Only one way into this town

 

An introduction by Roslyn Happ
Our trip to Europe was a 'vine mission'.  We visited all the meccas of great wines, and we saw what we read about in books.  However, as with most trips, the best parts are the unexpected.  Going to Bulgaria was a real adventure.  Erl had already imported some Melnik cuttings which are presently in quarantine and he was determined to see the home of this grape, a little town called 'Melnik', quite near the border between Greece and Bulgaria.  Following is Erl's story of how we entered Melnik.  However, he neglects to mention that there were only two trains leaving Thessalonika on that day.  We were sitting happily in one of them when I decided to check whether we had in fact caught the right one.  We could easily have ended up in Athens which would not have been half as much fun as Melnik!  And my memories of Melnik .......?  There was a simple beauty in the peasant  houses which all had an arbor of Melnik vines across the front and a vegetable garden down the side.   The hills of Melnik were home to many small herds of goats, looked after in the traditional way by shepherds.  Erl and I were wandering down from the hills late one afternoon, accompanied by the town's three legged dog, when we saw a large herd of goats ambling onto the road in front of us.  As we followed them down the hill, we began to realize that we were watching the 'goat run', a similar thing to a 'school bus run'.  There were the 'parents' waiting on the side of the road, and every now and then, a few goats would hive off towards their owners.  It was also the local cooperative at work, with the peasants exchanging parcels of vegetables.  We felt as though we were witnessing a different era, one you no longer see in most parts of Europe any longer.

I'm sure you will enjoy Erl's description of our journey to this delightful part of the world 

Another introduction by Erl Happ 
In 1998 we went to Europe to look at alternative grape varieties. We spent a week in Germany and another in Greece before subjecting ourselves to the shock of Bulgaria. Ros doesn't like this piece because it reflects badly on her packing abilities, and lack of willingness to bargain when the natives are screwing you. Her idea is that it always pays to be prepared no matter how long it takes or how heavy it gets. As for the bargaining, it's chicken feed anyway. She makes great picnics whereas mine tend to be a bit spartan. We all have our little idiosyncrasies. She is great to travel with precisely because she makes friends wherever she goes, very open and participative, whereas I reckon I'm shy and reserved, and without her, somewhat lonely. We do have cases equipped with wheels but when the pavement deteriorates you have to carry them.  Erl.

Erl and Ros Happ Venture into Bulgaria.
After four and half hours in a slow train from Thessalonika in Northern Greece in one of  two carriages destined for Bulgaria, we are shunted off to a spur line and, after a little wait, we discover that he rest of the train has disappeared into the East. To the west and North there is a magnificent view of the mountains and there must be a valley which leads us into Bulgaria but, for the moment, nothing is happening. It appears that today's strike of the Railways in Greece has caught up with us.

There are about 12 people travelling with us into Bulgaria of which two are British Rail freaks who have a list of engines which they are methodically ticking off as they travel on trains powered by them. These are very much working class guys, single and oddball, definitely not undercover agents for MI5. They drink a lot of beer. Of the rest, none speak English, nor does the station master. His appearance suggests that we have interrupted an all day, all night card game. His clothes have the lived in look and he is smoking continuously, no doubt enhancing his ability to deal with one of our party who is behaving like a man accustomed to getting his own way. I wonder if he is a Communist party Cadre returning home.

The word "taxi" is universal to all languages and we are eventually comforted to learn that taxis will come. About an hour later the English speaking contingent, who have been demonstrating their easy going nature and lack of insult at being the last to leave, by throwing around a tennis ball and occasionally retrieving it from the puddles, are uplifted and we head for the border.

First you get the Greek border, where they chop your passport to indicate that you have left Greece and they wash their hands of you completely, and they won't change your Greek Currency into Bulgarian Levs, and then you pick up your luggage and walk 500m past the police check point which is manned by a few guys with guns, They look at your passport and smile and wave you through. Ros's luggage is getting heavy. Then you walk another half a Km to the Bulgarian border where all our fellow train travellers seem to be stalled. We sail past them and don't look back. Whatever they've done, we don't want to be associated with it. There is some confusion as we pass a vehicle check point where the guys inside don. t appear to be interested in us, only to discover that we have slipped into Bulgaria unannounced. We see donkey carts and real peasants out of story books. The road has thinned right down and there are potholes everywhere. This is another world. Its like the 19th century. We split the party, leaving two to guard the luggage while two go back as ambassadors carrying four passports. All is eventually settled, Ros has some levs, our British friends slip around a corner somewhere and are gone and we have this taxi driver endeavouring to wrest vast amounts of levs off us to carry us to Melnik, which we discover  to be 20 Km off the train line to the North East and the next train is not until tomorrow.

