Article by Nikos Kakagias
Cover photo by Soula Ioannidou
Edited by Harrys Pourouzidis
The sun met us on the plain of Xanthi, and the Rhodope Mountains loomed hazily to the north as the car began to climb. With a heavy but faint sense of guilt inside us we passed through the Pomak villages almost on tiptoe, as they greeted us one after another with what seemed as an indifferent look.
“Kidaris,” said the sign at the junction. The gears of memory began to grind until someone exclaimed, “Well, what do you know? The word for the ancient Persian cap has come to rest up here in the mountains.”
The road was dangerously narrow and winding, testing our driving skills and fraying our nerves as we crossed paths with the enormous SUVs of our neighbours, hurrying down towards the beaches of Kavala. Suddenly the border appeared before us, no more than a small guard post, which welcomed us into Bulgaria without much fuss.
- Zlatogrand -
Zlatograd, the map said, and soon, after a route that was somewhat less serpentine, the mountain town smiled at us from beneath the heavy shadows of the central Rhodope.
Quite beautiful and familiar to our eyes, low-built and welcoming, it embraces the banks of the Varbitsa, a tributary of the Arda. Its covered bridge, reminiscent of The Bridges of Madison County, allowed the memory of that lovely film to take shape before us, though this time the noisy Pixelscape crew had replaced Clint Eastwood in the role of the National Geographic photographer.
The recently renovated old town drew the group’s photographic attention. We found the effort to revive the old architecture genuinely interesting, as the traditional building techniques, with covered balconies and projecting upper floors, a characteristic of the peoples of the Balkans, gleamed in the midday sun.
Our final stop was the small but well-kept ethnological and archaeological museum, housed in a mansion that had opened earlier especially for us. Beyond the familiar scenes one finds in every respectable folklore museum, what caught our interest were the old sets of armour — replicas, admittedly — covering the period from the early Archaic age to the era of knights. Finaly our stroll through the small town proved brief, since our true destination lay elsewhere.
- Smolyan Lakes -
The compass pointed northwest, and a sudden left turn by Dimos left Smolyan waiting for later. A short drive along a narrow road led us to a small emerald patch of water, with an enormous rock ruling the horizon above it.
Several murmurs of approval were followed by just as many camera clicks, completing our visual experience and passing it on to the immortality of the internet.
Modern-day Smolyan was formed from the merging of three older villages. It lies in a valley crossed by the Cherna and Byala rivers, in the heart of the central Rhodope, whose slopes rise on either side of the pass.
Our expectation that we were about to arrive was soon proved wrong. We left behind the last signs of human presence and sank into a deep, shadowed broadleaf forest, where darker “islands” of conifers stood out along the slopes.
The reward came not much later, when we turned into a clearing with a few basic facilities around a small subalpine lake. Its mirror-like surface reflected everything a decent photographer could wish for, while in the shadows of the forest, fairies and elves seemed to be hiding, and we set about searching for them with great determination.
Perhaps it was the mountain air, perhaps the long shadows, but the group’s mood shifted unexpectedly. The smiles brought on by photographic excitement grew wider and shook off the last traces of tiredness.
The group’s naturalist, having secretly consulted his digital identification guide, delivered a short lecture on the Norway spruce that dominated the scene and had stirred curiosity with its shape.
“So, you see, it is abundant here, while on the Greek side of the mountain there are only a few individual trees, and only one forest of them, in Frakto. Its cones point downwards, and its crown looks like a towel draped over a waiter’s arm…”
Someone whispered, “We should tie him to the oak tree…” But the druid’s stern look scattered them.
He gathered them back in a hurry, however, because the sun was hiding its face behind the peaks, and the next target was Shiroka Laka.
- Shiroka Laka -
The village northwest of Smolyan is known for its old mansions, arranged amphitheatrically along the local river, and it offered beautiful images to the group’s cameras.
The area is also famous for its traditional melodies accompanied by the “gaida”, the local bagpipe. But the only tune reaching our ears came from our stomachs, which were playing badly out of key.
