Going walkabout is one of my favourite past-times. I’m an expert. Occupying space off piste either physically or mentally – I’m a born natural. My physical body in any one particular place no guarantee. Does not always translate into me actually being where I seem to be. Time and space of no consequence. Drives Mrs S bonkers.
11 K south of Sofia, the approach to Camper Stop Vrana sells us a dummy. Gives the impression of an almost full site. Turns out we’re today’s first customers. All other vehicles in winter storage. The term Camperstop does exactly what it says on the tin. Provides a place to park up for a night or two, max. No facilities except for a one man (or woman) integrated portable loo, sink and shower cabin.
We do our usual. Pitch up. Plug in. Check toilet/shower block (that doesn’t take long). We’re over the way from Parc Museum Vrana. Go stretch our legs for thirty minutes – or so. It’s about 5.15pm. Our secure ‘pen’ gets locked up at 7pm. Owner goes home then. Ample time. No chance of turning into a couple of pumpkins.
We’re surprised. Maps shows a ‘white way”. In fact, the dusty dirt track leads us dawdling through a real mix. 1950s look-alike industrial units. Type-cast images shout out on either side. Reflect a previous Soviet occupation. All lined up. Await the call for a different kind of revolution. All desperate for some serious TLC. Squeezed in between, there’s some sort of (we guess) milking facility. A herd of penned in cows. A couple moo at us pleadingly. The sodden thick muddy ground more suited for wallowing beasts. We feel sorry on their behalf. Not far away a wide expanse of unused greenbelt. A second dilapidated farm appears – we turn left. Cross the farm’s fields. Maps shows some blue stuff opposite. Could be a small lake. Let’s take a look. [that’s me thinking].
“What time is it?” – “Just coming up to ten past six” – “We should turn back” – “Well, we’re almost two sides around this park. I reckon we can just do a full lap, It’ll be the same difference. We still have fifty minutes to get back. Should be back by 7pm – easily.”
We are separated from the blue stuff by a small stream and another “white way”. We can’t get onto the white way. Too overgrown. The stream is no more. All dried up. Creates a perfect pathway. We take it.
By the time we’re almost at the end of the stream I realise it doesn’t take us to the big white way. Zoom in. Veers to our left. Peters out – as fast as Mrs S’s energy levels and my optimism. It’s now 6.53pm. Mrs S now full of regrets for listening to me. Doesn’t quite bite her tongue. I am full of regrets for listening to me. I bite mine. We negotiate the overgrown bramble. Only a four foot deep pipeline trench now separates us from our way out. Secretly, I’m in my element. Not so secretely, Mrs S is making plans that may threaten her future freedom.
The problem with Maps is that you don’t see the real picture. We make it to the big white way just as we’re turning into a couple of pumpkins. The big white way is in fact a three lane highway. Luckily a thin stretch of grass gives us (me) an escape route.
We arrive at camp just as the owner is locking up. “Sorry we’re late. Hope you haven’t been waiting on us?” “No, not at all. I was just curious to where you’ve been.”
