Slovenia
“Silence on a
hill where the path ended
and then the forest below
moving in one long whisper
as evening touched the leaves.”
William
Stafford
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9th to 29th November - Slowly through Slovenia We woke to the sound
of rain hammering the tent and thunder rumbling in the mountains
around us. Welcome to Slovenia. Thanks to Slovenian entry to the EU,
and perhaps also to our friend Antonietta working her magic charm on
the bored looking
In the morning we
were all glad to get moving but our track took us up into a cloud
and along a high ridge where the rain turned to snow. We suffered a
bit in our summer clothes – the following day we were due to meet up
with my parents and a carfull of stuff for winter but somebody had
forgotten to tell the storm about this arrangement. We warmed
up a bit as we descended to the Soca river valley and even more on
the long zigzag climb up the other side. If we got too cold on
horseback, we’d get off and walk for a bit to warm up. It was whilst
on foot, deep in a forest and having a brief debate about exactly
where exactly we were on the We sprinted after them as fast as our legs could carry us, lungs bursting, all the way back down the road to the river. Despite the effort of running, we still managed to have a full scale row about who’s fault it was, which must have impressed any casual observers. There was a main road crossing at the valley bottom but we had to force ourselves not to think about it. At last a car pulled up and gave us a lift. The driver, Branco, stopped to ask people if they had seen any “Konji” (horses). We followed the leads
until one woman said she’d seen just one horse in the woods opposite
her house. By this point, Lisa was distraught with worry but instead
of following the woman’s directions, Branco turned off the engine.
Painfully slowly, and with great difficulty he tried to explain in a
mixture of Slovenian, Italian, and sign
Luckily at that point, Boris and Ivan arrived. They’d found Hannah’s bags on the road but, more importantly, had found out where the horses had left the road and entered the forest. In the rapidly fading light we followed their tracks. I called Hannah’s name for the hundredth time and, at last, a call in reply! We finally found them in a small clearing, huddled together and shaking. Hannah must have gone down on her knees on the road and she’d lost a shoe, but apart from that they were all unharmed. Relief! It was only later that we told them that they wouldn’t be coming on holiday with us again if they carried on like that. Ivan and Boris took
over and soon the horses were munching hay in Ivan’s barn and we
were drinking Snops (the local aqua vitae) in the shelter of the
garage. For Ivan, There’s always sunshine after rain and the next day was a beauty; blue skies and fantastic views North to the Julian Alps plastered in new snow. We followed forest tracks and the horses’ exuberance showed they were as glad as we were to be back in the mountains, the industrial plains of Northern Italy now well behind us. In the afternoon we picked up a long track which climbed steadily up through beech woods to the village of Lokve. As we gained height, the snow became deeper and deeper and we were forced to let Hannah into the front to break trail. She powered all the way up to the road, which luckily had been scraped clear. We had arranged a
rendezvous with my parents at a small hut in a forest clearing
called Mala Lazna. The hut was at 1100m but thankfully the long
track to it, although
After a thirty five hour blast from Manchester across Europe’s motorways, my parents and our winter equipment had arrived at the same spot. For two days, Zmago and his friend Rogero kept the fire going, the meals coming and the wine flowing. While my father tried to understand the rules of a Slovenian card game in which a three beats a six (obviously), we sorted through the gear and made up some fleece liners for the horses’ rugs.
