Plovdiv, Bulgaria

Plovdiv, Bulgaria

‘The train system is very poor by European standards. There have been several fires on Bulgarian trains. Inter-city buses are frequent, relatively fast and comfortable, but crashes do occur.’ So says the UK government’s foreign travel advice website. As a survivor of three car accidents and no train fires, I chose to stick with the devil I knew and go by bus from Sofia to Plovdiv. I first checked out of my hostel room and deposited my bag in reception to be collected in the evening. Following a nice early morning walk alongside all the districts of the city that ought to be avoided to the bus station, I soon found myself whizzing along through the flat and open plains of southern Bulgaria. For much of the journey, the surrounding landscape was a dry and open plain, the fierce sun making it appear more dusty and parched than it really was.

I felt an exciting sense of venturing east. After all, this highway extended into European Turkey and there had been buses in Sofia bound for Istanbul or beyond, where on all my previous travels on the continent, the destinations had been limited to those within Europe. Anatolia and the Middle East usually feel so distant that it is easy to forget that at a certain point, Europe just runs out. First of course, there is Eastern Thrace, that last vestige of Turkish presence within Europe, and after that is nothing but Asia. Of course, Turkey is a huge country and I was still a great distance from the true Middle East (I was only around halfway from London to Baghdad), and yet it was apparent that I was destined for some sort of psychological boundary. Crossing it, though, would have to wait for an indeterminate point in the future, as I got off the bus in Plovdiv, two hours from Sofia and another two shy of the Turkish border.

Most of Plovdiv, including its historic districts, lies on the southern bank of the Maritsa river, a waterway that rises in western Bulgaria’s Rila Mountains and concludes it course by flowing along the length of the border between Greece and Turkey. Not far to the south are the Rhodope Mountains. To the north is a flat plain and on the far horizon, the faint blue outline of the Balkan Mountains. This range, from which the entire peninsula takes its name, runs east to west within central Bulgaria and the southeastern corner of Serbia. It is something of a tautology, since the Bulgarian word ‘балкан' is a loanword from Turkish 'balkan' and means 'mountain' in both languages. Plovdiv is itself built upon seven hills, rather like Rome. It is, however, considerably older than the Italian capital. Indeed, at the time of Rome's founding, Plovdiv was already older than Rome is today. Its first settlement dates back to 6,000 BC, and it vies with Athens for the title of Europe's oldest continuously inhabited city. Only a select few cities in the Middle East – Byblos, Damascus, Jericho – can claim to be older. For whatever reason, something about Plovdiv's location triggered a group of people eight centuries ago to stop wandering about aimlessly and settle down. And eight centuries later, half a million modern Bulgarians still consider Plovdiv the perfect place to be. Name a Eurasian civilisation, and the chances are, they too settled here; the Thracians, Persians, Greeks, Celts, Romans, Goths, Huns, Slavs, Holy Roman Empire, Byzantines and Ottomans have all called this place home.

When the Thracian city of Kendros was conquered by the Macedons in 342 BC, their king Philip II (father of Alexander the Great) modestly renamed it Philippopolis, 'the city of Philip'. It retained this name throughout much of its life, but was called Trimontium – 'the city of three hills' – when it became a Roman provincial capital following its absorption into that empire in AD 46. In the 2nd century, the writer Lucian called it 'the largest and most beautiful of all cities'. I don't entirely agree with him. For one thing, I've been to dozens of larger cities. As for more beautiful ones, well, it's a bit of a noncommital answer, but each is beautiful in a different way in its own right. It's certainly up there. So Lucian was 50% right, but I shouldn't discredit him since a lot can change in 1,800 years. (Any appraisal of my own physical appearance would in that time have long since become invalid, though naturally, I don't expect to be remembered anywhere near that long).

