1st October 2013 

The day was, in every sense, a washout. It rained when we woke, it rained while we ate, and it was still raining when we finally gave up and crawled into bed. Not the sort of hearty downpour that feels almost cleansing, mind you. No, this was the dreary drizzle sort, accompanied by fog that couldn’t quite decide whether it was coming or going. Occasionally, the splashes on the pool paused, offering false hope, but the air remained damp enough to smother any thoughts of climbing up to fit the last six capping tiles or the edge metal.

Still, we couldn’t just sit idly. Inevitably, our minds turned to the loft and how many buckets it might be demanding in this weather. With some trepidation, we lifted the hatch and crabbed our way through the rafters into our newly “British-style” re-roofed attic. Gone were the rubble, splintered wood, and even the many abandoned Bulgarian shoes. As we crawled into every corner, I held my breath, only to discover… nothing. Not a single drip. Not even with those missing tiles. Triumph! Take that, Milen.

Two very smug Brits then busied themselves with the last 5 metres of Bulgarian fibreglass insulation, topped with mouse-proof netting and lats for a makeshift walkway. Right on cue, Milen turned up, perhaps hoping to catch us bailing out a small swimming pool. Instead, he found us happily fitting the “pointless” insulation he’d sneered at. He left looking faintly disappointed. We worked on until we ran out of wire and lats.

Lunch pushed cheese sandwiches to the limits of creativity, and afterwards, David drove to Dryanovo for supplies while I stayed behind, adding photos to the blog. Later, I helped unload the car before slipping back into photo duties, while David took to the settee, drifting in and out of consciousness through snatches of film. Both of us confessed to being bored, though neither of us did much to remedy it.

Dinner was nearly a culinary experiment involving rice, pasta, mushrooms, sweetcorn and feta, until common sense prevailed and we declared it a “Bar Night”. We arrived early, but the place soon filled. One family in particular caught our attention: a vast, rotund Bulgarian man, his wife, and two sons. We expected a feast, but what arrived was nothing short of legendary, enough food to feed a small village, culminating in a 2kg pizza the size of a tractor tyre. At that point, curiosity about their dessert was drowned by survival instinct, and we made our exit.

On the way back, we picked up milk, then once home, fed Banjo the scraps from our modest meal, watched Gulliver’s Travels, and rolled off to bed, still smug about the dry loft.