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We arrive in wet dark, a recent downpour just petering out, car parks and streets awash. We are met by a smiling young driver who patiently answers all my questions on the way to Hotel L’Opera, a quirky nineteenth century building on Parizh (Paris) which takes its name from the opera house (modelled on its Parisian counterpart) around the corner. From my attic room I can just see the top of the golden dome of the Sv Aleksandur Nevski Memorial Church and, on a clear day, the Vitosha mountain. A floor below, Carole’s tall windows look over a garden full of cats. For most of our time in this lovely city, the sun shines.
We spend our days wandering: church interiors, markets and parks, cobbles and back streets, much more interesting than the pedestrianised shopping street bul. Vitosha. We plod the length of 6 Septemvri several times a day, frequently finding ourselves lost. We discover a fine vegetarian café with excellent humus and soups and a cocktail bar in a square on Angel Kanchev where we sit under an umbrella in an evening storm. On the same street, a family-run Italian restaurant provides two of the best meals ever. Carole plays a jewellery seller at backgammon for a ring and loses. We visit the tiny but charming botanic garden. We dodge trams, ride one stop on the metro. It takes us several attempts to find the Central Station.
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Much to the surprise of many we meet, we take the train. It’s a pleasant 3 hours or so, in a compartment for 8, very basic, with metal luggage racks and blue velour seats. We are joined by a (Roma?) couple with what look like bags of laundry and a loud mobile phone, an elderly couple – the man shakes our hands as they leave, with a prepared farewell in careful English – and a woman who, full of smiles, corrects our pronunciation of her stop. In Plovdiv, women waiting to board the train lift our suitcases off for us.
Initially wrong-footed by Capital City Centre Apartments, whose ‘great location’ turns out to be directly over the motorway, we manage to lock ourselves out on the fire escape, having to be rescued by a disapproving security guard. We get used to our flat, although the plush black and white interior, giant TV screens in every room and the disquieting click of lights which switch on automatically whenever we move makes me feel we are in a scene from The Pedestrian. Indeed, when we ask for directions to walk into the city we are greeted with incredulity: get a cab! In fact we discover a back street route into the centre which takes us 15 minutes and is full of surprises.
Initially wrong-footed by Capital City Centre Apartments, whose ‘great location’ turns out to be directly over the motorway, we manage to lock ourselves out on the fire escape, having to be rescued by a disapproving security guard. We get used to our flat, although the plush black and white interior, giant TV screens in every room and the disquieting click of lights which switch on automatically whenever we move makes me feel we are in a scene from The Pedestrian. Indeed, when we ask for directions to walk into the city we are greeted with incredulity: get a cab! In fact we discover a back street route into the centre which takes us 15 minutes and is full of surprises.
Still, it takes us a while to warm to the city, the old town so thoroughly refurbished that it seems at first a concoction for tourists. We are rescued by our discovery of Pavaj, ‘Pavement’, a small restaurant in The Trap, where the baked aubergine with feta is so good we have it two nights running. We sample some art – a fabulous exhibition of Encho Pironkov’s paintings, and the work of Plovdiv artist Dimitar Kirov (‘Diriko’) in Veren Stambolyan’s beautiful 19th century house, which we have completely to ourselves and are free to wander – and rest – as we please. While we are in Plovdiv, we hire a car and make a small first excursion to Bachkovo Monastery, which makes such an impression we agree to spend our last night in the country there.
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‘If you find the bridge with the large soviet woman statue, the camp is on the side of the road…’
I’d been up half the night before trying to plot a route from our apartment to the Refugee Camp in Harmanli, where I was due to visit the Play School that morning. Our return from Bachkovo had been tricky to say the least. My attempt at navigating with half a map and a profusion of road signs in the Cyrillic alphabet had sent us across lanes of traffic onto the forecourt of a petrol station, where an endlessly patient young man with no English drew us an elaborate way home. It almost worked perfectly until, at the last minute, there was our apartment block rapidly disappearing as we sped past in the opposite direction, involving my poor driver in a risky about turn in rush hour traffic. We weren’t keen to repeat this. Add to this the fact that the address I had for the school didn’t show up on any search, plus there were last-minute problems with my permission for the visit. We set off with me pretending a confidence I didn’t feel, wildly guessing at distances and road names. Somehow, in the nick of time, I figured out how the GPS on my phone worked, and we left the city secure in the knowledge that the soothing English voice would get us there.
