By Louise Ruffell
Day 1, 23rd June
At last I was going to Georgia! A long journey to arrive at Tbilisi Airport where Levan appeared smiling from the crowd, surprisingly cosmopolitan – despite knowing he is a businessman (when not guiding rides) I’d imagined someone more rustic. A short drive to town and our hotel where I fell into crisp sheets and a dreamless sleep.
Day 2, 24th June
An excellent breakfast before Levan’s daughter Nino arrived to walk us through a city of faded splendour; tall crumbling town houses in pastel shades, wide boulevards canopied by trees, and locals peddling fresh pomegranate juice on street corners. The brown Kura River snaked through the city flanked by some startlingly modern civic architecture.
We had set off at 11am but the city had hardly woken, shops shut and apartment shutters down. Into an Orthodox church, scarves on our heads, to find hushed tones and a mystery – the front walls glimmered with rich frescoes, but the back was a ghost of its fellow, outlines of figures black and shadowed. Nino told us it was mid-restoration, splendours lost under the Soviet regime.
Next the Georgian National Museum to see the treasury, crammed with icons of St George, gold and jewels magnificent enough to appease the dragon himself. Hunger struck in the way it tends to after a morning walking city streets and we hot-footed it to a courtyard café to slake our thirst with sharp fresh cherry juice, then set to a feast of local dishes.
The afternoon was spent perusing the flea market before being whisked uphill on a cable-car to visit Kartlis Deda (“Mother Georgia”), a gigantic silver statue who presides over the city, wielding a chalice for those she favours, a sword for her foes.
Levan took us for supper that evening with his lovely wife Ina; we were introduced to pale orange Georgian wine (matured in clay pots and surprisingly good) and khinkali, hearty steamed dumplings reputedly introduced by Mongol warriors in the 13th Century.
Day 3, 25th June
Levan arrived in our backup vehicle, a battered 8-seater minibus sporting 4×4 wheels. We drove out of the city then bumped down to the stables, horses cantering to meet us, shiny coats jostling, gangly youngsters frolicking next to their dams, and lots of excited whinnying. Tack appeared including slightly alarming looking saddles, horses assigned, saddlebags packed and after months of planning – we were off. Excited chatter rang across the pastures, rolling hills in the distance.
I relaxed and got used to my horse, a rangy 5 year old homebred TB type with an eager-to-please nature. The land was open with livestock contained by shepherds, not fences. Canters blew away the cobwebs – when Levan shouted “ready” the horses changed gear. They didn’t go in an outline but were eager, had good mouths and didn’t pull. We stopped under the shade of a tree for a lunch of substantial sandwiches, washed down with tea.
Riding through small fields after lunch, Levan cheerfully yelled “we might be trespassing”; I had no idea whether he was joking. A steep climb was rewarded with views down the Algeti valley, blue lake shimmering in the distance.
Camp was near the tiny village of Gudarekhi, in a daisy strewn meadow with a herd of cattle grazing, their bells chiming and martins swooping ahead. Mouth-watering smells already emanated from the camp fire. We lifted off saddles and sweaty woollen pads, clipped horses to long ropes attached to stakes in the ground, then watched their feed being divvied out, literally with a shovel – they were in great condition, albeit with more cuts and scrapes than our pampered equines.
A central mess tent with dining table looked out over the valley, our sleeping tents pitched nearby.
We basked in the late day sun until supper time, when our cook produced an unbelievable number of courses over his gas stove, eaten one at a time as is the custom. Levan kept our glasses topped up with dark, berry tasting red or pale orange wine poured from red lidded plastic bottles and we finished with a brandy around the camp fire, before falling asleep listening to the night breeze.
Day 4, 26th June
I woke early to cool my feet on the dewy grass as the temperature in my tent was rising with the sun. Alex was up too and we walked to the ancient village watch tower, returning for a breakfast of ham omelette and dense holey bread. We groomed the horses and attempted to help tack up, then set off. Levan told us “it’s a Georgian Military Canter” and we plunged into the forest, up and down hill, no slowing down round corners. The horses were fine of course and did best when left to it.
Emerging breathless we found Gudarekhi Monastery rising out of the vivid green, built of stones tinged by minerals in hues of ochre, red and blue. Levan said much of the city was still buried underground with goodness knows what hidden treasures.
