SICILY
“Day 1 - Sun, Sand and Sea”
Capo Passero – Syracuse - Catania – Mt. Etna - Taormina – Messina (Ferry terminal)
14 February 1982
St. Valentine, a celebrated day. The day of our departure.
Sunshine, sandy beaches, an azure ocean and the sound of waves rolling onto the shores with colorful fishing boats dotting the Eastern Coastline created a picture-perfect setting to start our journey.
The TV crew and journalists had finally left, though three local riders on tall horses stayed to act as ‘tour guides’, accompanying us for the next 220 kilometers until the port city of Messina.
Together we set out to ride along this magnificent coastline, the beautiful Ionic Sea.
Small villages stretched along the beaches with inhabitants emerging, running up to us to ask for an autograph. My horse Lover got impatient then, wanting no bar of it, preferring to run up the coastline or canter through the waves. Occasional the riders led us away from the beaches to guide us through olive groves, palm tree plantations and orange- and citrus coves, with the fruits there for the taking.
Not far ahead, so it seemed, a gray cloud of dust spat out by Mt. Etna, Europe’s most active volcano, still spewing ash. It last erupted in 2019, but luckily only at its summit.
One of my courteous chaperons seemed eager to advise me about my upcoming events. I was as eager to listen as he was to try to impress me. “Tomorrow,” he said, “you will sleep like a princess in the Royal Castle of San Marco and your stallion will be housed in stables built for kings.
San Marco is a noble castle representing a splendid example of Sicilian Baroque architecture. It was built at the end of the 16th Century as the residence for Prince Ignazio Gravina and has housed Sicilian aristocracy since.”
I wondered if I would be served a cup of tea in finest porcelain, or if a princess had slept in my bed.
The four days it took to arrive in Messina was an excellent introduction to my horse trek. My self-appointed Chaperons constantly amused me with their flirtatious charm with each trying to impress me in their own particular way.
Another rider, Pietro, vying for my attention, accosted us on his speedy mare with a broad smile to forecast our arrival at the ferry terminal in Messina: “Signorina Gitta, on this day, your last in Sicily, you will be fare-welled by Sicilian equestrian officials, more local riders and a small contingent of riders from Reggio Calabria will be there also to welcome the two of you. They’ll load Lover on a horse float for the short 3 km ferry ride across the Strait of Messina to mainland Italy.”
To me it sounded as if my arrival and departure were to be an enjoyable ‘official’ affair. It sounded so well planned.
“Horses must be transported in horse floats when on ferry boats”, Pietro continued, “At least you are free then to look around and marvel at our beautiful scenery”, he added with a dashing smile.
Tucking myself late into bed that first night, tired and happy, I began to feel an attraction to Sicily that would find me returning there to live.
Pietro’s prediction ultimately wasn’t as accurate as he would have liked it to be. At the Messina ferry terminal and on the ferry I was too involved with my hosts to see much of the scenery.
Boarding the ferry I found myself repeating that historic phrase: “I shall return.”
ITALY
“Documenti, prego”
“Documents, please”
March 17th
Italy is a country where Carabinieri (military police) seem to reign. They pop up in the most unexpected places and several roadblocks are often encountered during a day’s travel.
My horse and I learnt firsthand that the Carabinieri take their duties very seriously indeed. One day in the mountainous region of Basilicata Lover and I were riding travelling uphill along a lonely road. The clouds were almost close enough to touch our heads and it seemed as if we were walking up into the sky. Patches of snow cushioned the clip-clop of my stallion’s hoofs. The wind was so strong I had to dismount and lead Lover into its snow-laden icy blast. Huddling into my jacket I turned my collar up and swapped my riding hat for my beanie, anything for warmth. How did my horse feel about this harshness? My equine empathy was interrupted by the snow-muffled sound of a vehicle stopping.
Suddenly, two Carabinieri appeared from nowhere and stood blocking our way: ‘Documenti, per favore’ they demanded with outstretched hands and unsmiling faces. I stared nonplussed at the uniformed patrol. Was this for real?
Documents of what, I thought. Not being able to understand each other’s language made the encounter increasingly difficult and confusing but, being basically a law-abiding tourist in obedience I started to dig through my saddle bags in search of my I.D which, of course, they wouldn’t be able to read anyway. All the while being hit by wind squalls and snow flurries. But worse was to come... In a stony face stare common to police men the world over they demanded: “Anche del cacallo’. “Also that of my horse?” “To which I received an unsatisfactory, vague reply: “For your own security and that of your horse... lot of Mafia here… capito?” No, nix capito, I did not understand... Surely the Mafia would not be interested in holding a young horse for ransom?”
