Transylvanian horseman

Cleaning and shoeing

It's been a busy few days. I've had various things on my mind, so I haven't been diligent about posting. My stomach has been off-colour too, leading to early nights followed by hours of tossing and turning that were unkind to Danielle.

We're in our usual routine of cleaning, bringing fresh sawdust for bedding, and shoeing. Gelu has been busy pulling the tip cart. The weather has been wonderfully mild, the ground thawing so that new layers of previously-frozen manure are ready to be lifted and carted away.

A little way down the road, Gelu is passing a roadshide shrine to someone prematurely deceased. These shrines of painted tin are common throughout this country, and cluster especially around sharp bends, junctions and other hazards that Romanian drivers have difficulty safely negotiating.

The road has become muddy and pot-holed as it does every spring, when the people berate the mayor behind his back for not asphalting this backwater track. In vain, I tell them that the pot-holes slow traffic, knowing that local motorists will speed around crazily on a billiard table-smooth highway.

The forester's three year-old stallion came in for his dinner-plate feet to be shod with spiked creations that would shock Horseshoeing Housewife. For a youngster, he stood up quite well, with one man holding a foot up for the farrier. This is the usual way of working out here.

Hind feet tend to be more difficult, for the horse has by then rather lost patience with the operation. Romanians tend to blame this fidgetting on "the other leg going to sleep" rather than their own performance. This tendency to dodge responsibility is a very Romanian characteristic. Another piece of folklore asserts that weasels climb up the manes of stabled horses, causing the tangles that people in other countries attribute to a lack of grooming.

Back to the shoes, these ones were made by lengthening regular 18mm studs by welding a hexagon nut between each stud and the shoe. This is believed to give the horse "more traction". From what I have seen, wet snow will ball up inside the shoe almost irrespective of how high the studs are, whilst even short tungsten studs are effective on an icy road. At least, prompted by my reminders, Nelu takes care not to drop the heels. This is the usual sin committed by farriers out here, especially when they use a curious local push-knife to pare away from toe to heel.

The completed foot is painted with oil, mainly to make it look smart. It may also be a ploy whereby the farrier can resist any requests to lift the foot again for correction to be made. There can be a reluctance to finish the outside of the foot nicely or rasp away flares, often because the rasp is old and blunt. (My old rasps are sought after for re-use!) However, Nelu receives new rasps for the forge from time to time, so there is no excuse to be slack. I keep the new rasps in the house, because leaving a box of shiny new rasps in the forge would provide just too much temptation for pilfering.

With shoes like this, one takes good care that the horse does not step on one's toe! One has to be on the ball all the time. Even if I feel grim today, with a bad stomach, there is no chance of taking a day off sick. Oh, for the old days back in Britain, when I could phone in sick when I was ill. I didn't get sick often, however knowing that I could lie up in bed when genuinely sick was a comfort. One has to be tough out here on the frontier!

Feline feedstation architecture

The cats are fed outside, at the end of the parking platform where a roof provides shelter. Their bowls for milk and dry food have been raised steadily higher. Now, after a spectacular display of jumping by the small, muscular dog Mina, I have raised the bowls to the highest point yet. In fact, they cannot go any higher. The cats have a ramp to access their lofty new feed station.

This is all necessary because some of the dogs prefer catfood to their own dogfood. At least one cat prefers dogfood, however the dogs seem up to the job of keeping interlopers out of their feed station at ground level.

Two cats say that they need to be well fed in security so that they can help in the office. I'm not sure whether to believe Lucky and Timid, however here they are ready to work.....so they say. Timid came to us when he was not quite young enough to readily get used to being handled. He has always enjoyed hanging around people though. Now he is six, and quite used to us, so he will accept being stroked and even picked up. He is a very familiar figure around here, and enjoys socialising with other cats. Lucky is more an executive toy, fluffy and cute to take away stress. He is extremely loveable, except during rare flatulent moments. Cats are such interesting companions.

Firewood and feed boxes

Over the past few days, we have been busy collecting sawmill offcuts for firewood. Whilst it took just a couple of minutes to drag each load from our neighbour's sawmill, loading the multitude of pieces was a time-consuming business. We jammed some stout pieces in upright to act as bolsters, so that we could load more offcuts onto the cart, an important detail since we were paying by the load. Anyway, our neighbour sees this material as little more than rubbish, a waste product that is worth little, so he is glad to welcome others to cart it away.

Back in the stables, meanwhile, Cornel has been carrying out some renovations. New feed boxes have been added throughout the main stables, making it easier to cater for horses that require additional hard feed. Each position is equipped now with a stall chain and a feed box, so we can secure each horse to eat its particular portion.

