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Why is it that there are places in the world which chime with us, even if we've never been there before? While others make us ill at ease, in some subtle but incurable way not unlike a dysfunctional relationship. When I was in my late teens, our family emigrated from Sofia to the south island of New Zealand. It was immediately obvious that we had landed in the world's most beautiful landscape, which is why it felt perverse to feel as disconnected as I felt from the start. It felt wrong that nothing — not sheer natural beauty, not the new life we made for ourselves there — could heal the chasm I experienced between inner and outer reality, and that time and familiarity couldn't either. The irrational malaise lasted for several years: now everything around me, the blue carpet of the Pacific that hemmed the island in, the steep drafty streets, the violent red pohutekawa, everything felt strangely remembered. Was it precisely because this was an island, and my young, inexperienced land-locked psyche linked islands with the shipwrecks and penal colonies of adventures gone wrong? I didn't know, but around that time I met a psychologist from Buenos Aires who quoted one of his patients, and old man with melancholia. I was born in Argentina of Italian parents, the old man had said, but when I look at the Pampa, I feel a chilling emptiness. This is not my landscape. I don't know who I am here. I feel as if my life has unfolded elsewhere, in Europe, and now it's too late. That psychologist believed that melancholia is the manifestation of a spiritual problem of belonging, which we may call the problem of home. Because I now believe that there is such a thing as topographic ecstasy, the sense of being at home in a landscape, at the center of your private psychic earth. During those dislocated antipodean years, I didn't know that in some other future decade I would finally find a home on another island, despite warnings that Scotland and the South Island of New Zealand have a similar landscape — and sheep, people added, as if that was key. As soon as I arrived in the Highlands with their ruinous castles and wind-nibbled cottages and obstinate drywalls, with their great sweeping sadness and folding blue ranges, their violent rivers, peat-purple lochs, and people with faces full of secrets, there was a recognition — the recognition of the old world. I had no ancestral history in this landscape but it felt like a homecoming. It was two things that did it — the mountains and the ruins. Some of Scotland's ruins are the poignant remnants of what's known as the Highland Clearances of the s, when greedy land owners forced people to move off their land, so that they could turn the ploughed fields into grazing pastures for sheep. A million sheep. Sheep made more money than subsistence agriculture, and this is how rich Scots became richer and poor Scots became one of the great immigrant nations. The displaced had no choice but to set sail for the new world and turn bitter exile into opportunity. But ruins belong to the old world and perhaps old worlders have an ingrained ancestral need for them, something in our genetic make-up that simply responds to old things. Let's call it ruin blues. I got a large dose of the ruin blues one summer, travelling around the less-visited parts of the Bulgarian countryside. I spent the first eighteen years of my life here and it is the only place on earth where I don't have to spell my name, which brings to mind the Irish saying 'Home is where they can say your name. Perhaps that is why I was sweating in the rented Dacia along what looked and felt like Europe's most wrecked road, while ritualistically eating my way through a packet of cheap Borovets wafers whose taste and packaging has retained its comforting shabbiness since the s, perhaps even the s. The road, identical in its lunar surface to many Bulgarian roads that appear on the map as 'secondary,' runs inland from Burgas and has retained its holes since the s, too. Not another car in sight. There were, however, a gaggle of slow-moving road workers and, for a moment, I thought they were repairing the road. But no — they were numbering the holes, perhaps in preparation for some distant moment when the repair work would be done. Hole number fourteen proved too much for the car, and I stopped in the middle of the deserted road to check that I hadn't lost a wheel. I hadn't, but when I waded further into the field of wild wheat on the side of the road, I came up to something that blended in with the scorched, worn-out landscape of late summer: a ruin. The lone skeleton of a Soviet-era tractor was bleeding rust among the weeds that had reclaimed the husk of a long building. Twenty years of rain and snow had caved the roof in. Through a hole in the wall, you could almost reconstruct the agricultural equipment from what was left after the metal had been lifted for recycling. Some road signs had been lifted too — once a nation of prosperous peasants, now a nation of resourceful recyclers. Overgrown fields, so lush they were almost self-reproducing, stretched between