15th October 2013
A murky but dry morning greeted us, and I managed to coax David into joining Banjo and me on our morning walk. We took our favourite route, and while the only wildlife we encountered was a woodpecker or two, we were treated to a rare appearance by the sun, offering spectacular views over the valley. Back in Ritya, we found Mark battling his latest log delivery, so we lent a hand, taking over the barrowing while he stacked the logs into neat, tiered rows.
With the sun’s good mood lifting ours, we mulled over the idea of a little outing. Just then, Milen returned from Dryanovo, fresh from selling his old washing machine for scrap. He’d been in touch with Crassy, who owns a Subaru garage in Gabrovo, and arranged for David’s ailing car to be looked at the following day. We decided to spruce up, drive to Gabrovo to confirm the car’s appointment, and then take on the Shipka Pass to see a ‘spaceship.’ And so, the adventure began.
Our route to Gabrovo wound through an old mountain pass recently reopened after years of closure. Once upon a time, this road was decently wide, but now, bushes had crept over it, and the car’s wing mirrors were swiftly nudged into ‘safe’ mode. The next 8.5 miles were accompanied by the sound of branches and twigs scraping down the sides, a bit like the opening scene of a horror film set in the woods. Not a soul crossed our path.
We made a quick stop at Crassy’s garage in Gabrovo to confirm the car’s appointment (it seemed to be sulking more than ever, possibly dreading the Shipka Pass incline). From there, we resumed our upward journey through a forest in full autumn splendour. It was tempting to stop and snap a photo or two, but I didn’t dare suggest it; there was no telling if the car would start again after a breather.
At the top, we found a small line of still-surviving restaurants and stopped for a well-deserved salad and beer. This spot holds significance for Bulgarians as the place where they repelled invading Turkish forces long ago, commemorated by an imposing monument. With a quick recharge, we hopped back in the car for the final push upwards. Once parked, we faced a steep staircase to the monument. Between the altitude, our morning barrow-work, and a dog that somehow felt fresh as a daisy, we were winded within minutes, panting like a pair of greyhounds after the Grand National. After capturing the stunning views, David pointed out a higher peak on the horizon crowned by an enormous building. “That’s where we’re going next.”
The drive continued, winding through a beautiful forest that could have graced a sophisticated mural in some chic London flat. Emerging from the trees, we arrived at an alpine meadow below what can only be described as the peak of a mountain, topped by a massive flying saucer. We were the only ones there. We parked in front of what must have once been a grand plaza, complete with an enormous metal sculpture of fists holding a torch. Bracing ourselves for what looked to be a challenging ascent, we set off up the steep path.
And challenging it was!!!
We released Banjo from his lead, and, not having taken part in this morning’s log-lifting marathon, he sprang up the path with ease. Every hundred metres, as David and I paused, panting like overworked bellows, I could just make out Banjo through the fog of my sweat, patiently sitting another hundred metres further up with a look that clearly said, Come on, slowcoaches!
Miraculously, we reached the summit sometime in 2013 (or so it felt), pausing to snatch at the precious few wisps of oxygen available at such a ridiculous height. After catching our breath, I snapped photos of the panoramic views before turning the lens on our destination itself, the mammoth, derelict “intergalactic vehicle.” From below, it had seemed massive; up close, it was absolutely colossal. This was once the proud centrepiece where the Bulgarian Communist Party wined, dined, and duly impressed Eastern Bloc elites, and it would have worked. Even in its derelict state, with a few graffiti-scribbled walls and the odd bit of crumbling concrete, it inspires both awe and a twinge of insignificance. What a hotel it could be, though perhaps a bit drafty.
While we admired the views, the occasional car whizzed by on the little road below, not one stopping to appreciate the sight on the mountain. And then, out of nowhere, a man appeared. He looked like a seasoned mountaineer, outfitted in rugged, well-worn gear that meant business (no flashy stuff here, only the practical, well-tested kind). He sized us up, likely confirming we were just bumbling tourists, glanced at his map, nodded, and resumed his journey, looking as fresh as Banjo, of course. The descent was as punishing as the climb up. One false step and we’d likely lose a few teeth and several layers of skin. Banjo, blissfully unaware, sprinted up and down like a pup possessed. Resisting the urge to match his boundless enthusiasm (and avoid a very bumpy tumble), we inched our way back down to the car, where I’m fairly certain my knees sighed with relief.
Just as we were getting into the car, another vehicle pulled up beside us, and the driver leaned out to ask, in English, no less, if we spoke English. I was a bit surprised; they were clearly German, so why not try “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” They wanted to know if they could drive right up to the spaceship. We assured them it was possible but admitted we had no idea where the road actually started, and besides, we (victors of WWI, WWII, and the sacred 1966 World Cup) were made of the stuff of heroes and had made the climb on foot. Undeterred, they parked, hauled out an impressive array of cameras, and prepared to follow in our glorious footsteps (albeit with considerably less panting). We drove off, silently chanting, “4–2, 4–2, 4–2.”
The return drive was just as scenic as the climb but notably less nerve-racking without the constant fear that our loyal little car might decide to give up the ghost mid-ascent. Before passing through Gabrovo, we made a quick detour to visit a monastery perched on the cliffs. This spot holds a rather morbid distinction; legend has it that the invading Turks once flung the local Bulgarians over the edge, apparently to see if they could fly. In honour of this grim chapter of history, a quaint little church was built on the cliff’s edge, commemorating what we might politely call the Turkish aerodynamics experiment. Lacking a translation from the Bulgarian information board, I went with my best guess on the details, perhaps a bit of creative license, but not bad for a British interpretation.
During the evening, we left Banjo in Ritya to recover from his mountain marathon (probably dreaming of leisurely walks with fewer ascents), while David and I made a beeline for Dryanovo and our favourite bar for some well-deserved grub. Back home, we managed one episode of Spartacus before promptly conking out with a long, uninterrupted zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!
Palmer Family 
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