Here’s the rub. We can never truly taste the full flavour. Anywhere. Like wine. We can roll it around our mouth. Swill it across and under our tongue. Let it linger on our pallet. But then we have to spit it out. Left wondering. What’s it like really?
All good things come to an end. So after three nights it’s time to move on. The downside of living as nomads.
Matt and Keiko are fantastic hosts. With an easy knack. Take and make time. You feel welcome. Special. Nothing too much trouble. Our final evening with campers from Romania, Italy, Holland, New Zealand and UK has a party feel to it.
We switch from randonners. Become random-ers. Go this way. Then that. Know where we should go. Don’t. Needing to go up. But unwilling to spit out. Tempted to swallow. Top up our glasses.
Our route to Camping Batak includes a two hour lunchtime stop off. We usually shy away from taking Beastie anywhere near a town centre. That’s Scoot’s job. We’re in luck. A Beastie size space materialises right in front of a church. It’s his lucky day. And mine. Centre a ten minute walk.
Larger Bulgarian towns and cities have more of a central/western European feel to them. Unlike Greece. Pedestrianised squares and all that. Pazardzhik no exception.
We finish our street walking inspection. Gets a green Thumb’s Up. The delights on display in this Gingerbread-man store do too. Too, too tempting. Evening puds gathered.
Not quite lost, we walk the backstreets. Search for Beastie. Maps leads the way. Our daytime torchlight. Arm held out in front. As if offering Mary-Ann’s phone as a gift to an invisible person. It guides us. Its blind masters. Like the good doggy it is.
Unlike its southern neighbour we find fewer stray dogs walking the neighbourhood. Maybe they’re all cooped up. Like this one. Bright and alert.