My ID and a newspaper clipping in Italian with Lover’s photo and name on it published a few days ago did the trick. Their scowls turned into broad smiles, then we all exchanged vigorous handshakes accompanied by an avalanche of words, which none of us understood, and we were free to be on our way.
As I was about to continue on I thought of taking a photo of those two law enforcement officers. I quickly extracted my camera out of its bag, and with a questioning smile I pointed it at the two men. Their broad smiles and jostling for best position was an indication of their vanity and keenness to pose for me! Something common to officialdom, the world over, but especially in Italy were if you’re taking a photo of the police, crimes can be going on all around but they will not countenance a bad photo?
I quickly captured a parting snapshot of those two handsome Carabinieri who nearly arrested a horse.
Incidentally, it was this patrol unit that would arrange our accommodation in the next town, Sant’Angelo dei Lombardi, a further 30 kilometre up and down on winding roads.
Imagine my surprise when I saw my two Carabinieri approach us again! As it turned out they knew all along that they’d be looking after us.
When over a glass of wine or two that evening in my hosts’ house I told of my unusual encounter earlier that day, they cracked up laughing: “Those two! They sure like to play tricks with tourists coming through, especially girls!”
SWITZERLAND
“The Short-Cut”
May 18th
The beginning of the story sounds simple: a journalist flies from Germany, Hamburg, near the North Sea to the canton of Graubünden in Switzerland, to accompany the three of us, Lover, Gipsy and me, on two trekking days. Eckhard wanted an AUTHENTIC story for his newspaper, “The World on Sunday”.
Months before, when I had visited him in his editorial office, Eckhard raved about a full week of riding; he raved about tent and campfire in wind and weather. That, he proclaimed, were no problem for him as a well-trained tennis player.... In reality he had never been on a horse or donkey before, let alone ridden on these animals.
Eckhard also wanted to navigate the route for this period. When we then started out from Thusis in Graubünden, 720 meters above sea level, on the 5th of May, Eckhard pointed to the map and said: "Why should one make such a big curve?! Always along the Hinterrhein, that’s boring. Let's just go straight!
I thought: “You shall, you shall!” The devil rode me; I said nothing.
He sounded like a stern General who, without wavering, plotted the route ready for battle.
We wanted to reach the municipality Domat -Ems on this day. Until there, it would have been about twenty-five kilometers on comparatively flat paths by following the valley along the Rhine, to the left and right of us snow-capped mountains...
We took the "shortcut". It went higher and higher, it became steeper and steeper. The sun warmed. The valley was getting farther and farther away, the mountain on our left didn’t seem to end. Up ahead another short-cut so popular with Eckhard. Then began the Journo’s lamentations - hard climb, moan, sweat, plonking down exhausted on a stone or log every 100 meters. This would go on like this for most of the climb. Eckhard was sweating from every pore.
I was mounted up in the saddle for a while whilst my companion had to drive his animal on foot.
I thought a fit tennis player could surely make it up a mountain with a donkey.
Then further... further... higher...
Eckhard seemed to forget that HE had insisted on this route.
About an hour into our climb we were at least rewarded by a wide view over the valley to Thusis and the towering 2041 meter high Passo del San Bernardino with the defiant Castle Ortenstein perched on high rock in the foreground.
“Hey, Gitta, here we have to take photos, looks picturesque: the valley, the mountains, overhanging tree branches...”
To top it off for that day was then a snowy terrain and a board indicating the altitude "1470 meters above sea level. Me to Eckhard: "Look, you chased us 720 meters up the mountain." Raindrops fell from a brilliantly blue sky, not far above us a few roofs glittering under the damp sunshine: the mountain village of Feldis.
People did not believe their eyes when they saw us four hikers.
"That's impossible! You want to make us believe that you climbed up here by mistake? With horse and donkey? And did not see it on the map? Well....!”
Eckhard: "Nope, I did not think about altitude differences! In Hamburg everything is flat!”
The man from Feldis: “I thought at first you wanted to v i s i t someone here... but by m i s t a k e - NO!”
Well, that smart Alec journalist surely had led us up the garden path.
Being a well-trained tennis player surely did not make him capable of reading a topographic map!
My companion then learned that a "shortcut" can also turn into an adventurous detour.
