Friday, 16th May, 1997
Hotel Balkan, Gabrovo

We arrived in Sofia at 4.15 in the afternoon and were greeted by Galina, our interpreter, with a bright smile, impeccable English and flowers for Sadie and me. We waited for our passports to be scrutinized by a dour customs official who stood in a shabby prefabricated booth and caught from him our first whiff of the third world and resigned decay.

Galina ushered us into a red mini-bus with a stolid though not unfriendly driver. We withered visibly when she told us that we had a three and a half hour drive ahead of us - though afterwards Sadie said she reckoned that she was giving us the worst scenario. In fact, it took only two and a half hours. The weather was warm but we were refreshed by the breeze that came through the open windows.

The route was to take us due East and then North into the Balkan range of mountains that divides Bulgaria into two distinct regions, the North and the South. The road was a two, occasionally three, lane motorway in moderate condition though with the odd area of potholes which jolted us a good deal.

We stopped halfway for a cold drink at a roadside cafe cum petrol station. Petrol stations are, apparently, a growth industry although few people can afford cars or the price of petrol.

The landscape was gentle with areas of forested slopes and pasture with the odd half-finished building made of thin bright red bricks. Occasionally the hills parted to reveal the mountain peaks covered in snow. Every so often the driver slowed to a crawl - drivers warn one another of traffic police ahead. On the verges cows were tethered to stakes, either singly or in twos and threes, and chewed the verdant herbage, tended by a solitary farmer. Figures tilled the soil on small holdings. Wooden donkey carts allowed us to overtake them laden with hay and animal fodder. The carts trundled along unchanged since medieval times, I'm sure. There were small flocks of sheep and goats.

Turning North off the highway we passed scattered villages. Many houses seemed abandoned or in various stages of repair with small gardens and wonderfully cool looking groves of trees. As we passed a particularly picturesque village with houses that sprawled along a dusty road and rusting lean-to sheds in the gardens, I asked Galina who lived there. She replied that most of the inhabitants were Turkish. It seems that the legacy of 500 years of Ottoman rule dictates Gabrovian attitudes. They are proud that the town of Gabrovo was one of the few that has always been purely Bulgarian. As we approached our destination a statue of a woman on horseback greeted us. There is a legend that as the Turks were approaching the town just such a woman appeared at its entrance and told the invaders that the town had been gripped by a terrible plague, upon which the Turks turned tail and left the inhabitants in peace.

The outskirts of the town was dominated by tall blocks of flats, so called 'social housing' though the centre with its rushing river had a haphazard charm about it with old balconies and balustrades cheek by jowl, satellite dishes and makeshift shop signs. The most dominant architectural style was Communist, including our hotel which was designed on such a large scale as to make the guests feel as small as possible.

The hotel had a shabby austerity but everything seemed to work - including the plumbing, thank goodness.

Galina left us for the evening, so we descended to the hotel dining room, a long high-ceilinged room, its proportions based on the corridor principle but magnified so that the white clothed tables and upright red chairs were like so many skittles on a bowling driveway. The floor area was daunting, like a vast plain to be crossed. There were few diners.

It was only once we were seated that the waiter laid our table. He was middle aged with impeccable English delivered in a falsetto, declamatory style culled from a phrase book : 'May I recommend' and 'May I suggest'. His half friendly, half dictatorial approach became irksome after a while. We suspected that his recommendations were based on what was available which was fine by us - a salad of cucumber and lettuce with yogurt and then grilled pork, mushrooms and fries - with merlot wine (Bulgarian of course) from the Black Sea area.

And then, thankfully, to bed. We were really tired, both emotionally and physically, having gone through a rather unfortunate incident before we left the dining room. A woman appeared out of the blue, with flowers for sale. Ralph gallantly insisted on buying blooms for Sadie and me. At the same time I was trying to shoo her away. Then we realised that we hadn't changed any money and the young under-waiter paid on our behalf. Then there were convoluted discussions about paying in dollars and deducting it from the bill. It got very complex. Then I jumped up and changed a dollar into Levs, which meant that I could pay the waiter back. So it all go sorted out in the end.