We climbed up to the monastery then through dense undergrowth to scramble around the once mighty city walls. It was sacked under Turco-Mongol conqueror Tamerlane in the 14th Century, Levan told us, his tone suggesting resentment still rankles. Sweating, we headed back down to the horses and lunch; I had an inkling it was going to be the same every day, though today I had brought some churchkhela, a traditional sweet, to finish off.
After lunch we cantered back out into the open, splashed across a stream and then we were in a huge pasture of wild flowers, a profusion of colour with clouds of butterflies – the whole place was bursting with life. Up higher we spotted a tiny bright red hilltop chapel; the scene looked more like Switzerland than how I’d imagined Georgia.
We descended to a village of tumbledown stone houses, spotting our backup truck outside one of them. I slid off my horse tired but elated, finding myself in a yard full of kittens, chicks, a vegetable garden and an over-friendly Pekinese introduced as Charlie.
Our hostess Leila seemed to have vacated most of her house for our purposes; I felt guilty but was looking forward to a bed. Shower time was in a steamy, smoky bathroom, a potbellied stove in the corner heating the water. The long-drop loo is best left undescribed. Supper on the verandah included Leila’s khachapuri (bread stuffed with cheese), which was as delicious as it sounds. At dusk she stood on the porch calling “cheep cheep cheep” and the chicks ran into the warmth inside.
Day 5, 27th June
With sadness we left Charlie, Leila, and her naughty, constantly escaping pig. Through more wild-flower meadows attempting to name different types then a long, steep climb after lunch. Levan took no prisoners and kicked into canter as soon as it flattened, blue Caucasus Mountains on the horizon. Then down, at times on stony tracks that made me wince for the horses’ legs – I had to remind myself that they’re tough, and they have a good life.
Pitareti Monastery appeared above the trees, then as we approached a Georgian Shepherd guard dog appeared, large and barking. Levan said it was in fact a very nice dog, but as he snapped at my horses’ heels I doubted it.
We kept climbing to find camp atop a plateau thickly carpeted with wild flowers, buzzing with bees and overlooking the monastery, with astounding views down the valley and beyond. It was hot and we put on shorts before setting off to look around – luckily Levan told us to cover our legs before we committed an ecclesiastical faux pas.
Monks relaxed outside modern chalet style buildings checking their phones and I spotted a black Metallica t-shirt on one washing line. We got to the beautiful old monastery building to hear hushed litanies and I felt intrusive, but after a few moments the monks emerged smiling and welcomed us in.
Back to camp with excitement as the backup team had been collecting firewood. Levan built a fire and roasted chunks of pork – a barbeque, Georgian style. It was delicious, washed down with wine and amongst many toasts.
Day 6, 28th June
Up early as the tents had no shade, less charmed by the insects as crickets hopped in to every bag and the horseflies were hungry. Achiko was riding a young spare horse this morning who needed lunging; we ended up leaving late and hot. Levan ploughed through a dense patch of “Georgian Jungle”; we rode with arms above heads to avoid nettles then emerged for canters, cooling breeze tempering frayed nerves.
The pools on the track deepened until we could canter no further and we found ourselves at the Khrami River.
The horses waded in, strong current swirling – the water climbed past our feet then over our saddles, giant dragonflies whirring past. Emerging sloshy booted Levan told us he did not expect the river to be so deep.
Lunch was by the river and afterwards I lay on the banks while my boots dried in the sun, dozing to the sound of bullfrogs. In the afternoon we cantered across rolling uplands, no fences, no nothing but the green space around us, the dark hills in the distance, the sky bruising and thunder on the horizon. A little lower we found cattle, nimble for their steep pastures, and fine skinned like Jerseys. We passed village ponies tied up to graze and a horse drawn cart trotting flat out home.
Then to Dmanisi, in a house once again, more modern than Leila’s and joy of joys, there was a fridge of cold drinks and a hot shower. Again our cook excelled himself with many courses including a chicken, garlic and milk dish jokingly referred to as “the wife’s guarantee”. The thunder and rain finally reached us, Levan told us stop being silly, the horses would be fine, and we toasted our bashful backup staff over supper.
Day 7, 29th June
An early start for the ancient city Patara Dmanisi as Levan had an afternoon meeting, though the concept of real life seemed far removed. Leaving the horses tied by the gates we climbed the castle walls, on a mighty stone buttress surrounded by cliffs plummeting down to the river.
Levan said it was once a thriving trading hub, at times on the Silk Route. Where the village slept below I imagined an encampment of bright tents, traders transporting their wares, exotic aromas wafting from their camp fires.