AUSTRIA
“A Short Illegal Detour”
May 21st
When the best road could be the wrong Road
We were simply following the Rhine River along a well-defined trail, unaware that we were entering the triple border corner where Switzerland, Germany and Austria met. Since I was using the Rhine as a guide and the path was populated by joggers coming and going I stayed on that trail. We entered a small forest and on exiting we passed a stone cairn but didn’t really take any notice.
The trail emerged to what appeared to be a village green, dotted with sunbathers colorfully reflected on the still waters of a picturesque pond.
I noticed we seemed to be drawing unusual attention from the sunbathers.
But the pleasant aroma of Bratwurst (a German grilled sausage), emanating from a Kiosk made me realize I was very hungry and I made a beeline straight to the source of the smell.
While I waited my turn I noticed that the prices were in Austrian shilling. I queried the woman serving me about of what I thought was an unusual circumstance of charging in Austrian shilling when I expected it to be Swiss Francs.
Her reply shocked me, when she said: “But don’t you know you are in Austria?!”
Everyone in the Kiosk queue suddenly gave me free advice and I learned that the Swiss-Austrian border was the cairn we just passed. The gist of the advice was that we had better retrace our steps and get the hell out of Austria before the three of us were arrested.
Without getting a Bratwurst we furtively made our escape. Gipsy’s long ears seemed like a signal, so I kept on pressing them flat in a futile attempt to reduce our exposure.
Ten minutes later and still craving my Bratwurst we were breathing clear Swiss air.
GERMANY
“The Donkey Serenade”
May 29th
This time Gipsy’s obsession with going off on his own landed him in deep trouble. He had blundered smack bang into the middle of a swamp and was thoroughly bogged.
That was near the village Steinach near Bad Waldsee, southern Germany (Upper Swabia, Württemberg). In the distance we heard the bells of the St. Anna Kapelle of Steinach (Sant Anna Chapel), their sound suddenly interrupted by a wild shout: “A donkey! A donkey! Look, it’s stuck there in the swamp! Look, Willie!”
Three people wearing their Sunday best and looking as if they had come straight from Sunday mass emerged from the forest riding pushbikes. They immediately jumped off their bikes to come to the rescue.
They heard and saw Gipsy, Lover and me in great excitement. I saw Gipsy sink in and bray in desperation; Lover also felt the highly dangerous situation for Gipsy and neighed horrified. What followed was unlike the tinkling tone of the donkey serenade. We wanted to sing everything but this funny "donkey-serenade" from "Tarantella". Chaos followed as everyone stood ankle-deep in the mud and pitched in to save the struggling animal. Fortunately, Willy found some wooden slats nearby and placed them in position so that I could crawl towards Gipsy. While I was battling mud, sweat and tears and trying to calm down my donkey, one of the women kept beleaguering us with her repeated outcries: “Poor donkey… good we left church service early… Hilda, look at his crook hoof sticking out… maybe he broke a leg… oh, you poor donkey… what’s your name? ... can you hear the church bells? …. be careful Willy… “ Ever so slowly I had eased close enough to Gipsy to eventually cut the cinches under his belly holding the packs.
Then we all joined in shoving Gipsy from behind and pulling his tail, his halter and even his mane until Gipsy expelled a last deep sigh, and then heaved forward until at last his mud-caked legs touched solid ground.
Gipsy then wobbled out of the swamp and shook himself as if nothing had happened, all the while ignoring all of us including even his mate. To top it off he also sneezed on one of the rescuer’s pretty Sunday dress, then sauntered off to make himself comfortable in the grass.
The cyclists then helped me lift the saddle bags on the mud-caked Gipsy and lash it down. They even followed us on their push bikes to make sure we reached our next destination, the nearby hamlet of Steinhausen.
How can one ever thank three people who had just recued your donkey from disappearing in the mud? Their final parting words still ring in my ears today: “Poor donkey, you poor thing...”
When in the late afternoon in Steinhausen I told of our morning hours of horror, one would not have believed it, had not Gipsy stood in a miserable condition in front of the cowshed: dripping wet and trembling after a seemingly endless bath, where his water-shy fur had been merciless set upon with shampoo, cold water, coarse brush and brought to bristle. Quite a punishment for him, it took three people to hold on to him to keep him from bolting off. Gipsy just loathes getting wet.
After this ordeal however he spread his thoroughly washed ears flat; half closed his eyelids and began to snore.