the villages of Kabile and Debelt. In Debelt, formerly Turkish Yakezli and more formerly Deultum in the province of Flavia, the ruins of Roman baths — genuinely Roman, unlike those seventeenth century Roman code for Ottoman bridges scattered around the country because, in the Balkans, some ruins are more desirable than others. Thracian ruins are welcome, Ottoman ruins are not. In Kabile, a gaggle of men with dicey teeth sat at high noon, drinking warm beers. To see historic Kabile, the remains of a Thracian town, I climbed the snake-infested hill past the closed museum, past the rusted explanatory signs, past the lone treasure-hunter stripped down to his boxer shorts and digging under an early medieval basilica, and to the top, from where I could see the fertile Thracian plains that had made this a country of prosperous peasants. Since then, a whole new category of catacomb has appeared — the ruins of the Soviet experiment. Disused co-operatives like this one. Derelict factories. Rusty convention centers in the shape of broken-down UFOs on top of panoramic hills. Empty villages like the ones which line this ruin of a road. In Dawn, a stork nested on the head of a manly proletarian with a raised fist. An old woman bent at ninety degrees crossed the empty square on her way to what resembled, to borrow from Francis Fukuyama, the 'end of history. There are not enough people left in the village to warrant a proper shop and one of the reasons is the disused co-operative. When it opened, everything owned by the people of Dawn, Victory, and Trench, which then must have had more modest names, was claimed by the communist state — cattle, land, vineyards — forcing the villagers to voluntarily join the co-op or voluntarily seek work in the urban five-year-plan Bulgaria of factories, dams, and mega-constructions like those concrete schemes on the outskirts of towns that make your heart sink as you drive through. I grew up in one of these, outside Sofia; it was called Youth 3. There were four Youths, and rumor had it that Youth 15 would have sea views. But by the time our family had moved into Block in Youth 3, after years on a waiting list, the newly built apartments looked old. Today, these active socialist ruins are draped in giant capitalist advertisements, with the perennial washing on their crumbling balconies flapping like a million flags of distress. But if urban ruins like Youth 3 are now densely populated because that's where the jobs are, villages are down to ten percent of their pre population. If a village had two hundred inhabitants, today it has twenty. It's the same story all over the country. The only exceptions are the actual ghost villages, like Moryane on the Turkish border where the entire population was displaced after a border fence was built in the s, leaving one old man to turn the lights on and off at night. There isn't anymore and there isn't even a road to it. The only building left is the ruin of the village school, an unintended monument to the unborn children of Moryane. Now we mention it, derelict village schools and broken Soviet-themed monuments are another major category of ruin, more virulent and more visible than all the ancient catacombs of Bulgaria put together. In a country where a Thracian tomb is dug up every other year and people use the stones of Roman agoras to build their houses, such virulence is yet another perverse achievement of the Soviet experiment. Unless they are the same thing, of course, which is possible. Either way, it seems to me that all ruins have something to do with our acceptance of failure and impermanence. No wonder we are fascinated by them. But the real reason for this journey was to do with the present, not the past: it was to meet the people behind a radical new movement of self-sustenance through farming. Their irresistibly charming motto is 'Be yourself, become a peasant' 'Okay! Their lifestyle choice can be seen as an act of resistance anywhere in urban, materialistic, disillusioned post-recession Europe, but it is doubly so here, where the totalitarian tradition still rules: state and crime are two heads of the same hydra. And if you can't entirely escape the state by moving to the countryside, at least you can feel as if you have. A return to your grandmother's depopulated village where you can grow your own vegetables, make your own daily laws, and be at peace with your neighbors — if there are any left — is a brave and ingenious solution. To emigrate from the urban daily neurosis to the early morning crowing of the rooster — it seems odd that to connect with the land has become a luxury only the very resourceful or the very desperate can afford. When in fact, to connect with the lost, ancient parts of ourselves — the selves that dwelled in the natural realm — is a spiritual necessity. Unconsciously, I was doing the same in the rented Dacia, with my neutral New Zealand passport and my Borovets wafers: trying to connect with something lost. Lost, in my case, through twenty years of emigration and a deliberate distancing from what I can't even bring myself to call a 'homeland' — because what is a homeland if you