Saddletramp E-Book

Jeremy James

• Herausgeber: Merlin Unwin Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 416

Beschreibung

In the depths of winter, Jeremy James began a horseback ride from central Turkey to his hometown in Wales, a journey which was to take him eight and a half months. First he had to find his horse, an unlikely old and weary Arab stallion who eventually rose to the challenge with equal spirit to that of his new master. With uncertain mastery of their route, the two of them crossed rivers and mountains to reach the Greek border. Here their close bond had to break and Jeremy was forced to buy Maria, an unbroken filly who he then rode to the Italian border and changed her for Gonzo, who took him on the idyllic stretch through Umbria and Tuscany. Crossing the Alps together, they rode through late-summer France to reach their destination, Wales, in November.   Jeremy writes with humour and sensitivity about the people and places this journey takes him, but it is his bond with his horses that makes the thread which binds the narrative and infuses the whole adventure.

Leseprobe

Saddletramp

From Ottoman Hills to Offa’s Dyke

Jeremy James

MERLIN UNWIN BOOKS

Contents

Acknowledgements

1 The Search for a Horse

2 Ahmed Paşa

3 Villagers

4 Over the Mountains to the Sea

5 A Few Sleepless Nights

6 Şimşek

7 A Turkish Telephone

8 Şimşek, Chumpie and the unjumpable tree

9 Guardian of the Mountain

10 The Betrayal

Transition

11 Greece, Ktima Litsas

12 Maria

13 You, I love you Maria

14 Italy

15 Pioneer-Lead

16 Beautiful Italy

17 The Rough and the Smooth

18 Spirit of the Mountains

19 Wine Harvest

20 Last Days in Italy

21 France

22 A Night at the Zoo

23 Marcel and Raymond

24 Last Days in France

25 At the End of a Rainbow

To my mother, and anyone who has ever been bitten, been kicked by, is frightened of, or has fallen off, a horse.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank a lot of people, like Teresa Watts of the Woodlands Riding School, Parkmill, Swansea for sitting me straight in a saddle and for falling about laughing when I told her what I wanted to do. Thanks to Altman and James of Bridgend for the superb cotton headcollar bridles and saddlebags that drove me bonkers. Thanks Joanna Jones for your White Light, Patrick Kemp for Radiasthesic Long Distance healing. Thanks Dell Round and Johnathan John of the Swansea Psychic Centre for showing me how to see. I thank Ifanca James, iridologist in Swansea for herbal compounds that set me up without a single moment’s illness. Thanks Sally Stud in Cardiff for teaching me how never to say no. Thank you Hugo Evans old chum, for betting me a quid I wouldn’t do it: you still owe me. Thanks Athene English, saddler in Hay-on-Wye, fairest stitcher in the land for all the top quality leather clobber, you’re a doll, honey-bunch. Thank you Owen Humphrys for the loan of that ancient leather jerkin, and Chumpie, Cecilia Humphrys – never said so at the time, but you’re a brave girl, thanks for hanging round. Also Marco Windham for your company in the Alps, and dozens of splendid photographs – here’s to the next time.

I thank humbly and with all my heart, all you wonderful, kind and open people who helped me on my way, fed me and my horses – there’s not one of you I shall forget. Thanks Bob Bennet for finding Maro when she scarpered, Rex and Penny in Greece for first class horsemanship, endless hospitality, for seeding the idea in the first place all those years ago.

Thanks Min Murray Thriepland for being crazy enough to take on Punch, my bull terrier while I was away, and Rupert Sanders, the ever patient solicitor, for sorting out the mess I left behind, and for keeping me out of the nick. I thank Sarah Hayes of International Horse Services for sorting out my papers, getting Gonzo and me safely to England. Mario Sivilieri and Dino Gatta, I never realised at the time what a magnificent job you did in supplying me with an armful of unarguable-with paperwork.

Thanks Frank Champion of Hipavia for sorting out that last snag in France. Thank you Grenville Collins for believing in me: I left your beautiful gift on a riverbank in Turkey: now I shall always know where it is.

Elaine Barry: when I struggled to write all this down you’ve no idea how much your encouragement meant to me: I just could not have done it otherwise. Thanks Leszek Kobiernicki for being hard on me when I needed it most, for good guidance.

Richard Chester-Master and Tom Vesey thanks for Tack Barn.

But most especially, I would like to thank Providence for the hand she held out to me night and day all the way: I’m sorry when I doubted You, but You see it takes some handling. Thanks Nick Murray Wells: I know you would have approved.

My last and everlasting thanks go to Ahmed Paşa, Şimşek, Maria and Gonzales da Mendoza: four wonderful horses, who made me laugh, brought tears to my eyes, made me angry, gave me rope burns, caused me grief and brought me the tenderest moments of my life, and who never once let me down.

A little Turkish

Çal is pronounced ‘Chal’ Ahmed Paşa is pronounced ‘Ahmet Pasha’ Şimşek, ‘Shimshaik’

1

The Search for a Horse

Until one is committed there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation) there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help that would never have otherwise occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favour all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it now.

