As much as life resists being reduced to a set of rules like "X is good, Y is bad, do A to be happy and B to be sad", I do have a few little guidelines that I try to live by. One of them is "never eat anything bigger than your own head". Another is "see one country each year that blows your mind".
For the last six years I've managed to keep to this second rule, though not always in a neat, well-organised way. In 2009 for example, Uzbekistan took out the prize with no question, but 2010 was far less clear-cut. In the end it was a toss-up between Finland (which I almost don't like to count, 'cause it was actually my fourth visit there) and Cambodia (which made the list only for Angkor and the adjacent town of Siem Reap, with its deep red soils, bright green geckos and exciting 'Far East meets Wild West' feel ... whereas the rest of the country pretty much left me cold, so again I'm not sure if it really counts).
This year was always gonna be a tough one, 'cause I'd plunged into a new position of academic responsibility, and in any case I was mainly focussed on seeing a bit more of KZ. Partly as a result of these things, the calendar almost ran out before I had the chance to reel like a head-slapped fish in a country I'd never visited before.
And then, at about 8am yesterday morning, I looked out the window of my hostel and saw this:
As far as possible, I try to avoid overloading these pages with rapturous prose, 'cause if you write super-enthusiastically about everything, then none of it really means anything. But when discussing Veliko Turnovo, this is quite difficult. When I dragged my bag into town and started to take in the scenery here, I really felt like I'd arrived in the 'Balkans of my imagination'.
To give you the basics: Veliko Turnovo is spread over a cluster of three or four hills, separated by deep valleys that plunge downards like a daring neckline to the Yantra river. The unusual layout affords panoramic views from one neighbourhood to another, as though each were an island viewed across a narrow sea inlet.
In the central part of town, sleepy alleyways paved with huge, uneven cobbles wind up and away from the main tourist strip, flanked on either side by vine-covered houses that cling to the slopes. Some of these streets have followed roughly the same course since this region of Bulgaria was part of ancient Thrace, and even earlier.
In the mornings, mist hangs over the valleys and the air fills with the smell of local bakeries, baking soft warm breads with nuts, apple or sheep's cheese inside. The days are sunny, and in the evenings, as the chill closes in, you can retire to any number of great cafes and restaurants to sample local wines and traditional Bulgarian cuisine, both of which have held some very pleasant surprises (in fact, I can say without a doubt that Bulgarian food is among the tastiest I've come across anywhere in Europe, east or west. Who knew, eh?).Finally, making your way home at night, the mysterious silhouettes of cottages peer out of the darkness as you walk through dimly-lit backstreets, enjoying the odour of wood smoke and the shadowy movements of the feline population.
Ok, time to rant a little about the Tsarevets, which is the thing sticking out at the top of the hill in the first photo. It's the third fortress built on this spot; the first appeared in ancient Greek times, to be replaced much later (5th Century AD) by a Byzantine stronghold. That one didn't last long though, because in the 7th Century Slavic peoples invaded the area and made Byzantine crumble out of Fortress Number Two.
Five centuries later, Veliko Turnovo's burgeoning population had made it one of Europe's more significant medieval capitals, and a full-blown citadel was built here. The scale of this one was extremely ambitious; walls snaked across one of the main valleys, encapsulating almost all of the town.
Most of the building is in various states of ruin today, but quite a lot of the medieval walls are still standing, and you can find traces of the earlier contructions here and there. Walking around the grounds, you occasionally come across the foundations of a basilica or the broken base of a column. These mysterious bits of stonemasonry tell no discernible stories (though they might, if you were there with a knowledgeable guide); they just lie around between ruined walls, saying "Go on then; see if you can guess how old I am!"
Five centuries later, Veliko Turnovo's burgeoning population had made it one of Europe's more significant medieval capitals, and a full-blown citadel was built here. The scale of this one was extremely ambitious; walls snaked across one of the main valleys, encapsulating almost all of the town.
Most of the building is in various states of ruin today, but quite a lot of the medieval walls are still standing, and you can find traces of the earlier contructions here and there. Walking around the grounds, you occasionally come across the foundations of a basilica or the broken base of a column. These mysterious bits of stonemasonry tell no discernible stories (though they might, if you were there with a knowledgeable guide); they just lie around between ruined walls, saying "Go on then; see if you can guess how old I am!"
So yeah ... if I had to sum up the Tsarevets in a single phrase, I think I'd choose "fabulously impressive".