And that, as I know this donkey of mine, meant nothing else than “you can all ... get lost!”
Hints:
To Steinacher Ried, in which Gipsy had sunk:
https://www.bad-waldsee.de/index.php/steinacher-ried.html
The "Donkey Serenade" is a composition from the Metro Goldwyn-Meyer movie "Tarantella" or
"Firefly" of the thirties of the 20th century. The tunes were also popular in Germany, especially
the "Donkey-Serenade".
Here are two Youtubes
DENMARK
“In 1982 - Year Of The Castle”
June 24th
When our trio disembarked the ferry “Travemünde”” in the Danish harbour of Gedser, it felt to me as if we had left Europe behind.
While Denmark’s southern mainland border is attached to Germany we could have continued our journey north across the Jutland Peninsula, eventually to head toward the easterly Danish coast.
The Danish land route presented a very difficult transporting problem because to get to Copenhagen required “island hopping”. I opted to take the ferry from the north-easterly German harbour of Travemünde directly to the Danish port on the Island of Falster, and by doing so crossed the Baltic Sea - a short-cut, if you like.
Though we would miss out on experiencing part of Denmark’s most enchanting landscape, colourful harbours, magnificent castles and a number of famous horse studs, our seafaring choice offered its bright sides, enriching our journey to its fullest.
Our route north from Gedser led to the southerly outskirts of Copenhagen, the country’s capital, situated on the largest of the Danish islands, Sjaelland Island (Zealand), from where we embarked on our 18 km (11miles) long ferry ride on the “Stena Line” to Sweden’s port of Malmö, crossing the Øresund Strait *. This shorter Gedser to Copenhagen route took us only 7 days. I admit, I was in a hurry! I was so keen to reach ‘the other Europe’, the northerly part, Scandinavia, that is, and winter was coming.
Though Denmark is a Scandinavian country, however, I regarded it more as a buffer zone between the three countries we had left behind and those three that lay before us. Perhaps my sentiment was also influenced from the knowledge that Denmark once incorporated parts of northern Germany, Schleswig-Holstein, as well as southern parts of Sweden, Skåneland.
The Danes proved their reputation as happy people, open-minded, easygoing, fun-loving, easily humoured, and nearly always seemed optimistic.
Our first hint of this came as soon as we disembarked the ‘Stena Line” when a jolly journalist immediately sidled up to us. With notepad in hand, camera in action and a broad smile, non-stop questions and humorous remarks he hang as close to us as physically possible. Between dealing with the customs and vet, which was the smoothest transit of all so far, saddling up and packing our gear on Lover and Gipsy I discovered that my bag of liquorice had vanished. One look at Gipsy showed me the culprit; he was still licking his lips. By the time I swung in the saddle to ride off this charming journo was able to squeeze enough words out of me for what he surely hoped to be an adventurous sounding story. In turn I was awarded with his views on the people whose countries we had traversed and gave his fun predictions of those over the next 2700km yet to be encountered.
I saw the journalist’s newspaper article the following day, Friday 26 June, the text having been translated to me by my first hosts. “Young West German girl on a horse from Sicily to North Cape”. He had captured our story well.
During our few days in Denmark we were able to ride sedately along many tranquil bicycle paths, made especially interesting by visiting an Automobile Museum at Aalholm; an overnight stay at the Gallery Iris owned and operated by my German host in Væggerløse with visits to grand castles. It was the year of the castle, and at Marrabaek Castle the down-to-earth ‘Royals’ stretched out a hand in greeting and posed with us.
My last day in Denmark was very special.
My final Danish host generously drove me from Kastrup in his car to visit “Dorthealyst”, a Connemara Stud in Mørkøv, 80 odd km west of Copenhagen. His entry in my ever present host book gave me some brief words and in the tiny space available he added a postal stamp which pictured a pair of horse riders waving the Danish flag.
“Thanks”
Thank you to Iris Bleek, our last hosts Emil and Stella Larsen and the rest of Denmark
* Since 1st July 2000 Copenhagen and Malmö are linked by the nearly 8 kilometres Øresund Bridge to the artificial island Peberholm in the middle of the strait and then a further 4 kilometres by the Drogden Tunnel.
Sweden
“Uncustomary Customs”
July 1st
Border crossings in the time before the almost borderless European Union could be anxious events, but none had been as challenging as the one into Scandinavia, well, Sweden, to be precise.