William H. Murray, mountaineer, author and soldier

He stood high above us in his filthy trousers, shouting ‘Haydi gel!’ and waving his arms about. He’d gone up like a mountain goat and was watching us three struggle up after him. No idea what he said. Yildiz and Ali were slow: the climb was killing them too: it was a real effort.

Stopping for a breather, I turned to look out to sea. The sun dazzled hard on the water. You could see the bottom just below the rocks, looking cool. I turned, climbed on. It was hot on that slope. Curry spice and sage grew in patches and a whiff of pine hung around, from all along the coast. There couldn’t be a horse in a place like this. I’d looked at them in queer places, never on a cliff face. Someone had shown me one that morning. He was black, a four-year-old, eaten alive with lice and worms. Just leather draped round a skeleton – pitiful. Now we were half way up this hill, after another. I squinted at the man above, just a dozen yards more. Yildiz and Ali had stopped in a clump of erasmus on a crumbling terrace, in the rugged shadow of an old olive.

I reached the plateau, surprééised to find it covered in grass. Suleiman was sitting on the edge. He offered a cigarette, pointing to a small cave at the back of the clearing. Taking a long pull his eyes watered as he coughed out, ‘At ... beygir.’ And gobbed.

Seemed he reckoned there was a horse in there.

Pretty unlikely. Sweat ran down his face; the climb hadn’t been that easy for him either. Then the other two joined us, sitting down for a smoke. Ali still carried the head collar and a stick from somewhere. They talked amongst themselves for a while, sharing a joke. I didn’t understand, just looked out to sea, to the little fishing boat below us, the man paying a long net out into the water.

They got up. Suleiman said ‘Heidi gel!’ again.

They stubbed out their fags and went cautiously to the cave. I couldn’t think what all the fuss was about. Why not just get him out, pack in all this silly creeping around?

Then I heard him. There was a horse in there.

The grass had been grazed – I hadn’t taken it in before. There was dung about the place: he’d been there a while. I couldn’t make out anything inside: it was black as sloes. They shouted at me to get back. What were they all so scared of? One of them lobbed in a stone and ran back quickly. They were all oddly agitated. The horse snorted and stamped his feet. I heard him moving around: it sounded as though there were a few of them in there. Ali threw in another stone, went to the entrance, brandished his stick, shouted at the top of his voice and shot inside. Suleiman winked at me. What was he saying? Yildiz, still near the cave entrance, giggled nervously. A terrific din broke out: I heard running, stamping hooves. A man shouted, somewhere between courage and fright. A thwack of stick on hide. Yildiz shouted at me to get back. Suddenly, a wild horse, ears flat against his head, dazzled, came plunging out into the clearing. He went for the first man he saw. No wonder these blokes had been so cagey. Yildiz was his target. He made a break for it over the rocks at full tilt with the horse right on his heels. Then he fell. The horse switched his attention to us two, standing in the open in the middle of the plateau. He came back at a speed straight for me. I’d never heard of this sort of thing, and it wasn’t easy running on that stuff, but that horse had it off to a tee. I felt there was something loony about this, then took a purler into the rock, just like Yildiz.

Back on the clearing Suleiman was shouting and yelling. The horse spun back at him, then another one was flushed out from the cave: a mare, just as crazy. For a moment they prowled, arching necks, snorting. They came to an uneasy halt on the grass. This was their patch: we were the intruders. There was a tense and short-fused respite – prickly.

‘Beş yuz bin lira!’ Suleiman shouted. He’d given me a price, 500,000 lira: £400-odd. I wasn’t sure that was what I wanted. Ali threw me the head collar. Surely they didn’t expect me to grab one? They pointed at the stallion.

‘At guzel!’ they said – beautiful horse. He was. Just not quite ‘one hundred per cent traffic, box, clip, shoe, perfect gentleman’ that’s all. I did what I was told. Stole up to him just as quietly as I could. The mare watched me closely, blowing a warning snort, turned her back end on me, giving me bad jitters. The stallion looked like he aimed to kill.

Now I don’t pretend to be much of a horseman, and the next step took a bit of courage. Being by profession a country bumpkin, I know to go gently with skittish livestock. With the head collar in my right hand, I crept up on these edgy young horses at snail’s pace. I got close to the mare: she must have heard my heart thumping. My friends nodded, signalling me to creep up on the stallion, pop the head collar on. Just like that. I tried.

I felt the wind of a hoof just past my right ear, saw the underbelly of one of them in a cloud of dust, flash of teeth, and a horse turn sharp on his hindquarters. I remember slinging the head collar at him and bolting downhill. The others scattered across the hillside. I didn’t stop until I reached the shore. They joined me, tense and light headed, all lit up from the thrill. The two horses loped back up. Suleiman grinned. ‘Iki yuz bin lira!’ The price had gone down to 200,000.

Some horse that young stallion. Not a chance of getting near him, never mind riding him. If I had a glass, I would have toasted him, and he whinnied his victory all over us. Him up there, tangled, windblown, ferocious. Small wonder the mare had fallen for him. They’d stay up there breeding savage little horses. No one would ever ride them, or put them in a cart. I’m glad there are animals like that. It’s good that blood comes savage sometimes: it makes you remember nature occasionally aims to keep things that way.