don't live there and if, when you did, in your tender years, you wanted to run away? Of course, you wanted to run away precisely because you knew you couldn't. In The Songlines, his journey through the Australian outback, Bruce Chatwin writes of the Aboriginal belief that a place can only be home if you have at least four ways out, at any given time. You don't need to be a native of the extinct village of Moryane to grasp that a state which exiles its own people by replacing their vegetable gardens with barbed wire and putting a military garrison in the village school is not your friend. A land that has the Berlin Wall in lieu of a door is a prison, and a prison is the opposite of home. This is why I regard nostalgia — memory edited to suit the ruling emotions of the day — with suspicion. Nostalgia is the exiled mind's propaganda to itself. The exiled mind is by definition unhappy, and in the Balkans we have especially recent examples of what happens when such minds assume power. By indulging our nostalgia, we make ourselves doubly exiled, once from the past and twice from the present. And if neither — it must be neither or that way misery and insanity lie — what then is the alternative? Perhaps the answer lies in ruins. Wild Thyme is the name of a small eco-farm I visited in the northern village of Palamartsa, and it belongs to an expat British-Irish couple. They bought two handsome ruins at the end of the village and turned them into their dream life: a house for them and a house for guests, large gardens, goats, dogs, good neighbors. They are one of twenty expat couples and families here, mostly Britons, who have seen potential in the ruins of Palamartsa, an unfamous but quintessential Bulgarian village where hundreds of large abandoned houses are what remains of its glory days. An English-Welsh couple run a bar on a steep street and one evening I joined the customers, all eight of them. Beer, meatballs, fried potatoes with the grated feta cheese on top, pink light over the hills, birds. Wild cherry trees in derelict gardens shed their fruit onto the street. The village houses looked at us with their empty windows, and the cows were coming home. Old women sat on benches, their faces overwritten with history. Perhaps when they stare into space, they see thousands of ghosts walking to the ghostly bakery, the ghostly shop, the ghostly village hall for a ghostly music festival. The ghosts of those who were forced to become factory workers, then gastarbeiters abroad, then like me global souls — the glamorous term for those forced by bitter exile into opportunity. Here we were in the grubby pink dusk, Brits, Bulgarians, and those in between, more or less voluntary exiles from our homelands, deflecting nostalgia by feeding our unnamed hunger with home-grown courgettes, goat yogurt, and Borovets wafers. Here we were, strangely at home among the ruins. Come to think of it, the key happy moments of my childhood involved ruins. Romanian Queen Mary's Palace in the seaside town of Balchik, where I holidayed with my grandparents, wasn't really a palace but a giant garden of crumbling sea walls, chipped stone thrones from Bessarabia, echoey Moroccan amphorae full of stagnant water, mossy Ottoman tombs, and — most enigmatic of all, at the end of the jetty — a concrete penguin with a missing wing. A recent ruin with a personality, the penguin looked out to sea while the algae-thick water lapped at his broken feet. I would sit there in the sleepy afternoon with a cone of vanilla ice-cream and contemplate important matters lost to history. Up above the town, the limestone cliffs crumbled invisibly and the asphalt promenade had cracked open like chocolate cake in the oven of summer — erosion. In twenty years, people said, it would slip into the sea. They were right; I went to check twenty years later, when my grandparents were both dead. The penguin was gone and the pretty hillside resort village where we had stayed was a snake-infested ruin slipping into the sea. But the afternoon ruins of my childhood gave me something that transcends the brief sorrow of time's destruction. They gave me a magic sense of time, the ability to apprehend the secret life of things. As the Fox said to the Little Prince, the essential is invisible to the eye. I wonder whether humans carry the ruin blues from a faraway place, perhaps an ancestral knowledge of the mysteries of time, of how time moves through love and landscape, mortar and body, and molds everything into a ruin so that new things can emerge, or not. Either way, the need for a narrative of continuity is probably encoded in our collective psyche. To live in an outer world without ruins is, for me and maybe for that Italian Argentinian in the Pampa, to live without this narrative, to live in an outer world that does not reflect your inner world. It might be that beauty, order, and prosperity are enough to make a home for our ego, but they are not enough to make a home for our imagination. For our individual and collective reality to be complete, we need a conversation with failure, which is also a conversation with hope. This may well be the only