I couldn't help thinking that, if this thing were located further west, it would be excruciatingly famous. In a way, it's nice that this is not the case, because on the day when I was there (yesterday) I shared its extensive territory with maybe 20 people. A whole freakin' medieval fortress, almost to myself! It was grand :-)
The tall pointy thing at the top, btw, is a church called 'The Holy Ascension of Jesus'. I said a couple of entries ago that I'm generally not a great fan of museums, and then went on to talk about one for a long, long time. Now I have to do the same with regard to churches. I don't think I've ever written about a church before on The Manor, because I generally find them much of a muchness. But as with all rules, there are exceptions :-)
The thing which bowled me over about 'The Holy Ascension' wasn't obvious from the outside. It was when I stepped inside that I started making "Oooooh!" noises.
See, in 1981 Bulgaria celebrated the 1,300th anniversary of its statehood (not entirely unbroken, mind you), and as part of this, the Holy Ascension church was fully renovated and re-decorated.
An artist called Teofan Sokerov was commissioned to paint the inside, and he covered every available inch of wall- and ceiling-space with murals showing key episodes from Bulgarian history, throwing in just a little biblical stuff for good measure. The paintings are stunning, and the effect of walking around this space, with such vivid, stark imagery all around you, is a bit like being in a parallel reality where you can almost hear the thoughts of ghosts.
Beats the stuffing out of sadistic, poorly-painted catholic death marches (oops, I meant "Stations of The Cross") and flat-as-a-tack Orthodox icons, does it not?
Of course, in a move that surprised no-one, the church authorities refused to re-consecrate 'The Holy Ascension' when they saw the work that Sokerov had done inside it. So now it functions only as a museum. Your loss, guys :p
Anyway, my little sojourn in Veliko Turnovo ended in a fairly unremarkable but extremely pleasant way: one more evening walk through the lantern-lit streets, one more delicious Bulgarian meal (this time at a place called 'The Happy Man' ... which I certainly was after trying their food!), and one more sunrise over the Tsarevets.
Now I'm back in Sofiya, having spent a second day unsuccessfully hunting for caves (which seem unusually determined not to be found by anyone without their own car). Things went a little pear-shaped when I left V. Turnovo: the bus company sent me to a place called Yablanitsa, which was a rather horrible near-ghost town. Or at least, it seemed horrible until I made the brief acquaintance of a few locals, who were just warm and lovely and did everything they could to try and help the itinerant foreigner who'd arrived in their town. This brought back a thought I'd had earlier in the week: namely that, if everyone in the world was as nice as Bulgarian people, it would be a far more pleasant planet than it is!
Unfortunately, though, this comment only applies to the human residents of the country. It says nothing about the canine population, every single one of which wanted to tear me limb-from-limb when I finally reached the town of Brestnitsa (where the bus company should've sent me in the first place). It was only 10km from Yablanitsa, but it took me about four hours to a) work out how to get there, and b) actually get there.
I mean, admittedly, the first 40 minutes of that time was spent standing pathetically on one side of a highway trying to hitch – an endeavour doomed to failure, when every car that passes is a smallish sedan with a grandpa and grandma in the front seat, looking at you as though you were a smouldering piece of spaceship wreckage, their back seat too full of junk to accommodate you anyway. But even so ... the town-to-town link proved extremely difficult to discover.
When I finally arrived in Brestnitsa it was getting late, and I suspected the cave (which is 4km distant from the town) was on the verge of closing for the day anyway. But I was here now, so I approached the only place I'd seen which looked like it might contain people who could help me, hoping to get some information about transport or opening times, or anything else useful.
I was about 50 metres from the front door when three stray dogs, who had been separately milling around near the main road, suddenly came together and formed a 'pack'. The leader started running at me with bared teeth, making his intention to eat me pretty clear. "Oh shit!", I thought. "Dog-related emergency in a deserted town. What now?"
As the others fell in behind their new pack-leader, things began to look extremely grim, and I took the only escape route I could think of: I ran into the oncoming highway traffic. As the cars swerved around me (thank gods!), I managed to put distance between myself and the baying hounds, and they eventually lost interest in my violent death. I made my way back to a bus shelter at the other end of town, where a gypsy guy hit me up for money and cigarettes. At this point I decided that enough was enough, and flagged down a coach back to civilisation.
Not my best day.