Meanwhile, an overnight change in the weather brought more snow. In the afternoon the sky cleared. The wind got up, blowing flurries of snow off the roofs and the trees. As we forked the afternoon hay down from a cart into the hill field, bundles of hay blew downwind like tumbleweed in a Western movie.

Now, evening is freezing beneath a starry sky. Smoke trails from the chimney, white in the moonlight. The snow is crisp beneath my feet as a walk back from watering the three horses in the stable: Kaluga, Rozy and the Arab-Hutul cross foal Toby. It is beautiful outside: fresh and clean.

Midweek on the ranch

The past few days have been frantic. We have discovered, amongst other things, that the comments section of this blog paginates when enough comments are posted.

Thank you to everyone who is supporting the case of the farmers who work with horses. It is encouraging that we have friends abroad who are prepared to stand up for our horses and us. I hope that your letters, and the lobbying that is taking place, will yield a positive result.

Emil expressed well the growing urban-rural divide in Romania. It is quite obvious that some here, even if they live in Romania, are not very accustomed with rural life. That goes beyond visiting some distant relatives for a couple of days. Or commuters who only spend the night in the country......For them, the horse-drawn cart is a symbol of a peasant society they must get rid of as soon as possible, as they get to erase any trace of their own roots to become full Europeans.

Maybe one day things will go full circle, as they have in Britain, to the point where "heritage" is a large and growing industry? However, here in Romania we're looking at people who actually depend on historic activities for their survival. It's very easy, as a visitor, to look on parts of rural Romania as a kind of working museum, as if the quaint customs are part of a great theme park. This may be an understandable mistake amongst tourists who lack prior contact with peasant farming; however it can become a destructive amnesia amongst less imaginitive urban Romanians.

The race to become full Europeans is futile. What is a "European" identity? Britain has a problem with identity, with all her historic baggage of empire, her multi-ethnicity, her decline as a world power. France tries to bolster flagging identity with futile laws to ban religious headgear. Germany has a slim post-1945 identity. National identity seems to have a diminishing role, so how can Europe gain an identity except in a negative way: as a rival to America, Russia or China?

Romania has a turbulent history as parts of other peoples' empires: Austro-Hungary, Turkey, Russia, the Soviet Union. The golden age of Moldavia and Wallachia - the Romanian ethnic heartland - was back in the late 1400's. That's a bit like basing British identity on the Second World War. There's much to be proud of, however many people suffered and died, and it was only a short period during centuries of history. The nation of Romania may embrace diverse cultures - Romanian, Hungarian, Saxon, Roma and others - however it does have commonly held values. Good values, such as hospitality; tolerance; hard work (on one's own land); faith; enjoying simple things such as food, music and dance; versatility; determination when times are tough. These values define the country. For the most part, they are the virtues of the peasant, coming from the multitude of farms and villages spread across the country. The heart and soul of Romania still is rural, and the cities - for the most part, concrete creations from the Communist era - seem strange and out of place. Perhaps that is why city-made laws sit so uncomfortably upon the peasants who are the real Romanians?

Back here, I took a walk up the hill to clear my head. There has been plenty to occupy my mind, and the horse cart issue is not the only important issue giving me stress in these days.

Oblivious to human concerns, the horses basked in the late afternoon sun. Positioned strategically, they could move up the hill for hay or down for maize. I passed a tongue of ice stretching down a shaded gully, leading from a spring from which,in warmer weather, water trickles across the pasture. Over the winter it has built up a glacier-like ice-field, engulfing a tree. Luke watched me from across the hill, looking a little like a rotund caricature of a pony with his lower legs hidden behind the slope. He was pleased to receive some attention, and curious about the cats and dogs that had followed me up the snowy hillside. I do wish that the kitten Lucky would desist from walking beneath horses. Nine lives can last only for so long. How much all these diverse animals with their varied characters mean to us, and how much richer are our lives because of them.

Managing cold weather and paperwork

Yesterday we faced a 160km (100 mile) round trip with the jeep and horse trailer. However, it wasn't horses that we were transporting. Instead we brought back a trailer full of rolls of mineral wool. This week we are adding another 30cm (12") of insulation in the loft. The house didn't seem over-warm during the cold weather, and an inspection showed that the builders had installed minimal roof insulation. Certainly not enough for -15C. Our American constructor friend, Samuel, is putting that right.

