse" is the same."

Gulp.

My son and I are in Hatgal, a cluster of log cabins and gers, the felt tents the Turks call yurts and the Chinese call "Mongolian buns", from where we will ride to visit Mongolia's only reindeer herders, the Tsaatan, and back. Ganbaa, our host, is looking after most of the arrangements.

This will be by far the longest horseback trip either Zac and I have done, in a sparsely populated part of the world's least densely populated independent country. But Mongolia, the home of Genghis Khan, where herds of horses still roam the plains, where riding rests so deep within its culture that election candidates are photographed astride galloping stallions, is definitely the place to do it.

Ganbaa and I look at maps and negotiate prices while Zac and Ganbaa's older daughter entertain themselves with chess, ball games, climbing all over a log cabin that's currently being assembled, and playing with the baby.

I trawl around town for provisions, in particular vegetables (which rural Mongolians treat more as a tourist curio or, at best, a garnish, than as any part of a sensible diet), meat (a rarity since in summer rural Mongolians eat dairy), and gifts for the herders we will meet along the way.

Bata, our guide, arrives in a splendid brown and gold robe and a suede cowboy hat. He is trailing two grown sons, three horses and an epic vodka hangover, from his birthday celebrations the night before.

"A few points about Mongolian horses," says Ganbaa. "You always approach them from the left and mount from the left, or they will rear."

I head instinctively to the right of mine. He rears, panicking Zac's three-year-old horse.

Gulp.

A bit more guidance on Mongolian riding and we're off, through larch forest and wildflowers, to a ger for salt tea, bread with clotted cream and the loan of a phrasebook, then over the hills to Lake Hovsgol and our campsite for the evening.

Despite the antics of our packhorse, a creature so strong-willed we christen him Satan, the riding is idyllic. As is the ger we sleep at the next night.

We fall easily into a simple, timeless rhythm of eating, riding, eating, riding, setting camp, cooking dinner, sleeping, breaking camp and riding. Snow-capped mountains mark the Russian border ahead of us; the reflections in the lake are ever-changing, the wildflowers are getting richer by the day and our pidgin Mongolian is improving rapidly with practice.

• MS Guesthouse is the first ger camp as you enter Hatgal from Mörön. Contact Ganbaa on +976 9979 6030 or lake_hovsgol@yahoo.com. Theodora blogs at escapeartistes.com. Zac blogs, rather less frequently, at kidventurer.com