On Monday night I was lucky enough to read an extract from my book at The Chelsea Arts Club. As a member for six years this was a great honor and I hope for those that filled the Ladies Bar it was a fun and interesting evening. 

As Nueva España expanded a demand for beef and leather amongst its new inhabitants grew and as well as horses domesticated cattle were also introduced to the New World. Enterprising and wealthy colonial landowners filled their new ranches with cattle but far too important to do the work themselves they trained local men in the skills needed to control these swelling herds on horseback. These cattle hands became know as vaqueros and as the enterprise of cattle ranching extended further into central and northern Mexico so did the gutsy traditions and colourful folklore of these men. During and after the Mexican–American War in the 1840s the customs of the vaquero were absorbed by settlers in California Texas and the southern United States who borrowed their ranching skills distinctive and functional attire and their vocabulary. The term ‘buckaroo’ is the anglicised pronunciation of vaquero.

Months before pedalling into the northern states of Mexico I had experienced first-hand the hard-drinking hard-riding testicle-chewing cowboys of America’s Midwest and I thought I had seen the real McCoy. But cycling further into the state of Sinaloa on Mexico’s north-west coast it became very clear I was now riding into real cowboy country.

Today the vaqueros of modern Mexico are known as charros and when I wasn’t being passed by open trailers packed tight with baying cattle trailing their rich stench of manure posses of hard-faced moustachioed men clip-clopped past me on proud horses decked out in black or white sombreros gleaming spurs high-cut boots leather chaps and ornate belt buckles. 

Sitting bolt upright in their worn saddles with one hand they controlled their steeds with gentle tugs on the reins. The other arm hung nonchalantly behind. The machetes lassoes and blankets that hung from their saddles made it clear these men were working cowboys. Their horse was their livelihood and their weather-beaten worn-out attire was not a costume worn at weekends as a testament to a dying culture but the most practical clothing for days in the saddle driving cattle under a blazing sun. 

Cantina de Vaquero. Carne Asada. 4km 

It was the end of a steamy day’s cycling and the abundant cattle flies and mosquitoes had begun their evening blood hunt. Fed up with the perpetual stings and bites I pulled off the road and followed the dusty trail away from the highway towards the Cantina de Vaquero in the hope that it might be a suitable place to eat and