Back in our room (a small suite with a little sitting room that could be curtained off from the bedroom - Sadie had her own room on the floor below) Ralph was having a problem getting the World Service on his radio. Our tempers were frayed. So that was the end of a long hard day.

This morning after breakfast the driver was waiting to take us to the House of Humour and Satire which was actually very close and only a short walk away. The building was utility in style with 1950s decoration on its frontage and the foyers inside were gloomy with large art galleries on three floors. Galina asked us to wait on the second floor but we wandered into a small coffee bar upstairs where

'the jury' was gathered, each member with an appropriate interpreter - a white-haired Japanese artist and his wife, an Austrian and a Bulgarian. We were introduced to the museum director, Mrs. Tantyova, with whom I had already been corresponding in England. At first sight she was a formidable lady with cropped hair and a strident voice - just as well as at times she had to speak above both the interpreters and the foreign visitors. Later we realised that she had a soft heart under the stern exterior. The introductions were lengthy and formal. I could see that Ralph was in for a grueling time.

Sadie and I left Ralph in the museum and walked back to the hotel past a terrace of dilapidated houses with crude placards and signage, the sort of dilapidation that I am always drawn to: faded paint in powdery blues and greens, peeling and subsiding walls, rotting wooden beams. Inside were several makeshift shops selling dusty stocks of socks, plimsolls, toothpaste and shampoo.

We explored the area by the river: stone ramparts which formed a promenade, a shopping area and cafes with plastic tables and chairs in the sunshine, a small park where people sat and gossiped or just sat. We searched for postcards but found none. In a small bare stationary shop Sadie found a note book and envelopes and I bought Ralph two sketch books of thin paper with cashiers' margins in blue. We sat in a balconied cafe to write (Sadie - letters and me - this diary) and then began our search for somewhere to eat. On the way we passed the town theatre and could hear music drifting from a dusty upstairs room. The building was imposing with columns and rampant equestrian statues. Eventually we found a shady cafe under an orange awning by the river. It was cool and inviting. We ate a beautifully simple lunch of salad, grilled meat and chips - again!

After a rest at the hotel we walked back to the museum to collect Ralph. I photographed the ramshackle buildings on the way. It was a hot and mellow afternoon. The people we passed were still dressed for winter with wool jackets and thick tights. The young girls wore short short mini-skirts that just hid their knickers. They wore white or pale pink lipstick edged in black - a mixture of sixties retro and eighties grunge. The boys pushed up the sleeves of their jackets to three quarter length like old style crooners. At the museum we waited an hour for the jury to complete their deliberations at a long table in one of the galleries. The lady director and the interpreters were hard at it keeping the anarchic tendencies of the jury in check. The discussions were both intense and convoluted and punctuated with clapping in response to each word of wisdom from the jury. Several times the jury rushed en masse to review a picture before returning to their deliberations. The protocol of declarations, speeches and interpretations protracted the operation - but for our Bulgarian hosts it was of great importance to be seen to be doing it - and so we all went along with it.

I must mention that after breakfast we looked for and found a bank. Sadie wanted to change her sterling currency into Levs - and pounds were not popular here, not like dollars. A young man, urbane in moustache and neat shiny suit, approached us and steered us with very good English through the procedures. While we were waiting for the cashier to produce the Levs, he proffered a fifty pound note. The central Bulgarian bank had refused it because the serial number began with D and it was too old. He asked if we would change it for the bank. We refused but thought that it was very weird - a scam going on , we thought. When we told Galina she was very cross about it.

Back at the House of Satire the meeting ended and we were invited into the basement where there was a theatre cum night club. The decor was pure seventies with semi-circular booths lined in purple plush. We were entertained by a company of young actors - the vigor of youth choreographed into a modern fable about the dilemma of the young in Bulgaria who reject the global markets and corruption but find precious little to replace it with. A didactic approach but admirable for all that - so much young talent displayed in dancing, singing and acting - even though we couldn't understand a word.

Then to supper in the basement cafe with all the artists, friends of the museum, etc. We sat at a long table. First our stern director spent half an hour introducing everyone (again) and the interpreters had to go into overdrive translating. The wine soon began to loosen everyone's tongues and soon there were conversations in Bulgarian, English, Japanese and German and back again.