We had crossed from Italy to Switzerland, accidentally into Austria, then Germany, Denmark and now...
... I was excited and fidgety. Only half an hour left and the ferry boat of the Stens-Line would enter the harbor of Malmö.
How I had anticipated the arrival!
So here our story begins.
All went well at first.
Veterinary Lars Lund rushed towards our horse transporter and brought it to a stop immediately after leaving the ferry. Not a meter too far onto our land! Do not take any risks!
As soon as my driver companion had opened the ramp, my two animals scrambled off. Lover pooped as greeting, Gipsy vigorously wagged his brush tail. The veterinary compared the paperwork with the two standing in front of him, and then in his sporty-elegant clothing stepped over the scattered straw between horse and donkey for a thorough check-up.
First Lover – breed, age, external markings, height, teeth, eyes (clear and alert), hoofs, tendons and other vitals.
“That’s good little fella. You amaze me. Keep it up!”
Then Gipsy. He complicated the examination by pushing his head over the vet’s shoulder to watch the bustling customs traffic. This made the Veterinary a bit indignant, and the donkey’s head was tied shorter. Check-up also satisfactory, except that a visit to the dentist was to be desired.
“Good donkey, you amaze me.”
He then followed with strict instructions: to hand over the veterinary pass to customs, and when cleared by them to make our way the 8 km to the quarantine facility in Gessie, - “without delay or stopping the truck”, the vet stressed, and then...
”All the best…”
Next on to the customs building – and where the challenge began.
There were two issues.
Firstly it seemed that the Swedes were admirably protective of animals.
Complicating things even more they also separated locomotion and transport.
“We live in the twentieth century, and for that the horse is no longer a means of transportation...” I gasped. “That is a joke! I am a bit old-fashioned and see the advantages of the “good old days’ – so... high on horseback. It’s for me...” He refused to understand! I tore my hair, stared at him stunned. The officer, still patient: “You can take the donkey with you, he counts as a means of transportation.... but the horse... I am sorry!” “Sorry? I bet, sorry...!” I had shaken, and in my boundless rage and powerlessness threw all the papers across the counter.
So, new tactics needed. Head up. Smile, but tackle the situation with determination in my eyes. “I understand you, and understand your arguments; I suppose I must accept them...” I remarked in conciliatory tone. “If you do not accept my horse as means of locomotion, then call it means of transport. After all, he’s transporting me, is he not?” I added flatteringly. “What! You still shake your head?” I blurted out, trying to keep up a friendly tone. “Okay, then I grab the gear and pack the horse, so that he is means of transport and I ride the donkey. He then said: “And then you have the Animal Protection Board on your throat, because you mistreat the horse!”
You see, according to Mr Customs Lover as a stallion was not allowed to be used as a means of transportation, neither was he permitted to be used as a pack horse. That, according to Swedish Animal Rights, was ‘slaving the horse’.
This did not make sense to me. My frustration growing I yelled at the young customs officer: “To me the horse is a means of transport, call it what you like!” He seemed used to being insulted and ignored it.
He then suggested “It’s best you take the next ferry and enter this country via Norway ...”
“NORWAY? We are booked in here for the quarantine. ” “Norway should also be quite pretty, you know” he remarked.
“I’m not interested. We are here now, our entry papers confirmed months ago...” I exclaimed close to tears, pacing agitated in front of the customs counter. “I hadn’t been told anything about import duty. And for me it’s all transit! We do not intend staying in Sweden anyway! We just ride through, don’t you understand! Then on to Finland, Norway! It’s a transit. We need transit papers!”, “Transit does not exist with us. Everything is import. And you have to pay import duty! I explained already.”
The second issue, unlike the rest of Europe, Scandinavia did not make any allowance for animals transiting their countries. The only option available to the customs officer was to treat my animals as an import. That led to a demand for import duty. Instantly ending the subtle flirtation we had been enjoying.
Having reached complete exasperation I told him that my trek was being commissioned by a number of major European equestrian magazines, and with that stormed out of the Customs building to make my way to the telephone booth.
Just as I was sorting the money for the call, the customs officer came running up, calling out to me:
“Hey, wait, all right... hello... everything OK!” while waving some paperwork.
“We did it! I phoned Stockholm!”
With that the official’s Swedish humor returned and he graciously made an entry for my host book:
“I know that when you have passed through the customs in SWEDEN without paying any taxes and made General Tullstyrelsen to do a principal discussion.
So you have nothing else to worry about.”
