No hay que ser príncipe para jugar al polo

You don't have to be a prince to play polo
Harry has gone to work on his game in Argentina, and Harriet Perry knows why ? on the pampas, the ponies are priceless, but tuition is cheap

Polo, as you may have guessed, is for toffs. For those of you who don?t frequent polo circles (come on, it?s not something to be embarrassed about), I shall embellish. First, there is the hanger-on toff: almost always the female of the species, in her early twenties, short-skirted, knickerless, double-barrelled and determined to pull a player toff (see below). She is the upper-crust equivalent of a footballer?s wife. She is a Chukka Chick. To see her in action, you must get yourself along to the Cartier International tournament, the Ascot of polo. Be warned: just to park your Bentley/Ferrari/Range Rover (no Vauxhall Corsas here, dear) will set you back £30. If you clear that hurdle, make for the Chinawhite tent. This is where Prince Harry ? the ultimate Chukka Chick magnet ? likes to let his hair down. Second is the player toff.

Just to play polo in England you have to be royalty (Prince Charles) ? or almost (Jodie Kidd). Lessons can cost a princely £100 an hour, but it?s more about who you know than how much cash you can splash. Unless, that is, you are one of the ?hired assassins? ? dashing professional players drafted in from South America to keep up the standard (the equivalent of Ronaldo signing for Gillingham). Third, but not least, there is the owner toff. Along with London football clubs and Formula One racing teams, there is no quicker way to burn money than to own a polo squad. It can cost up to £3m a season, even before entertaining all those Krug-guzzling hangers-on. It?s not for the faint-pocketed.
And that?s polo UK: exclusive, expensive and not us down-to-earth citizens? cup of tea. Or is it? Last summer, I played aristocrat for a day and went to my first polo match, expecting ? like the inverse snob I am ? to hate it. Irritatingly, I loved it. The whole circus was in town ? stick chicks, fops, Rod and Penny, the heir to the throne, Nicholas Parsons. Exciting, but not half as exciting as the game itself. The players were loving it. The horses were loving it. Prince Charles fell off, but he was still clearly loving it. Polo is the most spectacular gallop of a game ? what a shame hoi polloi like us can?t play it. But we can ? and without even needing to launch a proletarian struggle to overthrow the ruling classes. We just get on a plane to South America. And so I did, and flew to Argentina, the best place in the world to learn polo. You don?t even have to take your knickers off. THE ORDER of things is somewhat different on the rolling, green pampas of Cordoba than in the box-hedginess of Hampshire. Estancia La Paz, my home for the week, is an elegant 1830s homestead wrapped in romantic gardens. It is the sort of place you wander around endlessly, gulping in fresh air. Even the fish were breaking the surface of their glassy lake to have a gulp, keenly watched by birds of prey in the surrounding trees. Just driving to that first polo lesson was a treat.