The food was basic Bulgarian again: salad, kebabs, yogurt - washed down with a good Cabernet Sauvignon. The kebabs came stacked on dishes with flaming bowls underneath so that they were still cooking as they were served. Ralph insisted on dancing to a Bulgur folk tune with the director. I saw a sparkle soften her impenetrable blue eyes! A Polish museum curator asked me to dance in a very gentlemanly way. Soon after we left with Galina. She was very tired and was relieved to be leaving.

As we walked back along the river she told us that after the fall of the Communists it took several governments before things began to work out. Now they had a new president who was young, energetic and honest. The changes were bloodless because the army refused to interfere. People could demonstrate without fear of reprisal. They still had many problems, especially with the world bank because of massive debts and inflation. At one time she was earning $90 a month but then it went down to $5 and has now risen to $50. She has to do extra language teaching to earn more money. Her parents survive on a very small pension.

Saturday, 17th May

We were supposed to have a meeting with Tatyana, the director, at 9.00 but we felt the need to get up slowly and have a leisurely breakfast. So the meeting didn't start until an hour later in her office, whereupon she launched into yet another long explanation about the House of Humour and its past and future. Then we had an exchange of gifts - T-shirts and coffee from us and books and pottery from them. Ralph also received a bronze bull. Each member of the jury was presented with a maquette appropriate to his star sign. A thoughtful touch.

We took photos of the jolly Bulgarian sculptor and his life size bronze goat with a crow on its back. Then we proceeded outside for songs and dancing from the young acting troupe from the night before, followed by folk dances by brightly appareled girls in vivid pink, green and orange costumes. The men in dark Russian outfits leapt across long wooden staves - shades of our Morris dancers back home.

It was hot so we stood under flowering horse chestnut trees. I chatted to the Polish curator who wanted Ralph to have an exhibition at the Warsaw Museum next year. He had an emphatic way of expressing himself with an cynical tone. He was very funny expressing how irksome he found the jury procedure to be.

We had an hour to spare before the prize giving, so walked across the street to another shady cafe with a burly Bulgarian cartoonist who wanted to do a short interview with Ralph and the sculptor.

The prize-giving was predictably boring with more speeches and protocol. We needed a few laughs and Ralph said a witty few lines (interpreted by Galina) before he presented the Graphic Prize to a young Buglarian. The room was very stuffy. The men looked uncomfortable in their shiny Sunday best suits.

By the end of it, Sadie was complaining of stomach ache and I felt heavy and drowsy so we walked back to the hotel to give Sadie some stomach pills and ate a simple lunch in the cafe across the road . Here we waited for Galina and the driver to take us for a little treat to the craft town of Etar, preserved to demonstrate the traditional rustic Bulgarian way of life.

Etar was nine kilometers away and situated in a narrow valley by a gurgling river. All very idyllic. Renovated in the 1960s it replicated Bulgarian village life in the 19th century with particular emphasis on the uses of water - to drive the mills, grind stones and so on. Dark beamed houses lined the village street. They were picturesque with their bright paintwork and wide roofs tiled with the traditional flat stones. All very picturesque indeed and solid enough and well worn enough to avoid too much hint of Disney-fication. Beyond the village rose lush meadows and shady coppices. Within the houses, artisans worked at their crafts - a rug weaver, a wood carver, a hat maker and silver smith. We bought rugs and pottery. There was a hotel there too which would have been pleasant to stay in if we'd had time.

By this time Sadie's stomach ache had come on again, so while Ralph and Galina were dropped off at the Town Hall to meet the Mayor of Gabrovo, Sadie and I were dropped off at the hotel. I wasn't at all sorry to miss the Mayor and all the speeches. Ralph bore up remarkably well - he had summoned up reserves of energy from somewhere.

Sunday, 18th May

We are on our flight home and I must finish off my diary. Yesterday Sadie slept and Ralph endured the meeting with the Mayor and came back for a quick change and shower before going off to the Mayor's cocktail party. He promised to be back by eight o'clock, but, of course, he wasn't. Sadie woke up feeling better and we played a game of scrabble and then went down to the echoing bar.