With sincere greeting, Mr. Customs”
“Thanks”
During our 2000 km trekking through Sweden I continued to be amazed and grateful for all the support given to us.
While I might have been spoiled with a hot shower or even a bath, a hearty dinner or a small corner in the yard in which my tent was pitched. My horse and donkey might have found a lush paddock in which to graze or get a treat like an apple, carrot or extra ration of oats from our hosts.
When I decided to sit down and create this website in 2018, with much research going into it, I contacted a number of people who had given us hospitality so many years ago, many of whom replied and were pleasantly surprised to hear from me.
Friendships were rekindled, some of which still lasting until today, when I write this – December 2019.
Then there are a number of Tourist info Centers who also helped to “find old contacts, roads and localities”.
Thank you especially:
Madeleine Beckman, Charlotte Norman-Oredsson of Skea Gård, Hässleholm, Lisa Hjertonsson, Stallsättrannostalgi , Jonny Jilderin, children and their ponies from Leipojävi - Vittangi, Bränna Karin, Johan Söderlund from Älmhults Turistinformation, Kerstin from Turistinformationen Mjölby kommun.
Without your help this website would only exist as a grand idea.
Finland
“A Suspension Thriller”
October 1st
Karesuvanto – Markkina - Kelottijärvi - Pättikkä – Ropinsalmi - litto – Saarikoski - Keinovuopio - Kilpisjärvi
Könkämäeno River. This side Finland – over there Sweden.
For this stage I had been joined by a 15 year old girl and her mare.
Not long before dark, we stood and looked over to the other side: my stallion, a teenager, her mare, Kitty, and me.
Here a small parking lot, surrounded by a few trees and shrubbery, a boat ramp and visible on the other side a round yard, a gravel road and five houses, enough to be named Keinovuopio.
Between here and there – dark, cold, cold water.
Across it - a bridge. So what?
Firstly we tied the animals as short as possible to avoid tangling. Far enough from each other to guarantee a ‘quiet’ night. The horses in Finland, the riders in Sweden. So at least the naive plan of our hosts. But what if the horses broke loose and ran away. Lover is after all a stallion and the mare should certainly not carry a holiday souvenir!
They HAD to come with us!
At this section the Könkämäeno, or Peerasuvanto as it is called here, is estimated 30 metres wide. In winter snow mobiles, sleighs, cars and even light trucks slither over its wintry ice. Come spring with the river flowing again boats with loads of goods are steered across, or herds of Reindeer driven from shore to shore. The river is deep and footing is quickly lost.
The horses through THAT? No way!
How about the bridge?
It is a footbridge made of cables, steel ropes, wooden railings and deck and wire mesh. Two double pillars and four steel cables make up a reliable structure, 5 metres above the water. An instruction manual advised: This bridge almost does not swing and even the wooden slats give way only slightly under your feet. Do not use it as a swing, do not race on it, and do not put on more than 250 kg. Let it swing unloaded during storms and without use during winter.
It seemed certain now, the horses had to swim!
The teenager’s parents arrived, horns beeping, with hay and oats. “Crowd gathering’ on the Swedish shore, the entire village was lured out. Every diversion was welcome. I voiced reservations about leaving the horses alone here on the Finnish side. A young man steered his 5hp dinghy to our shore. Another man jumped out. The teen and I got on board, holding long ropes fastened to the halters of the horses. “Who goes first?” stallion and mare seemed to ask each other. Apprehensively they took two steps forward, pulled back, tensed their muscles, did not trust the chugging motor, hated the opaque wetness and found the groaning, creaking bridge sinister. They balked at being pulled into the waters.
They couldn’t know what this was all about.
Let the horses relax, a new attempt. Pushing and gesturing from behind, two meters forward, knees of the mare in the water, Lover already to his chest. Best not to let the animals come to their senses. The 5PS revved and howled, the engine stank, the two men screaming “Ho” and “Hu”, our hands were tense around the ropes. It was hard to keep your balance, but Lover had already lost the ground under his hoofs and was therefore virtually without resistance. Kitty with her longer legs seemed to have ground under her hoofs; she knew she could turn back. My warning to Christine: “Hold on!” came too late. A jolt, her hands opened, and the confused mare hurried back to shore. “The men take care of it, do not worry, rather talk to your horse, he seems terrified.”
