BULGARIA RIDE – ANYWAY I DO THE MATH, THIS RIDE LOOKS BLEAK
A good group of horsewomen smiling in the face of some pretty bleak ride math.
There are four variables I consider in building an equation to judge the success of a ride – setting, horses, people, and accommodations. The key to happiness with a ride (and maybe life) is being nimble in adjusting the weight I give each variable so the ultimate sum remains high even if a given factor is middling. So let’s discuss each of the factors:
Setting – Setting involves not only the beauty and cultural interest of the location but also the terrain. Terrain impacts the ease and pace of travel.
People –Consistency in skill and camaraderie are key as is the competence of the guides.
Horses – Fitness, training, spirit are essential. Having adequate tack is nice.
Accommodations – Rest, hygiene, food. That’s the bare minimum.
I’d booked this High Balkan Mountain ride directly on a Bulgarian website with payment mechanisms that seemed a bit shady. So, I was actually quite relieved when a van pulled up to my Sofia hotel and a bubbly, young Bulgarian woman with excellent English greeted me. A young Czech woman, also with excellent English, was already in the van. Next came matching blonds, also Czech. The next rider threw her gear in the back but then climbed in front next. “Hello, hello,” she said with a wide smile – Sophie (Austrian living in Bulgaria). Finally, we stopped at the airport to pick up Jacqueline – a shy, young vet nurse from Munich.
People score – 6/10 – there’d clearly be cliques (Czech/not Czech) but all these women seemed fit, enthusiastic, and competent.
After about an hour, we exited the highway and drove through a nice little town to the guesthouse where we’d be for two nights. “There are three rooms -- you’ll all have to share,” our guide said, as we clambered out. This was news to four of us who had been charged extra for single rooms. “There’s one toilet and shower,” she added and we all groaned.
Accommodations Score: 3/10
Lodging ‘sorted’ we piled back into the van and headed to the edge of the village. The horses tied by a deserted storehouse were small under their hulking western saddles. Most seemed fit if a bit thin, but their manes and tails were a tangle of burrs, their hooves long and shod with shoes that looked far too small. I’d asked to be allowed to use the only English saddle and saw it had been put on the thinnest, smallest, most burred of the horses – clearly special requests received ‘special’ treatment. We set out for a remote mountain monastery for lunch. The three Czech women – given what seemed like the best mounts – surged to the front of the line and the iron curtain fell with Sophie, Jacqueline, and I plodding along the steep, rocky path at the rear.
Sophie on the tragically mis-bridled Whiskey.
The countryside we rode through was lovely; the monastery situated on a sheer outcropping behind a wall of massive beech trees, was breath-taking. We were fed a hearty lunch and promised there’d be some trots and canters on the way home. Those opportunities offered more amusement than excitement as we kicked our mounts and were roughly jostled as they tried to offer us something other than a walk.
The ample, tasty food and beautiful setting had done much to lift our spirits. But any joy we felt was crushed as, at the end of the ride, we watched in disbelief as our tired horses were tightly hobbled (their forefeet tied together with rough rope) and – ungroomed, unwatered, and unfed – left to lurch into the roadside scrub.
Horse score: 1/10
No arguing about the beauty of the setting.
Setting score: 7/10 for vistas; 5/10 for terrain.
For me it was a sad evening that even good moussaka, homemade wine, and the company of my unexpected roomie, Sophie, could do little to lighten. I’d flown twelve hours and committed 10 days to a trip that looked like it was going to score a failing grade regardless of how I tried to manipulate the math.