The food, more than respectable in both quality and price, rewarded us properly. By the time we took the road back, dusk had begun to fall. The mansion that welcomed us in Smolyan, with its high ceilings and every comfort despite its years, proved warm and hospitable. Its air, witness to old wine-filled gatherings, brought laughter and opened conversations. The local wine coloured our cheeks, adding the final brushstroke before Morpheus closed our eyes.
- Smolyan -
The next day was breaking when two members of the group decided to head down into Smolyan, to taste the cool breath of a city just waking up.
The morning chill made its presence felt and forced the early walkers into quick shots, though they still managed to capture the city. What struck them most was the air of abandonment everywhere, announcing plainly that Western funds had not reached this far.
By contrast, the air on the ground floor of the mansion was warm and welcoming, greeting them at a table where the coffee was steaming.
- Bachkovo -
“Off to Bachkovo”, Dimos declared as our next destination, and set a course north.
The monastery is an important monument of Christian architecture and one of the largest and oldest Orthodox monasteries in Europe. It combines Byzantine, Bulgarian, and Georgian traditions under a shared faith. Founded in 1083, it survived for around five hundred years before being looted and destroyed by the Ottomans. It was later restored and took its final form at the end of the fifteenth century.
It welcomed us after a long uphill walk, and once we passed through the main gate of its enclosure, we entered the spacious paved courtyard. As expected, the katholikon (monasteries temple) drew our photographic interest, while the icons hidden in the shadows tested our abilities without tripods or additional lighting.
The images inside and outside bore witness to the lasting influence of a shared faith. Everything felt so familiar that no one could easily have described how it differed from the monasteries we had visited throughout the southern Balkans.
It took us quite some time, as the group scattered in search of the many small details worth recording. By midday, as our legs grew heavy, we looked for a few minutes of rest in the shade.
- Pamporovo -
The pause was brief, and the road continued south towards our final destination in extreme heights.
Pamporovo, is a favourite destination for Europeans and others who love winter sports and showing off the latest in fashion. It welcomed us after what was, admittedly, a snake-like route along a rather unsuitable narrow road, barely wide enough for two vehicles moving in opposite directions.
Dominating Snezhanka peak stood the enormous telecommunications tower, with two circular floors at the top. Well, there was no question of whether we would go up. We went up. We took photographs all around, as far as the eye could see, photographed ourselves as well, and finally ended up having coffee on the second floor, as the group’s good rules require.
- Smolyan -
Our late-afternoon return to our base town of Smolyan brought us, after a fair walk along the main road, to the city’s large square. The town looked empty to us, and the square even emptier.
There were only a few cafés to be found, and the city gave the impression of standing on one foot, while the other hovered somewhere between the past and the uncertainty of what comes next.
Since it was not especially attractive photographically, the girls and a few others followed Harrys for an on-location photography lesson. Dusk was beginning to fall when we returned to our lodging for a repeat of the previous evening’s wine-tasting session.
- Mogilitsa -
Final days always carry a kind of hurry within them, an unspoken feeling of “let’s wrap this up,” together with a small sadness for what has already passed.
We left our hospitable lodging for Uhlovitsa, where the cave awaited us. The cave was indeed there. The guard who was supposed to open the underground gates for us, however, was not.
We began consoling Dimos, who took it rather hard. To make it up to us, he took us to Mogilitsa, a village near the border, almost exactly in the middle of the frontier line.
The Agush Konak was our target. The three-storey mansion was impressive, and the tour given by the kind lady was sufficiently enlightening, recounting the life and deeds of its owner and his descendants, who regained their inheritance after many trials and adventures. As usual, we left no corner and no window unphotographed.
- Epilogue -
We took the road back before noon, and when the Aegean appeared before our eyes, along with the plain of Xanthi steaming like a furnace ahead of us, a certainty that had been simmering for three days burst from all our chests like a cry: “This is the Balkans, my friend.”