Still, despite the less-than-wonderful doggy denouement, I'm going to feel a little sad when I leave Bulgaria tomorrow. I've just loved what I've seen of this country so far, and after ten days of travelling in it, I'm in no doubt that I've barely scratched the surface.
Luckily I've got two companions here who have just poured me some rakia (a clear Bulgarian spirit made with plums or grapes, sipped slowly like brandy), so I can round off this entry with a toast. Hmmm ... let me see ...
Here's to my future return to Bulgaria!
The thing which bowled me over about 'The Holy Ascension' wasn't obvious from the outside. It was when I stepped inside that I started making "Oooooh!" noises.
See, in 1981 Bulgaria celebrated the 1,300th anniversary of its statehood (not entirely unbroken, mind you), and as part of this, the Holy Ascension church was fully renovated and re-decorated.
An artist called Teofan Sokerov was commissioned to paint the inside, and he covered every available inch of wall- and ceiling-space with murals showing key episodes from Bulgarian history, throwing in just a little biblical stuff for good measure. The paintings are stunning, and the effect of walking around this space, with such vivid, stark imagery all around you, is a bit like being in a parallel reality where you can almost hear the thoughts of ghosts.
Anyway, my little sojourn in Veliko Turnovo ended in a fairly unremarkable but extremely pleasant way: one more evening walk through the lantern-lit streets, one more delicious Bulgarian meal (this time at a place called 'The Happy Man' ... which I certainly was after trying their food!), and one more sunrise over the Tsarevets.
Now I'm back in Sofiya, having spent a second day unsuccessfully hunting for caves (which seem unusually determined not to be found by anyone without their own car). Things went a little pear-shaped when I left V. Turnovo: the bus company sent me to a place called Yablanitsa, which was a rather horrible near-ghost town. Or at least, it seemed horrible until I made the brief acquaintance of a few locals, who were just warm and lovely and did everything they could to try and help the itinerant foreigner who'd arrived in their town. This brought back a thought I'd had earlier in the week: namely that, if everyone in the world was as nice as Bulgarian people, it would be a far more pleasant planet than it is!
Unfortunately, though, this comment only applies to the human residents of the country. It says nothing about the canine population, every single one of which wanted to tear me limb-from-limb when I finally reached the town of Brestnitsa (where the bus company should've sent me in the first place). It was only 10km from Yablanitsa, but it took me about four hours to a) work out how to get there, and b) actually get there.
I mean, admittedly, the first 40 minutes of that time was spent standing pathetically on one side of a highway trying to hitch – an endeavour doomed to failure, when every car that passes is a smallish sedan with a grandpa and grandma in the front seat, looking at you as though you were a smouldering piece of spaceship wreckage, their back seat too full of junk to accommodate you anyway. But even so ... the town-to-town link proved extremely difficult to discover.
When I finally arrived in Brestnitsa it was getting late, and I suspected the cave (which is 4km distant from the town) was on the verge of closing for the day anyway. But I was here now, so I approached the only place I'd seen which looked like it might contain people who could help me, hoping to get some information about transport or opening times, or anything else useful.
I was about 50 metres from the front door when three stray dogs, who had been separately milling around near the main road, suddenly came together and formed a 'pack'. The leader started running at me with bared teeth, making his intention to eat me pretty clear. "Oh shit!", I thought. "Dog-related emergency in a deserted town. What now?"
As the others fell in behind their new pack-leader, things began to look extremely grim, and I took the only escape route I could think of: I ran into the oncoming highway traffic. As the cars swerved around me (thank gods!), I managed to put distance between myself and the baying hounds, and they eventually lost interest in my violent death. I made my way back to a bus shelter at the other end of town, where a gypsy guy hit me up for money and cigarettes. At this point I decided that enough was enough, and flagged down a coach back to civilisation.
Not my best day.
Still, despite the less-than-wonderful doggy denouement, I'm going to feel a little sad when I leave Bulgaria tomorrow. I've just loved what I've seen of this country so far, and after ten days of travelling in it, I'm in no doubt that I've barely scratched the surface.
Luckily I've got two companions here who have just poured me some rakia (a clear Bulgarian spirit made with plums or grapes, sipped slowly like brandy), so I can round off this entry with a toast. Hmmm ... let me see ...
Here's to my future return to Bulgaria!
(* Sometimes spelled "Tarnovo", due to ambiguities concerning the correct transliteration of the Bulgarian vowel "ъ" into Roman letters.)
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