honest alternative to nostalgia's dangerous bipolarity of love-and-hate. The Jesuit philosopher Michel de Certeau said it in fewer words: 'Haunted places are the only ones people can live in. Kapka Kassabova was born in Sofia and immigrated with her family to New Zealand at the beginning of the s. Ten year later, she decided to settle in Scotland. She has published novels, poetry collections, and several difficult-to-categorize but highly impactful narrative non-fiction books, including: Street Without a Name, Twelve Minutes of Love, Border: A Journey to the Edge of Europe, and To the Lake. A good listener, Kapka takes great interest in new places and people, but at the same time leaves her interlocutors with the feeling that their personal boundaries are respected and left intact. Vagabond Media Ltd requires you to submit a valid email to comment on www. Learn more on how the company manages your personal information on our Privacy Policy. By filling the comment form you declare that you will not use www. When commenting on www. Do not post spam. Write in English. Unsolicited commercial messages, obscene postings and personal attacks will be removed without notice. The comments will be moderated and may take some time to appear on www. Issue No wonder I miss them when they're not around. There is something honest about a ruin. Commenting on www. You must have JavaScript enabled to use this form. Your name. Email The content of this field is kept private and will not be shown publicly. Notify me when new comments are posted. All comments. Replies to my comment. About text formats. Web page addresses and email addresses turn into links automatically. Discover More. The obsession that has guided me to my truest writing always emerged more intuitively than consciously. We carried our backpacks through the wilderness and set up camp each night by rivers and waterfalls. Out its other half, I could see some thick black branches. Movement kept at bay the dreadful sensation that the island hungered to swallow me up, annihilate my spirit. All Rights Reserved. Subfooter Cookies Privacy Policy.

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Registration's totally free, of course, and makes snowHeads easier to use and to understand, gives better searching, filtering etc. When you register, you get our free weekly -ish snow report by email. It's rather good and not made up by tourist offices or people that love the tourist office and want to marry it either We don't share your email address with anyone and we never send out any of those cheesy 'message from our partners' emails either. Anyway, snowHeads really is MUCH better when you're logged in - not least because you get to post your own messages complaining about things that annoy you like perhaps this banner which, incidentally, disappears when you log in Username:- Password:. Or: Register to be a proper snow-head, all official-like! Prev topic :: Next topic. Poster: A snowHead. I went to borivets about 18 years ago and the infrastructure was pants. Snow looks great - as do the pictures. Obviously A snowHead isn't a real person. I was pleasantly surprised this time last year - hence I'm going again next week! There is a slow gondola and a handful of chairlifts and some drags but I found it easy to avoid the busier areas in mid-January. We also had fresh snow, which was lovely. Timing is everything; pick a quiet week and get lucky with the snow conditions and you'll have a fabulous time which'll cost peanuts. Pick a busy European holiday week and get crappy, crowded, icy pistes and you'll wish you'd spent more and gone to the Alps. Well, the person's real but it's just a made up name, see? Worth considering for the not-too-distant future though. You need to Login to know who's really who. Have a look anyway - the busiest times in Bulgarian resorts are slightly different to the Alpine ones. Anyway, snowHeads is much more fun if you do. Ah right thanks honeybunny - good point. You'll need to Register first of course. Then you can post your own questions or snow reports HoneyBunny wrote: Have a look anyway - the busiest times in Bulgarian resorts are slightly different to the Alpine ones. After all it is free. Egg Luckily this is not Bansko There are 3 lifts in Borovets from resort level new replacement high speed six seater chair is really helping and I think collectively they give at least double the up-lift capacity people per hour of Bansko, but Borovets is a much smaller resort although it does have the day trippers from Sofia etc. You'll get to see more forums and be part of the best ski club on the net. And if you do end up in Bansko, the work around is ordering a taxi from your hotel up the road to the iron bridge if I recall that correctly which drops you into the chairlift on the left hand edge of the piste map. Ski the Net with snowHeads. This is bansko lift queue.. And love to help out and answer questions and of course, read each other's snow reports. I have heard that conditions out there are the best for years. Best wishes. So if you're just off somewhere snowy come back and post a snow report of your own and we'll