The fountains of the Garden of Tsar Simeon

Bunardzhika hill; the monument commemorates Russian tsar Alexander II, under whose rule Bulgaria was liberated from the Ottoman Empire. Another monument depicting a Soviet soldier is also on the hill

Keen to explore the city's Roman remains and the Ottoman houses of its old town, I set off north from the bus station and reached the Garden of Tsar Simeon before becoming distracted by the monument on Bunardzhika hill to the west, and deciding to climb it and get a view of Plovdiv from above. At the summit, it emerged that the statue was of a Soviet soldier, a tribute to their victory over Nazi Germany's ally Bulgaria during the Second World War. There were phenomenal views in all directions from this point, particularly towards the east and south. Looking east towards the centre, Plovdiv appeared remarkably green, with trees sandwiching themselves between almost every individual house. Another hill unfortunately blocked the view to the old Roman theatre in the centre, but this was the only downside to this magnificent scene.

Plovdiv seen from Bunardzhika hill

A pretty fountain on the way up to Danov hill

The old town, looking northeast from Danov hill

Looking east towards the Roman theatre

The view southwest from Danov hill; the monument on Bunardzhika hill is prominent in the centre

After walking back down the hill and finally going through the Garden of Tsar Simeon, I was again distracted by the hill I had seen, so climbed Danov hill, shorter than the previous one but much closer to the central district and with a clear view across to the Roman theatre. I then stopped climbing and decided to stick to street level and tour the sights properly.

Plovdiv is an absolute joy to walk around, with a large pedestrianised centre that must surely stretch for around two kilometres. It’s shady and atmospheric, with a good number of shops, cafés and restaurants, and plenty of historically significant sites dotted about among the more recent constructions. It is due to be one of Europe’s two capitals of culture in 2019, and its cultural credentials certainly place it in higher standing than some other recent selections, among them 2015’s Plzeň in the Czech Republic and my former city of residence, Mons in Belgium.

Partially exposed under the streets of Plovdiv are the remains of the city’s Roman stadium, which runs for 240 metres beneath the main pedestrian street. Efforts are being made to uncover more of it in years to come, and I’m sure it will make a wonderful sight once it is more fully exposed. It’s rather incredible already to descend to this lower level and imagine what it must once have been, a key venue at the heart of the mighty Roman city, where the inhabitants would have gathered to watch sporting events.

The central street in Plovdiv

The seating of the Roman stadium, and one of the city's two mosques

The pedestrian street heading towards the river

The river Maritsa; Nebet tepe is the low hill on the left 

Continuing north towards the Maritsa, I planned to cross the river and see whether there was a good view back to the city with its clusters of old buildings in its Staria Grad and the millennia-old ruins on the hill called Nebet tepe in the foreground. Alas, there wasn't a particularly clear view from the far bank, as it was closely lined with unattractive buildings that obscured the view. Moreover, the closest bridge to the central pedestrian streets was itself covered in buildings. This should have been gorgeously romantic and an echo of mediæval times. The image of Florence sprang to mind, or one of the former incarnations of London Bridge. This one, though, was a dull and poorly ventilated corridor of sweaty heat between two long rows of generally unenticing shops, which so enclosed the central passageway that one would never know one was on a bridge, thus rendering the unique selling point of this particular arcade completely redundant. Why couldn't these shops have be placed in one aisle down the middle, leaving an open air or canopied walkway on either side? The retailers would still be there and it would be a considerably more agreeable place to walk. I was already pleasantly surprised by how much of the city's pretty core I could walk through without having to cross a single road, and this bridge was a real letdown.

Back on the south side of the river, I pressed on towards Nebet tepe, the hill on which the oldest surviving remnants of ancient Plovdiv are found. Archæologists have dated remains from this hill to 4000 BC, and it was the fortress of the city's acropolis (from the Greek meaning 'high city') under the Thracians in the first millennium BC. Several thousand years on, there are still primitive people to be found shuffling about in these wonderful ruins, in my case taking the shape of a legion of waddling American tourists, clicking away with their cameras and proclaiming how marvellous this all was in comparison to the sweeping wheat fields of the Midwest, their voices loud and grating enough to wake even Philip II of Macedonia from his eternal slumber. I suppose I can't fault for them for having travelled all the way to Europe to visit such cultural treasures, but they needn't have been so vocal about the whole affair.

