The Train to Bulgaria
We were on our way from Singapore to a wedding, in Italy, between a Burmese and an Icelander, so decided to travel via Athens, like you would. We got a bit distracted by the cliff-top monasteries in Meteora while we were there and ended up in Thessaloniki, northern Greece. We didn’t want to help destroy the earth’s atmosphere by flying to Italy, but discovered the only train out of Greece went to Sofia, in Bulgaria. It all made sense, somehow.
Booking the ticket to Bulgaria was interesting. The lady behind the counter at Thessaloniki railway station had to write the ticket out by hand, after checking the price in a big dusty book. She looked surprised that anybody should want to engage in international travel on the train and not Ryanair but assured us there was a service, tomorrow, about 0930. Ish.
Next morning, we walked to the station and waited on the platform along with a Greek monk in full dress and καμιλαύκιον (stovepipe hat), grooving to his Spotify account. About six other people boarded the Sofia Express which for some reason didn’t seem that popular.
As we headed north, the dead-level, fertile Plains of Thrace flashed by the windows, waving wheat at us as far as you could see. As the bread-basket of the Ancient Greek empire, you could understand why it had helped the Greeks corner the market in “civilisation”: well-fed soldiers fight winning battles. Apparently the Thraxos Plains were so fertile the Athenians were feasting on nice crusty loaves from golden platters while the rest of Europe was still gnawing on bear-shins.
To understand the power of that Thracian empire, we dropped into the Ancient Greek Archaeological museum while we were in town. The quantity, quality and gob-smacking delicacy of the gold ornaments, jewellery and decorations were almost too much to comprehend. And they were all cast, smithed and wrought some 300 years before the ancient Britons were even getting the hang of rough iron weapons. Utterly astonishing.
Back on the train, it was obvious the Greek Empire had faded quite a lot since then. Lonely, seemingly abandoned railway stations flashed by as we headed north, along the single-track railway, tunnelling through small ranges, surging across major rivers, and waving at duck-filled marshes as we passed. The other scattered passengers in our carriage stared out of the windows, notable for not talking on mobile phones.
A couple of old guys sitting opposite opened boxes of fresh cherries and dates, and started snacking. We had a whole bagful of bread and cheese from the day before, so we offered them some. They responded with handfuls of cherries. Soon an impromptu Farmers Market had established itself, with a kindly-looking student, the old guys, us and the ticket inspector all swapping and munching fit to bust. Nobody could speak each other’s language but no matter, we chewed happily, nodded and smiled mutual enjoyment. We were glad of that, because the ticket inspector’s second most prominent tool after his ticket punch was a solid-looking whacking stick tucked into his belt. Maybe the railway gets a few too many rowdy Graeco-Bulgar travellers.
Soon, the train slowed to its first and only stop in Greece. There was no platform, but a swarm of Bulgarian commuters leapt pirate-style onto the carriage steps from beside the tracks, lobbing backpacks and sacks of possible contraband on board as they did so. The engine roared back into life and we set off again, to roll through more horizon-wide rural flatlands and arrive an hour and a half later at a station with no obvious staff, or reason to be there, in the middle of nowhere. The ticket inspector (now with an official cap on) came into our carriage and also roared, at us. At which point most of the less-bewildered passengers stood up and jumped down onto the tracks with their luggage, and walked off into the distance.
The kindly student, who spoke some of whatever the roared language was, told us the train didn’t actually go to Bulgaria, it stopped here at the border. We blanched, and looked at the bare and desolate surroundings. But it transpired that although the rail border was indeed closed, the road border was still open — so we had to catch a bus across into Bulgaria. We clambered across yet more rail tracks, got onto a minibus, and motored into Bulgaria.
On arrival, the station in Bulgaria where we were promised we would get back on rails was even more deserted than the one we had just left over the border in Greece, apart from a gothic looking lady selling coffee from a gloomy underground counter.
After a quarter of an hour or so of sipping a strong black, we heard the cranking of a very old engine, and Bulgarian Railways’ best rolled into the station, as per normal, several tracks away from the platform. The engine appeared to have been hewn out of solid cast iron by the Skoda people back in 1979, and hadn’t been cleaned since.
It still went though; after a few false clangs and lurches the locomotive set off on route for Sofia, and unlike the Greek counterpart, it stopped everywhere.
Commuters, salesmen, schoolkids, graffiti artists, sharp-suited spies out of a John Le Carre novel and blushing teens hopped on and off every ten minutes or so, on the dozens of stops before we got to Sofia. Alongside the tracks, kilometres of abandoned, graffiti-ridden carriages and engines rolling stock rotted away. Large empty factory ruins gazed across massive sidings complexes, presumably abandoned when Communism left town. Tractors and farm wagons piled high with loose hay waited at remote level crossings, and old women in headscarves turned to watch us roll by. We thought of our missed option to travel by Ryanair and blessed our luck. This was travel, not tourism.
On arriving in Sofia we were shocked by a swanky new steel and glass station building, but reassured as soon as we stepped out through its doors by a post-Soviet jumble of streets, wonderful Cyrillic text on all the major buildings, broad green squares and hordes of proud-looking people striding everywhere. To make up for their style and confidence, the nearby parliament was being guarded by embarrassed looking soldiers in white fluffy coats and hats, with shiny leather boots to set off the look.
Next day, as we listened to a city guide tell us about the deep and complex history of Sofia, the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral, the Fresh Water Springs and the crossroads of the most important of ancient civilisations (as well as the fluffy/shiny guards), a passing local started swearing at our group, telling us, according to the guide, that we really should fuck off out of it.
Apparently that was what the Bulgars had already told the Slavs, Byzants, Romans, Greeks, Ottomans, Germans and the Russians. To us though, they were all frank and open welcome, national pride, helpful directions and amazing language capability.
After a couple of days in Sofia, we reluctantly resumed our multi-cultural journey to Spain, there to board a ship to Mallorca before we went on to Italy, keeping close as we could to the Earth’s surface.
To see more photos about this story, click HERE.
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