The Eighth Tribe, 1978 (5. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1978-05-01 / 5. szám
Page 8 THE EIGHTH TRIBE May, 1978 sincere friendliness and a willingness to help. We ate heartily, beginning with squares of Bryndza, a soft white cheese, covered with a sauce and served with rice. The dish was so delicate that I misled the party into thinking it was fish! Next came scallops of pork in paprika sauce with local mushrooms. Memorable morello cherries that had been cooked in their own juices completed the dinner. We tasted our first Riesling, a Szentgyörgyhegyi, full-bodied and pleasant with the bouquet of mignonette flowers. I preferred such a white wine with the paprika dishes; others, however, ordered Nagyburgundi of Villáni, a heavy red wine. Later we were led down to the hotel’s cave, rather like the Minotaur maidens taken through the labyrinth to the bull. Night life in wine cellars or medieval caves seems an essential part of the Hungarian existence. Mellowed by Tokay, we listened to a small Gypsy group. The next morning as we rode out through the village three young Russian soldiers with guns slung across their backs cycled alongside. We took no notice of them, and they pretended to take no notice of us. The houses in the village were low-lying and narrow. The original ones are thatched in reed with overhanging eaves. Those that have been kept as they were are little gems; the modern substitutes destroy the architectural lines. The houses lie, strangely, at right angles to the road; the windows are small, and the doors are double-barn type. In front of some, wells still stand and provide water for the families. Soon we were trotting and wearing off any stiffness; even the members of the party who owned horses and rode every day looked a little set at the beginning of the morning. We turned off into the fields where the grass was scattered with flowers—delicate harebells, chicory, and scabious, as well as a profusion of vetch, ragged robin, hound’stongue, and many more. We rode on through a forest where the trees were first growth and gnarled, a rare sight anywhere in the world today. Their branches, laden with foliage, let through little light, an occasional shaft of sunshine gold-edged uncurling ferns, and the area seemed ancient and magical. We rode in and out of forest and field. Our horses went well, snuffling when we tracked back into the woodlands. It was hot, but we were so interested in the horses, our riding, and the scenery that we didn’t feel the effect of the exceptional summer temperatures. It was incredibly romantic, like part of a fairy tale. Suddenly the trees gave way to a clearing. There in the middle of a few huddled huts we interrupted a medieval scene: Geese hissed, two pigs rolled in thick mud, Bantam chickens clucked, and a sturdy woman hung clothes on a line. The rest of the village scrutinized us. The horses took no notice whatsoever; they just picked their way through the families, and we followed a nearby path. Despite the fact that Ernő leads the tours fortnightly he didn’t know which way to go when we reached a crossing. He consulted his worn map, which didn’t seem to help, and then left us and rode back to the hamlet. We tried to keep our horses in the shade and let them graze. Ernő returned; we followed. It was incredible how well the horses responded, all but a little chestnut, who balked a bit, changed direction on the path, and took the upper road. We came to a hayfield where the hay was made in the old-fashioned hand way, pitchforked into piles. At the top of a hill a family was picking something and putting it into soft bags. The grooms, who had been disciplined and reserved, began to laugh and with great glee galloped up the hill. They plucked at the trees, grabbing high and fighting for the best fruits. They gamboled and teased each other. As we drew close I saw that the group was picking morello cherries. We slaked our thirst on the luscious fruit for which Hungary is justly famous. The horses walked over the brow of the hill and then down a steep, heavily rutted slope, surefootedly picking their way over ground that was as hard as concrete. At the bottom, unexpectedly, we rode along the edge of a sheer sandy cliff. The Master again decided we were going the wrong way. Marianna told me he scolded us in German, saying what hopeless riders we all were and how it was our fault that we were lost. A large herd of sheep clustered together in the forest’s shade. Ernő called for the shepherd, but no one replied. He turned his horse and urged us to follow. He rode down the precipice, then showed us how to lean forward as we came up the other side clasping our hands in front of the horse’s neck. In turn, I followed close behind Ernő, faithfully executing his instructions but fleetingly wondering how I was ever going to get back up over that cliffside. I didn’t have to worry; I leaned forward at the top, clasped Sobri, and he did the rest. I didn’t even jolt out of the saddle, his pace was so good. I turned him around and watched the rest of the troop perform the exercise. Everybody was successful, yet when we were all gathered together afterward in a posse I heard a barely audible sigh escape from everybody’s lips. We followed Ernő until without warning we met the main Budapest-Vienna highway. The grooms took the horses, and we went into a birkacsárda, a thatched building that serves motor travelers. We had been in the saddle for almost four hours. I found I was so stiff that I couldn’t sit still on the high-backed chair. I drank mineral water, picked at my food, then practiced deep breaths. Sari noticed and suggested that I take my “rest” afternoon—apparently we all were entitled to one. We gratefully climbed onto the bus with András Bácsi and László while Miklós happily jumped onto Sobri. We drove to the next collective farm. I went along with András Bácsi to watch how he prepared for the horses’ arrival; there is perhaps more behindthe-scenes work with horses than with any other animal. The stable was part of a cow shed. At one side were the Magyar Tarka, a Hungarian breed of cow that provides both milk and beef, and across the passageway were empty stalls for the horses. Our team had to clean up after the last cows. Soon everything was scrubbed down, the straw bedding was scattered, and the hay ready in the mangers. I couldn’t imagine that any Thoroughbred would walk quietly into those cow stalls. Sári and I spread a rug in a quiet spot overlooking a magnificent expanse of agricultural land and awaited the riders. As the sun slipped over the horizon, night aromas of hay tickled my nose. A shepherd wandered by with his bleating woolly flock and bedded them down for the night. Sári reminisced about the first organized riding tour when the riders were expected to sleep in the barns. Our riders arrived; to my amazement the horses walked into the cow shed and quickly settled down without demur. The next morning dawned cooler and bright. We quickly mounted and rode out through the farmyard, down an escarpment that even made the horses blow their nostrils, and on into the magnificent vista I had enjoyed the evening before: acre upon acre of rolling farmland with wheat swaying in the light breeze as it ripened to a golden