But that was it. I’d looked at all the horses in Kiskalessi. Now there was nothing to go along the coast with after my borrowed horses from Tarsus. I could have gone east to look for horses, on the Syrian border. But then I reckoned it was going to take nine months to get to England on horseback anyway, and I didn’t want to be in the Alps in October. Going east was the wrong way. Nor did I have somebody else’s money: it was mine, and it was limited.

I had been in Turkey about three weeks and had looked for horses first in Adana, helped by Suna Caglayan, my only contact. She had been secretary to a chum of mine who had worked in Turkey a few years before. Suna took me round all the horses in Adana, Tarsus, Mersin as far as Kozan. I’d ridden dozens. She thought the idea of riding to England perfectly stupid, and said so. ‘Why go on a horse? It’ll take months! Why not go in a Porsche, like everybody else, you’ll do it in a week.’ I never really got my reasons through to her. Nor me. Now I was here, and still hadn’t got one.

My local friends had been patient with me because I didn’t know what I wanted anyway. I hadn’t tackled a long trip before. Other than some advice in England about buying a horse with a leg on each corner, I didn’t have a lot to go on, beyond plain hunch. Displaying ignorance can be gruelling at the best of times, but not being able to express your intentions as well doesn’t exactly clear the picture.

I thought I really needed a biggish horse. With all my equipment I was packing just short of seventeen stone. I had a long distance saddle, canvas saddlebags, two cotton head collar bridles, a groundsheet, bedroll, army leather panniers mounted on the front of the saddle, an ex-army leather jerkin belonging to a friend, a Ghurka felt hat I bought in Swansea for two quid, a pair of leather chaps which doubled as a pillow at night and a long tether rope for the horse. On top, I carried a grip full of medicines, a couple of books, green oils, cornucrescine, hoof picks and other bits my vet John Killingbeck had supplied, together with some remark about working for a living.

It was too much. ‘Twice the money and half the kit,’ I’d read dozens of times: it pulled my arms off every time I had to lug the stuff about. As to the ride: it was a whim. You only regret the things you don’t do – up to a point. I had a little cash and would sooner spend it on something like this than all the faddling unit trusts you could chuck at me. My route was equally sketchy. By track, path and any other means barring tarmac, towards England, or more accurately, Wales. For navigation, I had a ‘compass – military-marching 1939’ bought in a junk shop, probably duff. That, and a tourist map of a part of Turkey I wasn’t in. I spoke pidgin French, a dollop of childhood Swahili and a handful of Arabic, not worth a light in Turkey.

My first obstacle was an appalling winter which blighted my chances of going anywhere anyhow. Now it was March, spring was moving and I was horseless. I couldn’t think what my next move would be.

I just had to go on looking. I had asked everyone in the whole area about horses. They began to call me ‘Teşekkür – yok’, meaning ‘thank you – no’ since that was all I ever seemed to say when looking at horses. Abashed as I was, that robbed me of any confidence that remained.

Late in the afternoon I went down to the beach and threw pebbles into the sea. There were no other tourists. Most things were still closed down for the winter. I’d been pretty lucky to get a room there – plain and simple with good Turkish cooking. To my mind, that’s amongst the world’s best, and a price to suit.

At dusk, I walked into a higher part of the village on the main road. In an empty café, a blind man was drinking tea. I had seen him there before. He was the only person in the place I hadn’t talked to. I sat down. To pass the time, I said ‘Marhaba’, thinking thereafter it would be a one sided conversation. That was most of my Turkish used up. Or I could use the pocket dictionary nouns-only technique. It drives you mad in quarter of an hour. Every word has to be dragged painfully out of this minutely printed piece of work which needed a search light and microscope to read. Guaranteed to pull the most challenging conversation down to turgid banality. My grammarless nouns-only Turkish could clear a room in minutes.

‘Marhaba,’ (‘Hello’) I said.

To my astonishment, he answered in English. For a moment I wondered if he were nouns-only. I prepared myself for an exceedingly strenuous following few minutes.

His face bore no expression. He gave no hint of his next move. His next remark stumped me.

‘I know where you can find a horse.’

No one had spoken to me in English since I had been with Suna. I wasn’t sure if he had actually said it, or if I was going a bit soft in the head. I hadn’t spoken to him before, obviously he hadn’t seen me, and now he, a blind man, was going to sort it all out.

‘You speak English,’ I said, immediately wishing I hadn’t.

Rubbing it in, he didn’t answer. It was my turn.

‘How do you know I want a horse?’ It came out in fits and starts. ‘Everyone knows.’ He sighed, making me feel worse. I was glad he couldn’t see me crawling up the wall.

‘Yes,’ I managed, ‘I’ve looked at dozens but can’t find the one I want.’

‘If you come here at this time tomorrow, I have a friend who will take you to the gypsies. They’ll find one for you.’

This simple assurance put new lead in my pencil. He was very likeable. It was good to converse with someone freely. I spent the rest of the evening in his company. His name was Adil Altinkaya, blind from birth. Only when I talked to him did I realise how much we, the sighted, rely on aids to memory, unreliable at that. Not once did he forget my name or ever mispronounce it, although I mangled his several times. He fully recalled my comments to him, gently pointing out my own contradictions.