The Orthodox holiday for Saint John the Baptist having passed, we have a steady run of work days ahead. So we are preparing to go logging. Cornel went on foot with a forester, who allocated several trees. Tomorrow, Cornel and Nelu will go out with the chainsaw, fell the trees, and cut them into small pieces. Vasile and Oprea will go out with two horses and a cart, to begin bringing the timber back. There is the best part of a week's work out there.

I was hoping to photograph tomorrow, however I have been summoned to town in the morning. Four of my pure-bred mares have been authorised for state subsidy, three Hutuls and an Arabian. One of these (a three year-old) was inspected for the first time, and accepted as a pure-breed Hutul. (For those who know the horses, Arabella, Negruta, Tarpan and the youngster Stella.) I need to sign the papers for these four at the county veterinary headquarters. It's odd how, in such a slow-moving country, the bureaucracy suddenly deems something "urgent". Still, this subsidy is a minor benefit of EU membership, and I am grateful for it.

Whilst Samuel was working in the roof, I serviced the horse trailer. I'd noticed that the lights had been blinking, so I added some blobs of solder to improve the connections between the lamps and the brass terminals that they contact. It's irritating that the manufacturer used cheap fittings on an otherwise good trailer. However, repairing new items so that they work correctly is a familiar task to anyone who buys Romanian-made equipment. It's not that I enjoy finding fault, only that a little more effort could make such a difference in this generally very interesting, rewarding country.

Meanwhile, those who know the centre and its staff will wish to congratulate Vasile for passing his driving test at the first attempt. We were surprised, since the new written test is quite difficult (something like 90% fail at the first attempt, including the policeman from a neighhouring village), however we shall not be churlish and are very pleased for Vasile.

Countdown to the New Year

The long holiday that encompasses Christmas and New Year is drawing to a close. In a way, I am glad. Christmas is an important Christian festival that matters to me. New Year is an excuse to drink and party, having done no work since Christmas. Nothing is done for nine or ten days, just when there is work to be done.

This afternoon the horses loitered on the hillside, benefiting from the last rays of sunshine. As we got out to the field, shadows climbed the slope. The hillside became enveloped in that familiar bluish winter twilight. A few horses ambled down, hoping for extra feed. The majority that receive corn daily were already at the gate, of course.

As Cornel and Vasile headed up the hill, the exodus to the feeding place began. The herd moved up, one after another, zig-zagging along the easy path that is well trodden. The path is slippery after passage of so many hooves, yet the unshod horses are sure-footed. To a man walking in rubber boots, it is treacherous going. Cornel commented that we should put socks outside our boots for extra traction. There is, in fact, a type of forged iron crampon that used to be used locally by lumberjacks and raftsmen. (Until the 1960's, logs were floated down the Bistrita river. Now they go train or truck.) Crampons might be just the thing. I have a pair of the old type of crampon here, they just need new leather straps.

The horses lined up for feeding, a thin line in a large landscape, their natural environment. This field has been their home, in some cases, for eight years. Two were born in that field, in daylight strangely enough.

Looking back over my shoulder, the valley is bathed in light. Plumes of woodsmoke rise from dozens of hearths. Fragrant grey woodsmoke rising through slanting sunlight is the strongest memory of my first evening in Romania, seventeen long years ago. (Writing that makes me feel old.) But even now a smoking chimney in evening is a welcome sight, promising warmth, food and hospitality.

Back at home, I am piling wood on the fire to warm the house through. Two guests have arrived, but missed all the equine interest because they stayed in bed all day watching DVDs on a laptop. More guests will arrive tomorrow. Six claim that they will arrive on cross-country skis, though this seems optimistic given the thin, patchy snow cover. Still, they might find sufficient snow if they travel through the woods. The frigid woodland winter shadow will have protected the snow against melting. Like the corner of the fairytale garden where winter lingers.

Averting winter cold and the "evil eye"

Anne asked about the red head tassels. Made from strands of red wool, these adornments are added to the headcollars of driving horses. They are a relic of historic belief in the evil eye. This peculiar superstition maintained that a person or animal could carry the "evil eye", often unknowingly, inflicting ill fortune or disease simply by looking directly at the victim. Much like English horse brasses, red tassels were carried in historic times to ward off the supposed evil eye. Horse brasses are believed to have originated as a gypsy charm, and red tassels may have had a similar origin. I'm not certain when this particular superstition died out, however few give it much credence nowadays, at least not consciously. The Orthodox Church has long spoken out against pagan superstitions (such as the old beliefs in vampires), so the lack of any opposition to red tassels suggests that they no longer carry any appreciable spiritual association. One neighbour has tied a red thread into the mane of his foal. Some gypsy women braid a red thread into their hair. In general, though, the red tassels are purely decorative nowadays. For whatever reason, riding horses wear neither red tassels nor any vestigial relics such as a red thread.

