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A Fine Horse

The snow crunches under the the sturdy Hucul's marbled hooves as fresh flakes drift all around, steady, fat, soon to cover the evidence of our mid-winter ride. I'm riding 'Cyklon', a 9 year old bay, bred for life in the mountains. He is calm and patient, but has a tendency to stop mid-stride for mouthfuls of sparse, dry leaves hanging from the shrubs and trees lining the trail.

tsk, tsk and pull on the reins to get us back underway, sympathizing with the craving for a snack. The landscape is desolate at this time of year. A  gusting wind whistles over the plateau as a white panorama stretches ahead and below us, peppered with brown and black copses of dormant trees, and dark woods in the foothills beyond. It is what sad, poignant poetry looks like. It is death. It is rest. It is a prelude to life.


We're on a 'horseback hill tour' with a group, about an hour's train ride from Cluj, in the village of Stana. The guide told us the horses don't wear shoes because the trapped snow would freeze and the horses would be walking like girls trying on heels for the first time. Then he showed us how to mount the horse, on its left side, while grabbing a hold of the mane for support. A girl asked if pulling on their mane hurt them. No, he said, they'd be biting everyone who got on if it did.


As Cyklon begins to negotiate a steeper part of the trail, I lean back in the saddle, keeping my heels down in the stirrups. He slips a couple of times but he's a good horse and easily finds his footing. I pat him on the side of his long neck, partly with affection, partly because the tips of my fingers are freezing and it feels like it might help. In a Holdenesque moment - induced by the monotony, if I'm being honest - I slouch low into the saddle, my hands on my belly,  and close my eyes trying to imagine it, but glad I'm not actually shot in the gut while riding a horse. 


On the way back, having quickly recovered from the imaginary wounds, it appears the trail mix of leaves has had a laxative effect on our mounts. The horses are flatulating all around and under me. I feel Cyklon's belly rumbling before he drops his lumps of coal on the trail. "Good boy", I say and pat him again. It's always nice to celebrate somebody's accomplishments.

By the time we reach the stable again, my fingers are stiff and frozen in my two pairs of gloves, and my toes might have fallen off. But our host has prepared a delightful meal of large grain couscous, a creamy mushroom stew, and oven roasted chicken in wine. We have tuica, locally brewed fruit liqueurs - which I sample at length - and red wine on the side. Though a terracotta stove is warming the cabin and I already forgot what the cold feels like, it is now the second time in an hour that I can't feel my toes.

As we eat (and drink), our host, Mihaela, tells us about moving here from the city and about the privations of country living, but also about the joys of a life surrounded by nature. As she says this, I notice a couple of tabby cats and a furry little dog making themselves comfortable on the bench, casually eyeing the bare chicken bones and leftovers.


Mihaela continues her stories, telling us about their returning tourists, about stubborn, overweight tourists, and about the week-long horse trekking excursions they organize in the summer, when they guide groups of travelers over Transylvania's hills and valleys. I sip on the tuica thinking about how life is truly about the simple things: meals with family and friends, good, clean air, and a fine horse under you.

Comments

  1. How lovely! I'm a lifelong rider and reader, your prose is a pleasure.

    ReplyDelete

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