I’d been up half the night before trying to plot a route from our apartment to the Refugee Camp in Harmanli, where I was due to visit the Play School that morning. Our return from Bachkovo had been tricky to say the least. My attempt at navigating with half a map and a profusion of road signs in the Cyrillic alphabet had sent us across lanes of traffic onto the forecourt of a petrol station, where an endlessly patient young man with no English drew us an elaborate way home. It almost worked perfectly until, at the last minute, there was our apartment block rapidly disappearing as we sped past in the opposite direction, involving my poor driver in a risky about turn in rush hour traffic. We weren’t keen to repeat this. Add to this the fact that the address I had for the school didn’t show up on any search, plus there were last-minute problems with my permission for the visit. We set off with me pretending a confidence I didn’t feel, wildly guessing at distances and road names. Somehow, in the nick of time, I figured out how the GPS on my phone worked, and we left the city secure in the knowledge that the soothing English voice would get us there.
Which worked fine until we approached the small town of Harmanli, back in unknown territory. What did a Soviet woman statue even look like? But here was the bridge, and the statue, unmissable and unmistakable. A bit of help from a couple working in a garden centre and we were there.
There are no photos of the visit itself, only a few of the area nearby, taken after I left. I’d been warned that it could be difficult to get permission to enter the camp and I thought it might be easier if it looked as though I wouldn’t be taking any secrets away with me. Despite my long wait outside this ex-army barracks, looking across broken concrete and blocks of flats – empty now? – security didn’t seem particularly tight and my escort, when he arrived – another of those young, mild-mannered, slightly sleepy young men with a slow smile – seemed relaxed and very open to answer my questions as we strolled across empty spaces past abandoned buildings and individual units, windows broken – by the refugees, the man said – they get drunk, sometimes there are fights – and awaiting refurbishment. Once there were thousands in the camp; now just a hundred or so. He painted quite a caring picture – here is the canteen, three cooked meals a day for the residents – and said he enjoyed his job. He was 26, the same age as my Jack. Once inside the classroom or rather its temporary home, things looked less straightforward: you’re being listened to, Sadie warned her mum as she talked about the children and the difficulties they face.
There are no photos of the visit itself, only a few of the area nearby, taken after I left. I’d been warned that it could be difficult to get permission to enter the camp and I thought it might be easier if it looked as though I wouldn’t be taking any secrets away with me. Despite my long wait outside this ex-army barracks, looking across broken concrete and blocks of flats – empty now? – security didn’t seem particularly tight and my escort, when he arrived – another of those young, mild-mannered, slightly sleepy young men with a slow smile – seemed relaxed and very open to answer my questions as we strolled across empty spaces past abandoned buildings and individual units, windows broken – by the refugees, the man said – they get drunk, sometimes there are fights – and awaiting refurbishment. Once there were thousands in the camp; now just a hundred or so. He painted quite a caring picture – here is the canteen, three cooked meals a day for the residents – and said he enjoyed his job. He was 26, the same age as my Jack. Once inside the classroom or rather its temporary home, things looked less straightforward: you’re being listened to, Sadie warned her mum as she talked about the children and the difficulties they face.
Sadie and Gil have been running Harmanli Refugee Camp Play School since November 2014, unpaid and unfunded. They are from Cambridge; from Newnham, in fact, just down the road. But if this puts you in mind of well-intentioned ladies with independent means, forget it. These are ordinary working women, a qualified primary school teacher and a qualified nursery nurse, doing extraordinary things: fund-raising, building support, campaigning, collecting resources and, above all, piling all their creative energies into making a difference to the lives of traumatised children through play. Have a look at the evidence on their facebook page: picture after picture of smiling faces. I spent the morning listening to their stories and sitting with the children as they worked and played. One small boy in an Arsenal shirt, one of four brothers, sat beside me copying the days of the week – in English – in careful capitals before donning a multi-coloured wig and heading for the mini-pool table. Another showed me a book which is helping him learn Welsh – he hopes to join his uncle in Wales. I came away excited, moved – and exhausted!
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Whilst I am in the camp, Carole explores the small town of Harmanli, right to its poorest peripheries. We eat our lunch in the square, exchanging stories. It’s an interesting place with a 500-year history. Situated between two mountain ranges where the Harmanliiski joins the Maritsa River, it lies on the trans-continental route from Western Europe to Istanbul, and on the old silk road. The marble plaque on its landmark hump-back bridge reads ‘The world is a bridge, across which the way of the king and the poor man passes’. And now we are on the move again, heading into the Eastern Rhodope Mountains in search of migration of a different kind. The road is spectacularly pot-holed: it takes us hours to travel the 30 miles to the Vulture Centre at Madzharovo, where we have booked a two-night stay. As usual our first impressions are not positive: the town looks like a ghost town, with dilapidated blocks of apartments. Later, we learn that the discovery of gold in the 1960s created a boom which lasted as long as the gold. Now, the 5,000+ population has dwindled to 500. The rooms in the Centre are basic, views of the river screened by densely-leaved trees. We move our furniture around and grumpily ask for tea. By this stage of our journey, we should know better. Within minutes we are walking across the river bridge, guided by the tireless Nusha, to a spot where we can see vultures flying.