Though horses are good swimmers, Lover, with chin stretched over the water and his nostrils puffed wide open, paddled desperately. After some exciting minutes, soaking wet, with dripping mane and tail, and drooping head the stallion plodded on to dry land. But hardly there, he threw himself in posture, neighed and called his girlfriend.
The shivering Lover had to be thoroughly rubbed down from ears to toes until coat and skin were completely dried before he could be covered with a warming blanket. The seriousness of the situation was unmistakable. Cold water could have long-lasting consequences. The night was already below zero.
Lover was corralled in the round yard, the slaughter place of the reindeer. He definitely did not like it.
But now: Good night, Lover!
5:30 am. I jumped out of bed, pulled on the most necessary clothes. Hood up, out in the fresh morning, gloves on, ran down the path to the river. My horse... I wondered if he had gotten enough rest with all the neighing back and forth. What about the mare? I could already see both, the mare a bit restless, but still securely tied. Lover stood at the very end of the round yard, with his nose pressed to the wood, watching through the slats over the water. Has he kept an eye on his girlfriend all night?
My horse gave a relieved neigh at the sight of me, bringing hay, oats, and a drink for breakfast.
In the Finn house everything was still quiet after our merry evening. I quickly washed the sleep out of my eyes, packed my few belongings, dressed properly. “Let’s bring Lover over the river first”, I suggested to Christine. “How so?” Lover again through the water? Not a good idea. It increased the risk of him getting sick. His coat took a long time to dry, especially at these low temps. We would get away late, and... yes, the Norwegian border lured. We should reach it today!
I looked again at the bridge. My decision was clear: I risk it! A bit overweight was certainly calculated... Lover about 350 kg, I 55, well...?
My heart was pounding. Barely a meter wide, 30 meters of danger hung in front of us. I grabbed Lover’s lead rope close to the halter ensuring he stayed behind me. There was only ONE solid hope on which I could build: my horse’s unconditional trust in me.
One step, the second, Lover sniffed the wood and nudged his nose against my shoulder. Two meters, three meters, still solid wood below us, but already fenced by wire mesh. Come on Lover, come on. I tested my weight on each board. “Quiet Lover, keep calm.” I let him sniff, let him re-assure himself to the left and to the right, see the water, hear the tinkling of the chains. We cautiously advanced step by step, stood still, relaxed between each break. I talked soothingly to my horse, balanced the slightly swaying bridge. At last halfway across. I would have loved to run, get it over with.
Then a sudden jerking behind me! My hand almost lost grip on the lead rope. Oh dear, the mare... they have seen each other, began whinnying back and forth. Oh no, the bridge started to sway. I leaned forcefully against the railing with my left hand to brace myself, grabbed firm hold on Lover’s halter to foil his attempt to force his way past me. I almost lost my nerve... stay calm, calm. “Mare, be quiet.” Another board... three meters... two... one... “All right, Lover, you are doing well, only a few more steps. Look up, there already the pylon”. Then solid boards. We stood on firm ground.
I sighted a breath of immense relief. When reunited with his girlfriend Lover carried on joyfully, neighing and prancing at no end.
NORWAY
Nordkapp
“Day 271 - Snow and Ice”
October 10th/11th, 1982
The Norwegian Broadcaster was playing through the ship’s public address system.
“... and now a special broadcast: Gitta Steffes, from Hamburg, Germany, who on the 14th of February set out on a 7000 km solo horse ride from the southern tip of Italy with horse and donkey, arrived today, the 11th October at 12.00 at her destination, the World Globe at Nordkapp...”
Is it really USthey are talking about? Had we REALLY made that ride and reached the most northerly tip of Nordkapp, hence the tip the European continent?
17:00. It was a short announcement by the Norwegian Radio Broadcaster. Informative, simple words, yet so intensive that they would echo through the rest of my life.
I can still envision those moments on the bridge of the “M/F Porsangerfjord” today, the slowly fading lights of Honningsvåg – hear the conversations of the crew and the pinging of the instruments sounding as if from far away. In my inner confusion I sipped absentmindedly at the hot coffee a crew member handed to me. I handed my log book to the Captain without a comment so he could make the maybe 200th and last commentary.
This short, down-to-the-point announcement rattled me from my trance. Captain and crew congratulated me... but I hurried past them, tore the starboard door open, skidded over the iced-up deck towards the railing and marvelled quietly at the scenery – the rock called Nordkapp stretching bizarrely out of the black North Sea, illuminated only by the restless veils of the Northern Lights shimmering a final farewell..