Very occasionally, a variant appears, such as the small red tassel carried on a bell collar. Here Doru is wearing this collar, and is without a regular red tassel on his headcollar. These tassels are fitted by my staff so, clearly, someone decided to attach this small red item. I suspect that Oprea, the newest addition to my staff, was responsible. Of all my staff, he is the nearest to the traditional peasant who has changed but little through the centuries. The sort of person who knows how to survive comfortably, given a horse, a plot of land, and a piece of woodland. These are the people who have held this country together through good times and bad. If anyone amongst my staff were to feel the need for a medieval practice that some might call a superstition, others a folk practice, it would be him. Clearly he feels some need, whether consciously or otherwise, for this piece of red. The longer that one lives here, the more of this kind of subtle detail comes to be revealed. These remnants of old beliefs are one such detail that only slowly become clearer.

I've included a photo of my central heating boiler too. It's a 113kw wood-burning unit. On the back wall are the pumps that drive the four heating circuits around different parts of the house. The seven switches above are: electric water heater; central heating master switch; pump to recirculate water within the boiler; the three heating circuit pumps; and the pump that circulates central heating water around the heat exchanger as a supplementary heat source in the two domestic hot water tanks. In addition I can regulate (with separate thermostats) the temperature when the pumps start and the temperature below which a fan blows more air into the fire. The two large water heaters are out of sight on the right. A Honda petrol generator, which exists as a back-up to operate the lighting and central heating in the event of a power cut, is out of sight too. It seems quite a complex system, however it is fairly logical overall, and it works quite effectively as long as I have a good supply of dry firewood.

Escape to deepest Transylvania

The name Transylvania springs from the Latin for beyond the forest. To get here from almost any direction, one travels through the great Carpathian forest. To this day, a quarter of the surface area of this country is wooded. Even where woodland has been cleared, relics remain in the form of timber trees on the field boundaries, copses and isolated woods.

Olga is standing on an old field boundary, marked by a line of trees. The forest begins shorly afterwards, just visible on the skyline. Olga is a solitary mare, more sociable with people than with other horses. On the ridge she has a good view of the spot where we are feeding the horses day, the yard where we feed maize to select horses (including Olga), and the drinking place in the stream. She can see the road and railway too, and very likely enjoys watching carts and trains go by. Olga is that sort of inquisitive, rather eccentric horse.

We have been transporting a stockpile of hay to a place just behind the hill field, from where we can fork rations over the fence twice a day. It isn't windy, so the horses are not excessively exposed up there. Besides, they can come down to the valley amongst the trees if they need shelter. If it were to sleet or rain, I can let them into the yard where they have a roofed shelter. This particular load was sold to us by the village policeman. We're hauling about 1,200-1,500kg (3,000-4,000lbs) of hay daily, spread over two loads. The fence has two good strands of electric tape, so the horses do not try and barge their way through. Our electric fence is a powerful system, advertised for agricultural use to contain "wild and stubborn animals". So it is just about adequate for native ponies.

I am interested in Sue's idea about "escaping" to Transylvania. I am an escapee of sorts, and I have a refuge to share with those who will appreciate it. Visualising my village and its surrounds in a new way, as a place of refuge, helps provide me with inspiration and vision to promote anew holidays here. It's such a long time since I lived in the West, nearly a decade, that I am beginning to forget how stressful and busy life there really was. And my recollections are 1990's Britain. As for what it is like now, I have to rely on secondhand accounts. For the most part, they don't make edifying reading or listening. I am glad to have got out when I did.

How I can promote these "escapes"? Sometimes I wonder whether there is a magic key to tourism marketing? We have yet to hit upon a truly rich seam of trade. Our business seems more like an aggregation of niches. Not that a good spread across diverse niches is necessarily a bad thing, as that way we can survive the loss of a niche or two without major upset. There is always the risk of volatility in tourism. An air crash or terrorist attack can practically wipe out some markets. Still, British and American guests are the mainstay of our business. I would like to make more people aware of what a wonderful place we have here, how relaxing a visit can be, and what a unique set of experiences guests can enjoy.

Clutter

The yard is cluttered with horse carts. Where there is space, objects multiply to fill it, and these carts - lying where their horses were unhitched - are no exception. The cart on the right contains sufficient 50mm (2") planks to resurface a 4m x 2.5m (13' x 8') section of barn floor. The old floor has lasted seven years, however some of the planks have deteriorated, so it is time to make repairs. We have a steady trickle of repairs to complete, especially with the older timber buildings that are around fifty years old.

