I promised him that, on good authority, this would be different. For a start, it's run bareback . Between local neighbourhoods, or contradas, in Siena. Held in the town square. Since the 11th century. That got him.
It was also the only bank holiday of the summer - Ferragosto, or the feast of the Assumption of the Virgin (although literally translated it's just 'iron August'. Who knows with these italians), so I was joyous as we hopped another early morning train for my first glimpse of Tuscany. I got shivers as the train slid through the vineyards of Montepulciano, home of the famed 'super Tuscan' red wines, and again as we pulled into the station at the foot of a rocky outcrop that has the city perched on top, almost entirely contained in its old walls, the population never the same since the plague of '48 (that's erm 1348, when two thirds of the 60,000 townsfolk died).
We dumped our bags at the hotel and caught a bus up the winding roads, through the city gates, to the edge of the beautiful old town centre.
The first thing we noticed was how clean the place is, with street after street swept clean of litter. And water fountains that can be turned on and off (wasting less water than Rome), tidy restaurant tables lining the streets, shops laden with hams and cheeses, panforte, almond biscuits. But cool, despite the baking sun. We decided we liked what we saw and headed for the centre of the fun: the Campo.
We found it in the middle of celebrating lunch, more tables pulled up over the racecourse (a dirt overlay on the rock hard cobbles) with barriers for the crowds to pack behind as the race drew near.
Fed and watered, our next job was to pick contradas and get scarves. The Sienese are said to be remarkably standoffish - after the constant pushiness of Rome and Naples, we enjoyed being left alone. The Sienese, even at a major event, were refreshingly uncommercial and intent only on getting on with their horserace. You could join in or not. Suit yourself.
So we joined in, finding a very helpful chap to made sure our contradas actually had horses running this week (only 10 out of the 17 get a guernsey), and that they weren't 'sworn enemies' of one another. Ants, determined to have 'the one with Cundall colours' of red yellow and blue, ended up with the chioccola (the snails!! haha!) while I already knew I wanted the porcupines - or Istrichi. 
The best bit about this race is that there are actually three days of practice races beforehand. The buildup just for the Saturday was impressive enough: thousands of people packed the Campo (luckily we'd been tipped off and arrived early enough to score a spot near the inner barrier). There was pomp and ceremony that descended into pure exitement: a troop of mounted cavalry who trotted regally around the ring ...then at a signal, as one they levelled their swords and spurred their horses to a gallop as they thundered around again to cheers and screams and the rising adrenaline of the crowd, blades flashing silver in the sun as they disappeared down an alley as quickly as they'd appeared.
Then came the horses , round once and into the 'barrier' - a set of two ropes across the track. The session itself was over in minutes: three quick laps, two falls and suddenly every bloke in a scarf is over the barrier in flash to protect 'his' contrada's horse and stop anyone else from sabotage.
We were thrilled to bits as we went in search of the famous tuscan papardelle with hare sauce, and couldn't wait for the morning.
On Sunday we hit town early and parted company, to find our respective contradas. I'll confess now, I picked mine cos I knew where it was on the map. The Istrici control one of the main gates into the town, and the whole contrada was decked out wtih banners, and people wearing scarves.
After wandering some very quiet streets for ages, I finally found where the horses and local dignitaries were being prepared for the parade, and the local guild hall, where the in crowd were, once again, doing the serious business of lunch. 
Finally, the horse appeared and we all crowded into the church while the beasty was blessed, a cheer going up when he lifted his tail and shat in front of the alter - supposedly a sign of good luck.
Ants and I were texting each other madly by this stage at all the sights we'd seen, and finally reunited amid contrada supporters converging, in full medieval regalia, on the campo. There were drummers and pipers, knights on horses, foot soldiers in full plate, flag bearers tossing their standards metres into the air and catching them as they fell. 
And there were these magnificent beasties, 6 in all, and a massive timber dray, dark with age and festooned with banners, to carry the mayor and the Signoria (the freemen of the city council) on their lap of honour.
We scored a spot by the barriers again, and watched the Campo fill to almost bursting, with a good natured crowd, tens of thousands strong, and hardly a drunk in sight (sooo ouldn't happen if you had a 3 day outdoor party in the streets of any town in Aus, England or Kiwiland!)
We were excited as the parade started.....
... although two hours later, when it still wasn't done, we were ready for it to finish... Finally, the moment we'd hoped to see again - the cavalry soldiers trotted out, blades perfectly vertical, faces perfectly composed......
... until they reached that perfect moment, when the captain levelled his sword, the riders erupted in whoops and ear-to-ear grins, and the roar of the crowd rose audibly, tangibly, like a wave cresting in 30,000 ribcages. Forget concerts, or fireworks, this is the most thrilling public display you will ever see or feel.
And then we waited some more. At last, the horses came out, they hung about at their barriers, the 9 in front waiting for the 1 behind who starts them off - the one behind waiting for the 9 in front to arrange themselves in a postion that gives him an advantage. It's a massive exercise in patience.
Three false starts later, Antsy got tetchy, and suddenly it was nearly dark - and then they were off!! Again the crowd's emotion rose as one solid wall, cheering, whistling, willing their horses on, groaning audibly as one, then two, then three riders came crashing to earth (no barrier to the horse winning, the rider is just there for show, when alls said and done!) 
Out of nowhere, the Owls, who hadn't won for 60 years, broke free, followed by Anthony's Snails and my beloved Istrici (making Antsy's horse 'first loser', which apparently is worse than being last!). But the crowd went wild before dispersing, we went for another amazing dinner (this time I braved 'bruschetta toscana' which did, as I had feared and suspected it might, taste suspicously of liver. Bloody good but).
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