7th October 2011

My Saturday night WizzAir flight to Sofia from Luton went without a hitch. David was waiting in the arrivals lounge when I landed at 3.40 am, having arrived himself barely thirty minutes earlier after a three-and-a-half-hour drive. We exchanged greetings and headed for Ritya, stopping once for coffee and a pastry, standard operating procedure at that hour.

We rolled into the tiny hamlet just after sunrise and decided that sleep could wait. A stroll through the settlement introduced me to one of David’s Bulgarian neighbours, who kindly gifted me a jar of honey. The rest of the day was spent assessing the work needed on the house and sketching out our plan of attack, which at that stage seemed entirely reasonable.

For lunch, I made an omelette from the generous stock of eggs in the fridge. After a day of planning, by 9 pm, we were both shattered and headed to bed. Unfortunately, in the small hours, I developed a nagging stomach ache and a general sense of foreboding. By morning, I was better… until we had another omelette for lunch. Cue round two of queasiness and an afternoon horizontal on the bed. On reflection, the eggs had been a variety of rather suspicious shades of yellow and orange, and I suspect some were off. Fortunately, I had packed antibiotics, which did the trick. By the next day, I was fine, but David, now looking green, got a dose of the same. We ditched the eggs and switched to salads.

The house project moved forward more or less on track, though with frequent changes to the plan, the sort that test both patience and diplomacy. Each morning, we agreed on the day’s tasks over breakfast, then worked long days until the lure of the bed was too strong.

David had employed two Turks to build the garden walls, and apart from handing them a spirit level and plumb line, we let them get on with it. Sadly, both tools seemed to them more like abstract art installations than practical aids, so reminders were frequent.

A trip to the ancient capital, Veliko Tarnovo, yielded a new cement mixer, which sped things up nicely but also devoured sand and cement at a ferocious rate. Multiple van trips later, we decided to hack an access route into the rear field with a chainsaw and strimmer so a lorry could deliver the goods. After two hours of sweaty tree-stump removal, the three tonnes of sand arrived right on cue, and we promptly called it a day.

When the work moved indoors, three Turkish-Bulgarian plasterers joined the party for nearly a week. We prepped by ripping down ceilings and old plaster, insulating the lot, and stapling up plasterboard. One day, we worked until 1 am to stay ahead of them. Now the plastering’s finished, we’re just waiting for it to dry before moving to the next stage.

The main job of re-roofing the main house was postponed on local advice that it was too late in the season. We were informed that it is sound for now, but when it’s replaced next year, the beams and joists should be renewed too, giving it another 50 years of life.

Unlike last year’s nightly outings to Dryanovo for food, this time (so far) we’ve eaten out just three times, twice in restaurants and once when visiting Keith, a friend of David’s in a nearby village. Keith, originally from Thurcroft, has been in Bulgaria for 15 years and lives with a 28-year-old Bulgarian girlfriend. Formerly a DJ, he treated us to an evening of 60s, 70s music and, had we not made polite excuses, probably 80s pop videos. His home, with glorious mountain views, is for sale, but the perilous three-quarter-mile drive to reach it may explain why it hasn’t been sold yet.

Most evenings, we watched films from the collection I’d given David on his last UK trip. He’s seen them all several times, so he was grateful for the two new ones I brought on a memory stick.

The weather here has been pleasantly warm, though cooler than the UK’s recent heatwave. Winter is clearly approaching.

On the sporting front, my quest to watch the Rugby World Cup hit a brick wall; no TV channel here seemed to show it, and even internet radio wouldn’t play ball. I later discovered I could have watched the lot on my mobile. Typical.

I’m somehow managing to continue to publish the Market Harborough RUFC newsletter from Ritya, though my netbook’s tiny screen and keyboard make it difficult. David’s broken Sony Vaio is the obvious solution. I’ve replaced the screen, but getting to the motherboard is proving tricky. That job’s on the “requires more thought” list.