Jubilantly I realized: we had really done it... we camped in minus 10°C temperatures the previous night on the plateau above the lights of Honningsvåg. YES, we set out at 7am that morning on our last 35 km from about 7000 km and trudged through wind, ice and snow flurries. YES, we arrived at 12 o’clock midday at the most northerly point of North Cape and with that, Europe. Only 7 months ago I was standing with my horse in bright sunshine at Cape Passero in Sicily with 7000 km, now behind, yet to be traveled.
With emotions mixed by tears and laughter I danced over the deck. Then slowly, slowly I began to comprehend what had been lingering in my subconsciousness during the latter part of our ride - that we could look back on an extraordinary achievement.
While the last lights of Honningvåg faded in the distance, my thoughts reflected especially on the last days of our trek - those through Norway.
Without doubt the most cherished memories encompass the breathtaking scenery of those mysterious and magnificent fjords, where my horse and I camped right on water’s edge. Where snow-capped mountains descended into crystal-clear waters and wooden shacks covered with grass, flowers or even a small tree would reflect in the now wintry waters.
There was a kaleidoscope of autumn colours of trees and bushes, ranging from orange, green, red and yellow to bluish hues. Definitely a feast to my photographic eye.
How could I not look back with fond memories on the extraordinary hospitality extended to us by the always kind Norwegians, who went out of their ways to offer their assistance in multiple ways?
What about my horse and my donkey companion, Gipsy? This lovable but single-minded creature that had accompanied us six thousand km from Mendrisio/Switzerland to Tromsø had found a new home in Norway’s most northerly riding school.
Gipsy’s re-homing from the hot European climates to the cold temps of Norway was hatched up by a bunch of “donkey-mad” kids at the Tromsø Ridescola where we were given hospitality. Clever as kids can be, they overheard a conversation between the Hanson’s, owners of the riding facility and myself about the return trip from the tip of the Norwegian island to the mainland and further on to the Swedish border. All up a total of around 450 km.
“Why not swap Gipsy for that transport?” the kids suggested eagerly. ‘Could you not... and we can keep the donkey... he’s so cute...yes, yes, please!!”
And so a deal was hatched and sealed.
These last entries in my host book of the ships officers provide an ongoing reminder of seven months of adventure which have lasted a life time.
10th October on the ferry M/F “Porsangerfjord” from mainland Norway/ Kåfjord to the island of Magerøya/ Honningvåg
“Nå starter du snart på siste etappe, du har bare 35 kilometer igjen til Nordkappplatået. Dette er den siste ferga mellom Kåfjord-Magerøya.
I dag har vi hatt første dagen med snøbyger så du kommer akkurat i tide. Besetningen på ‘’Porsangerfjord’’ ønsker deg lykke til på den siste etappen og på returreisen.”
Translation:
“Now you will soon start the last stage, you only have 35 kilometers left to the North Cape plateau. This is the last ferry between Kåfjord – Magerøya. Today we had the first day with snow showers so you are just in time. The crew at ‘’Porsangerfjord’’ wish you the best of luck on the last stage and on the return journey.“
Skipper
11th October on the ferry M/F “Porsangerfjord” from the island of Magerøya/ Honningvåg to mainland Norway/ Kåfjord
“Gitta Steffes er nå om bord i M/F ‘’Porsangerfjord’’ på reise fra Nordkapp. Hun forlater skipet 11/10-82 kl 1715.
Det har vært en stor opplevelse og bli kjent med Gitta.
Offiserer og mannskap ønsker henne en riktig god reise tilbake til Italia, og ønsker henne velkommen tilbake til Nordkapp ved en senere anledning.”
Translation:
“Gitta Steffes is now onboard M/F ‘’Porsangerfjord’’ travelling from North Cape. She leaves the ship 11/10-82 at 17:15 o’clock. It has been a great experience to get to know Gitta. Officers and crew wish her a really good trip back to Italy, and wish her welcome back to North Cape at a later time.”
“Thanks”
A hearty ‘Thank you” to everyone who cheered us on to ride the last “few’ kilometers and reach our goal. I think fondly back on the Hanson family in Tromsø, not forgetting Karianne from the Tourist Information in Honningvåg who has kindly typed out the Norwegian words penned by the skippers of the M/F Porsangerfjord and translated them for me (January 3rd, 2020). Thank you also to Marie Angelsen from Visit Lyngenford AS/Nordkalottsenteret in Skibotn for helping to “find” a couple of our campsites.