It is difficult to fully comprehend how much Nebet tepe has changed in its æons of existence, and it is now far less glorious than it once was, being a sandy patch of earth surrounded by a few scattered mounds of rubble. The outer walls are more intact, and I suspect were a strategically important feature of the citadel for longer than the inside. For truly remarkable Neolithic remains, Wiltshire's Stonehenge and Orkney's Skara Brae are more impressive offerings. But this is to ignore the point. Nebet tepe is not geographically remote and commands a panoramic vista of the city that has sprung up around it. Moreover, it is not temporally remote like the British sites I have mentioned. Plovdiv is like an onion of European history; peel back the layers and civilisation after civilisation emerges, plus there is an estimated 2,000 more years of human habitation predating Nebet tepe.

Nebet tepe

Ancient ruins meet modern tower blocks

Three of Plovdiv's hills and the Rhodope mountains are visible from Nebet tepe

The tower of the Armenian church

Ottoman houses in the old town

From this point, I could see Ottoman houses behind me and a mosque that also recalled Bulgaria's Turkish past. Towards the south was an Armenian church and, out of sight, the city's Roman remains. I still had in mind to find the theatre, and to see what else attracted me along the way, so turned my back on Nebet tepe and went on into the heart of the old town, cobbles beneath my feet and 'Plovdiv 2019' banners suspended overhead between colourful Ottoman houses.

At the northern end of the old town, the tower of the Church of St Konstantin and Elena protruded over a wall, and I thought I might as well look inside. A couple of visitors were just leaving, and as I paused to take a photo of the outside from the gateway, a man sitting on a bench to my right began speaking to me in Bulgarian. Caught off guard, I stammered and looked vacant and eventually replied 'Не съм български' (Ne sam bulgarski) - 'I'm not Bulgarian.' 'English?' he asked. 'Yes,' I said. 'Church open. Please entry.' I thanked him for this information, which changed nothing since I'd already made my mind up to go inside.

The Church of St Konstantin and Elena on the right of a row of Ottoman houses

The porch of the church

The iconostasis

It was a very pretty church inside, and I was especially impressed with its highly ornate gold iconostasis. I had a good look around to admire all the intricacies of the building, and then waited a little to ensure the man outside who was so keen for me to enter was satisfied that I'd had a thorough visit. Upon leaving the church, he was still there, taking a rest on the same bench, the handle of a wooden broom in his hand. I smiled politely at him and made to leave again through the archway back onto the cobbled street, but he called out, 'You are from England?'

'Yes,' I answered hesitantly. At this, he stood up, exclaiming, 'ah, I love English people!' before beaming broadly and kissing his hands and motioning in the air. (Picture a stereotypical Italian pizza chef gesticulating in unadulterated joy and it's pretty close to what I saw). He looked down at his broom. 'I...' he made a brushing gesture. 'You're a cleaner?' I asked. 'Да. I am... church.' 'Oh, you clean the church!' I said, trying to appease him before heading off.

'This one here... Church St Nedelya.' He made a vague attempt at pointing downhill towards another church I should see, and I thanked him and began to go. 'Here...' he said, putting down his brush and starting to lead me, in the manner I do myself when giving directions and lean awkwardly around some corner to set the recipient of the directions on the right course. I again smiled and politely uttered my thanks, once more ready to leave and follow my nose to the next attraction.

