Droving in the Carpathian mountains

Horse Trails & Horse Tails

By Julian Ross

The sun rose swiftly,
......liquid red through the thin haze above the long whale-backed ridge of the Obcina Mare. Darkness fled from the wide valley below me to the east, for a few moments all was still, and then the scene came to life. Thin grey smoke rose vertically from a dozen cottage chimneys, cows were driven out to water in ones and twos, and the occasional shout of a man and bark of a dog rang through the cool morning air.

Outside the cabana
.....where we had spent the night, our horses were being prepared by three very different men. Cornel, the leader of the group, was a lean lithe man in his mid-thirties, indeed the kind of jack-of-all-trades who is so useful in a village yet nowadays so rare. Helping him, whilst pretending nevertheless to ignore him, were the two eighteen year-olds, Nelu and Oprea. Nelu, a forester's son, was a short yet stocky lad full of energy and banter. Oprea was a larger fellow, seemingly slower-witted yet possessed of peasant cunning, and one of life's great survivors. With greater co-operation than the apparent chaos of three men moving in different directions without any clear organization, a dozen horses were taken in turn to a trough to be watered then given hay where they were tied along a timber post and rail fence. Several saddles and bridles were fetched out of a shed, dumped onto the grass in a mound, and then sifted through and taken to the horses that had been selected for riding. From a doorway, the caretaker of the cabana, a weasily old man who was later found to have stolen part of a bridle and a whip, stared at the proceedings without offering to help.

Cornel, a green felt trilby covering the greasy grey-streaked black hair
.....that would characteristically be plastered to his skull, paused and
lit a cigarette. That remarkable man could drink a cup of coffee for
breakfast and then sustain himself until eveningby smoking a succession
of strong filterless cigarettes, seemingly cheerful throughout. He
walked up, ascertained from me that I would be riding the old wise
gelding Marcu (a fact of which he was already well aware), and took the
opportunity to stand and survey the scene.

In front of us,
.....high on the side of a grassy hill in the slanting golden rays of an early summer morning sun, a dozen assorted horses stood tied. They were a mixed bag, ranging from small bay and black Hutul mares through three roan part-breds, to larger light draught types. My bay Marcu was one of these draught horses, an attractive animal who looked better under saddle or pulling a carriage than toiling with a humble farm cart. Nelu turned around and asked cheekily "when Domnul Cornel would do some work?" The peasants are accustomed to call one-another by the formal "mister", a habit calculated to avoid any slight caused by undue familiarity. On this occasion, Nelu - who was a relative of Cornel - was being more ironic than formal in a society where blood is thicker than water. Oprea looked on mutely.

Four horses were saddled.

Marcu was prepared for me, a lively bay Hutul for Cornel, a red roan part-bred for Nelu, and a grey light draught horse with more than a little Lipizzaner in him for Oprea. As the attentive son of a village horse dealer, Oprea had the knack of selecting the most valuable horse for himself. The next bit was ticklish. First, Nelu and Oprea released the unsaddled horses and collected their lead ropes, then Cornel swung open the wooden gate to the trackway that bordered the cabana. We mounted smartly and rounded up the loose horses, driving them through the open gateway and off up the track, climbing towards the westward ridge. Cornel shouted at the caretaker to close the gate, for a horseman naturally feels superior to a pedestrian. Nelu whooped and shouted behind, driving the herd forward, whilst Cornel led. Oprea and I stayed near the middle, content to follow the pace of the herd. A puff of grey cigarette smoke from Cornel, hanging bright in the morning sunlight, told me that he was happy with the pace of the ride.

The track was wide enough
.....for two peasant carts each drawn by
two horses to pass, and surfaced crushedstone.
These tracks always are rough in the mountains,
worn not so much by the light traffic but by rainwater
running downhill during the frequent storms. Winter ice plays
its part in damaging road surfaces too, indeed there is hardly a road
in good repair across the whole of the mountains. Wooden post and rail fences
made from roughly hewn timber enclosed the lower stretches of the track, then faltered
and lapsed as the route entered the flatter pastures around the summit. Up here herdsmen
rather than fences constrained grazing animals. Our little herd flowed out over the verges, the loose horses snatching mouthfuls of the thin upland grass as they trotted forward. The grassland,
dotted by isolated groups of pines, rolled away to the margins of the great
deep Carpathian forest. Here and there, sheep grazed. We trotted on.
Droving a group of horses tends to involve moving predominantly
at the trot, at least when the horses are fresh, a jarring pace
that is wearying on the riders yet covers a great
deal of ground compared to walking.

