Do not jig,' said Osvaldo the tango-teacher severely. ‘The tango is a dance where your feet must caress the floor. It is a kind of walking.'

For two nights and a steamy afternoon in Buenos Aires dance-halls my wife and I, novice tangueros , had tried to make our kind of walking as stylish as that of the couples circling in sinuous complicity around us.

It was no good. Every time we thought we were getting the hang of it, some smiling local or his nifty-footed partner would lean across and say kindly, ‘Don't worry. It takes many years to comprehend the tango.'

If we were not to stand out as gringo clodhoppers when we came back to BA in ten days' time, we would plainly have to practise steps in our estancia destination. As an additional measure, Valerie ordered two pairs of hand-made tango shoes to be ready on our return. They, surely, would help her feet caress the floor.

We had come to Argentina for tango, horses and, of course, beef, three things for which the country is uniquely renowned. We'd made a shaky start with the dancing, a far more robust one with regard to the magnificent meat, which required no special skills to appreciate.

Right now, however, we were on horseback in gaucho country, 500 miles north of Buenos Aires.

We had swapped our dancing shoes for stiff leather chaps and wide-brimmed sombreros. The chaps were for protection against thorn-bushes and acacias, or conceivably a pouncing puma; the hats to prevent our heads igniting in the ferocious sun.

We had been in the saddle for about three hours. Back in England, for infrequent riders such as ourselves, that would have been quite enough bottom-bruising for a first day on horseback.

But here at the Estancia Los Potreros, a working cattle farm in the high sierras of Cordoba, under azure skies and mounted on the most marvellous horses in the world, we felt we could go on riding until sunset - which, with several languid breaks, is exactly what we did.

It struck me that my horse, Sol, would make an excellent tango dancer. He was handsome, courteous and sure-footed. Being of ancient Peruvian descent, untainted by the Arab stock which has been in the genes of most western horseflesh since the 16 th century, he had also retained the pre-Moorish Spanish paso , the gait, or what Osvaldo the tango-teacher would call a kind of walking.

Where other horses trot, Sol walks, as fast and as smooth as if he were on castors, changing up into a silky canter as required. One felt one could ride him for days without the slightest fatigue, drink wine in the saddle without spilling a drop. Indeed, even dance with him.

Above us, the sky was immense. Eagles, vultures and the occasional condor rode the hot breeze with lazy nonchalance. Below, the horses detonated astonishing bursts of minty, sagey, lemony scent from the herbs and grasses crushed beneath their hooves, which mingled deliciously with the smell of sweat and leather.

‘Que mas quieres?' said my wife, looking down at the vast green plains of the pampas spreading south to the horizon. ‘What more could you ask for?' The 4,500 foot summit where we'd stopped our horses to admire the view, the highest point on the estancia , was aptly named: we were literally on Top of the World.

Los Potreros has belonged to the same Anglo-Argentine family, the Beggs, for four generations. There was a farm here back in the 1600s, breeding mules for the silver mines in Peru. But today it is home to 1,000 head of purebred Aberdeen Angus and 100 riding horses which are also used for working the cattle, so anything but hacks.

Some are Peruvians, like my horse Sol, others native Argentine Criollos, like the amiable but unfortunately named Cheese Face. All the horses we rode (guests are encouraged to try different mounts) were tirelessly lively, but also biddable and, thanks to our sheepskin-covered saddles, supremely comfortable to ride.

Thus we lived a pampered version of the gaucho life, spending most of the day in the saddle, with breaks for lunch or a swim in a rock-pool, but returning to the homestead in the evening for a bath, sundowners on the verandah and a splendid dinner en famille.

Los Potreros is not an estancia in the grand style, with shaven lawns and polo fields. There are dogs, geese and hens all over the place. You are woken at sunrise by cockerels and parakeets. You help yourself to drinks and wear what you please.

Robin Begg, his wife Teleri and his brother Kevin treat their guests as friends. So do the cheery and obliging staff, some of whom sang folk-songs for us one evening along with a pair of jovial musicians from the village.

‘Esta en su casa,' said our hosts and we did indeed feel we were in our own home, though a wonderfully exotic version of it, what with the condors and the horses and 400,000 acres of sunlit sierras over which to ride them.

Buenos Aires is a good city for walking in. The economy may be on crutches and you see urchins sifting through rubbish bins or juggling for tips at traffic lights. But there are fewer beggars and much less litter than in London, the streets are abuzz with black and yellow taxis, the pavements thronged, the women chic.

Back in Buenos Aires we were in a different hotel, the Plaza, traditional, central and with the bonus of a charming outdoor pool overlooking a plaza. Here we waited for the new tango shoes to be delivered.

Trevor Grove
Daily Mail England