Seasoned ancient mariners caught in a storm along the west Black Sea coast would become weary when they saw a light, indicating the nearby presence of terra firma. This did not always mean that there was a safe haven nearby. Sometimes, people living on the shore would set fires along treacherous cliffs to lure hapless ships to their demise. Then they would rob the wreck.
In the spring of 335 BC, Alexander III, the new king of Macedon, was climbing a hill in Thrace. It was not an ordinary hill, but a rocky stronghold of fortifications, houses and towers, protecting something famed across the ancient world: the Thracian sanctuary of Dionysus. There, the god's will was revealed when wine was poured onto the flames of a sacred altar – one that had never been known to fail in its predictions.
Мen dressed in early 20th century military uniforms, patriotic songs and speeches, lots of banners and grilled meat stalls: the people who flock to a pristine meadow, overshadowed by a sombre stone monument in the Strandzha, in the third weekend of August, are here for a purpose.
Their annual gathering, at Petrova Niva, or Peter's Field, at a picturesque bend of the Veleka River, marks a heroic and traumatic event in Bulgarian history, the St Elijah-Transfiguration Uprising.
A small, neat bag full with dried lavender: the souvenir is ubiquitous in Mediterranean countries. It should be in the portfolio of Bulgarian souvenirs, too, along with vials of rose water. For over a decade now, this country has been the world's leader in production of fine lavender.
Тhe Black Sea is a geographical curiosity. Until recently (in geological terms), it was a big lake locked between Europe and Asia, gorging on the waters of scores of rivers. About 6,500 to 7,500 years ago, it filled to the brim, broke through what would become the Dardanelles Straights and connected to the Mediterranean. As its water levels fluctuated up and down, wind blew and rain poured, the cliffs on the new shoreline were relentlessly eaten, beaten and broken. In some places, this neverending process exposed to the elements ancient rocks that had lain buried for aeons.
Small villages and clusters of old, abandoned houses define the Stara Planina mountains around Troyan. Gumoshtnik, whose name is hard to pronounce even for Bulgarians, is one of them. A quiet place, its streets are largely empty and its population is only a fraction of what it was a century ago. The churchyard looks like churchyards across Bulgaria: two monuments to fallen soldiers, an old school and a locked church.
The path down to the grotto drops steeply through oak and hornbeam. By the time you reach the ravine floor the sky has almost disappeared. The light here is greenish and perpetual, unchanged whether it is morning or afternoon, July or October. Water drips somewhere ahead. The air smells of wet stone and something older – soil, perhaps, or time itself.
When the names of the churches were forgotten, the villagers gave them new ones. The Letters. God's Gully. The Buried Church. One they called simply The Church, a name so stripped of detail it somehow contains everything that had been lost. Centuries of monastic life, a scriptorium full of manuscripts, royal burials, eight hundred monks – all of it reduced, in the end, to a name that was really just a gesture toward something irreplaceable and gone.
Мanufacturing building bricks and art hardly ever meet. But as you pass under the red clay arches leading to an assemblage of strange red and black creatures, deformed men and children, and labyrinths of bricks and broken moulds, you will find your disbelief suspended.
The premises are inconspicuous. You are in Cherven Bryag, a quiet industrial town of about 10,000 still reeling from the closure of its old industries, including a tank parts factory and the railway to Oryahovo on the Danube.
Picture this: barefoot men and women in traditional dress, dancing over glowing embers, their faces blank and inward-looking, while a drum and a bagpipe repeat a simple, hypnotic melody that seems to have no beginning and no end. The crowd around them is silent. The night sky above is thick with stars. The embers are very much alive.
There is a particular quality to the light in the Eastern Rhodope mountains. Low and lateral in the early morning, it makes the cliff faces reveal themselves slowly. The pale rocks catch it first, then the shadows deepen, and then – if you know where to look, or sometimes even if you do not – you begin to see the niches. Small, dark, precisely cut, they gape from the rock like absences, singly or in their hundreds, as purposeful as punctuation in a language nobody can read.
Londoners, especially, will be bemused to discover that decades before Norman Foster designed the world famous Gherkin in the City the workers in the oil refinery of Burgas got their own avant-garde housing project that in more than one way not only predated but also outshines one of Sir Norman's major achievements.
To appreciate the social, cultural and architectural significance of the Cucumber in Burgas, which now fervently aspires to become the European Capital of Culture in 2032, one needs to consider the historical background.
Few figures in European history have left a cultural footprint as deep and enduring as 9th century saints Cyril and Methodius. Revered as the Apostles of the Slavs, the two brothers from Salonica, the modern Greek city of Thessaloniki, are remembered as missionaries, scholars, translators and creators of the first Slavic alphabet. Their legacy bridges cultures, languages and centuries.
The Black Sea has been a part of human history since the first Middle Eastern farmers crossed into Europe, about ten millennia ago. Its shores have been inhabited ever since. Empires fought major naval battles in its waters, ships sank, peoples came and went. Today, hundreds of thousands spend their summer holidays in its bustling resorts, enjoying its beaches. Still, the Black Sea remains an enigma.
The truth, as ever, lies somewhere between the postcard and the mud.
You know the image. A young woman in embroidered folk dress, cheeks bright in the early morning air, a serene, scented contentment on her face, picking pink roses from luxuriant bushes. She appears on magnets, soap packaging and tourist brochures from Vidin to Varna. She is Bulgaria's most recognisable export after yoghurt and the Cyrillic alphabet. And she is, in almost every meaningful aspect, fiction.
"Where is the parliament?" A few years ago anyone asking this question in Sofia would have been pointed to a butter-yellow neoclassical building at one end of the Yellow Brick Road. Imaginatively, it resembles the Paris Opera House and has the Belgian national motto, "Unity Makes Strength," above its main façade, looking onto the equestrian statue of a 19th century Russian tsar. This was the place where Bulgarian MPs used to gather to forge this country's laws and regulations.
For most of us, "writing" simply means the signs that record speech. We rarely stop to consider that writing is an independent system, with its own internal logic, structure and rules. In an European context, we automatically think of an alphabet – letters that represent sounds. In doing so, however, we tend to overlook other graphic systems: pictograms, symbolic signs and complex sets of images that also transmit information. Whether or not they contain phonetic value, all of these are forms of written communication.
Less than 20 miles from Plovdiv, near the village of Sitovo on the northern slopes of the Rhodope mountain range, a narrow patch of smoothed rock bears a set of "letters" that no one has ever deciphered. Two great stone cliffs rise from a rocky ledge to form a right angle. Above them, a pyramid-shaped rock sits like a roof over the whole structure. One of the natural pillars supporting it has a strikingly human-like shape. Locals call it the Keeper.
Once the homes of early humans, caves have always tickled the imagination. Their darkness, echoing caverns, hidden rivers, screeching bats and bizarre rock formations have become the setting of countless legends, stories and discoveries about times past. Bulgaria is no exception. This country's caves might not be the biggest or the most spectacular in the world, but many are very impressive and well worth a visit.
If you do not count (pun intended) the odd-number of lean dishes that Bulgarians gorge on Christmas Eve, you will be hard-pressed to distinguish their way of celebrating the Nativity from the rest of the globalised world. Easter is a different story, and it is not only because the dates of Eastern and Western Christians rarely overlap.