Trnje, a small village in the heart of the most windy area in Slovenia, the Notranjska region. A lively afternoon ride, pleasant company, wonderful Icelandic horses, wild Karstic trails… The evening was slowly closing in, it was becoming colder, the way home led across a meandering local brook. What a pleasure it would be to warm up again with a cup of tea!

But Frekja does not drink it, therefore it could not care less, just as it could not care less about my cosy comfort in the warmth! "I do not fell like going across, it makes no sense. It is wet! Let us go around, across the meadow, where there is plenty of succulent grass, and a little food by the road could do me incredibly well..." is what it was trying to tell me by its rebellious behaviour.

Everybody else has already managed to get across encouraging us to come too. I stayed on Frekja's back and spurred it the best I could. After a while I became a little fussy - since I desperately wanted to get my cup of tea! The gold-maned beauty turned a stubborn side, raised its feet, did not let go and nervously walked up and down the brook. Of course I was asking myself what possibly could I have done wrong in my upbringing (Frekja always adored water!). This led me to the conclusion that I may have done wrong just about everything, since there was no real upbringing but an immense joy, easiness and companionship instead. So, there could be no trace of my authority… By admitting it all (without any regrets) I stepped down the horse, took it by the reins and walked it along the brook, convinced that it might be afraid of something. If by its snout, this most beautiful, attractive and charming part of the horse's body looking like a soft powder pad for powdering lady's noses, it would only find out that there is only cold water in the riverbed, and by no means a nix, we might have a chance of getting across. But it kept being stubborn! Then an idea crossed my mind; if I would get across the water it might trust me and follow me suit. I started to roll up my wide leather breeches (up to half my thighs), and took off my heavy winter shoes along with the thick woollen socks. On that particular day I rushed off to my riding experience directly from work in a solemn black costume, high heels and net nylon stockings; I kept them on when I had slipped into the comfortable riding leather. And just this way, with my helmet out of place, my riding jacket askew, wearing red gloves, with breeches turned up very high and black net nylon stockings I walked to the middle of the brook where the water temperature was hardly higher than 5 degrees Celsius and set my soles on the sand (for reasons of stability and also because the sand felt slightly warmer). I pulled the reins and called Frekja to follow me. But the mare seemed unimpressed ("As soon as I return home I will need to check its pedigree, it seems that there might be traces of a donkey!") giving the impression of disdainfully turning its chin up, crossing its legs and just waiting to show me its middle finger! It really drove me crazy! In the thick icy water my feet got completely numb of cold, the villagers gathered at their windows, my friends smiled at me (quite legitimately!)… and I was firmly determined to turn my gold-maned Frekja into a middle-size lady suitcase along with a small vanity case! Led by such Jack-the-Ripper thoughts I asked my friends for help. We laid a rope around Frekja's buttocks, pulled firmly and by anything but gentle persuasion tired to make the self-confident Icelandic mare to get to the other side of the brook (during all this I kept standing in the water and by being as hasty as I was I did not think of my chilly legs)…

	At the Petelinjsko intermittent lake.

In that moment something quite unexpected happened: the small, furry, stubborn, ill-bred, rascal thing… jumped over me standing in the brook and landed like a bullet on the other side. without getting a single hair of its thick winter fur wet! I was still standing in the midst of the brook with sagging hands, a hard icy crust on my thighs and looking completely defeated ("It crossed my mind that I should check my pedigree too!").

Silently and offended I climbed the small jade and tried not to talk to it all the way home. Through the village it carried me as if I was a case; I was of course all ice-cold and was sitting on it like a cornetto ice, all motionless and stiff along with being shaken by the cold. Good old Stana, the landlady who takes care about our Icelandic horses, saved me from catching certain cold; chattering with cold I arrived into her warm smelling kitchen and thawed out myself. On her firewood stove she always keeps a teapot with freshly prepared cornel tea, which is a very popular drink in this area. A few cups washed away every single piece of ice. To make such a foolishness at the age of thirty-seven! Well, it happens….

	"Frekja" (the little goldy mane horse) is ridden by Agata's son Timotej, the other rider is her husband Aleksander on "Sleipnir fra Skardi".

When I dressed up myself again I could not help myself not to have a look at the furry Wiesenhof delinquent. By a vicious look on the face and my hands akimbo I spread my legs in front of it to conclude my educational procedure. However….when the naughty furry creature looked at me with its big warm eyes and fans instead of eyelashes, and as soon as I instinctively started to search my pockets for a candy, when everything seemed quite well and beautiful and when I saw that the hours before that were a truly interesting and enjoyable afternoon, as if it was just about to say "everything is cool, isn't it?", my anger vanished and I quickly forgot about my consequent upbringing!. By the way, the farewell was a classical one with a big basket of sweet smelling apples, sweet carrots and a few tons of my admiration; the icelanditis as I would call the love for Icelandic horses has found a comfortable and cosy place within me…..


Written by: Agata Maček