He spoke of his own quiet philosophy of life, and how the handicapped in Turkey suffer. He spoke of the appalling misery in Adana, wretchedly maimed beggars, men with no limbs at all wheeled daily to the roadside in boxes, propped up behind, forced to sit there in silence as the traffic went by. For his own disability, he didn’t give a fig.

He talked of mathematics, history, stars and religion. He knew Christian doctrine, philosophy and could quote from the very book I carried, The Fusus, by Muhyiddin Ibn ‘Arabi, which he understood – I didn’t. He spoke of Islamic mysticism, the whirling dervishes of Konya, of Mevlana Jaleddin Rumi. ‘If a man is happy, it is because he has provided happiness to someone else,’ he was quoting Mevlana. ‘If he is miserable, it is because he had made someone else unhappy. God exists in every particle of nature, and a human being is a mirror of Him.’ Mevlana was more broad-minded than many of our teachers today. ‘Come again’ Mevlana said ‘come again whoever you are, come again whether you are non-Muslim, pagan, Zoroastran or Christian . . . come again, though you have broken your vow a thousand times.’

He was fascinating to listen to, so much of it talk I had not heard before. The wonder of it was that he had not read a word of it. The whole of the next day I spent looking forward to the evening: I’ve never known a longer wait. Walking all over Kiskalessi, through groves of pine, along cliff tops, through unmarked, defaced, overthrown sarcophagi, I was intrigued by the Turkish landscape and its history. St Paul had come from Tarsus, not far away, and near by, he is reputed to have made his first convert, St Ayatekla, who was denounced as a Christian. Lions wouldn’t eat her, flames wouldn’t burn her, so the story goes, and she died in Iasuria.

Along this coastline Alexander’s armies moved, Crusaders from the north, armies from the east, Parthians, Persians, the traffic of the Romans. Each left a mark, carving their culture into the stone as they went, leaving images of their gods, knocked faceless by the Selçuks.

By nightfall, I sat waiting for Adil, looking out over the castle. I saw him appear with Tahsin, his friend. We were introduced. Adil acted as interpreter. Tahsin asked the right questions. What kind of horses? How tall? Did I want an Arab? How much could I afford? Questions not asked before. He told me that I would be unlikely to find horses where we were. Either I should have to go east, or much further west. I told him that east was out of the question, and anyway, he said I should have to pay a high price for a good horse on the Syrian border. He said he would take me to the gypsies, they would know what was about and where. I would then have to follow their advice. Agreeing, we left the çay shop, picked up my kit, chucked it in the back of his truck. Adil and I squeezed into the front seat alongside him, and we drove through gathering darkness. I liked Tahsin. He was open and no messing. A welcome change from the kind of character I had been accustomed to dealing with. They had all been far more interested in their side of the deal than mine. When things are like that, you don’t deal. Refreshing to find someone able to understand I was not aiming to pay the most for the least – just the right price for the right horse.

We clattered along dirt roads for a couple of hours, arriving in a small village with a street bazaar. We shuddered to a halt, and a cloud of dust rolled into the headlight beam. Tahsin got out, Adil and I followed. He walked swiftly through the crowds. There was an earthy smell of aromatic herbs and huge fresh vegetables. We walked past butchers’ stands, whole carcases hanging on hooks, while behind, calves waited on tethers for their turn. There were stalls of cloth, pots, pans, harness, leather goods and crawling litter. Adil never betrayed his blindness. His quiet confidence astounded me.

There was a loud noisy group of people just beyond the market, around a fire. Some stood, some squatted: all were shouting. As we approached one or two turned round to see who we were. On recognising Tahsin and Adil, they responded in obvious delight.

‘Hoş Geldiniz!’ they said – welcome. We were jostled up to the fire. Boxes and rugs were dragged out for us to sit on. They crouched round, full of questions, throwing me looks, and grinning black-toothed grins. They were a diverse lot. They were filled with vivacity and energy, immediate and infectious. In their company I felt high, charged. Some of the women were beautiful, with intricately tattooed faces. A striking young girl smiled at me revealing a hideously overgrown upper gum ending in jagged little black teeth. There was a woman with a goitre like a melon, men with only three fingers, no space for more. Grubby, beady-eyed children came to cheek us, mock and laugh. The men were drably dressed, but the women wore bright baggy trousers, richly patterned tight bodices brocaded in gold thread and small tasselled hats. I found them irresistible. I loved their irreverent dash, their explosive emotions, their chancy charisma. They pushed, squeezed, argued, belted each other and gobbed. Someone dropped a chunk of hot fried meat into my hands, and handed round little glasses of tea. Smoke from the fire blew all over us.

The talk got loud, and it sounded to me as if a major punch-up was about to break out. It didn’t sound as if anything was going to be resolved. A fat man, called Gengkis leaned forward. He shouted something at Tahsin, then looked at me nodding. Adil leaned toward me.

‘You are in luck. Gengkis is going to Istanbul tonight. He’ll take you to a place where there are horses. But they all say it’s a bad time to buy horses now after the winter. They say you can go to Urfa with them, and then buy a horse in Syria in a month.’

