March to Barcs: Riding around Barcs

Riding around Barcs: By Horse and Carriage

For Stephanie's fortieth birthday, we took a horse and carriage ride through the woods and past lakes and over dirt paths weaving from Barcs to Lake Bok to Lake Nine to Rigoc and back. On the way, we learned a bit about the driver, who was born in Barcs and raised in the house where he now works in its capacity as a panzió. He had a wonderful smile and spoke no English. He somehow knew where we lived. Mysteriously, everyone knows where we live.

Cresting over hills, the horses would suddenly leap forward and then run down to stay ahead of the cart: it was exhilarating. After an hour and a half, a sheen of sweat reflected off their hides.

We love this area. Barcs has real seasons, unlike Seattle's rainy and dry seasons, and the regular but brief drenchings that occur here make everything grow fat and green. The forests are close around but friendly. While we were riding through an area we have come to love, we appreciated the woods and smells and shape of the roads in a way we wouldn't if we had taken this trip last summer. The city's smallness here radiates out into miles and miles of trees, deer, wild boars and country paths.

Riding around Barcs: By Motorcycle

Last weekend, a maths teacher, Józsi, took me on his motorcycle into Croatia. József is a very kind man who briefly studied beginning English with me before he had to take up Italian when one (or two?) of his daughters moved to Italy. In addition to a warm presence I always appreciated, he's in my world because he took me to the horse riding academy in Kaposvár earlier in the year, and because during any of the town balls, I would always watch for him because he's one of the best dancers around.

He arrived in leather on a Kawasaki Vulcan, looking as at home as on a dance floor. I wasn't sure of the male-male protocol with biking here, actually don't know it anywhere, but I know what I do with my father: so I climbed on and put my arms around him. Józsi showed me where to put my hands instead, holding on to the sides of the metal rack behind me. And then we were off.

We stopped in two places: The first, a motorcycle club in Virovitica. Only a few years ago, these were military barracks for the Bosnian-Croatian war, not long past their use. The motor club was closed, but workers crossed the big lot to admire Józsi's bike. I was surprised to hear him speak his English to them, but of course, in Croatia, even 15 kilometers from the border, English is a better bet than Hungarian.

The second place is a fishing lake outside the city. Several groups were cooking cauldrons of lunch, there for the day or camping. It was a beautiful spot with a bathroom.

József was careful and slow riding the motorcycle. It was a sunny day, the wind light. I was able to see the landscape and hills and feel the rise and dip of the road in ways I couldn't as a driver.

We turned around at a house I've passed twice with my family, a bullet-pocked hull that puts me to thought every time. It's a house standing by itself. There's nothing else around for a kilometer either way. But clearly, it was the center of a battle. What possible strategic importance this lonely house had, I can never figure out. The day after our trip, József asked me with the help of an English teacher if I remembered the house. He said it was in the war. I'd like to say I asked more about this. Instead, we were content, as often happens, with our light step over the language barrier.

The pictures below include a few from our ride, and several more of Virovitica I took on a bike ride by myself earlier in the year.