Solace in Solitude

After a bus, on which my body reverted to standard operating procedure and shut down completely, I arrived in Plovdiv early on a Sunday morning. It didn’t take long for me to like the city. Leafy avenues and cobblestone streets quietly leading me to parks, cafes and history.  

My Park 

My time in Sofia had been a fun and sociable few days, however, my misanthropic self had now emerged from stasis and reclaimed control. All I wanted to do was wander around in silence, unbeholden to the whims of others and with no expectation on me to be decent company. And perhaps the most enticing part of my antisocial plan was to read my book in the sunlight of a beautiful park. Luckily for me, I found the perfect park on my walk to the hostel. So, after dropping my bag, I headed back there with bread and a book, food for the gastrointestinal tract and food for the mind.  

So that’s what I did every day I was in Plovdiv. I sat on a sun-dappled bench under a horse chestnut tree in my beautiful park to the south of the old town. The tourists and attractions had ended hundreds of metres before. There were no signs to landmarks or monuments, there wasn’t a whiff of English on the airwaves nor fake smiles or souvenirs. There was only the timeless stroll of a Sunday afternoon.  

In my park people were busy being people. Some old men had formed a park mafia, playing cards at the chess tables in their own corner of the leafy enclosure, kept serene by their unspoken claim to the circle of parkland. Meanwhile, the cries of young children playing rang around me; a little girl with pigtails, no older than four, was being chased enthusiastically by her older brother on his bike. Elsewhere, the rattle of scooter wheels cut through the gentle drone of mothers chatting. People, young and old, sat with books or with carrier bags from the local corner shop, watching or listening to the constantly changing scene. A faint breeze ran through the air, enough to tickle the leaves, enough to bring a gentle freshness to the mellow warmth of a sunny late summer’s day. Couples, old friends, new acquaintances, the bereaved and the betrothed, the laconic loners and the garrulous groups, all happily appreciated and contributed to the intermingling music of park life. I couldn’t think of a better place to be. Hours happily passed me by right there and not a minute of it was wasted.  

Old Town 

My hostel in Plovdiv was in the old quarter of the city. Being one of the most ancient cities in Europe, tourists flock to Plovdiv to see all the old stuff, but from the corner that my hostel was perched on, I had been initially put off an extended wander around the old town. This hesitancy was due to the sheer number of souvenir shops and Americans that seemed to be everywhere. However, as I have learnt from tourist-laden places such as Chefchaouen and Bangkok, you can avoid the masses by nothing more than walking. By exploiting intrinsic human laziness and acknowledging our magpie-like pursuit of shiny rubbish, you can experience a little more from your visit. Wander off of the main thoroughfare, put tourist tat at your back and maybe consider going up some stairs and you’ll always find solitude; a place to think, consider and admire.

Cobblestone streets melded with the cobblestone walls that surrounded sweet smelling gardens. Steep uneven lanes meandered over the hillside with the town planning acuity of a severely distractable toddler. The streets narrowed and widened, looped and diverged at a whim and enclosing them were the magnificent houses whose designs had me quickly fawning over their details. The most striking aspect of the buildings here was the overhanging first floors. They were supported by curvaceous wooden struts which joined with the wooden framing of the building. Within these wooden frames were the mottled, smooth or peeling painted walls which were decorated with fine paintwork around the window frames. I stared upwards at the crisscrossing lines of the dark wooden shutters that fanned out to welcome any vestige of a breeze that might make it across the tangle of rooftops. Looking sideways, old wooden doors embedded into the stone walls would be open to the courtyards of houses turned into museums, but I would enjoy them from the outside. No chitchat for me, no slow walking around exhibits, no learning, just simple, superficial observation. Glorious.  

One way to make sure you see enough of the old town is of course to nip into all the churches dutifully spread out throughout the area. There’s tonnes of gold on offer (visually of course, the church isn’t in the business giving back their questionably obtained riches), lots of people crossing themselves and plenty of pictures of Jesus. Good times all-round.  