Of the three men
.....accompanying me, I have spent the greatest time with Cornel. Unusually amongst the peasants, he is a man loyal to his employer, indeed a man who would come at any hour to help if called - provided that he is neither drunk nor sleeping off the effects of drink. For, as with not a few peasants, and not just men, the local double-distilled spirit - tuica - is his weakness. This tuica is a strong, crude spirit prepared by a number of villagers and found in almost every house, save for those of the religious fanatics. A peasant may drink a small glass or two of tuica and walk away, after which the strength of the spirit seems to bind him with whatever group he is drinking until quite intoxicated. The power of it temporarily banishes hunger and loosens tongues, making for a convivial evening followed all too often - especially if drinks have been mixed - by a loathsome morning. Many times I have sought Cornel in the morning, only to find him groaning in contrition abed in his small two-room cottage supervised by his disapproving sharp-tongued wife. Yet, like many of the simpler peasants, those less tainted by the commercialization of their country, he is a fundamentally decent man. As I have mentioned, he is versatile in a rural kind of way: able to plough a field, butcher a pig, or put a new handle on an axe. Like many in the countryside, he is confident amongst his peers, yet suddenly shy and awkward when faced by officials. Thus it is that officials are able shamelessly to seek bribes from a malleable peasantry. As Cornel would flatly remark when I asked him a question that he considered beyond his competence, "we shall do as you say", using the formal second person form of "you".

The first village
.....through which we passed, indeed the only village on our route, was Carlibaba - a straggling settlement of one and two-storey wooden houses along two roads that crossed in the centre by a river. Our horses flowed into the village, like a surge of water in a stream, only to be brought to a halt in the centre. Cornel had run out of cigarettes, and needed to purchase a fresh supply of Carpati, the harsh filterless local brand. Nelu and Oprea rode about, shouting and waving in the manner of peasants who work with horses but are not real horsemen, keeping the milling horses from setting off homeward. Villagers stared from yards and windows, curious at this spectacle, unimpressed by two teenage lads barely in control of a small herd of lively horses. Such moments always made me apprehensive, for a horse could dart into a garden in search of food or kick a bystander (who most probably would already have hit the horse to make it move), of course leaving the "foreigner" liable to pay whatever compensation may be due. When there is hope of obtaining money, a peasant generally will exhibit no shame in exaggerating a minor inconvenience into a major cause of loss and distress. Moreover, I have seen elderly peasants - more often the women who could become eaten up by greed and jealousy - swear blind to a policeman that my horses have entered their fields and eaten the crops, when I knew full well (and so did they) that the beasts were a mile or more away and supervised. So, it was with relief that I saw Cornel exit the shop, pockets replenished with cigarettes, and mount. Down the street trotted the horses, over the crossroads, and off up the hill on the far side of the wide, fast river that drained the high mountains to north and west.

Unconsciously
.....we were following a trail blazed by the Mongol Horde back in 1241.
Our route struck directly through the mountains, crossing two long
ridges. The lower, flat-topped Obcina Mestecanis, the so-called "ridge
of the birch trees", I have mentioned. To the west rose the great,
high ridge of Omul, a high bleak place little visited by any except
shepherds and the occasional hiker. The climb takes the traveller from
the rough fields bordering the village, through pine forest, past
windswept sheepfolds, and on up into an alpine world of dwarf pine,
juniper and blueberry. The track becomes grassed over, the hoofprints
few, the litter - for peasants seem incapable of disposing of their
rubbish in bins - infrequent. Horses know when they are headed
homeward, and ours needed little encouragement to keep on moving.
With necks and flanks darkened and shiny with sweat, they climbed
onward, outstripping all save Cornel and Nelu on their speedier mounts.