We opt for an early start the following morning and set out with cloud still hanging over the valley. A longer walk takes us nearer to where the vultures nest. They’re slow to get going as rain threatens, but we’re treated to a clear view of several huge griffon vultures wheeling and soaring around the peaks. We also learn to pick out the birds perched on the rocks: an awesome sight. We’re encouraged by Nusha’s passion for the birds – ‘I love’ she says, hand on heart. We're also totally charmed by her warmth, by the way she runs everywhere in her desire to make us comfortable.
I chat to Yanna, a student on a six-month placement pending her dissertation on bird crimes, about the spectacle of the spring and autumn migrations of soaring birds and raptors in the area, which is the reason behind my wish to include the Centre in our itinerary. I’m already 20,000 words into a novel, set in south-eastern Bulgaria, exploring our responses to the current refugee crisis, and I’ve been struck by the parallels between human and bird migration. Yanna confirms what I already know: that the sight is most impressive on the Black Sea Coast. But you can see several of the large birds in flight together near Madzharovo during migration, she says: good enough, though sadly we're too late this year. She promises to send me some photos. When our two days are up we’re sad to leave. We’ve seen Egyptian vultures and Black Stork, and learnt to recognise nightingale song, background music to all our wanderings. We’re even seeing the town through different eyes, looking past the dilapidation at the well-tended gardens, vegetables and roses everywhere.
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...is Carole’s name for Gorno Pole, the next village to Madzharovo up the mountain. We try to extend our stay with the vultures but the Centre is fully booked. So we follow a recommendation and head for Betty and her Wild Farm. Unfortunately Betty, who speaks good English, is away from home so we have to resort to miming to make ourselves understood – with limited success. Still, there’s that warm welcome which we’re growing used to. The food is fabulous, especially the farm’s own yogurt and honey for breakfast. Our rooms are comfortable, the views spectacular, and we see our first stork's nest. All wonderful – but it’s not Madzharovo.
We eat dinner with the other guests, a Swiss German, René, who is learning Bulgarian so is able to translate, and a trio of Romanians, all here on a return visit for the weekend to do some birding and botanising. René has some things to say about the English which I wished afterwards I’d pursued: if there are national traits, what are the Bulgarian ones? Or the Romanian? Can the stereotypes, our prejudices even, have something useful to tell us? I’m also annoyed with myself, still, for passing up on the chance to probe their views on the refugee situation. The silence with which they greeted my resumé of the novel suggests they might have held some interesting opinions. As Carole points out, my desire to accommodate and to avoid confrontation can be counter-productive. What is it Auden says? ‘To ask the hard question is simple’ – I wish I found it so.
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The next day sees us on the road again, aiming to cover almost 300 kilometres to the small town of Ahtopol, on the Black Sea Coast near the Turkish border, with a stop in Elhovo on the way. Elhovo is situated in a river valley between two mountainous areas, 36 kilometres from the border crossing at Lesovo, at the end of the old branch line from Yambol 40 kilometres to the north. Passenger trains stopped running in 2005, and the line closed completely a few years later. I came across Veselin Malinov’s wonderfully atmospheric photos of the derelict station when I first began work on the novel and gradually it emerged as one of the key locations. So I’m familiar with the look of the place – or as familiar as you can be in a virtual world – but I’m excited to see the town and the remains of its railway station for real. It’s a long way from Madzharovo, the densely wooded crags and heights soon replaced by flatter country, grass and agricultural land, and fewer trees, but the roads are empty, and we arrive in the early afternoon.
It’s bigger than I expected, a sprawl of a place whose centre is difficult to locate. It’s also the first place where we’ve been aware of foreign (that is, British) incursions: the group at the next table are loudly English, their bare limbs reddened by the sun, and we pass a bar which advertises English food: oh dear! The railway proves more elusive: try asking for a disused station when you don’t know the language – No, no trains now. But the waiter in the café eventually points vaguely down the road opposite and he’s right. Six years since Veselin’s pictures were taken and the buildings have fallen further into disrepair. The weeds have grown, hiding the tracks almost completely in places, but it’s all still there. I feel that tremor of recognition which has been missing as we’ve walked through the town, although our return to the car through the back streets is more promising, and I realise that tourism or second home ownership is perhaps simply another form of migration to be considered. And then we’re off: another 100 miles to go before we’re finished travelling for the day.
