Not long ago I was writing in this blog about last Xmas. Then before I knew it, Xmas had come around again and I was back in the same place, a secluded valley known as ‘Potom’, on the sparsely populated and densely wooded fringes of Bulgaria’s eastern Rhodope Mountains. I was staying in the same cheerful little cottage and, once again, found myself invited by my landlord Radoslav to celebrate Xmas with him and his family at his mother’s house in the neighbouring village of Radilovo.
Last year everything was new and I found it wildly exciting. As a result I may have overindulged in rakija, the gut-wrenching spirit that Bulgarians concoct not only from grapes but also from plums, pears, apples, cherries, apricots and figs – from virtually any fruit going, in fact – and drink, quite literally, like water. The firewater was supplied by Mitko, the boyfriend of Radoslav’s mother, whom a recent illness, described by Radoslav’s wife Zori as a ‘brain attack’, had deprived of speech while imparting to his boyish face a look of permanent disappointment. Mitko couldn’t drink himself, but that didn’t stop him from enthusiastically refilling my glass every time it was empty, which I regret to say was rather often.
The upshot was that after enjoying myself hugely and distinguishing myself in conversation in Bulgarian, Greek and, possibly, Swahili, everything suddenly went black. When the lights came on again, figuratively speaking, it was morning and I was lying, somewhat the worse for wear, in a strange bed in a room I failed to recognise. It was, as they say, a rude awakening.
This year circumstances were slightly altered. The weather was warmer for a start, not so dramatic, with less snow. I was also a different, more contemplative (some would say sadder) person, having been afflicted, while still in Greece, by a bad case of plantar fasciitis in my right foot, which made it difficult for me to walk. I was able to hike up into the forest and collect firewood for the cottage. I also had no problem managing the twenty-minute stroll down to the trekkers’ lodge at Dobra Voda where I checked my emails. But more strenuous excursions, sad to say, were out of the question.
Needless to say this ailment took a good deal of wind from my sails. I’m a committed wanderer who likes nothing better than taking off for the hills at the drop of a pin. In some ways walking is who I am, an integral, and inalienable, part of my identity. Being rendered stationary, unable to engage with the world in my usual ambulatory fashion, I felt diminished as a person.
The situation became so acute that at one point I considered cancelling my sojourn in the Rhodopes. There didn’t seem to be much point if I couldn’t get around on my feet. Instead I would hole up in a city somewhere and devote myself, throughout the winter, to the pursuit of wine, women and song. Or I would pack my books and give myself over to a life of the mind, a state of being that has always intrigued me. Suicide, although more definitive, also came under consideration.
Finally, however, lured by colourful memories from last winter, I returned to my mountain abode. And now here I was, on a brisk Xmas afternoon, hobbling through the forest to Dobra Voda, where I had arranged to meet Radoslav to save him the trouble of having to negotiate the badly rutted, mud- and ice-mired track to the cottage. To amuse myself while I waited I did calf-stretches against a beech tree by the roadside; but, oppressed by the cold and a sense of utter futility, I soon lost interest. When, subsequently, the appointed time of our meeting came and went and there was no sign of my landlord, I took the obvious course and repaired to the hut for a drink.
In the thickening dusk the big old building, with its blank windows and multiple brick chimneys, looked more gloomy than ever. A murky yellow radiance seeped out from the bar. Flashing on and off upon the grim façade, a solitary garland of Xmas lights spread as much cheer as a wreath on a grave. Upon going inside I found the place deserted apart from a couple of old boys seated over the remains of their Xmas repast, which lay scattered across the cheap plastic tablecloth like debris after a hurricane. The heating was switched off and the air was cold and stale-smelling; a cheesy Hollywood movie, dubbed into Bulgarian, was showing on the television in the corner. From the kitchen out back came the clatter of someone energetically throwing pots around.
The two old men perked up at my appearance, raising their glasses and issuing cries of indeterminate meaning – as poetic, for all I knew, as ‘Twas a joyful Noel’, or as mundane as ‘What the hell?’ but a greeting nonetheless and I civilly returned it.
Just then the door to the kitchen banged open and Irina, the friendly if no-nonsense hijarka, or hut keeper, appeared wiping her hands on a towel. I wished her Chestita Koleda, which is Bulgarian for Merry Xmas, and for my effort received a warm smile and a large glass of rakija, followed in due course by a plate of cabbage leaves stuffed with rice and herbs that was supposed to cushion the alcohol. Thus feted I joined the two old gentlemen, who once again raised their glasses and issued a genial grunt or two. Subsequently the conversation faltered.
Irina sat down with us and she and the men began to talking in Bulgarian. This left me alone with my thoughts, which became increasingly dark as I looked around me at the empty tables, the rubbish on the television and my reflection in the dark window on the far side of the room, all the while wondering where on earth Radoslav had got to. My feet grew cold and the rakija failed to cheer me; on the contrary, it seemed to deepen my sense of impending disaster. As one of the old fellows, with a woollen beanie perched jauntily on his battered grey head and a drool of spittle leaking from his wrinkled lips, started shouting, I couldn’t help reflecting that it wasn’t shaping up as a particularly jolly Xmas.
I had finished my rakija and was on the point of leaving when I thought I heard a car outside. For a moment or two nothing happened and I wondered if I’d been mistaken. But then the door to the bar swung open and there, looking a little sheepish, was Radoslav. He was dressed all in black, which rather suited his stocky build, round dark face and penetrating gaze (though the khaki beanie on his head struck a discordant note), and he approached the table in a welter of apologies. His car was playing up, he said, and he’d been delayed in Sofia.
‘I tried to call you,’ he added, to which I replied, a little coolly, that I wasn’t in the habit of carrying my computer around on Xmas evening.
It felt liberating to finally be on the move. One of the hija dogs barked madly as we got into the car. Descending the mountain road we were treated, through the black, columnar trunks of the trees, to the spectacle of the lights of Pazardzhik and several outlying villages twinkling merrily on the distant plain below. I don’t know what started it, but for some reason Radoslav began telling me about a certain type of Bulgarian taverna where, he assured me, one could feast on delicacies like lambs’ brains and hearts and the livers of pigs while drinking copious amounts of rakija. According to him such establishments were cheap and cheerful and extremely popular, what’s more, with families. The mind boggles, I thought to myself, before replying that if it was all the same to him I would take his word for it.
When we arrived at Debrashtitsa we found a special Xmas gathering of drinkers outside the shop, spectrally lit in the darkness by the garish neon window behind them. No one stirred and there was barely a light to be seen in the rest of the village. Out in the countryside again, driving along the avenue of hoary old walnut trees with dark, cold fields beyond them, Radoslav’s phone began to jangle – it was Zori, who wanted to know where we were. My landlord replied with uncustomary brevity. ‘I told her we were coming,’ he said as he replaced the phone on the dash.
Sure enough, moments later we found ourselves entering Radilovo. It wasn’t a particularly exalted moment. Away to the right Radoslav pointed out one of those establishments he’d been talking about, where you could eat choice bits of animal and drink gallons of rakija. It looked perfectly normal, and, though there were lights in the windows, quite deserted. Nor, as we drove down the main street, did I see anyone else – illuminated by low-wattage streetlights spaced widely apart and with the occasional ribbon of coloured bulbs flickering on and off, I was reminded, not for the first time that evening, of a film by David Lynch.
Obviously this impressed me greatly. ‘I’ve always wanted to see what happens in a Bulgarian village on Xmas night,’ I said, with unwanted enthusiasm, before murmuring under my breath, ‘Clearly not much.’
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