Clouds gathered

.....and, somewhere to the north, lightning flashed. On these exposed slopes, many are the trees and bushes burnt and blackened by strikes, and it is only the relatively damp climate that prevents disastrous forest fires. Clouds boiled northward into a seething mass of slate grey and purple, and thunder echoed amongst the crags and slopes. Cornel paused and sought my opinion, wary of the consequences of becoming storm-bound, though he knew the mountains better than I. Such is the way with most peasants, unwilling to make a decision for anyone other than themselves, nervous to be blamed for any misfortune occurring to others. Nelu and Oprea simply commented that storms could be dangerous, there being a plethora of local tales of shepherds, carters and animals fatally struck by lightning. On my word, we pushed on, the safest course being to cross the ridge and descend before the storm arrived. This course naturally pleased my companions, for each peasant - like most simple people - is naturally happiest in his home, and of course respects whomsoever is decisive. Add a rational yet simply expressed argument or make a calculation - preferably worked out on paper - and the stereotypical peasant will follow like a lamb. Whereas, for instance, an urban Romanian with a little education will, all too often, "know best" and argue as if on principle against any clear and logical course of action. Give me peasants for travelling companions any day, and spare me from journeys with townspeople! So it was that, hurriedly, we breasted the juniper-strewn ridge and felt the warm west wind on our tanned faces.

The long, high ridge
.....forms an effective barrier to weather patterns. Numerous are the times when I made this journey, climbing in thick cold mist only to cross the watershed and emerge into bright sunshine. Thus it was that a blue sky met us, a panorama of mountain peaks ranged near and far, and a fresh breeze to drive the storm away to the north. We paused a few minutes, the horses to graze, Cornel to smoke, and the two lads to banter as if their energies were inexhaustible. As for me, I drank in the view. Down in the valley at our feet, a winding river glinted in the sun. The scattered houses of a village far below stood surrounded by green and brown strip fields, all hemmed in by mountain slopes. I felt on top of the world. Nearly a millennia before, a band of Mongol scouts had stood in this spot, planning a route to cross the Carpathian range and invade Europe. How had the panorama looked then? More forest and less pasture, perhaps, and fewer dwellings far below? One could but pity the handful of peasants, soon to die, who had lived in the deep winding valley that forms such a natural invasion route.

Leaving his horse grazing
.....on the thin rough grass, Cornel wandered across to talk. With his encylopaedic knowledge of the mountains, and more particularly of which piece of land was owned by whom (therefore which land we could traverse with impunity), he made an interesting and valuable traveling companion. The great smooth pastures wrapped across the southern face of the ridge belonged communally to a variety of villages, land ownership still a relic from Habsburg times, and there are jealousies and feuds to respect. Grazing the wrong patch of scrubby grass was likely to bring forth an irate shepherd, very likely waving an axe, whereas a respectful approach - backed up by a gift of cigarettes - would draw out hospitality and shelter. Cornel possessed the most remarkable eyesight too, could spot soaring birds and lurking wolves in the far distance, and indeed count the numbers of shepherds and sheep on a far quilt of green where I could see only the white blur of a faraway flock. Travelling with him, I was never wanting for a commentary on whose sheep could be seen where, or what wildlife was active at a range where it thought itself safe from our surveillance. Like so many peasants, Cornel was impressed by the high mountains, yet just as attracted by a fast car. A stand of mature trees impressed him, yet equally would that timber receive his appreciation felled and loaded onto trucks. It is a mistake to imagine a peasant as a nature lover as we in the West understand the term. He is close to the earth, his life is regulated by the seasons, and he probably will feel lost in a city. And yet this is the same peasant who throws his household rubbish in the river or paints his house gaudily to create an eyesore for every passer-by. To him, the earth is the means by which he survives, guarantor both of drudgery and of security. He needs the earth, inexorably is linked to it, yet has little intrinsic respect for the soil or that which it brings forth.

