Flamingos or horses

At the town of El Rocio two rivers meet and there is a large lake which has not been dried out by the drought. 

I stood transfixed, my back to the town, with my binoculars fixed on flocks of flamingos (flamencos) and spoonbills, glossy Ibis and black winged stilt. (I could go on. And on.)

However, gradually I became aware of lots of gallopy and trotty  noises  behind me. My assumption had been that El Rocio would be famed for its flamingos and that's why anybody would visit.

But no, it was the town of horses. Horses are 'farmed' semi-wild here, in a manner similar to New Forest ponies. The streets of the town are composed of sand to suit the horses and many houses have wooden bars for tying your horse outside, like a saloon in a spaghetti western. 

People were taking excursions in horses and traps and riding horses down the street at much higher speed than would be acceptable in a Cotswold town.

My grandfather, who bred horses, would have been in seventh heaven.

The town had thoughtfully provided a wooden rail along the lakeside to divide dozy flamingo watchers like me from crazy equestrians, possibly following previous regrettable incidents.

So I was able to turn back to watching my pink feathered friends in peace.