Meat & Music  

With some relaxing, reading and exploring during the days and plenty of eating done in the cultural district of Kapana during the evenings, I was having a great time in Plovdiv. However, on my last night I felt it would’ve been a shame if I didn’t socialise with anyone while I was there. Whether it was born out of an internal shame that I hadn’t even attempted to come across as a likeable, sociable or decent person in the last three days, or in fact a real desire to share my experiences with others, I decided to talk to some people. I waltzed into the living room, after a minute of indecision whether this was the road that I really wanted to tread for the evening, and struck up a conversation with Ron and Melissa. Ron was a 32-year-old Dutch man, yet looked like he still had to rush off for geography class for 5^th period and Melissa was a girl from Blackpool who had Bulgarian routes, spoke a little Bulgarian and was on her first solo trip. Soon a 29-year-old Austrian called Kevin (who looked knee deep into his 30s) joined us and we headed out for the unification day re-enactment that was happening down the road. We joined the big crowd and watched as people in traditional costumes and military attire danced, shot rifles and played music. It was quite a spectacle and I enjoyed watching it more than I expected. After the re-enactment we met up Jeff (a Hong Konger who had lived in the UK since the age of 14 and went to a private school near my house) and finally with Nathan, an English cyclist who was cycling around the world and who was incapable of letting others speak. He found his stories, life and opinions uniquely interesting and weighty. I didn’t like him because I didn’t want to become him. For this reason, I shall continue to say that you are welcome not to read my blog, go ahead and unsubscribe if you want to, disagree with me on every facet of what makes me. But may God help you, nay, may God strike you down, if you attempt to defy the one divine truth. The unassailable certainty that there is no cathedral more majestic, imposing and beautiful that the one that stands in Salisbury’s city walls. Anyway, with this indomitable crew of interesting characters we set off for a beer festival at the base of one of Plovdiv’s famous hills.  

With a haphazard collection of tents, tables, ladders and banners it was a funky looking festival and already busy. We headed straight for the BBQs which lined the left flank of the festival ground. Meats of all cuts and kinds were held clasped into constantly spinning cages above hot embers. Naturally, I got excited and wanted to try everything, every dripping morsel. So, I ordered a hefty selection of chargrilled items much to the surprise of those around me. They knew something I didn’t. Then I moved on to the non-meaty selection which wouldn’t usually interest me but turns out Bulgarians can make some enticing salady, veggie, non-flesh-based things, many of which I wanted to try. So, I did. My fellow travellers had known that the salad things were amazing and thought I had been reckless, greedy even, in my pursuit for food. That I was chasing a glutton that was many leagues beyond that of sustenance, or even satiation, and perhaps they were right. But what they didn’t account for was that, when the forces of my digestive system are called to action, rallied behind a noble cause, there is no cause for despair, no need to worry that food may be wasted. One can relax in the knowledge that an empty plate is imminent. You’re welcome, world.  

We had heard that the beer festival would be accompanied by live reggae music which sounded great. However, we got more than we could’ve bargained for. When Gabana stepped up on stage it was a feast for the eyes before a word was spoken. The short chubby frontman was nearing the finish line of middle age, wearing a dashiki shirt, sunglasses and a long dreadlock wig. This was strange enough to have me enthralled but his musical (I say ‘musical’ with great difficulty) sidekick was a carbon copy of Jason Momoa. In fact, there were points where I was genuinely considering the possibility that Jason Momoa moonlights as a Bulgarian musical act.  

When they began playing, we quickly had to adjust to the fact that this was not going to be a reggae night, the Bob Marley music I had been promised never came. Instead, we were graced with Bulgarian covers of reggae/rock/rap/blues/pop and whatever Shaggy does. It was so strange, entertaining and hilarious to bear witness to. As we watched on, trying to guess the song hidden behind waves of out-of-tune Bulgarian singing, we found solace in hearing the word ‘banana’ in lots of the songs and we shouted it out when it was heard. This got the attention of the entirely Bulgarian crowd and even the band. We were having a great time and at the end we got photos with our musical heroes.  

High on life and a little buzzed off beer, I got back to the hostel and found out how quickly this elation could turn to exasperation, anger and despair. Someone was in my bed, fast asleep. This wouldn’t have irked me so much if I hadn’t been getting up before 6am to catch a train and if there had been another clean bed. The only place to sleep was a bed that I can only describe as ‘severely slept in’. I had seen the Hagrid-like man who had slept in that bed for the last few nights and while I don’t want to make assumptions about the personal hygiene of everyone’s favourite magical gamekeeper, I did not feel that it was the cleanest bed to sleep in. So, after dithering in anger, I got out my sleeping bag, laid it on top and dozed off for a few hours. 

The Train Journey  

My alarm woke me quickly and I was out of the hostel like a flash. I thanked the cold early morning air and the quiet streets, the cool quiet stillness around me was the best remedy for little sleep and a body still processing the alcohol of the night before. 