"Domnul Julian, down there is Petru's sheepfold",

.....Cornel explained, "that is the Petru who lives up the alley just below the dairy, who was in the army with my cousin from Bistrita, and whose son is in Spain." That summed up the key points of Petru, from Cornel's perspective, the points that distinguished him from the other shepherds inhabiting this wild mountain through the summer. "He's the one building a new house in the village?" I asked. The traditional structure, living quarters to one side and stable to the other separated by a barn, was both impressive and surprisingly traditional for a new construction. Cornel extracted another cheap cigarette from a battered packet, lit it, blew out a little cloud of acrid smoke, and explained "He's a lumberjack during the winter, so he buys his timber cheaply and makes his own pine shingles for the roof." This kind of combination of good fortune, hard work and skill are much admired, just as bad luck and fate are applied to excuse laziness and inability. "I came up here once by motorbike, with my cousin Jacob," Cornel added, "to pick blueberries." In summer the upper reaches of these slopes beyond the sheepfolds are a mass of ripe blueberries, the range of gypsies who emerge from miles around to pick the tiny fruits for sale on the roadside. The work seems unbearably tedious, scraping through the low bushes using wide wooden combs, however the fruits sell for a good price. The shepherds, too busy to perform so thankless a task as harvesting blueberries, yet keen to acquire the fruit (which they use to make afinata, a sweet liquer), leave the gypsies unhindered. "We came up the track there", added Cornel, pointing to the stony zig-zag trail that we would shortly descent with our equine charges. I had a vision of the two men puttering up the hill on an ancient motorcycle, wheels bumping over ruts and pebbles, trail of blue smoke behind. For two men who seldom left their village, especially back then just after the fall of communism, it would have been quite an adventure.

Nelu and Oprea were
.....keen to be off, chaffing at Domnul Cornel to finish his cigarette and mount up. Neither had a long attention span, and this remote place bored them. I untied Marcu's reins from the front of his saddle, put a foot in a stirrup, and clambered aboard the laid-back bay who didn't so much as stop eating. Settling myself into the warm leather saddle, I positioned my feet in the stirrups, gave Marcu a squeeze with my heels to raise his head from the herbage, shortened my reins, and squeezed harder to make him walk on. I love these relaxed peasant horses, patient, unworried, trouble-free. I pointed Marcu down the track as Cornel walked his faster horse ahead and the two boys gathered our small herd of loose horses from their grazing. We still had fifteen tough miles to go - a long descent to cross the old stagecoach road at Suhard Pass where we would find water for our horses, then undulating through thick pine forest and across the bald crown of a hill called Persa meadows where the peasants pasture mares and foals all summer long. From there we would be able to see the last ridge, beyond the steep silent Cucureasa valley, on whose crest a rough wooden cross amidst a wide windswept meadow marked the spot where lightning had felled a shepherd. He had died "long ago", perhaps during the 1950's, his name now forgotten in this place where written history sadly is so rare.

So it was
.....that we passed that weatherbeaten cross in the bright angled rays of early evening sun, our horses' hooves kicking up light grey dust. The gnarled old beech trees lining the clearing stood newly cloaked in bright green, the thin mountain grass well cropped by hundreds of sheep to resemble a smooth verdant blanket draped over an undulating base, the sky a light blue with just a few bubbling clouds on the distant horizon. The passing miles and the breeze had brought us a warm evening. Tired now, our little herd walked on, moving forward with heads low, each horse snatching at the grass with every few steps. Thus they moved easily, eating a little as they went, at a pace that could continue all day. Cornel, Nelu, Oprea and I rode on, each absorbed in his own thoughts. "What are you thinking", I called out? "That soon I shall see my wife and son", Cornel replied without a pause. "I want to drink a beer", added Oprea, "a Ciuc beer - and Nelu is thinking of Uta!" He laughed, and Cornel smiled, Uta being Nelu's long-standing girlfriend, his marriage to whom had been rumoured for a year or more but about which no news has yet escaped. "Vagabond!" cried Nelu, "I want a beer too", but I saw him blush a little.

The sun touched
.....the dragon's back of a ridge to the west, silhouetting the angular scarps and dips darkening against a sky of light blue scattered above the horizon with pink clouds. Slowly the valley retreated into shadow whilst cows were driven home in ones and twos. Thin grey streaks of smoke rose from cottage chimneys, a burst of dance music escaped from a distant radio, a dog barked, a man shouted from above on a hillside applying the odd carrying intonation used by shepherds. On familiar ground again, our horses trotted freely, Nelu and Oprea leading on the roan and the grey. As the youngest, it would be their job to open the yard gates. We crossed the curving railway line, passed a string of farmsteads, heard the piercing whine of steel on timber alongside a tiny sawmill, called out greetings to half a dozen old men occupying a bench outside a rustic bar, and turned onto a dusty road that stood out almost luminous against darkening fields. Through the greying twilight, I saw two youthful figures swiftly dismount, gates swing, loose horses pour into the gravel yard between barn and house. We had arrived.

© Julian Ross, 2009

Looking for a Horse Riding Holiday in North Wales?

If you're thinking of a horse riding holiday why not visit Horse Riding Holidays in North Wales