Down a slippery slope to a secret tunnel leading to the river far below, built so the inhabitants could fetch water when besieged – this place was sacked by Tamerlane, too. Then to the excavations of ancient sites with mind-boggling 1.7 million year old human remains; a female skeleton lay exposed, curled up in a hole dug in the ground, and I wondered how long it is before person becomes exhibit.
It wasn’t far to our campsite on the edge of a pasture, stream flowing alongside. A 4×4 driver somehow found us and roared off with Levan as we sat down to a much appreciated non-sandwich lunch of khinkali cooked over the camp gas cooker. We were persuaded to eat as locals do, the dumplings topped with plenty of black pepper then gamely washed down with grappa, throats burning. We spent a tranquil afternoon cooling our feet in the stream and reading until Levan’s return and supper.
Day 8 – 30th June
It was getting hotter and we left early. The route followed forest tracks and for the first time I wasn’t enjoying myself – the mud was deep, my horse sensed nerves and tried to plunge through, I felt worried and tired. Levan moved on where he could and low branches whipped past us as we cantered. It was the only way to get from A to B and I knew the horses were fine, they’d done it all before, but I couldn’t relax.
I felt better after lunch and silly for getting wound up over a bit of mud. We crossed the narrow green Poladauri River then the terrain changed completely to farmland, big open fields and long canters along the edges. I breathed a sigh of relief and let my horse stretch out into a joyful gallop.
Up a long sloping hill to camp, with far views back down the valley, open to the breeze. Spicy broth and then boiled beef for supper (it tasted good, I promise) followed by watermelon and funny stories from Levan. I feel asleep to the sound of jackals calling in the hills.
Day 9 – 1st July
Up the valley to see St Tevdore church in midst of restoration, then its neighbour, a tiny incense filled chapel barely able to contain us.
Over the hills to find the 12th Century monastery Tsugrugasheni, then into a small town to see the oldest cathedral in Georgia, Bolnisi Sioni, shrouded with tales and ancient mysteries.
We rode on tracks past fields of crops, picking ripe mulberries from the trees surrounding them. It was lower in altitude and the mixture of heat, broken sleep and hours of exertion was starting to take its toll – not wholly unpleasant, but my body was becoming tired.
After lunch we reached a high plateau of arable farmland, passing quizzical farmers in tractors. We pulled up after a long canter, all horses blowing apart from my mount – I was on Levan’s ex-lead horse Zeskho, retired to be a guest horse as he’s 18. He seemed to be both fearless and tireless; Levan and I agreed Bucephalus’ blood surely fires through his veins.
A long walk downhill on foot, back to the River Khrami with some locals there too, hardly surprising as it was idyllic though hot in the late afternoon sun. We all went for a swim, letting ourselves get swept along in the current, then washed the horses.
Yet again a brilliant supper appeared with baked stuffed aubergines, roast chicken, and herby sausages. Lots of celebratory toasts, “bushki bushki” (cheers!) and brandy to finish off the last night of a true adventure.
Day 10 – 2nd July
Woke in disbelief that it was our last day. We chose a longer route (instead of cutting it short to get back to Tbilisi earlier) to see the ancient city of Samshvilde, built on soaring cliffs overlooking the River Khrami.
We rode amongst the ruins, buzzards wheeling in the gorge far below us as we passed through the castle keep.
Then back over farmland, weaving canters through the fields until the long descent to the stables, horses walking keenly as they neared home. It felt incredibly strange to have come full circle. I was sad to say goodbye to the horses; they had been remarkable, hardly tiring after eight days over all sorts of terrain and never putting a foot wrong.
A stop en route for cold drinks then into the city and back to the hotel, realisation hitting that we probably looked (and smelled) pretty grim. Our last supper was at an amazing restaurant overlooking Tbilisi; it was wonderful to see Ina and Nino again, telling them tales of our week of military canters, river crossings, ancient ruins and adventures, in the wilds of Georgia.
Afterword
I can honestly say that I will never forget riding in Georgia – I’d never experienced anything like it before. To ride through such pristine, open and beautiful land on fantastic horses was a privilege and I am incredibly grateful to Levan for having the vision and tenacity to run these rides in a country where horses are primarily still used for work, not pleasure.
It’s not for the faint-hearted but if you can cope with the vagaries of the weather; long and fast days riding, simple camps and basic village houses, then you will be richly rewarded.
PS Watch my YouTube video here
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BREATH TAKING. XXX