In stupid heat I’m rammed into a tiny mini bus being glared at by locals. I’ve managed to get out of the city, but these things weren’t built for travelers. There’s nowhere for your bags (two rucksack’s, a guitar and a hitch to India sign) so I’m left to squeeze in and pile my stuff on my lap. There’s a tut of disapproval. Clearly I’m holding somebody up.
About an hour later and I’m cramming myself into my second sardine can of the day, bound for the village of Kovachevsti, at the base of the Vitosha mountain. From here, my host Veronika will pick me up and take me to my new home for the next couple of months. Once again it’s not the most pleasant of experiences, although one woman holding a small child is very hospitable and assists me with my bags, as well as indicating where I need to get off. She helps me out of the van when I arrive at my stop. More like her please.
I’m sitting alone on the steps of what appears to be a Post Office, in sweltering heat, facing onto a tiny village square. It’s so quiet I don’t actually think anyone lives here. A door jingles open to a grocery store (which looked all but closed) and an old lady ambles by. A battered Bulgarian flag that’s seen better days droops lifelessly from a pole, occasionally dancing to a welcome breeze. Broken concrete roads lead to nowhere. Signs in windows are faded from the sun, appearing decades old. Somewhere a dog barks. The 21st century all but a rumour.
After a few minutes of pondering my surroundings, a vehicle pulls up. Out jumps an excited 14-something, eager hello’s and helping with my kit. Veronika I presume is behind the wheel, and we finally make each others acquaintance and drive to the ranch. I’m given the grand tour of the digs. It’s something of a shock to the system.
I like to think of myself as being an outdoorsy type, but in reality, when push comes to shove, give me the bright lights of the city any day. Give me a hot shower and a toilet not riddled with spiders and flies. Give me a king sized memory foam mattress. Give me electricity. It does come in handy for the football. However all my creature comforts are to be thrown out the window. The toilet is a hole in the ground in a shack outside, the shower little more than a curtain flapping in the wind, also al fresco. I’m sleeping in a large military caravan with no electricity, and I’m sharing my existence with about 10 dogs of differing breeds, 3 cats, 30 horses, a gazillion flies and spiders, 4 goats, seven rabbits, two chickens, a pet raven and a partridge in a pear tree. And do you know what? That’s exactly how I wanted it. I figured this place will make a man out of me from the moment I was asked the question; “can you kill a goat?”
This is what I need. This will change my life. I’m coming out of this fearless. Except for that large beastie hiding in my shoe.
The Horse Ranch
In stupid heat I’m rammed into a tiny mini bus being glared at by locals. I’ve managed to get out of the city, but these things weren’t built for travelers. There’s nowhere for your bags (two rucksack’s, a guitar and a hitch to India sign) so I’m left to squeeze in and pile my stuff on my lap. There’s a tut of disapproval. Clearly I’m holding somebody up.
About an hour later and I’m cramming myself into my second sardine can of the day, bound for the village of Kovachevsti, at the base of the Vitosha mountain. From here, my host Veronika will pick me up and take me to my new home for the next couple of months. Once again it’s not the most pleasant of experiences, although one woman holding a small child is very hospitable and assists me with my bags, as well as indicating where I need to get off. She helps me out of the van when I arrive at my stop. More like her please.
I’m sitting alone on the steps of what appears to be a Post Office, in sweltering heat, facing onto a tiny village square. It’s so quiet I don’t actually think anyone lives here. A door jingles open to a grocery store (which looked all but closed) and an old lady ambles by. A battered Bulgarian flag that’s seen better days droops lifelessly from a pole, occasionally dancing to a welcome breeze. Broken concrete roads lead to nowhere. Signs in windows are faded from the sun, appearing decades old. Somewhere a dog barks. The 21st century all but a rumour.
After a few minutes of pondering my surroundings, a vehicle pulls up. Out jumps an excited 14-something, eager hello’s and helping with my kit. Veronika I presume is behind the wheel, and we finally make each others acquaintance and drive to the ranch. I’m given the grand tour of the digs. It’s something of a shock to the system.
I like to think of myself as being an outdoorsy type, but in reality, when push comes to shove, give me the bright lights of the city any day. Give me a hot shower and a toilet not riddled with spiders and flies. Give me a king sized memory foam mattress. Give me electricity. It does come in handy for the football. However all my creature comforts are to be thrown out the window. The toilet is a hole in the ground in a shack outside, the shower little more than a curtain flapping in the wind, also al fresco. I’m sleeping in a large military caravan with no electricity, and I’m sharing my existence with about 10 dogs of differing breeds, 3 cats, 30 horses, a gazillion flies and spiders, 4 goats, seven rabbits, two chickens, a pet raven and a partridge in a pear tree. And do you know what? That’s exactly how I wanted it. I figured this place will make a man out of me from the moment I was asked the question; “can you kill a goat?”
This is what I need. This will change my life. I’m coming out of this fearless. Except for that large beastie hiding in my shoe.