In the tranquil Martinička village, where the clock seems to have forgotten how to tick, nineteen-year-old Mateja Radović curates his very own equine utopia. His companions? Two horses, Dunja and Hugo, who provide daily lessons in patience, trust, and possibly how to dodge city traffic. You know, the essentials.
While the world zooms past like a caffeine-fueled hamster on a wheel, Mateja’s existence is dictated by horse hooves clattering, meadows sighing, and a legacy of love he inherited from his father—because nothing says “I love you” like a few tons of horseflesh.
“Four years ago, I decided to make my dreams come true and bought my first horse—Dunja, the Arabian wonder mare,” he says, as though ordering a pizza. “Getting an Arabian as a first horse? Sure, why not! I love challenges, especially those that could potentially throw me into the dirt.” He chuckles, remembering the little foal drama that unfolded when she first arrived as a bundle of fur and attitude.
And what about Hugo, the new addition to the horse crew? “Oh, he arrived this summer,” Mateja continues, gesturing to Hugo as if showcasing a prize turkey. “He’s four and a half and, while technically trained, he could use more care than a newborn. I like to think of him as my personal equestrian puzzle.” How quaint—turning a half-trained horse into a DIY project!
“Dunja is my dream come true, while Hugo is the emotional equivalent of assembling IKEA furniture,” he muses. “Each horse has its character—Dunja is the cuddly type, while Hugo is still fine-tuning his trust in humanity. You know, a classic case of horse trauma.” But then comes the question: Do horses need to learn from us? “They absolutely must trust us,” he explains, “or else have a sudden urge to stampede into a hedge at the slightest hint of fear. Trust issues? They have a lot in common with people!”
Is Dunja easy to handle? “Well, she is spoiled rotten,” he admits. “Imagine a horse that thinks it’s a lap dog.” Poor creature probably dreams of treats and belly rubs, not races or rodeos.
Every moment riding requires synergy—horse and human becoming one, albeit without the dramatic synthesizer music. “After saddling, you’ve got to let the horse settle because we don’t want saddle-induced drama,” he explains. “It’s less of a ‘let’s ride’ moment and more of a delicate waltz.” Because who doesn’t enjoy a horse that gently adjusts to riding gear as they sigh in confusion?
What’s his forte? Riding around the village faster than gossip in a bakery. “I often cover 20 to 50 kilometers, depending on how the mood strikes me,” he says, relishing the thrill of riding through scenery that probably hasn’t changed in decades. When Dunja and Hugo gallop into the sunset, he knows he’s picked a worthy path—one that might soon add another horse to this suburban saga.