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This was to be our well-earned rest after what looked on paper like a rather punishing schedule, especially for the driver. Our plan to stay overnight in Burgas didn’t materialise – thankfully, we thought as my compulsive camera-work on the approach to Elhovo had drained my phone battery almost to zero and we found ourselves horribly lost on its outskirts. Eventually we arrive in Ahtopol with the prospect of a luxurious extra night here. Perhaps it’s not surprising that it all feels a bit of an anti-climax? We’ve grown used to the stimulus of new places and Ahtopol just before the season gets under way is very quiet – so quiet, in fact, that our search for a restaurant yields precisely 0 results, so we finish up back at the hotel, where we work our way through their fish menu during the rest of our stay. Our Hotel Agata Beach has a pretty perfect location – our balconies are perched right above the sea – and on paper it looked by far the best of the bunch. But some problems with the rooms and a general feeling that money is the prime motivator here leaves us feeling somewhat disappointed.
Of course there are many delights here too. We spend some time on the beach, most notably the beautiful Silistar beach, part of the Strandzha Natural Park, 1161 square kilometres of protected land which stretches from the Strandzha Mountains to the coast and which includes ancient forests (80% of the Park is covered in deciduous woodland) and a rich biodiversity of flora and fauna. We don’t get much walking done, deterred in part by warnings of ticks in the area and partly by laziness. But this early in the year we have the sand to ourselves and manage to swim – twice. We also visit the border village of Rezovo – no photographs allowed, but we experience the odd sensation of looking across the narrow channel of the river to the Turkish flag on the other bank, whilst on this side of the water two men and a boy struggle to raise its Bulgarian counterpart. It looks as if it would be the easiest thing in the world to swim across. Ahtopol itself, both holiday resort and authentic small town, is worth exploring. We meet Kamiz, cheese-stick-and-pizza-seller who has spent two months in London with his uncle, and his dad in the background, who names London boroughs – Tottenham, Stamford, Haringey – in a kind of contrapuntal litany. And on my last morning, I am treated to coffee and figs in emerald-green syrup in the harbour-side house of Pancho, retired sailor, and his wife Nadia.
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An early start and good intentions see us on a minor road cutting across country; all good until we hit a road block. In hours of driving we’ve covered barely an inch on the map so we sacrifice the planned flying visit to Dimitrovgrad, my second location, and settle for the motorway and we’re in Bachkovo by mid-afternoon, where nothing is as we have imagined. A distinctly chilly welcome, rooms more like a youth hostel than a monastic cell though warm and comfortable enough, terrible toilets and worse food. The peace within the monastery walls and the view beyond to the mountains remain something quite special, and we’re happy to share the space with chattering swallows and martins, but the coaches and the rain are arriving by the time we’ve eaten our yogurt (a jar bought from a nearby stall: infinitely preferable to another monastery meal!) and we head for the airport.
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Remember The Bangles? If you’re old enough to remember the 80s, you might recall their hit single Walking Like an Egyptian. The song made a bit of name for itself by being deemed ‘inappropriate’ after the 9/11 attacks and also appeared on a BBC list of ‘records to be avoided’ during the Gulf War. The video, filmed on the streets of New York, was nominated for an MTV award in 1987*. It – the song – has been on my mind since my return from Bulgaria. I’d done lots of research from books and the internet beforehand so the trip, as well as being a much-needed holiday, was a first attempt to get the feel of the place and to begin to think myself into Bulgarian shoes. Yes I know, two weeks following the tourist trail is very different from real life but it felt like a start. There are questions about research – how much is enough? how much is too much? – and also questions about whose story a writer has the right to tell. For now, I’m working with my central character, a station master from Dimitrovgrad, as a kind of everyman, and reminding myself of the long catalogue of writers who inhabit foreign soil in their fictions. William Trevor once said in an interview: "I write out of curiosity more than anything else. That's why I write about women, because I'm not a woman and I don't know what it's like. The excitement of it is to know more about something that I'm not and can't be."
So walking – or thinking – like a Bulgarian is a leap of the imagination but one I’m interested to make. We liked the country very much, enough to think about a second visit in the autumn, enough even to daydream about buying a small house there. The other concern I have is that I might be too late with this book. Just today I came across reviews of two books about the ‘migrant crisis’ and listened to a radio programme broadcast ‘as the refugee crisis in Greece subsides’. But I think of that huddle of half a dozen men squatting on a Bulgarian roadside somewhere, startled faces looking up as we drove past, and of those who drowned off the coast of Libya today and of the steady stream of people on the move always, in search of safety or a better life. And I think maybe it’s never too late to explore: new territory, what it means to be Bulgarian, what it means to be human.
*The light-hearted tone of song & video still sits very uncomfortably with the realities of human rights abuses in Egypt now, highlighted in the murder of Cambridge PhD student Guglio Regeni: see Amnesty International's campaign for Justice for Egypt's Disappeared.
*The light-hearted tone of song & video still sits very uncomfortably with the realities of human rights abuses in Egypt now, highlighted in the murder of Cambridge PhD student Guglio Regeni: see Amnesty International's campaign for Justice for Egypt's Disappeared.
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