Our route East from Mala Lazna took us to the middle of a high wild forest – the Trnovski Gord. Feshly fallen trees across the path showed the strength of the recent storm and we were glad to have our winter clothes as a cold wind was still blowing hard. The five of us were alone in the forest and the pristine snow underfoot showed that nobody had passed this way for a few days. But we soon picked up evidence of other activity – bear tracks ! We’d been told that these furry fellows had all gone to bed for the winter but we followed one set of tracks for a couple of kilometres and picked up another later on. Deer, hare and some kind of wild cat prints also crossed the track from time to time. It would have been great to see these animals but this was the next best thing – a map of all their activity drawn in the snow. After the Trnovski
Gord, the landscape was a little less wild but no less beautiful. We
rode through mile after mile of beech woods, the horses ploughing
through deep beds
On hill tops glimpsed through the trees white painted churches caught the sun. Why were they built on top of hills ? Maybe a good uphill slog on a Sunday morning would get the churchgoers warmed up for a lengthy sit in the pews. Maybe it was a way to sort out the true believers. We later heard that these churches were also the site of beacons, lit to warn of Turkish raiding parties. The villages were
immaculately tidy. It was hard to tell the farm buildings from
houses as they all snuggled up together. Except, that is, for the
stunning timber hay barns. The sides of these are like ladders, with
the rungs spanning the full length of the barn, Just North of Ljubjana, the capital, we spent a couple of nights at a riding centre run by the Kosir family. While the horses had a well-earned rest day, Bustian Kosir very kindly took us to visit the famous Lippizzaner Stud at Lipica. It was confusing enough that the Spanish riding school is based in Austria; now we knew that their horses came from Slovenia. We were very impressed with the compact powerful build and lovely natural movement of these baroque horses. Perhaps to repay us for that big storm on our first day in the country, the next week from Ljubjana to Ptuj, was perfect. The days were bright, sunny and clear, and our route through the mountains gave us fantastic views. There were hard frosts at night, down to minus 12 centigrade we were told, and the mornings would take a while to warm up. Sealeah would make a big point of demonstrating her dislike of mains water by stopping at the first frozen puddle of the day and punching her hoof through it for a drink.
Wintry day, Basho, On Love and Barley
Thanks to good maps
and well marked trails, we kept off the roads most of the time and
followed miles of tracks through forests and woodlands. Hannah is
happy with the simplicity of a forest track, knowing she is going
the right way, she trots off in front, rightfully, in her opinion,
free to fully express herself. On the road through villages, back on
her lead rope, her exuberance can take a while to dissipate. Like an
ocean
The friendliness and hospitality of the Slovenians was incredible. They often made us feel as though we had done them a favour by stopping for the night, rather than vice versa. It was us who had appeared from nowhere with three hungry horses. “I am very happy that you are here" said one farmer. “Thank you for visiting” said another. Our offers of payment were refused everywhere, shrugged off as if it would be the strangest thing in the world for us to pay. Meals, hot showers, clothes washing and of course the odd drink.
It didn’t take us
long to realise that the Slovs are fond of a drop or two. A glass of
Snops was considered essential for surviving cold weather. Just
before dark in one But is was Slavko in
Ptuj who really went to work on us. His name even sounds dangerous
and the fact that half a sheep was roasting in the fireplace should
have warned us that a party was on the cards. As if the gallon of
wine that was used to wash
At Ljutomer, our hosts the Jurer family were champion harness racers and they took us to visit the race track – and its bar of course. The also took us down the road to the wine growing village of Jerusalem. Some passing crusaders, perhaps a bit saddle sore and realising the Holy Land was still a fair way off, had decided to stop here and build their own Jerusalem in Slovenia’s green and, it has to be said, extremely pleasant land. A quick visit to the family’s vineyard ended with a tasting in the cellar to the accompaniment of Mr Jurer’s fine rendition of a traditional wine-blessing song. The acoustics were perfect and for us it brought on the Hiraeth – we told him he’d be welcome in any choir in Wales.
The character of the
villages changed on the final stretch to the Hungarian border. It
suddenly felt more like we’d imagined Eastern Europe. The houses
were smaller and shabbier, the density of old women in headscarves
increased and we witnessed a couple of backyard pig-slaughtering
sessions at which it looked as though the whole family and several
friends had gathered round to help. We were told that the reason so
many
On our last night in
Slovenia we bivvied on some pasture at the edge of a village and
carried hay and oats from a nearby farm where we’d stopped to ask.
The farmer looked worryingly similar to the Baby-eating Bishop of
Bath and Wells but, as always, my offer of payment was rejected and
instead, a bottle of wine was thrust into my hand. Another man came
from his house the next morning with coffee, apples and pears. The
exceptional kindness and openness of the Slovenian people had lasted
right to the end. Beautiful country, beautiful people.
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