15th November 2023

Today marked the start of my journey to Bulgaria. Sue, ever the trooper, dropped me off at Market Harborough station with my suitcase and rucksack before heading off to Corby to enjoy a film and a spot of shopping. I, meanwhile, was embarking on the grand railway lottery, which is the British transport network.

The 10:30 a.m. train to Leicester was fashionably late by a few minutes, which in railway terms is practically early. The connection to Sheffield was also fifteen minutes late, giving me a sliver of hope. The next leg, Manchester Piccadilly, should have already departed by the time we arrived, but in a stroke of rail-based serendipity, it was delayed too. Thirty minutes behind schedule. I hopped on with glee, just in time to hear an announcement that the train would now be stopping at only four of its scheduled stations. No doubt this pleased those four, but left everyone else to disembark mid-route and hope for another train. Still, Piccadilly was the final destination, and I was on it.

Once there, the platform for the airport train proved as elusive as a politician’s straight answer. I missed the next service by a whisker, but fortunately, another was due in fifteen minutes. Time enough to contemplate the British rail system and its ongoing collapse, helpfully reinforced by a call from my step-brother David, whose train from Cumbria had been cancelled… along with the next two. Excellent.

From the airport station, it was a brisk fifteen-minute walk to the Ibis hotel. I was soon in my room, demolishing the Meal Deal I’d grabbed en route. While I waited for David, I passed the time watching TV. He eventually arrived around 8:30 p.m., and we chatted away until midnight, catching up on family affairs and discussing what might need sorting in Ritya.

16th November 2023

We were up at 4:30 a.m. and ambled bleary-eyed to Terminal One. Security and passport control were surprisingly painless; we must have caught them before the coffee wore off. We enjoyed a light breakfast in one of the cafes, and then I grabbed yet another Meal Deal for the flight. (I should probably just set up a loyalty card.)

I joined the Speedy Boarding line, having paid the extra for a cabin bag, while David slinked into the queue for those travelling light. We had seats at the back of the aircraft, and as the flight was half-empty, we each spread out across a row of three seats. A luxury. I managed to stretch out and snooze my way through the 2-hour 45-minute flight, EasyJet bliss.

Bulgarian immigration was the usual protracted affair, followed by a long, slow wait for our Citroën C3 hire car. But everything went smoothly, eventually.

The drive to Ritya involved three unscheduled pit stops. First, to investigate a warning light on the dashboard, which turned out to be a tyre pressure alert. Once we’d changed the car’s computer from Bulgarian to English (always helpful), we discovered it simply needed resetting. Second stop: a well-earned coffee and something cheesy. Third: a detour to Sevlievo to pick up a data SIM card for David’s internet gizmo, and a quick run around Lidl to stock up on supplies.

By the time we reached Ritya, it was dark. The garden had clearly decided to go feral in our absence, but the house was surprisingly warm and not at all damp, a small miracle. Less miraculous were the mummified insects in every corner, and the piles of woodworm sawdust scattered like rustic confetti beneath the beams. Oh, and the pièce de résistance: two deceased rats floating gracefully in the well, adding a certain bouquet to the evening air.

We lit a fire, swept up the sawdust and ex-bugs, and rustled up a meal of moussaka and chips, an Anglo-Bulgarian fusion, if you like. After dinner, we collapsed in front of a Netflix film, then finally turned in at midnight. I took the bedroom next to the fire; David, faced with an unmade bed and a long day, opted for the sofa.

Ritya, welcome back.

17th November 2023

Today proved rather more eventful than expected.

After an early breakfast, we turned our attention to the pressing matter of the two deceased rats floating in the well. A delightful start to the day. Until they were removed, we couldn’t switch on the pumps, which meant no taps, no flushing toilets, and no running water. In short, all other tasks were on hold until the dearly departed rodents were evicted.

The water level was roughly ten metres down, with the well bottom much deeper. We began with a simple idea: tie a bucket (with holes drilled in the bottom so it would sink) to a rope, lower it beneath a rat, and gently scoop it upwards. Foolproof, we thought. Except the well widened slightly as it descended, so the rats, pressed up against the side, evaded every attempt to get the bucket underneath them.

Plan B involved some improvisation worthy of The A-Team. Using a long piece of wood, we prodded the rope sideways during the descent, hoping to guide the bucket beneath the floating corpses. This did the trick, to an extent, until we discovered that as the bucket rose, the water flow rushing out of it pushed the rat gently aside, like some macabre synchronised swimming routine.

Time for Plan C.

We constructed a makeshift bucket from wire mesh, which allowed water to pass through instantly and (with luck) not push the rat away. Within ten minutes, we were the proud, if slightly horrified, owners of a sealed bucket on the patio containing two very dead, very decomposed rats. Mission accomplished. Well, almost.

To reclaim the water for human use, we dosed the well with chlorine tablets and powder like overenthusiastic swimming pool attendants. We then lowered a pump beneath the surface to circulate the water while we busied ourselves making a salad for lunch and congratulating ourselves on a job both grim and well done.

It wasn’t quite the rustic idyll we had in mind, but at least we had running water again, and no rats.

With lunch behind us and stomachs suitably full, David turned his attention to the borehole water system. The goal: to get the pumps and filters up and running. The result: an unexpected jolt that knocked out the entire house’s electricity.

Thankfully, aside from a bruised ego and a newfound respect for Bulgarian electrics, David was unharmed, just a little more cautious. He set about checking all the trip switches inside the house, but oddly, none had triggered. Our neighbour Mark, who lives across the lane, came over to lend a hand. After a bit of head-scratching and torch-waving, we concluded the fault wasn’t in the house at all; it had tripped further afield.

We traced the issue to the sealed electricity box perched halfway up a pole in the lane, clearly a “not-my-job” zone, but nevertheless our job for the evening.

As we prowled about looking for the external power cable, we gained an unexpected companion: a friendly village dog who decided we were now his people. By this time, it was late and dark. With no power, no running water, and only the vaguest hope of help, we decided against decamping to a hotel and instead embraced the blackout lifestyle.

We lit the wood burner, placed candles around the lounge like we were hosting a romantic evening for two, and cooked a frozen pizza and a tray of chips in the oven balanced on the wood burner. It wasn’t Michelin-starred, but it was warm and edible, and the beer was cold.

David messaged his Bulgarian friend Vlado, who’d done most of the previous electrical work on the house. Miraculously, Vlado responded almost immediately and promised to come by the next day. In the meantime, our battery-powered internet gizmo kept us connected to the outside world, so we watched England beat Malta 2–0 on a laptop to round off the evening, still surrounded by candles and the comforting hiss of the wood burner.