One phone call and an anxious 15 minutes later, the sturdy figure of an ex-Army Air Corps Helo pilot emerges out of the milky gloom and now dark night. An angel who'd traded his wings in for a 4x4, he towed us the final leg, us being dragged behind our vehicle of salvation like a corpse tied by rope behind a badly panicked horse. After what had already happened earlier in the journey, that we were almost swept over the edge of the road into oblivion several times, struck the pair of us as merely mildly perilous at the time.
Given the lateness of the hour, we went straight to the bar with the angelic Keith to ease our nervous condition. Concluding that our nerves needed a considerable amount of easing, it was really quite late before we opened the door and got a fire lit in the house. After trying and failing to get some water to flow out of the taps and switching on a few lights, the electrics blew. The net result was that we cooked by candlelight on the wood burning heater, burnt the pine floor, ate something cooked drunkenly and appalling and slept cuddled up together around the embers of the dying fire.
I ought for the sake of clarity state that I had my onesie and old army greatcoat on all night. There were no shenanigans.
A rather cold and tetchy Scott and Amunden awoke the next morning, shook the frost from their beards and tried to start enjoying themselves. I don't really remember what that entailed but I don't readily recall the enjoyment bit. A day or two later, the other two partygoers joined us. Through tears of relief at seeing some fresh faces and the prospect of not now having to eat one of my best friends for breakfast, we made some more progress on the house.
The rest of our time was spent playing cards, playing chess, eating birthday cake, varnishing floors, losing tooth fillings (Graphic Designer), being cut badly by axes (Banker), getting burnt by the wood burning stove (Banker), severe stomach upsets (Grocer) and watching a bar fight between expats down in the village square. The last by the way, was quite exciting. When asked for our reaction to the impromptu cabaret, our collective response was a rather nonplussed, 'We don't do volatile', which appeared to be a sentiment appreciated.
As it turns out, the electrics tripped quite a lot in those early days. The problem is, most village Bulgarians rely on one light bulb, a fridge and satellite telly for the ultra-modern. Stick too many electrical appliances on and the whole thing trips out. Doesn't happen in the UK does it? Last time I asked, my place was rated as a small factory by EON in Bulgaria due to the number of electrical gadgets in use. So one has since learnt to be careful. Don't put the kettle AND oven on at the same time (do you know how much juice a kettle draws? It's loads!) Don't have more than 3 lights on when the washing machine is in use etc. There is also a way of fixing the problem should you get it wrong that we learned on this trip (another miracle offered up by Keith). You know the big grey box in the street with lightning bolts on the side? That's right, the locked one with razor wire around it. Well if you ignore the warning signs and mantraps and open it up with the end of a penknife, you can reset the electric yourself. Cool huh!
Snowy alcove.
The entire work force assembled for a group photo.
It took about 3 minutes to turn the place into student digs. Men left to their own devices don't cope well domestically.
Traditional post-bar Bulgarian dress (no, I don't know what was going on here either).
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