One of the millions of roses to be found in every garden, church yard, and growing wild along every trail.

A Land of Wolves and Roses

The brothers Grimm may have been German, but I’m sure they collected many of their stories on a trip to Bulgaria or from an old, babushka-wearing nurserymaid who hailed from these mountains. This is truly a fairytale land, a land of wolves and roses.

The trails into the mountains are hemmed with high, thorny shrubs bedecked with the bright red beads of wild rose hips. In the villages, hardy rose bushes battle for a toehold with grapevines, fruit trees, and weedy tomato plants. And staked by these treasures, you inevitably find a silent dog that looks more lupine than any I’ve seen on my travels. Up in the high mountains, the roses disappear, but signs of the ancestors of these ‘domestic’ wolf-dogs abound. From the faint echo of a midnight howl to fur-laden scat, the forests of these mysterious mountains have a distinctly wolfy feel.

I met this lovely boy at the second high mountain hut. His mama was a sheep dog that got loose and came back pregnant with this and 7 more like him.

I particularly appreciate that, according to the sticker on the door, Visa is accepted, by the owner of this treasure.

From Tsars to Trucks – Russian Influence Runs Deep

Hungary may have once been ‘behind the Iron Curtain,’ but that doesn’t mean we Magyars feel much affinity for Russians. I obviously can’t speak for today’s Hungarians, but let’s just say that may dad insisted that he always felt an urgent need to shit when his Russian lessons commenced and my Mom turned down an earlier suitor because she found his Russian ancestry irreconcilable. I don’t think this is the case in Bulgaria. Perhaps it’s the shared Cyrillic alphabet or Eastern Orthodox faith, but the whole post-WWII-USSR-domination thing seems a mere blip in a history that, to my limited exposure, seemed to indicate centuries of Bulgarian and Russian coordination, if not alliance. And everywhere today, you see still see the signs. This is not a land of bright yellow Caterpillar Tractors or the familiar truck emblems of Ford, Chevy, or even Toyota or Volvo. No, this is the land of the Zil, the Gaz, and the Kamaz.

Ain’t she a beauty, rock parking brake and all?

We can only guess how old this apple tree may be.

The Holy Trinity of Bulgarian Cuisine – Shopska Salad, Herbal Tea, and Apples

The Bulgarian flag is red, white and green. So too is the Bulgarian national salad with its ripe, juicy diced or quartered tomatoes; crisp, fresh cucumbers; chopped onions or scallions; and generous blanket of grated or crumbled white brined cheese (similar to feta). Splash some sunflower oil and red wine vinegar over this bounty from every Bulgarian’s garden and you have the accompaniment to 5 out of 6 Bulgarian meals. It is served everywhere and all the time – even deconstructed with toast at breakfast. I never tired of it.

Similarly ubiquitous is tea brewed from mountain herbs. In the High Balkans, every hut keeper picks their own unique blend of herbs and the resulting brews vary widely from one hut to the next based on what grows in that particular stretch of alpine meadow or forest. A pot of it is always kept warm on the central wood-stove and local honey offered if you need the added calories after a tough climb or ride.

Apples may have originated in Kazakhstan, but they were perfected in Bulgaria. Grown in every village garden and mountain farmyard, they litter the streets and trails. These small, firm fruits vary in color and sweetness, but all have a spicy start and perfumed finish unmatched by any apple I’ve ever eaten … anywhere.

Evening solo stroll in Sofia; no worries.

A Final Word on Safety and Style

When I told my friends and family I’d opted for Bulgaria for my riding adventure this year, the reaction varied from a perplexed shrug to a shudder. Digging into this resistance, I unearthed everything from snobbishness to downright fear. My husband was pretty sure I’d be kidnapped and sold – though my son assured him I was well past my ‘use-by’ date and wouldn’t fetch a high enough price to merit the criminality of the endeavor. Still, it seemed that a general sense of trepidation pervaded. It was utterly misplaced.

There are few cities where I’ve felt safer than Sofia. And, with tourism still not a real thing, I was less a target for scamsters and panhandlers than I had been in Milan or Prague or New York, for that matter. Could the Bulgarians benefit from a German lesson in logistics? Ja. Could they learn a bit of style from the French? Oui. But I kind of hope they don’t do that. I love this country as it is – simple, hardy, ancient, and smelling of roses, apples, pines, and grassy horse breath.

BULGARIA RIDE – BULGARIAN BITS