Tree-lined alleys, fields with herds of black cattle nursing their new-born calves, the joy of a November spring morning and views of the Sierra Chica mountains in the distance. In Argentina, the people are in harmony with the land ? they don?t really have a choice. It dominates everything, with its endless rolling hills and mountains, its sweeping forests and vast plains, reminding you what an insignificant little speck you really are. This must all have something to do with why, in Argentina, polo is much more about passion than status. Lucky, really ? though I had landed in Cordoba, my luggage had gone to Mexico. I would be spending my first two days on the polo pitch in pyjamas. Did anyone care? They didn?t even notice ? the only important thing was whether I could hit the ball with the mallet. Which I couldn?t. Within an hour, I was on a pony, swinging that stick under the relaxed supervision of Gustavo and Gustavo, my two suntanned, pearly-toothed instructors. Shaggy-haired Gustavo the younger said, in standard-issue sultry lilt, that I needed to relax. I must not be scared to let go. His eyes twinkled at the prospect of converting an uptight English girl into a laid-back Latina horsewoman. Or maybe they always twinkled. ?Chahrriette ? remember the swing,? he sang, rolling his eyes as I missed the ball again. Still, I was already streets ahead of your average Berkshire beginner. She wouldn?t even be on a horse yet. She?d be sitting indoors on a raised wooden bench. Here I was on one of the best-trained ponies in the world, wearing the worst outfit in the world, with two vast polo pitches at my disposal. ?PERDITA LUNGED forward and, with a one-handed billiard-cue shot, ignoring the pony crashing on her left, she shunted the ball between the posts. She would have fallen beneath the pounding hooves if someone hadn?t grabbed her primrose jersey, ripping it apart in the process so her slim brown shoulder was laid bare ... The next moment Luke had pulled Perdita off Fantasma and into his arms and was kissing her harder than he?d ever hit a sixty-yard penalty.? That?s Jilly Cooper?s Polo. Harriet Perry?s polo was not going quite so rippingly. I was still having trouble hitting the ball. Even my own personal instructor couldn?t turn me into an expert: 10, 20, 30 run-ups, and I just couldn?t crack the proper thwack. I took it slower ? from a canter, down to a trot, through walk, to, let?s be honest, near-stationary.

The horse yawned. Gustavo yawned. The other Gustavo yawned. I didn?t. I was playing polo. There was less yawning on day two. I was cantering easily while hitting the ball ? to the enormous relief of my horse. Once I had mastered the standard shot, Gustavo suggested I go on to the next stage ? the nearside shot. Reins in the left hand, mallet resting on the shoulder, you have to stand up in the stirrups, turn your body sideways, cross your right arm over the left, lean down and swing the mallet parallel to the horse. On my first run, I didn?t even scare the ball. Second time, I kissed it. Third time, I sent it out of the stadium. Well, not quite, but it moved. It definitely moved. Then there was tackling. This is where the injuries happen. As you take your mallet back for the swing, the opposition intercepts and hooks their mallet around yours. Tackling is fun. Being tackled is annoying. Gustavo started swearing at me once I had got the hang of it. Argentinians are scornful about the way we ride. ?The English are mad. They treat their horses like human beings,? said Gustavo 2, when he caught me patting my stunning steed, Cupido. ?But she?s so beautiful,? I whimpered. ?No!? he cut in. ?In Argentina, a horse is an animal, not a pet, and never a friend. If you spoil a horse, she develops movie-star attitudes, she is neurotic, disobedient, oversensitive.? I got to see the true balance of man and unspoilt horse on the fourth day, when the local players met for their weekly practice. The polo pitch was lined with large, gleaming, silver trucks, herds of huddled brown horses and gauchos preparing them for each chukka. The game was more impressive and noble than I had remembered. The players ? behind their plastic face shields ? were like medieval knights in battle, the charging ponies dynamic and dextrous. It was professional ? no chatting, no patting, just serious competition. The horses were as bad as the men. But they were all enjoying themselves. After the game, the eight men sat around a table by the pitch, wearing shades and drinking jungle tea. It was like a scene from The Godfather. Not the sort of group you want to take your fourth lesson in front of. At least I wasn?t in my pyjamas any more. Cupido and I gave it our best shot, and afterwards compliments were abundant. They were impressed. Or just polite.

Or I had misunderstood (I don?t speak much Spanish). By day five, I still wasn?t going to make Jilly Cooper put pen to paper, but I was getting the hang of it. The Gustavos reckoned I wasn?t ready to play a proper match. This is, after all, one of the most dangerous sports in the world. It didn?t matter ? I was happy to practise my dribble, spoil Cupido, improve my swing. I savoured every minute of my last session under the grand, blue sky. Gustavo smiled and said, ?It really looks like you are enjoying yourself.? It was the biggest compliment of the whole week. Back in England I am left with a rather expensive habit. I have phoned a polo club in Surrey and they offered lessons for £100 an hour. I?m considering it. You have been warned.