I was heading to Bansko, a town at the foot of the Pirin mountain range in the southwestern reaches of the country. During winter it is a popular ski resort, but I was going there to hike. However, before any of that, I had to negotiate the trains. After buying my ticket I went out onto the platform in Plovdiv. The low sun had already burnt through the misty air and gaunt otherworldly shadows wandered the platform with me, the dark and distorted imitations of human beings moved about outlined in the flooding bronze sunlight.  

I asked around and got on my first train to Septembvri. The train was graffitied extensively on the outside but inside it was pretty nice. While the early morning sun had elongated and twisted the human form, it had accentuated the beauty of the fertile plains that surround Plovdiv. These fields of pale gold stood still without a breeze to rouse them into motion, the mountains to the left were dark and hazy, yet I knew they would’ve been a luscious green but for the light pouring over them from behind. To the right of the train, the side that I was sitting on, the plain extended to the horizon and I watched it happily through all of the water in my window. As in, there was a constantly moving wave of water that filled the space between the windowpanes. I guess that’s one way of insulating your double glazing.  

Once I had got to Septembvri, I used the underpass and seemingly went back in time. On one side was the standard train platform of a small 21^st century town. On the other side, I popped out onto a long-disused Soviet platform with a characteristically ridiculous number of benches. Here overgrown plants pushed up the paving slabs and rusting trains blocked the view to the century I tend to inhabit. At the platform was a small train that used the narrow-gauge railway into the mountains. That was my ride. I hopped on and had no idea what my ticket said but a lovely old lady helped me through the universal language of pointing and smiling. I was pretty sure I was in the wrong carriage but definitely in the right seat now, so I decided to stay put and hope for the best.  

After the clunkiest start, we began and quickly entered the mountains. We wound through deep gorges and densely forested slopes. Tiny square yellow huts were the only buildings at many of the small mountain train stations. When people alighted and left the bare stations behind, there were no roads, only tracks into the woods. All the old ladies in my carriage got off at a larger station called Velingrad and the one that helped me earlier tried to say something to me in Bulgarian, but I had no idea what was going on. So, I just smiled, shrugged and apologised. That’s the British way. As we continued, the forest looked more and more Canadian. Dense tall pines blanketed many of the slopes but deciduous trees with their less-uniform shapes and styles were found in pockets too. As we got closer to Bansko, I left my seat and enjoyed the fresh air between the carriages. It was a loud, health and safety nightmare, but I could see the mountains between the trees that flitted by, so I was happy.  

Bansko

From my balcony (yes, I had decided to move up in the world) I watched the clouds racing across the sky, under which the forested slopes of the Pirin range rose to clean and sheer marble peaks.  

The next morning, which was another early start in order to catch the bus up the mountain, I came down to the café of the guesthouse for breakfast. The older man who ran the place greeted me with a smile. After I ordered he raised an eyebrow and offered me a little slip of brandy in my cup of tea. I declined, he gave a smile, a shrug and then returned to his crossword while miscellaneous 80s tunes continued to play on the wall mounted TV. After I’d cleared off a big omelette, salami and the sweetest tomatoes known to man, I went outside to catch the bus. Unfortunately, the bus didn’t stop for me, and so the guesthouse owner took me in his car to catch it further along its route through the town. On the bus we soon left the upper reaches of the town and began the winding road up the mountain. The incredibly steep forest floor was wild and unmanaged yet from it the almost rigid uniformity of giant pine trees rose upwards, defying gravity and filtering the sunlight. This early light hung decoratively on the green pine boughs but in certain places where the trees were dying or had been starved of sunlight, the sallow greens and greys of mosses and the ruffled flowers of lichen clung limply to the lifeless branches.  

After around 40 minutes we got to the end of the road at Vihren hut. I sorted myself out and said a prayer for my dodgy knee to hold on for the day, while I made the decision to do the harder and longer loop for no other reason than I would be disappointed in myself if I didn’t try. So, off I went through shrubby pines and across rocky streams until it opened up a little as I traversed a steep mountainside. From the nice little path, I could see the forested foothills I had come up leading down to the valley far below. Bansko sat nestled in that valley, a silvery ethereal haze smothered the view only allowing me to see the far mountains. These distant peaks looked like rolling waves, rearing up above the calm ocean of mist below. Their crests made rows, each a different shade of blue, extending as gentle undulations as far as the limits of my valley would allow me to see. Soon after, I made it to a relatively flat hollow beneath one of Vihren’s giant marble walls. Vihren is the third highest mountain in the Balkans and is pretty prominent in the landscape due to its shape and colour. Occupying this space on the mountain was a small mountain hut, used no doubt as a last resort for those who get stuck. I decided to peek my head in to have a look and as I did a man who was sleeping in there woke up and stared at me. I apologised, quickly closed the door then ate a bread roll and a snickers bar before continuing upwards.  

