When the Horse Looked Back – A Journey Through Transylvania, From Spirit to Soul

I cannot recall the exact day. In places like that, time unravels itself, and only the whispering wind through the pines remembers the hour. Perhaps it was a Wednesday. Perhaps a Sunday. All I remember is this: that morning, the horse looked at me.

Not with the timid gaze of an animal unsure of man, nor the curious glance of a creature merely observing. No. It was the look of an ancient acquaintance—one who had not seen you for a thousand years, but never forgot who you were.

The saddle creaked softly beneath me as I mounted. We turned toward the mountains. The horse walked steadily through the muddy trail, sure-footed, as if he already knew the way. My thoughts, however, wandered without direction. The noise of the city, the screens, the endless pace of modern life still echoed within me. It buzzed at the base of my spine like an unwelcome hum.

Then, slowly, it faded.

The horse was in no rush. He had no need to be. He didn’t walk to arrive anywhere. He walked because it was in his nature—to move in rhythm with the earth, quietly, with purpose. From time to time, he’d turn his head: to glimpse a stream, to follow the trail of a deer. As if to say: “Watch, human. This is how you see.”

There, in the quiet heart of Transylvania, something in me began to mend.

There were no tourist signs. No constructed rest stops, no selfie points, no WiFi. Just trees, birdsong, silence—and the horse who walked as though every step wrote a line of an old folk tale. And I, without question, followed.

That evening, once we’d descended from the pasture, I sat beside a haystack as the horse ate. He didn’t gobble, didn’t strain. He knew that what he needed was there. Not more, not less. Just enough.

And in that moment, I understood—I had always been seeking more. More meaning, more answers, more moments. But what I truly sought had been with me all along: in the horse’s gaze, in the silence, in the soft dust rising beneath his hooves.

The next morning, a veil of mist covered the landscape. The trees exhaled softly into the fog. The horse’s breath rose in clouds of warmth into the chilled dawn. We set off quietly, the iron of his shoes barely striking the stone. The world was still asleep. Only we were awake—me, the horse, and a silence so full, it trembled with anticipation.

Later that day, we reached a ridge. The valleys below unfurled like ancient scrolls, waiting, as though they had been prepared since the beginning of time. The horse stopped. He didn’t move. He just... looked. Not at the view, but beyond it. At something older. Perhaps at the echoes of warriors and shepherds who once passed that way.

He looked at me again. And in his gaze, I saw it clearly: I was being watched as much as I was watching. What did I bring? Why had I come? Was I ready to listen, truly? It wasn’t about the saddle. Not about my posture, my clothes. It was about intention.

Later, we came to a stream. He drank. I sat on the edge, letting the water carry away the remnants of my restless mind.

That night, beside the fire, I sat in silence. I had no words. None were needed.

I stared into the glowing embers and thought of my grandfather, who once told me: “A horse is not a tool, my boy. A horse is a teacher. But only if you listen. ”There, beneath the stars, I finally understood what he meant.

This ride was no adventure. It was no weekend getaway. It was a meeting—a meeting with myself, with the land, and with a quiet truth that only a horse can guide you toward.

I realized how much we humans try to say. But horses don’t speak. They respond. If I tense, he tenses. If I trust him, he trusts me. This exchange of unspoken attention—this is the truest language I have ever known.

I didn’t pay for a product. I didn’t bring home a fridge magnet. I didn’t earn points or unlock achievements. What I received cannot be pinned to a corkboard or hung on a wall.

I was given a moment—raw and real—where I was simply myself. No performance. No masks. No expectations. Just me, and a horse who held up a mirror and showed me the truth.

I was given kindness. From people who didn’t ask what I do or where I live, only if I was tired, or hungry, or if a glass of pálinka would help warm the evening.

Their smiles weren’t scripted. They were real.

And I was given a feeling of belonging. Though the land was new to me, I felt as if I had returned.

We passed through villages where humanity still breathes in wood smoke and horsehair. Where Szekler gates stand tall, adorned with carvings in ancient runic script—not as decoration, but as declaration. These are messages written in a language few can read, and fewer still understand. Yet they are there—etched in wood, stone, and soul—open to all, seen only by those willing to look without eyes.

I passed through one of those gates. And when my hand touched the worn, carved post, something of that place was written into me, too.

This is no past, trapped in books. This is the living present—told in quiet glances, steady hands, and the scent of morning hay.

If ever the world becomes too loud, come to Transylvania. Take the hand—or rather, the reins—of a horse. And ride.

You may not return the same. And that, I promise you, is the gift.

Because somewhere in these hills, the horses still remember who we truly are. And if you're willing... they will show you.

– Transylvanian Horse Trails