'Very old street... very beautiful'

Ottoman houses. These seemed to have been built as large as possible without quite bumping into each other

Another large and beautifully shaped house

He stuck with me though, and a couple of dozen feet from the gateway, a steep lane led downhill. 'This one here... very old street,' he said, 'very old... very beautiful.' 'Mmm,' I murmured appreciatively. He was evidently enthusiastic but would most likely see me to the church he so desperately wanted to ensure I didn’t miss, and then leave me. At the bottom were some colourful Ottoman houses, which I was also told were 'very old... very beautiful.' The way to the church was evidently circuitous, and we passed more 'very old, very beautiful' buildings. Each time he said this, it was a revelation, as if I should be freshly astonished. I was glad at having such incisive interpretation of these magnificent old dwellings, for my own eyes should surely never have identified that these structures were old or beautiful without his critical analysis. What I really wanted to know was how old they were, who built them, why, and so on.

This tower stood outside the entrance to the Church of St Nedelya

The Church of St Nedelya

Its hand carved iconostasis

The inside of the church's small dome

Georgi, for that was his name, was all the while waxing lyrical about his love of England, recounting holidays spent in London and Yorkshire, and gleefully expressing his love of Manchester United. It took ten minutes to reach the Church of St Nedelya. Once more, he enthused about its age and its beauty, and the only piece of genuinely factual information he could give me was that the name Nedelya meant Sunday. Even this wasn't exactly a revelation to me, since I am reasonably familiar with the closely related Czech equivalent, neděle. The mobile guide to Plovdiv I had downloaded did however, tell me a little about the delicately hand carved black wooden iconostasis, which was really marvellous. Signs in the porch had clearly stated that photographs were not permitted, but Georgi happily insisted that I snap away. 'Germany people... no photo. Russia people... no photo. England people... photos,' he smiled, again kissing his hands at the mere mention of England.

When I pressed him further on this matter and asked why he so loved my country, he couldn't come up with a reason and resorted once more to kissing his hands in the air. I put this down to the language barrier. A further ten minutes on, and still not all that far from the original church, we came to the remains of the Roman theatre, an incredible piece of the past in an outstanding location, three storeys' worth of marble columns and a semicircle of tiered seating, behind which was a stellar view to the Rhodope mountains. Today the theatre was cluttered with staging equipment, but the important bits were visible and I didn't feel seen off.

Another Ottoman house

Bold colours and period designs were everywhere in Plovdiv's old town

The Roman theatre

More Roman remains

Fully expecting that he would return to his cleaning when we passed the first church again, after a good hour's break, and not really intending to befriend the guy, Georgi and I walked in silence, before just as we passed the church, he said, 'мой mother... tour guide. Мой father... tour guide. Твой mother, твой father?' Still not wanting to give too much away, I offered an undetailed response about my father being a teacher, which seemed to satisfy him. 'I have two jobs,' he told me. 'I clean church, I tour guide.'

Despite the language difficulties, here was a bored Bulgarian church cleaner and sometime tour guide who was friendly and generous and desperate to show me his beloved city. ‘Мой wife… tour guide English, Spanish. Me… tour guide Bulgarian, English, Russia, Turkey.’ He softened the letter l so that he pronounced it ‘Buwgarian’, likewise referring to the city as ‘Pwovdiv.’ Each next site he wanted me to see was always ‘this one here’, such that I had a constant feeling that we were never going far. Forty minutes in, my desire to spend more time in such a limited dialogue was wearing thin. We were leaving the old town now, Georgi’s face full of pride as he gestured ahead: ‘this one here… St Cyril Methodius’. It was another church, as beautiful as the previous ones but yet again styled differently. Its iconostasis was grand and Romanesque, with rows of neatly spaced icons. The most prominent one featured the creators of the Cyrillic script, the brothers Cyril and Methodius. A statue outside also depicted the pair of them, holding a scroll with ‘А Б В' written vertically, the first three letters of the Cyrillic alphabet, equivalent to ‘A B V’.

