Article by Harrys Pourouzidis
Cover photo by Eftichios Tsaousidis
The group had been looking forward to May for quite some time. Plans had been laid, as you see, for an excursion to places both familiar and unknown, and although participation was low, enthusiasm remained high.
The weather omens looked threatening before the departure of the legendary Ignis, but they did nothing to dampen our spirits. And so, once again, dawn found us on the road. The travel menu prepared for us by the “chef” had Melnik as its main course, a little Rozhen and Blagoevgrad on the side, and the astonishing Rila for dessert.
- Melnik -
We left the clouds behind us and crossed the border without inspection for the first time, since Bulgaria had officially joined the Schengen Area at the beginning of the year. It was a strange feeling, passing through with the once-busy booths now closed and solitary. In the end, though, we began to feel closer to our neighbours, with whom geography and history have connected us in so many ways.
Half an hour before reaching Melnik, we tilted our heads and narrowed our eyes, trying both to understand and to enjoy the utterly surreal sight of a statue of Aphrodite standing in the middle of a field. Handbrake on, and of course a stop for photographs. And, as chance would have it, we also met the man responsible for the project, who is preparing accommodation beyond the hills under the name of the ancient goddess of beauty.
A little later, the village of Melnik welcomed us with its stone-built houses, its cobbled lanes and dirt road, and the gears of memory began to turn. Nothing had changed since the last time some of us had visited this place, except for the flowerbeds that were in bloom, filled with colourful buds on which the dewdrops from the previous day’s rain had left their magical traces of freshness.
The images were a pleasant repetition, from the entrance of the village all the way up to the Byzantine walls at its northern edge.
“Can you manage a short hike up the mountain, young man?” Demosthenes asked me, and so, for a little while, we parted ways with the other two. We crossed the lush green forest and soon found ourselves at a small chapel, where the magical panoramic view of the sandy pyramids — the geological trademark of the area — rewarded both mind and cameras.
By the time we returned to the little village, the crowds had already begun to grow, and coffee was brief before we made our way toward the great attraction: the Kordopulov House. The winery-museum had been upgraded somewhat since our last visit, with more objects, furniture, and audiovisual material, which unfortunately we could not understand because of the language barrier. The life of the local lord, recorded in various corners of the house, bore witness to a path of financial and social success, leaving our imagination to reconstruct the restored splendour of the mansion and of the place itself.
Noon had already arrived, and the ancient little bell of survival began to ring as we descended from the mansion toward the taverns with the red checked tablecloths. Our table was soon filled with two traditional sach platters, shopska salad, local country-style sausage, lukanka, local red wine, and the broadest smiles we could possibly wear.
We clinked glasses in memory of the friends who had stayed behind at home, with wishes for more journeys to come, and set off in the heart of midday for the monastery of Rozhen.
- Rozhen Monastery -
At the foot of Mount Pirin, the Monastery of Rozhen, once a dependency of Mount Athos, has stood upright since medieval times, with burial evidence dating it to the middle of the thirteenth century. Crossing its threshold, we found gold wrapped in silence, serenity, and inward searching.
The images were few, but full of the history hidden in the walls and courtyard of the monastery. We did not exchange many words in the yard, choosing instead to let the mind’s journey through time speak for us, and with us.
- Blagoevgrad -
Early in the afternoon, we found ourselves outside the city of Blagoevgrad, and our GPS successfully parked us in front of our accommodation. We settled in and, after a short rest, went back out into the square to explore the historic centre.
The city, divided by the Strymon River, was pleasing to the eye, with wide streets and pedestrian walkways, abundant greenery, and plenty of life. Two universities adorn it, their students filling the squares and giving the impression that the city breathes through their youth.
Historically, Blagoevgrad reaches back into the depths of antiquity, with the Hellenistic settlement of Scaptopara developing around 300 BC on the site of an older Thracian one. Empires left their mark on the city as it passed from Roman to Byzantine and finally to Ottoman rule, with historical findings and references from each of these eras.
In the little time we spent there, we focused on the old nineteenth-century historic quarter and the pedestrian street, where the last beam of daylight led us to an excellent little bar for a beer, bringing a very full day to a close.
- Rila -
The next morning, as usual, the alarm rang early and found us lingering around the hotel tables over a good breakfast. We got into the car and headed northeast toward the Monastery of Saint John, the largest Orthodox monastery in Bulgaria, better known as Rila Monastery.
For a good part of the route, the Strymon kept us company, together with the lush green nature around it, and in about an hour we arrived outside the monastery’s imposing walls. Dozens of windows adorned them, and in the centre, a small arched gate invited us inside.
Its history begins deep in the ninth and tenth centuries, when, according to tradition, the hermit Saint John of Rila lived in a nearby cave. During the reign of Tsar Peter I, the saint’s disciples built the first church buildings around AD 927. Over the centuries, the monastery burned and was renovated several times, yet it remained a major religious monument for the people of Bulgaria, until it took its final form during the Bulgarian National Revival in the nineteenth century.
Entering the courtyard, we were struck by the height of the monastery, which rises four levels around the perimeter, including the ground floor. In the centre, the Sunday liturgy could be heard from the main church with its five domes. But because of the day and the hour, our respect for the place outweighed our desire to photograph its interior.
To the left stood an octagonal tower with clock and bells, as though it had stepped out of an Umberto Eco novel. The decoration of the walls was distinctive — though the church in Blagoevgrad had prepared us somewhat — with black and white dominating the surfaces, and painted scenes adorning the spaces between the countless arches. The stairs and railings were wooden, adding yet another stroke of historic character to the place.
It is worth noting that the tomb of Neofit Rilski is also found here. A major figure in Bulgarian letters, he spent a large part of his life as a teacher and later as abbot of the monastery.
Time passed without our noticing, and so the signal for our return was given, while our minds wondered what the monastery might look like in the light of dusk, with its sixty monks living out their daily rhythm within the walls.
- Epilogue -
In an age where borders of the soul often seem more impenetrable than those drawn on maps, this journey reminded us that the true meaning of wandering is not measured in kilometres. It is not the countries you pass through that matter most, but the glances you exchange, the silences you share, the moments that make you feel there is no “there” and “here” — only us.
We crossed borders without inspection, but more importantly, we left behind the barriers of everyday life: routine, obligation, all the things one “must” do. Every kilometre was a reminder that a journey does not end at the final stop. It continues within us, in every memory that changes us, in every place that becomes part of us.
Because in the end, the truest journeys are those that lead you into worlds without borders — and toward a self that is a little freer.