The going immediately got tough. I was going straight uphill to the top of Kutelo 1 which burned the thighs with every couple of steps, but I did see my first incredibly cute Chamois (a hook horned goat/antelope thing). Then at the top, I faced the long ridge incline to Kutelo 2 from which the views were utterly breath-taking. On the continuation of the ridge (that I would soon be walking) I could see tiny specks moving along, skating along the frontier between earth and sky. Soon I reached the point I had seen and followed the ridge further, descending along the rocky outcrops towards my goal, Koncheto ridge.  

Koncheto ridge is famous for its sheer-sided exhilaration and the cable that spans its length, something to hold on to for those vertigo sufferers. As I came down to the cable the constantly evolving cloudscape conspired to minimise the visibility and stopped the group in front of me from venturing out onto the ridge. However, I didn’t hesitate to get out there because walking in the clouds is fun and the way back was too steep to consider. As I walked along its length, having to hop over the cable a few times, due to it often being more of a hinderance than a help, the cloud continued to blow in from my left and disperse over the drop to my right. When I reached the end of the steepest section of the ridge I stopped, turned around and admired the view for a while. The ridge and peak I had descended from was now hidden by the cloud and the only clear view was down towards Bansko, the valley was no longer burdened by the ethereal haze and instead I had a clear view of every bare snaking ridge, every scarred marble wall and every grass covered mountain slope transitioning into forest which dropped down to the fringes of the red roofed mass of Bansko far below. 

From Koncheto I came down into the cloud and across to the saddle beside the pyramidal mass of Vihren. My legs were pretty tired by this point, but I couldn’t go this far without completing the circuit and climbing the final and most popular mountain. So, I set off up the steep marble slopes, which have chains attached to the rock in some sections to aid you. At the top I needed a proper little rest, and so stood and watched the clouds tear themselves apart only to reform again. Waves of rocky crenulations, seemed stuck in their motion traversing the slope, their lower ends terminating in the lush valley below. The clouds played on these ridge lines, choosing which parts of the scene to show and which to obscure. While I was in my own little world, a middle-aged Belgian man with very yellow teeth came over and struck up a conversation with me. He was a friendly guy and had seemingly been everywhere in the world. We spent half an hour or so chatting about the adventures we had done and ones we wanted to do. He preached the beauty of Africa to me and in a prophetic moment said that he knew one day I’d find my way to sub-Saharan Africa; as if it were part of my destiny. 

On the way down the other side of the mountain, I passed the hiking masses and jogged down earthen trails. Chamois and their young were running down with me, or more probably away from me, until I reached the tree line. Then it wasn’t long until I was back at the road and the first hut. The whole hike took me 6 hours 15 minutes and I couldn’t have been happier with my choice to do it. I continued my bad luck with buses by missing the next one from the hut, so I sat and had dinner under the towering mountain backdrop. Then, luckily, I caught the last bus back to Bansko just in time to get into my lovely private room and hand wash my boxers in the shower with the flaky bar of hand soap provided by the guesthouse. Luxury living at its finest. 

Final Thoughts  

First of all, those boxers did not dry in time for checkout, well, not without the liberal and hurried application of the hairdryer. Despite this, I felt Bansko to be the perfect place to finish my ten-day Bulgarian saga. Plovdiv had been the place to wind down after the draining sociability of Sofia, but Bansko had given me that visceral spark of ancestral memory that comes from hiking in the mountains. The energy boost that comes from the feeling of self-reliance and the achievement of pushing your body to do things that the muscles don’t really want to do (just because your weirdly demanding wrinkly floating head organ wants to get a high off endorphins). But whatever the reason may be, I didn’t want to leave Bansko and the wild Pirin mountains. I’ll definitely be back to those scoured rocky peaks, whether it’s for hiking or snowboarding, but for now I had to keep moving westwards, towards my meeting point with Emma in Albania. But that was still a few weeks away, first, Macedonia.