I caught myself thinking hard. What if I just did stay with them? Maybe these people had the very thing I treasured most. What if I just forgot about everything and went with them? Not easy that. You can dream and maybe sometimes have your dreams: I wondered just how much of a prisoner of my upbringing I was. Could I ever fit in with these people? Were there things I would miss more? I don’t know to this day if I did the right thing but said I would go with Gengkis.

As we talked, some music struck up in the bazaar. A pipe was playing in a harsh minor key, an arresting sound. The man was playing to another fellow slumped in a chair. He caught everyone’s attention. We all fell silent, listening to the sound, lilting, angular, strange. The pace quickened. Adil said it was a send-off – a man was leaving for the army.

His friends had come to wish him goodbye. I guessed the conscript was the man in the chair: the bloke with the crestfallen look, green and miserable out of the mountains off to an army, garrisoned in some place he didn’t want to be. He rose: danced to the music. The thing got going, the gypsies started swinging in time, their faces flushed and they caught the mood. Men started clapping, wolf whistling, girls egging them on. Then a boom from a drum, and the rapid chatter of the tambourine gave an easy beat to the wandering note of the pipe, in that crowded dark bazaar. The air was thick with smoke and dust while the man squared the ground in this melancholy dance, like solitaire. A fellow with a fiddle picked up the measure loud and strong in the hurrying night air, and loose-limbed gypsy girls threw themselves into the dance. Their dancing was not self-conscious, awkward and stiff, but full blooded with thrill. Hips rocked, shoulders shook and arms stroked air. A glorious girl with oil-black hair, coiled her way through the dancers, shimmering. The pace sharpened, men shouted, clapped, whistled to ululating voices. They caught each other’s passion, in the beat and rhythm while dust rose thick, glowing gold and orange round the whirling dancers.

Children pulled me up to dance, all caught up in movement and rush. A hunk of greasy bread was stuffed into my hands full of chilli and gooey meat: I didn’t care, danced with them. When the pace eased off, I slumped back on the bale of rugs, hot and sweaty. They whirled on. It looked like the party had just started. Tahsin came over.

‘Haydi gel!’ Those words again.

Now what. He pointed to a car coming up to us. A big old Chevy, bulbous, tatty, belching smoke. Gengkis was inside. On the back seat all my luggage – I’d clean forgotten. He shouted. I’d no idea where I was going. I looked for Adil. Everything was happening too fast: I didn’t want to go then, I wanted to talk to him more, learn a bit. In the time I’d known him things had got a lot better, taken on a new light. I’d met these crazy gypsies, enjoyed a bit of their lives. Now because of him and Tahsin I was off to get a horse – I’d got plenty to thank the man for.

‘Haydi gel!’ Gengkis again.

‘Adil,’ I said, messing it up. My head went empty. No idea how to say it – what to say. He stood in front of me, expressionless, just like when I met him. I thanked him. It sounded terrible. I didn’t have anything to give with my thanks: I felt for him in his blindness, yet knew how much it advantaged him over us somehow. I grabbed his hand and felt that surge of emotion that leaves you stuck without words: they’re not what you mean to say. But you’ve said it then: just feels empty. Perhaps I should wait, go with the gypsies? Stay and learn from Adil? Didn’t matter a damn if I did or didn’t go back to England did it? But I said I would go and there was the car.

‘Güle-güle’ he said quietly. It’s a lovely Turkish expression: it means ‘go laughing’.

‘Allaha – ismarladik’ you say in answer: but I didn’t know what it meant.

Gengkis booted the machine into life, and we rumbled away. I waved, hanging out the window, heard them shout ‘gule-gulae: saw them held in the glow of the fire, then they were gone.

I can’t remember much about the journey. I had no idea of direction, where we were going. Gengkis spoke no English: my Turkish was non-existent. We struggled then gave up. I dozed, thinking about Adil, Tahsin.

Shapes passed us in the darkness. Trees ghosted above, held in the headlights for a moment then vanished. We crossed roads, drove on rough tracks, through valleys, past rocks, I don’t know where. I slept some of the time, my head filled again with the whirr of the pipe, the tambourine and the drumming of the midnight wind. I remember going through a dingy deserted town. About three or four kilometres later, in a dark back street the car stopped.

Gengkis got out, knocked on a door. A lamp was lit and a huddled old man answered. My baggage was unloaded. Gengkis refused any payment, just shook my hand, nodded, grinned, drove away.

Watching the rear lights of the car disappear, I didn’t know where I was, who I was staying with, and I didn’t care. He handed me an oil lamp, showed me to a room with a palliasse on the floor, said goodnight and closed the door. I lay down, watched the lamp’s wick draw a shadow dance on the ceiling. I heard a dog bark once.

2

Ahmed Paşa

Between the idea

And the reality

Between the motion

And the act

Falls the shadow

T. S. Eliot

Genghis had driven me to Western Turkey. I found myself near Çal a small market town north of Denizli. It was reputed to have supplied horses to the Ottoman Empire: a promising history. It was a good starting point, giving me a time advantage. I could now count on being in the Alps before the snow. I could buy a horse there, ride down to the sea, where Chumpie – she’s my girl – would join me near Bodrum to ride up to the Greek border. It meant two horses. I decided to confine my search for one horse locally, looking out for another on my way down to the coast. That settled, I wandered round Akkent, the village I was in, as the sun came up.

