The Eighth Tribe, 1978 (5. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1978-05-01 / 5. szám
May, 1978 THE EIGHTH TRIBE Page 9 hue in the warm sunshine. We rode by gardens where large squash lay ready for harvesting and beans sprawled along the ground. On the hillsides women were tending grapes; the young girls worked in their bikinis while the older women preferred the old-fashioned covered look of sprigged cotton skirts, blouses, and kerchiefs. We galloped wherever the terrain was suitable, but we slowed up when we saw a stork fishing in a small stream. At one point Ernő tried to persuade his horse to jump the stream, but the horse balked at the muddy banks. Farther on, after a good whack of the whip, the horse sailed over only to land in the soft soil and flounder hopelessly. Hungarian horses have a strong sense of survival. My husband followed. His horse jumped well but stepped back wallowing in sludge up to its belly. I was about to attempt the jump, but when the other riders turned and galloped the full mile back to where there was a bridge, I decided to follow. We rode on and on until we reached the edge of a cornfield. Wherever we had ridden even the smallest stalk of corn was treated with reverence, its growth and maturity representing food and the fruition of hard labor. Then we were trotting single file downhill through ripe wheat, and I can still hear the rustle and smell the scent as we crushed the wheat. Ernő told us to look back. We saw a single straight line the width of two horse’s hooves going through the field. We rode past a cluster of houses; children ran out and followed us through several fields. For days we did not cross a road, and, apart from two combines, we saw no vehicles. We trotted through a field of musky-scented chamomile grown for tea. We let the horses graze on vetch. I had always been trained not to allow horses to eat when they are bridled, but because of the hard work these animals endure each summer Ernő gave them a chance at each good patch of thick green grass we encountered. Just when we thought we would never reach our destination I saw the friendly blue bus with the picnic set out in a most pleasing spot, the clock turned back 150 years. Behind an avenue of beech trees were low white farm buildings, reed-thatched like the peasant houses; sand-and-cream-colored cows lowed in the corrals, and butterflies flitted in the hay. The farm, we were told, had been the 1810 model institute of Count Bajna Sándor Mark, Metternich’s son-in-law. We slaked our thirst with a Riesling mixed—according to local custom—with soda water. We sat on the grass to eat a fantastic cherry soup; Esterházy rostélyos, succulent beef steaks cooked with vegetables, paprika, and sour cream; a cold plate of salami; Ostyepka, a cheese that looks like a miniature ham; and bread still warm from the State Bakery. We lay on piles of hay; its scent and the warm sunshine helped lull us to sleep. That evening we were invited to cook over an open fire as the Hungarian cowboys and shepherds had done at csárdák (country inns). As we walked through the fields, the new moon rose and hung suspended just above a reed-thatched folly; it gave the entire panorama an aura of exquisite romance. We started the fire in a pit surrounded by whitewashed bricks. As it burned we drank an apricot-flavored apéritif called Hubertus, said to be a favorite of hunters. I found its fruity flavor delicious; but it was strong, and after a few sips I decided I’d better help by slicing the onions and cutting the pork fat. When the embers were red we speared the pork and onions at the end of willow twigs and held them over the fire. As soon as the pork was seared crisp we put it and the onions on pieces of bread and munched every rich scrap. Some people rode back in the bus, but we preferred to walk through the fields of damp grass with the mists from the river swirling around us. Back at the inn, to our surprise, we were ushered down to the cellars for a proper meal: rabló-hús (robber’s meat), lamb threaded on skewers with mushrooms, peppers, and onions, served on a bed of rice with a crisp white cabbage salad. An earthy red Soproni Kékfrankos came in the local green pottery mugs. Although we were riding a minimum of six hours a day the virgin scenery and new experiences were so enjoyable that it didn’t seem long enough. One morning, however, we rebelled against being treated like raw cavalry recruits by a Master in a world set apart from us. As we went to collect the hay and oats for the horses we made a plan. When the bus stopped we jumped out and lined up, tallest on the right, shortest on the left. As Ernő emerged we stood at attention and saluted. He looked a bit askance, then returned our salute, and everybody laughed. After that he was relaxed and friendly. On one ride we crossed a hayfield where two horses were pulling a hayrack. We had to walk because the horses wanted to follow us, and the farmer held them carefully. They looked extraordinarily well-bred to be doing farm work; their legs were slim and unusually well formed. Because of State-controlled breeding they might have been relatives of the horses we rode. We got lost again, this time in small trees interspersed with tall grass. A fence of seven feet, which even Ernő didn’t attempt to jump, separated us from the rest of our journey. At moments like these I was never quite sure if the Master really knew the way and was testing our power of observation or sense of adventure. Eventually we went back through the woods and out by another path. We crossed wide-open areas surrounded by tree-covered mountain peaks, which reminded me of Wyoming. From the top of a small ridge we viewed the valley, far distant mountains, and neverending forested terrain. Ernő stood there and waved his arm with a sense of drama that is uniquely Hungarian. The picnic that day was set under willows by a Danube tributary. We could see the trees, but it took several miles of fast trotting and galloping over the marsh before we could find where the food was set out. We gratefully slid from our horses and rested on the banks of the river. Some of the party took off their riding clothes and jumped from the top of the steep banks into the water. The horses, bothered by insect bites, were sprayed or rubbed down with repellent. As soon as we were seated in the shade we drank a Badacsonyi Olaszrizling, a full-bodied wine, which refreshed us for the meal. We feasted on bean soup, succulent cold chicken with fresh tarragon sauce, disznó paprikásszelet (pork chops with paprika sauce) served with káposztás palacsinták (light pancakes stuffed with cabbage), and Rigó Jancsi, a rich chocolate spongecake said to be named after a Gypsy who married an American heiress. These picnics were among the most delightful aspects of the tour: the carefully chosen sites, the horses standing nearby, and the meal more than just a matter of eating. Ernő gave his usual yell, András Bácsi in next to no time had the horses saddled, and we were galloping along the willow path that ran beside the Danube. As we neared Esztergom, the former royal seat and center of the Catholic Church of Hungary, we could see on Castle Hill the remains of the Arpáds palace, birthplace of King Ste
