In this part of the world English seems of little use. Road signs incorporate series of letters that make no sense. Include unfamiliar letters too. Impossible to read a map. We need Cyril back. Come, explain.
No need to fret about the warm Easter back home. It’s spread. We’re basking in the heady high teens. Almost shorty time. That can wait another few days. In the meantime we’re heading south. Jagodina our next over-nighter. Ruza Vetrova Camp is perched at the very top of a hill edging Gradski Parc. We take the nearest and highest pitch. Lends us extensive views.
On arrival, we take the owner and his wife by surprise. He immediately issues an order. She scampers away. Rushes back with a flymo. Frantically skims the tops off the dandelion covered pitch. We (I) register over a shared glass of local rosé. He speaks no English. His ten years working for Cosmos as a coach driver to-ing and fro-ing between Calais and Santander leave him with an unusual French tongue. Obviously learnt by ear. My schoolboy French ear takes time to accustom itself to his Serbian Creole. His dinner-time “Bon a-pe-ta-pete” just misses the mark – but we get the gist and warm senti-ti-ment.
We had thought that he was a one off. However, this side of the border we stop off to stretch our legs – at a town with an unpronounceable name. And one I couldn’t spell with this keyboard anyway. Tucked away in a line of backstreet houses is a small church. A pristine seventy-seater at most. It’s open. We enter. Followed by the curator. He’s happy to see us. Seems not many are interested in “church” around here. We chat for five minutes. Not in English. Certainly not in Serbian. But in French!
Day 14 and we cross into Bulgaria. It’s signing even more confusing. Brings on a new meaning to “we have absolutely no idea where we are”. We have come to the conclusion that customs control is all about being nosey. The uniformed female Thin Controller looks as if she has just stepped down from a Bond movie set back in the sixties. Brisk and to the point. We don’t get too close. She just may click her heel. A random rummage in a couple of cupboards and one clothes case suffices. On exiting Beastie her only comment is “Very interesting” .
Looks like Inn Madonna, at Falkovets, are surprised to receive unexpected guests too. It’s all locked up when we arrive. The main MOHO area being given a busy number one by one man and his strimmer. Finishing touches applied, he swings open the huge wooden gates. It’s like a mini menagerie. A cacophony fills the air. Peacocks ‘ow-ow-owing’, a cockerel struts and hassles his hareem, cockadoodling them into place; a putty cat purr, purr, purr-ing . . .
We imagine this little fellow just wants to chase everything in sight Probably has done in the past. Hence the chain.
We’re the only campers on site – hoping for a quiet night . . .