Thrace & the Rhodopes

On the Eastern Thracian plain in modern day Bulgaria lies Plovdiv, a many-layered city spread across several hills & atop capricious plates. I stayed in the steep, cobbled old town which crumbles over the Soviet-designed modern centre. Visible underneath is a Roman city whose contours still define the modern street plan. A 1970s earthquake exposed a large amphitheatre and looking south from the top row of seats, the jagged Rhodope Mountains line the horizon, creating a natural border with Greece.

Deep within the Rhodope Mountains lies the Devil’s Throat, a cave complex where Orpheus descended into the underworld to rescue Eurydice only to look back and lose her forever. The mountain roads crawl up to modern ski resorts and dip down to dense wood-lined valleys. Scattered in the mountains are low-walled foundations and white stone burial chambers; remnants of the ancient land of the Thracians.

Plovdiv

I crisscrossed the valleys in a series of minibuses, bought Mursalski, an aphrodisiac tea & in the evenings, drank wine grown from Thracian vines. I stayed a night in Eliza’s Guesthouse in Trigrad, a village close to a roaring gorge and followed Orpheus’ footsteps into the underworld. Eliza cooked Rhodope Pie for me, a Bulgarian version of Tortilla Espanola, puffed with local potatoes and mountain herbs. She was in her fifties, a teacher, and her wrists were strung with red & white Martenitsa, awaiting the spring. We spoke about the Soviet era and her attitude was even-handed. Everyone had jobs & pensions but little freedom and the atmosphere was one of suspicion even in small villages. You had to constantly look over your shoulder.

Heading back to Plovdiv, I stopped off in the Rhodope foothills at the Monastery of Bachkovo. The monastic buildings are coloured with frescos & thick with incense, shielded by a perimeter of stone walls. My guidebook suggested an overnight stay was possible & I was intrigued. I’ve slept in caves & luxury Paradores, in castles and even a tent in my back garden in London, but never in a monastery.

“Do you speak English?” I asked a group of monks. No, they didn’t. “German?” they asked. I didn’t. “French?” Umm. I was given an interview with one of the Fathers in an oak-lined study. His French was far superior to mine but we found common ground and I left with a large iron key and a warning to be back by dusk when the monastery closes its doors to the outside world. I took the bus back to Plovdiv, buying bread and cheese & wine, hiding the bottle in my rucksack, unsure of Eastern Orthodox protocol regarding alcohol. It was red wine, at least.

The room was square & plain with polished wooden floors and a southern window onto the Rhodopes. I read Kapka Kassabova’s memoir of growing up in Soviet Bulgaria and ate a simple meal. The plumbing clunked a little but then settled down and quickly became noiseless. By late-evening the monastery was in complete darkness & the silence was total. There was nothing to do but go to bed. I was awoken by a cliché; a cockerel crowing from the monastery’s in-house menagerie. The best night’s sleep I’ve had since the children were born.