It was poor and shabby. Open drains oozed, supurating into polluted holes where chickens picked. Mangey pariah dogs slunk about, begging scraps– the lot of a dog there was a bad one.

I made my usual enquiries by way of pocket dictionary, drawings and noises, which made me feel like a man setting himself up just to be knocked down. I had no other way. The first horse I was shown was a shrivelled thirteen hand pony: pushed to say whether he was dead or alive: they’re tough on their animals. Someone took me to a shed at the top of the village where there was an ‘at güzel’ – another ‘beautiful horse’. The man who owned this ‘at güzel’ was a type I had met before. I saw the dollar signs revolve in his eyes. He led me off to his horse in a mighty silence, no doubt wondering by how much he could rip me off. Reaching his place, he’d settled for a figure and disappeared into a foul black shed. I followed him, only to re-emerge retching. No idea what lived in there, but it fairly stank.

He came out leading a very comely young Arab colt, black as a rook, with a white blaze and three white socks. He was exceedingly pretty. ‘Beş million lira!’ the man hazarded, rapidly cashing in on my look of approval. The little horse jumped about delighted to be out of that shed, and as he danced the man tried to light a cigarette, lost the rope and the colt beat it out of Akkent at full bore hot on the road for Istanbul. There followed a full-scale swearing contest with me as its object. They all bellowed at me. Realising I hadn’t been holding the horse anyway and that their abuse was unlikely to encourage a sale, they became all charm, fawning and grinning with black teeth, offers of tea and cigarettes. I told the man his ‘at’ was ‘çok guzel’ – very nice – but a two-year-old, unbroken, untried hot-headed Arab, never mind how pretty, was not on. He dropped his price from £4,000 to £600, said I could take him there and then. If I had a lorry, I would have.

The streets then filled with horses of all shapes. Broken down cart horses, mangey little street ponies fit to drop. Every one was headshy: every one had been badly hit about. One or two nice little creatures trotted out, but they were too small. Someone suggested trying Çal market and not being in a financial position to hang about, I did.

Çal is a friendly little market town, surrounded by undulating hills. The farms roundabout produce vegetables, olives, grapes, maize and sunflowers. There’s a big raisin industry. It’s prosperous by local standards. An unpretentious place catering for the farming community rather than tourists. I liked it. In the town that day, I was like a magnet to iron filings to anyone who wanted to sell a horse. In no time, my search had been extended by a whole gang of helpers seeking out animals on my behalf. The long, the lame, short and shrivelled were paraded in front of me with enthusiastic eulogies of their many talents. Lame street horses, tiny ponies, all ‘guaranteed’, were trotted, paraded, dragged out protesting, shown bouts of loving attention usually denied them, for the benefit of this empty-headed tourist who would never know better. Every quadruped in Çal was brought to my attention.

But they soon bored of my failure to turn cart horse into cash, dispersing for lunch, a lie down or loaf about. I shared a little fruit with a wretched donkey in the corner of a crumbling building: he refused an apple, but took the orange I offered.

I wondered about buying a camel. I asked. Ten minutes later I was looking at one. She was a whopping great thing with a mountain of luggage on board which looked as if it had been there for centuries. I expect it had. No idea how old she was. She stank. No citronella would keep flies off her. She had a total absence of charm and the filthiest manners, belching vile green bubbles which burst in long oily strands and which she wrapped round my face each time I went near. Not sure how much of that I could stand. I didn’t see myself as another Lawrence. I don’t know a thing about camels, no idea about the veterinary aspect. She was hideously expensive. And I have to admit, she scared the goolies off me.

Things weren’t that rosy. What made it particularly difficult was my inability to express what I wanted, and, having been shown a horse, why I hadn’t wanted that one.

I went round the çay shops in Çal, drank a couple of bucketsful of sweet tea, ate stale bread, oily meat, gooey halva, sat in smoky rooms and spent the rest of the night throwing up.

The following day, I tried the horse races I had heard about at Yumurtaşköy, about a hundred kilometres away. A few people were going in a minibus from Çal and I joined them.

There must have been two thousand people at the races. They were all out on the plain surrounding the track, which was about a kilometre round. They had arrived on foot, tractors, lorries, motorcycles, cars, buses, horses and carts. Many of the cart pullers turned out to be competitors themselves who, after the races had to pull their owners back home.

There were Barbs, Arabs, Arab crosses, a few thoroughbreds and one matronly old English mare. They wore an eccentric assortment of tack, from elaborate high Kurdish saddles, to simple cloth things, cavalry saddles with silver chasing and tassles. All horses wore blue Mashallah beads to keep off the evil eye. Most of the tack was held together with bits of string, and the whole event had an air of a wild jamboree rather than a day at the races.

Proceedings started with a prayer as the Imman gave thanks to Allah. The sun climbed steadily in the sky and the plain began to heat. A strong smell of horse, kebab, diesel and dust. Food and drink were sold behind the spectators, but no alcohol.

There were no lavatories. Those who needed to, took a long walk. You had to watch where you were going after a while. The chap who was silly enough to park his tractor a convenient distance from the crowd found that out on his return. I don’t know how he got on it. The races were pacing races, that is to say, both legs on the same side of the horse are raised at once. It looks a strain for the horse. It was considered, and still is in some parts, the correct way for a horse to run. I am told it’s a comfortable gait; it doesn’t look it.