The Church of St Cyril and Methodius

Its interior and iconostasis

St Cyril and Methodius with the first three letters of their alphabet

We visited one of Plovdiv’s mosques, and bumped into a priest who was leaving as we were on our way in. ‘Muslim,’ said Georgi, ‘Muslim… Christian… all my friends.’ We were working our way towards the busier shopping streets, where I could surely make my excuses and go. For just pointing me in the direction of one or two highlights, he was now going far beyond the call of duty. But then he took me into a museum. He evidently knew the person at the desk, and it felt rude to her not to go in, since I would be visibly affronting her if I scoffed at the small entrance fee. It cost tuppence, and I might even have come in on my own initiative anyway, since the archælogical museum was a recommended attraction. I thus delved into the complete history of Plovdiv through the ages, with a wonderful array of valuable historical artefacts including bronze weapons, gold jewellery, brilliantly intact four metre wide Roman mosaics, marble statues, stone coffins, everything that could possibly give an indication of who had settled and left their mark on this amazing city.

As we neared the end of our companionship, I began to think that I perhaps ought to offer this guy some small reimbursement for such a generous use of his time. He had clearly given up an afternoon to revel in showing me his city, and it occurred to me that I have never spent long enough in one place to offer the same service to a foreign visitor in such circumstances. Had I taken a free walking tour of Plovdiv, as I sometimes do in strange cities, I would have left a tip, so I resolved to offer him the same amount. He’d probably refuse anyway. Without a fault, the Bulgarians were the most friendly, genuine, easygoing and generous people I had met in the Balkans. The Macedonians competed for that prize, but on the basis of today, came in second.

One of Plovdiv's mosques

A view of the interior

And then it happened. Georgi gave an agonised gasp and asked me to stop. Clutching his knees, he grimaced and moaned, ‘many walking.’ But he was fine, and we continued, until five minutes later he declared, ‘ok, end tour.’ As I was beginning to thank him for his time and thinking about how I could politely offer him a small but fair amount of money (10 leva, or £4.42) without seeming like I was being insulting by suggesting he needed charity, he started speaking himself. ‘Many walking… knees… tomorrow hospital.’ His thumb and fingers made a gesture representing a syringe. ‘Operation. Please.’ He pulled out his phone and touched in some numbers, then held it up for me to see.

75. You bastard. 75 leva. £33.19. Not a monumental sum, but that goes a long way in this country. On this occasion, I genuinely didn’t have that in my wallet. This was my last day in Bulgaria and I didn’t need to spend much more after this. ‘I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t give you 75 leva,’ I announced. He looked mortified. ‘Please… taxi home 50 leva. I have two big boys.’ Take a f***ing bus then, you bastard. I’m not giving you 75 of my leva so that you can splurge in a taxi. ‘No. I don’t have 75 leva.’

‘Please. I give good tour.’ Tour? Tour? No… what you gave me was unsolicited company through the streets of Plovdiv, pointing at things and telling me they were old and beautiful. If I’m giving money for a tour, especially 75 leva, I’m damn well going to get myself a tour. I had to tell him this.

‘Look, Georgi,’ I began, affecting my most matter-of-fact voice. ‘I didn’t ask for a tour. You never told me it was a tour and that you would expect me to pay you for it. I hate to say it, but your English isn’t good enough to do a proper tour, since all you can tell me is that this is very old or that is very beautiful. I can bloody well see it’s old and I can bloody well see it’s beautiful. I really thought you were doing this out of kindness. I am prepared to give you what I would have given a free guide as a tip, but no more.’

Bulgarians are a generous people, doubtless. And I’m not totally naïve. There are plenty of scams in Bulgaria; don’t take taxis from touts, don’t enter unknown clubs with alluring women promising cheap drinks, don’t hand over money or documents to policemen without insisting on accompanying them to a station. But Georgi had exuded charm and passion and an unbridled love of England. Of course! He didn’t love England, nor English people. He barely knew anything about the place. The next tourists he ambushed would be German, or Russian, or Mexican, or Chinese. In every instance, he would harp on about how great their country was, and after escorting these unsuspecting people, they would pay up. And he had the cheek to call himself a tour guide. A professional. I wasn’t having it.