It is a grey day, the wood smoke drifting from chimney blending into the overcast. Occasional snow flurries drift down. The lane outside is covered by a layer of pressed ice, and neighbours have begun to travel by sleigh. The air is hazy, and more snow seems likely. This anyway is a relief after the clear skies of the night before, when the temperature plummeted. It isn't as cold when snow falls as when the air is sharp and clear.

It is a religious holiday again today, so only the basic minimum of work is carried out. The horses are idle on the field, hay having been hauled up there yesterday. For them, it is an easy day. For me, I am busy keeping the fire burning. The rather damp wood that we brought requires frequent prodding in the fire to keep burning well. This wood may have represented a financial economy, however it draws plentifully on my labour to heat the house this way.

Religious holiday or not, business manages to intrude. I have completed a tedious conversation with a British tour operator that sends schoolchildren on hiking holidays. That sounds like a worthy enough objective. However the British firm, to whom I had provided accommodation, has proved itself interested in nothing except for the bottom line. Until now, improving the bottom line has required the feelgood-factor of "aid projects". I have struggled to produce any sort of useful project when each group has three days available, is unwilling to plan in advance, and wants to spend next to nothing, whilst poverty is thin on the ground around here. Last year ago a British school built a climbing frame in the village school playground, however the structure was so rickety that it had to be demolished within months. This year a British school wanted to paint "murals" on our village primary school, whose director reasonably declined since his school was newly renovated. (The schools in my village are all smartly decorated, centrally heated and fitted with double glazed windows. Is every British school so fortunate?) Instead the children got to make some kind of large board games that no-one in the village had asked for or really wanted. The whole attitude was so colonial, telling the "natives" what is good for them. Now finally the message has sunk in that we are not poor, we don't need our schools disfigured by badly executed "murals", in fact we are healthier than the feeble flabby visiting British children. We don't need worthless "aid projects". These people should look inside Britain when planning "aid projects", there is certainly enough needless poverty within those shores. However it isn't picturesque poverty.

The odd thing is, those flabby British children (or, rather, their parents) pay appreciably more for a week hiking and camping than I charge my guests for a week riding with hotel and guesthouse accommodation. Their trip costs are miniscule, the tour operator pays its guides badly, is even so curmudgeonly as to restrict the children's rations to save money. Someone has a very high profit margin. I expect that the children return home thinking that Romania is a "poor country" because there "isn't enough to eat". Well, I suppose that many of them would benefit from losing a few pounds.

Anyway, it's time to go downstairs to prod the fire, to coax that batch of damp wood into yielding some calories. I'm annoyed by that tour operator, and the therapy of poking at flaming timber will do me some good.

Tight spots

Cleaning the stable efficiently requires accurate backing of a horse cart into some tight spots. Here Nelu has backed Gelu and Tudor around a sharp corner and into the stable where three draught horses spend the night when they are in work. The cart body is some 5m (17') long, and it takes some care by driver and, of course, horses to reverse it around a right-angle bend and through a 2m (7') wide interior doorway.

Backing up is a very useful skill for draught horses, and one that we use daily. It enables us to get the cart in right where we need it for loading manure or unloading sawdust. A pair ought to be able to enact a precise three-point turn on level ground too. This particular pair will step forward or back a pace or two on verbal command, which makes yard work a good deal easier.

It's curious how, depending on the culture, young people are (or are not) given responsibility. An agent who sends us clients remarked recently about "kids driving the horse carts." We are talking about young men aged 18 and 19 years, who have worked 8 or 10 years with draught horses. Yet, to some people from the nanny state West, how could we let people as young as that take responsibility for a pair of horses and a cart, let alone transport tourists? Odd to think, isn't it, that in the early 1940's we sent boys of 18 years to fight our enemies, flying state-of-the-art aeroplanes or driving tanks.

The chimney sweep visited today. The new chimney has been in use for almost a year now, and badly needed sweeping. The sweep is a small man who makes a professional habit of expressing dire gloom at the state of each and every chimney. It must be "totally blocked" as a result of the owner's neglect, not having had it swept every few months. It's a wonder that any smoke has a gap to slip out through, or that the chimney hasn't caught fire. (The residue did catch fire a while back, a spectacular though not dangerous display of billowing smoke and darting flames. However I didn't give the sweep the satisfaction of hearing this admission.) Anyway, now my chimney is clean, and the fire burns that bit better. Every bit of thermal efficiency is welcome in this cold season, when temperatures fall below -10C at night beneath a clear sky dotted by bright stars.