To prevent the horses breaking into a canter they are hobbled, or the riders lean right back pulling hard on the reins, their feet acting as fulcrum in front. It was like this they tore about the track, whooping and yelling as they went, cheered and encouraged by the ecstatic crowd. Great jiggling men on tiny ponies went beetling down through the dust, jackets flapping, cloth caps flying off, hanging in the saddle by the grace of God alone – Him, and the sheer velocity of the horse. They would suddenly come spilling off on corners, cartwheeling into the crowd, who cheered wildly as the riderless pony, now unrestricted in his gait, galloped on to win the race lengths ahead, hot and uncatchable. There was no formal dress. Jockeys wore whatever they turned up in. Some wore stylish leather accordion boots, traditional Turkish cavalry. Others chanced it in sandals, and their trousers worked up their legs with the pacing action of the horses, stripping their calves of hair, rubbing legs raw. Frightened little ponies charged about under their yelling riders. Noses bled from overspent horses. Chestnuts rubbed clean off, and horribly swollen tongues proved cruel horsemanship. Between heats, horses stood around under the midday sun, unhaltered, untended, ridden again and again. The races were concluded by a bareback thoroughbred race, the best event of the day since the horses ran a natural gait, the jockeys good to stay on.

When the day was over, these poor creatures were bundled into unsteady vehicles or back into harness without food, water or a word of praise. It left me feeling rather sick. I hated the cruelty, the lack of compassion. Where was all the goodness Adil had talked about? Why hadn’t these people read about their own culture? What of their Prophet Mohammed and how he had exhorted them to care for their animals, that God is well acquainted with how you treat them? Disillusioned, I walked away from the track, the stench of diesel fumes wafting off the hot dry plain, watching exhausted horses whipped as they struggled to draw overloaded carts.

Wasn’t I wasting my time? Suddenly I wanted to leave Turkey. I wanted to scream justice. I didn’t want to share their lives, their wretched horses, their bus back to Çal. I was appalled by the ignorance, the unthinking brutality, bored of my prison of incomprehension.

Hot and angry, I walked away and glanced into an irrigation channel, saw the spawning life of spring. Tadpoles black as commas squiggled in the warm green water in inky abundance. My anger left me. I wished I was just a frog calling to his lady love in some tepid Turkish stream.

The following day, I decided I was on a loser. I had drawn a blank. I made up my mind to leave when I heard there was a street fair in Çal, where horses were sometimes sold. I thought I might as well pack up my belongings, leave Akkent, take everything back to Çal where I could either take the first bus out, or look at this fair. In any event, I had to pass through Çal, so nothing would be lost. I left my kit in a çay shop, asked about horses. There were none for sale. Someone said it was early, some might arrive later. The bus to Izmir left at 3.30 that afternoon. I had a full day with not much to do in a town which was not much fun.

I felt about as energetic as you can when your world has just caved in. Drank sweet tea, cups of coffee, wandered about like a sheep lost in fog. The street fair was buoyant, good natured and busy. I looked for things to take home: harness, Mashallah beads, cloth, baggy trousers. When you are down the only thing that will pick you up is the thing that has flattened you: ironic. I found nothing. By three o’clock I was waiting for the bus, beaten. A young lad came up to me and introduced himself as Ozün. There was one horse for sale. I didn’t know this boy, nor how he knew me. Should I see this horse? Wait for the bus? I had half an hour. He explained where the horse was. I could get there and back in that time. I decided to kill the time. Just one horse.

I bought a bit of fruit in the market for him: they don’t give treats to horses in Turkey, can’t afford it. I walked down through the stalls, the bags of grain, wheat, barley and oats, through the harness stalls and bric-a-brac. I rounded the last corner, the horse and I saw each other in the same instant. My heart leapt within me and I knew this was the horse I had sought. I knew it at once. He was big. Big for a Turkish horse: 15.2 hands. He was Arab. White. Stallion. He had faults: he had been hit about the legs, had cuts and bruises, a cracked hoof, and he was about as fit as I was: pretty unfit. At least he was road hard. He was being used to pull a cart. I had seen Arabs ploughing in Turkey. He would be traffic-proof.

I asked who owned him. A man stepped forward, introduced himself as Ahmed Zohran, a decent looking bloke, with a droopy moustache and floppy black hair. I asked to take off the breeching so I could see the horse clearly. Under the saddle pad he had a spine sore – not too serious. He led him out of the shafts, walked him away, turned, trotted him back.

The horse floated in front of me as only an Arab can. He was light-stepped and proud. Held his head up, tail high. He danced like a unicorn: this was some horse. I wanted to ride him, try his paces. No question of a field or school and no saddle. Ahmed Zohran wanted an answer. I couldn’t afford to lose this one.

The man looked anxious. The horse was a stallion used to harness not saddle work: he’d never been ridden. He was twelve or so. Too old to teach new tricks? Something said ‘Ride’ and I was legged up. He moved smoothly. He knew nothing. He had no idea of leg instruction. He was only just controllable on the bit. He sort of neck-reined. But he felt right. Could I afford him?