‘I can give you 10 leva. No more.’ ‘60.’ I’m not appeasing you by haggling. ‘10.’ ‘50. I have big boys.’ ‘10.’ ‘30 leva. Taxi very far.’ ‘10. I’m being kind. Take it or leave it.’ ‘20.’ Fine. I gave him 15. £6.64. He looked at it, his eyes welling up and his lower lip wobbling, and held his thumb and forefinger up, a fraction of an inch apart. ‘So small,’ he sobbed. ‘I know. But you have to be honest with people. If you’d told me you were a tour guide and you were going to charge me money for a tour, I would have said no. Thank you for your time, but I thought you were doing it out of kindness.’

I walked off. I was incensed. I should have been ruder and given him the cold shoulder long before. I ought to have told him to go away, but he’d never stated it was a tour and the expectation of payment wasn’t made clear until the end. Besides, he hadn’t tried to get me to pay for the tour. The money was for an operation, a long taxi, to feed his growing sons, not for services rendered. He probably did need the money, but I would have been happier if he’d been upfront. I might have tossed him a lev or two if he’d come up with a good story, and he wouldn’t have needed to follow me around all afternoon. It was hard to reject him, especially coming as I do from a relatively rich country in relation to Bulgaria. Brits must be walking money machines to him. And yet, by coughing up, surely I would be encouraging him to keep at this game, and supporting the unlicensed and unofficial competition for the hardworking, animated and extremely knowledgeable free guides that ply their trade in cities all over Europe. I am so saddened that some Bulgarians feel they have to do such things to earn money, but there are other ways to deal with the problem. My conscience was, and is, clear.

More Roman remains in a less attractive part of the city

The Garden of Tsar Simeon

Not long after this episode, I returned to the bus station and slept most of the way back to Sofia. The rest of the day passed in a blur. I took the metro from the bus station to the centre, then grabbed a bite to eat, retrieved my bag and was pondering what to do during the wait for the bus when I saw my former roommates all gathered in the spacious social area of Hostel Mostel. More merriment ensued, more stories and jokes were swapped, and all too soon, it was finally time to leave Bulgaria. An uncomfortable night followed, in which my mouth was dry from drinking alcohol instead of water, which is never a good idea when one is knowingly to be encased in a bus for the next seven hours.

Plovdiv was a fantastic city, and immeasurably different to Sofia. Bulgaria itself had been a delight from start to end, with the sole exception of my afternoon’s experience in Plovdiv. The rest of the time was enjoyable enough to overlook that sorry incident. It had however highlighted Bulgaria’s shortcomings. It’s a wonderful country and I have to say that it felt more like home than Montenegro, Kosovo or Macedonia, where I had spent the days immediately preceding. Psychologically, its status as an EU and NATO member screams development, and yet it isn’t as advanced as most of Europe. In forward-looking Sofia, its deficiencies were less obvious, but elsewhere I think the picture is more aligned with its neighbours. Its sordid coastal resorts in particular are supposed to be hotbeds of dubious criminal affairs. Nevertheless, Bulgaria has an enormous amount to offer and it is very up and coming. I hear the skiing is good. It had drawn me in, and (as I seem to be saying about all the Balkan states) I want to discover more of it, and ideally I’d like to do so before everybody else gets there. Just a word of warning: if you’re ever in Plovdiv and meet a middle-aged man with brown hair called Georgi, and he calls himself a tour guide, pretend you don’t speak English and walk away.

My next stop was Romania. My fellow travellers from the hostel urged me to extend my stay and not go there. ‘Romanians are horrible. So much less friendly than Bulgarians.’ I didn’t care. I would find out for myself. I was bound for Bucharest, the capital, after which I would journey north to the Transylvanian city of Brașov, and then on to Timișoara, unofficial capital of the diverse, transnational region called the Banat. But first, as I was carried by bus from Sofia towards the Danube and the border, I thought I should reflect upon my first visit to Romania, a weekend in Cluj-Napoca, just four months earlier.

Some aspects of Bulgaria were just plain weird