At last Ralph arrived with Galina and Waljec, the Polish curator, who was well oiled by this time. Galina was telling us about life under the Communists while the curator sat drinking and swaying. As an interpreter she was expected to inform on her clients and had to write detailed reports about their movements, inclinations and habits. This new freedom was something wonderful for her, even though she had to work so hard in the difficult economic climate.

We walked across the bridge to the cafe where we had previously lunched. We sat in the garden. The waiter said there wasn't much food as the place was crowded but he rustled up salad and tasty chicken kebabs. The conversation between Ralph and Waljec verged on the incoherent as the evening wore on. Back at the hotel Sadie went to bed but Ralph, Waljec and I went to the bar to join the Bulgarian sculptor and his friends.

One of the company was an elderly Bulgarian translator with pale watering blue eyes and a goatee beard. He reminded us of a sculptor we used to know in London called Hugh de Wet. He proclaimed himself to be the oldest (and by implication the best) translator in Bulgaria. He taunted Wiljec for being a Pole and the scapegoat of Europe without an ancient history. Wiljec was very upset and found solace in beer and his strong Polish cigarettes. I managed to extricate Ralph at about 2 o'clock.

On the way back from the restaurant Galina told me that her grandfather had been a wealthy merchant in the town. He had built a large house with a beautiful garden. She could remember it well. The communist regime decreed that a bank was needed. The family was moved to a flat, the house was demolished and a bank was built on the site.

I slept late, but we were ready and packed by ten when Galina arrived to oversee our transportation back to Sofia. She had arranged for a car to take us, our luggage and Woljec and a sulky young Bulgarian girl who wanted a lift. We had no idea who she was. It was obvious that we wouldn't all fit in and waited while Galina arranged for the red minibus and the taciturn driver. All the while Woljec was moping about with an air of resignation. He suggested going to the bar for a beer while we waited. Galina refused to let him. So our sad Pole stood resigned on the steps of the hotel.

Galina kissed us and waved us off. She must have been relieved at our departure. Her role was a difficult one since she had to be sensitive to our needs while making sure that the schedule was adhered to.

I had asked if we could return to Sofia by a different route and stop and looked around on the way. The glimpses we had caught of the countryside had left me frustrated at not being able to see more. I didn't realise that the route would be longer which would cancel out any time we had to look around. I don't think Galina realised that our inclinations drew us towards the villages we'd passed on our way there, heightened by the tantalizing glimpses of broad-thighed women tilling their gardens, lone shepherds guarding their flocks, donkeys and cows being led along the verges and the old wooden carts laden with clover and hay.

Instead our driver had been directed to take us on a circuitous road South up to a high point overlooking the Balkan range to see a 19th century monument built of dark grey granite. This monument was of great significance to the Bulgarian people since it is the site of the last battle against the Turks and thereafter the Bulgarians could call their country their own.

We drove ever upwards through steep gullies and forests of closely packed firs, the trunks so serried that they resembled the spears of a great army or, as Sadie pointed out, a dream sequence from Little Nemo, the book she enjoyed so much as a child.

Below the grand steps that led up to the monument a wall of gleaming alabaster had been erected with bas-relief larger-than-life-size soldiers on the march, their fur hats low on their brows and the collars of their great-coats turned up against an eternal winter.

Back down the winding road we went and then West with the mountain range seldom out of view, along a flat valley of farmland.

How I wanted to stop, to look, to sketch, to write something. Instead I made mental notes.

The people we saw in the fields and villages were all working hard. Figures stooped over hoes in gardens and fields, loading up their carts with fodder for their animals which stood patiently tethered to the ground or harnessed ready to pull their loads. Fields of young wheat were dusted with the powdery blue of gentians, swathes of creamy clover, poppies along railway lines, brick houses with the vestiges of carved lintels above sagging windows and warped door frames, half-finished breeze block sheds shaded by the new growth of vines. An old woman sitting staring into space on her front steps. A farmer gazing beyond his small flock of sheep into the middle distance. In the gardens women washed and prepared vegetables at stone sinks and brushed the narrow pathways with straw bessoms.

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