A restaurant

The Road to Melnik
The cars here, we are to discover are exclusively Ladas. It reminds me of the popularity of British cars in Malaya and Australia in the good old days of Imperial preference. Our taxi is the only car on the road. Perhaps it's the only car in the district! The road is terrible. This seems to be the land of the ever expanding pothole. Judging by the feel of the suspension in this taxi all the effort that is being expended in weaving between the holes is a well learned and constantly reinforced survival response. (Ros insists that I wear my safety belt.  The driver is obviously hurt by my lack of faith in his abilities.) We proceed with urgency toward Melnik.

Frequently we pass a village and there are no street signs and no names, no directions anywhere. We feel a bit like Hansel and Gretel being led into the forest but there are no trees. All the buildings are constructed in water washed stones or mud brick with big timbers over the openings. The roofs are of Turkish pattern tiles just sitting there under the influence of gravity. The whole is rendered in shades of khaki and pink, as if other colours are yet to be discovered. Vineyards are glimpsed in the distance, and we rush past what appears to be an abandoned winery. The tanks are of mild steel and concrete and the paint job matches the condition of the road.

There are peasants working in gardens and tethered donkeys in patches of grass. Magically, we glimpse a new building on a distant hilltop which is turreted, many faceted and colourful and we are past it without any possibility of communicating our interest to the driver. Any attempt at communication leads to hopeless confusion. As we approach the range of mountains to the east it becomes apparent that they are heavily incised. There are canyons with impossibly steep inclines of what appears to be erodable dirt with very little vegetation. There is green on the top and in the valleys and pillars and spires of dirt connecting the green. There is only one other place remotely like it and that's the kharst country of Schezuan in China. I've seen it in the picture books.

Melnik is an old fortress town, easily defended because the only access is up the valley, impossible to surround or outflank because there is only one way in. The valley is narrow. Buildings climb in a few tiers up the slopes, sandwiched between the rushing waters of the stream and the slopes of sliding scree above. The building material of this town, a water washed stone is being constantly supplied from above by mother nature. It appears from the beds of heavier material, still more or less horizontal, that a big glacier was here sometime or other and laid down this sandy clay with its beds of rocks in successive passes.

Goats returning home after a day in the hills

There is an edifice up the hill behind me with an approach of many steps that looks a possibility, but before I can check it out a little old lady with an appearance indicating hard work and considerable poverty pulls at my sleeve. She is insistent. Her enterprise wins me and I follow her across the suspension bridge which links one side of town with the other to inspect her premises. Only one star and $10 a night. Clean but a bit communal. I excuse myself and set off up the valley. All the buildings are several storied and close together. I find what I guess to be a Post Office. Impossible language difficulties but I am shown rooms upstairs which have not been lived in for a while and look rather lonely. I abandon them and try again. This time its like a guest house with a circle of very acceptable rooms upstairs around a courtyard. Showers and toilets all supplied & $30 a night. Nothing is built on the level but it looks good & I'd say about 2 stars but some doubt about breakfast. Emerging, I trot back down the valley and find a beaming Ros holding court with about twenty very shy youngsters led by a young lad with enough charisma to be the next Valentino eagerly practising his English. All the tension falls away. We are at home here.

Postscript. July 1999
Bulgaria is the poorest country in Europe. Real peasants still work the land, grow vegetables, run goats in the hills, and live in shanties constructed from bush timber and clay. They produce very little or nothing to sell to give them an income. This doesn't stop them from smiling. We had a wonderful time in the countryside and were quite frightened in the cities. Melnik, the grape is in quarantine for three years and in about eight years we might be able to show you what an Australian version of the wine tastes like.  I feel embarrassed about pinching their native grape which exists nowhere else in the world.  They have plenty of Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot which is used to stock the shelves of British supermarkets but their much older experience in the world of fine wine is based on Melnik. I would like to help, if I could, to make a wine in Melnik which will make them rich.  Perhaps one day. We met the new owner of the decaying Damianitska winery which we had seen, in part, from the taxi on the road to Melnik. We correspond by email. The upshot is that we look like hosting a young Bulgarian for vintage 2000.  Why did we go to Bulgaria you asked?  I went because about 1967, when I began teaching, and long before I began to plant vines, I purchased from a grocery store in Busselton owned by Tom Wardle, known as Tom The Cheap, two bottles of red wine called Gamza and Melnik.  I liked them both.  The story of how I obtained the Melnik grape from a varietal collection in Czechoslovakia after two years of effort will be told at another time.