all love you very much. The conditions are looking good with loads more snow forecast tomorrow. Looks a bit murky today but the snow on the trees is pretty. Egg , stop going on about Bansko, it's a different resort. Why post that video in the Borovets snow conditions thread? Yes I found the general standard of skiing a lot lower than I'm used to in Borovets last year, but luckily the idiots don't use the steeper pistes so they are easily avoided. You know it makes sense. Frosty the Snowman , cheers fella. Otherwise you'll just go on seeing the one name:. Another poor vis day but that's fine since a load more snow's forecast for the rest of today. The nursery slope area looks surprisingly busy today, but I think there are some holidays this week in parts of Europe. Looks like we'll get a nice top up before we arrive next Friday. HoneyBunny , it was snowing heavily in Sofia this morning, and that means even more at the resort. Can't see much in the way of snow over the next week, let's hope there'll be a decent top up before next weekend. Another beautiful day on the webcams, and the crowds have gone. Decent amount of snow forecast for this weekend. Obviously we're a few days off and anything can change, but I'm getting rather excited!! What's the forecast looking like for this weekend then? Visibility been okay? But I have new goggles which are so cool! One day to go!! Still looking good for a bit of snow at the weekend. Can't wait to get back on skis. Driving down to the resort tonight Well that was a disastrous trip, all things considered. On the first day my hire poles got nicked, and I think someone tried to take the skis too but they were locked. Day two my Rab jacket and iphone were stolen in the Red Lion. I picked up some guy's coat by mistake thinking it was mine not realising mine had been taken. Then one of my boots broke power strap has come off , I got a massive scratch right across my lovely new goggles, and the popper broke off my new trousers so they won't do up. Then when I got home I checked the pockets of the jacket I picked up and it had drugs in it!!! So a rather different experience to last time, I don't think I'll go back. On a positive note, the skiing was pretty good, if a bit icy in places. HoneyBunny wrote: Well that was a disastrous trip, all things considered. Bloody hell what terrible luck you have had, I hope it improves soon. So you came through customs with drugs? Class A or B? I'm not even happy they're in my bin, and the coat's going in the dustbin. Cannot believe I walked through customs with Class A drugs!!! Ending up in prison would have really been the icing on the cake. Thank you for the kind thought. HoneyBunny , sounds like one of those trips. Don't throw them away. That's the weekend sorted right there. Lots of snow headed to Bulgaria in the next week or so. Yeah I saw, shame we missed it. Whitegold wrote: Don't throw them away. That's the weekend sorted right there I don't even think the stupidest person who likes drugs would take some random tablets they found in a coat from a bar in Borovets!! They could have been anything. Wow that's awful and terrifying, I am sorry for what you went through. Absolutely dumping down. It sounds like a plotline from 'The Hangover'. Great story, though I'm glad the only downside was the loss of a Rab jacket and not a conviction! I suppose you could put it like that! The difference is I didn't intentionally steal it in the first place, I would rather have had my own coat and my phone. The bar was dark and it was really similar. I had to wear it back to the hotel or I would have frozen, then I just shoved it in my case when I left without thinking. My mate is still in hospital, she's got pneumonia and Bulgarian Flu! There's a big flu epidemic in Bulgaria at the moment, so if anyone is going there be very careful. No wonder half of us got ill. Knee deep unpisted powder down the black to resort level Any recommendations for ski hire and lessons? My daughter is taking a group of friends, a couple who haven't skied before, for a few days. We have used Hunters before but they were looking at cheaper places. Ski Traventuria is close to the chalet, anyone used them before? New Topic Post Reply. Snow Snow Snow! Solo Skiers v Groups - Orga Archives Lost and Found Ski Club of Great Britain To one side secret Mountain Hideout snowShops You cannot post to forums until you login You cannot read some forums until you login Read about snow conditions : snow conditions And leave your own snow report : snow report Find advice to help plan your ski holidays : ski holidays The snowHeads Ski Club : Ski Club 2. Terms and conditions Privacy Policy. Snow Reports. HoneyBunny wrote:. After all it is free After all it is free. So if you're just off somewhere snowy come back and post a snow report of your own and we'll all love you very much So if you're just off somewhere snowy come back and post a snow report of your own and we'll all love you very much. Otherwise you'll just go on seeing the one name: Otherwise you'll just go on seeing the one name:. Whitegold wrote:.

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