‘How much?’

I thought he said 500,000 lira. I could. I wrote it in the dust at the horses feet. He crossed it out. Damn! I must have misunderstood. To my surprise, he wrote 350,000 lira in the dust. I was so overwhelmed, I crossed it out and wrote 300,000 We settled on 325,000. About £270. Not a word was said but the deal was done. Took my hand, shook it, spreading his arms in a gesture of ownership passing, his horse Ahmed Paşa was mine.

I gave the horse the fruit. He refused the apple, but took the orange. I could scarcely believe what had happened. Now what? Ahmed Zohran wanted his money. He expected me to take delivery of the horse straightaway. Befuddled with all the unexpected chain of events, I tore off to the bank, which was shut. They opened it, cashed my traveller’s cheque, and I gave him the lira. Then had to go to the belidiye – municipality – to register the horse, otherwise without a receipt, I could stand to lose the horse.

It was getting late. The sun was already low in the sky. I hadn’t made any plans and had no idea what would happen next and ran round like a decapitated hen. Someone gave me a cup of tea which I poured straight down my chest. Scalding. I had a headful of agonising questions. Would the saddle fit? Would the head collar bridle fit? What if he dies in the morning? Where am I going? After all, I planned to ride to England, but where did I actually go from here? Step one? What if he has some unbelievably horrible vice? He’s never been ridden! Was I just tossing money away? No question of vets there either. Maybe he had some dreadful Turkish disease, galloping horse-rot? The list went on. My anxiety grew.

By 5.30 I was standing beside him with all my kit. I shook with apprehension. A gang of onlookers didn’t help. What on earth had I done? I put the head collar bridle on; it fitted. It was a copy of a nineteenth century cavalry piece, and fully adjustable, but it went up to the last hole. Phew! So far, so good. I eased the snaffle into his mouth, kinder than the mean thing he had been wearing. Now for the saddle. I couldn’t bring myself to try it on him. I wormed him instead. Oiled his hooves, dressed his spine sore, checked his shoes. He had bad manners. Tough. What if the saddle didn’t fit? I could hardly just ring up Athene English in Hay-on-Wye and get another. I was definitely funking it. I sorted out the medicines. I packed the saddlebags, took everything out of the grip and looked at the huge pile of stuff I was carrying. It was ridiculous. Too much! Started giving things away, like Oxfam hand-outs. Eager hands came forward. Did I want the saddle? What about those green bags? That rope? I was getting in a twitch. I had to do it. I bunged on the numnah, closed my eyes, prayed hard as I lowered the saddle onto his back. It fitted, three fingers clear. Fair a fit as any made to measure. I slung the saddlebags on the D rings, lashed on the bedroll, tied on the panniers and looped the tethers.

I led Ahmed Paşa away from where he stood, when a man appeared from nowhere with an offer of feed for the horse. We followed him to the top of the town where in the street Ahmed Paşa got a light feed of oats, barley and saman – traditional horse food of chopped hay and straw. Ozün appeared again, insisting I eat. I was too wound up. Nevertheless, he took me to a friend’s house, forced a salad on me. He asked me what I planned to do: he gave me space, time to think. I still had too much kit. The saddlebags were bulky, uneven. I would have to prune things down tighter.

I decided to make for an old mill I had seen in the distance, on the river Menderes a few days before. It was in the right general direction, about two hours ride. The people would probably help, glad of a sudden windfall by way of healthy cash payment. I felt high, like chucking money around.

Back at the horse, I gave Ozün two pairs of cotton jodhpurs, spare leathers, two shirts, my book on Gurdjieff – dear to my heart though I had no idea what it was about – and my bundle was reduced. I had what I stood in plus a spare shirt, a few medicines, sleeping bag, grooming kit, liniments, citronella. I was ready. At 6.30, perhaps too soon after his meal, I mounted Ahmed Paşa and rode him out of Çal.

There was barely an hour’s sunlight left. Children ran alongside rolling steel hoops, people shouted ‘gule-gula cowboy!’ The sun gold threaded Ahmed Paşa’s mane. I waved to everybody, everything. We were on our way.

Uncertain of his rider, Ahmed Paşa high stepped, arching his neck. I felt like a Rajah on an elephant. He trotted high, a little unsteady. I was not sure if I was in control, about to be pitched off or what. We were making good time. Be at the mill in two hours easy.

The sun set in picture book colours, edging the hills pink and silver. Then night fell in one cold drop. Stars clung frostily in the endless black sky and Ahmed Paşa stopped dead in his tracks.

Not for love or bribes would he budge. I urged him on: he refused. I dismounted to lead him: he wouldn’t have it. He looked back forlorn to the twinkling lights of Çal, whinnied a lonely whine.

I had taken him away from all he knew. He had spent his life in Çal and never been further than this. Certainly never with a stranger speaking no known tongue. His work was in the safety of the town. At a stroke, I had robbed him of his stabled security, led him alone into the hobgoblin night, and he wasn’t going. I wouldn’t hit him: never a good way to treat a horse. He wouldn’t be ridden or led, all I could do was blindfold him. A horse will follow anywhere in a blindfold – if you can get it on.