I HAD survived almost a whole week in Navotsvi, the little village near to Veliko Turnovo where I'd bought a house and was currently vacationing with my two young boys, Mike and Jamie. I had been very apprehensive that rural life wouldn't agree with them, that they'd suffer culture shock from being unplugged from MTV and X box.

There had been a few withdrawal symptoms, but none as bad as I'd feared, and they fell into the laid back flow of the village quite easily. Mike (12) would come up to me and "borrow" three leva and then merrily cycle off to The Leaf (our local pub) for a Coke and village potatoes. I couldn't envisage me letting him do that back home in Surrey. There was just something about my little village that inspired confidence.

Our days weren't idly spent, however, as our good friends Katy and Tosh and their daughter Ivetta made sure we were entertained. Daily they would pull up at our door and take myself and the boys on a magical mystery sightseeing tour...they spread their net wide and we visited places such as Apriltsi, Gabrovo and various beautiful monasteries. On one particular day they explained they were taking us to Tryavna which, they informed me, was considered a very traditional Bulgarian village.

I was surprised, therefore, when we drove into the village centre car park to discover crowds of people waving Bulgarian flags...and dark-suited, sunglass-wearing security men dotted around the small parking area...Katy immediately guessed the reason. Prime Minister Simeon was in the area and must be visiting Tryavna! Not to be outdone by the flag waving crowd I produced a small handheld Union Jack, waved it from the passenger side window and loudly announced, "make way for the British delegation" much to the amusement of my friends, less so to the unsmiling security guards. I joined a throng of people waiting eagerly outside an hotel, for a sight of their Prime Minister. They didn't have to wait long, a small yet avuncular man, smartly dressed, came briskly down the hotel steps and thrusting into the crowd. He smiled benevolently as he shook hands with wellwishers. The cynical part of my brain knew that this was simply what our American friends called glad-handing, elections were due soon. However I still found myself caught up in the adulation process, pushing my way to the front of the crowd hoping to get a better glimpse of the man. Perhaps it's an inbuilt trait of Brits, developed after centuries of tugging our forelock to the high and mighty to be awed by monarchs (even ex monarchs) for I was as enthusiastic to meet Simeon as any Bulgarian present. I virtually shoved my Union Jack under his nose, which caught his attention. He turned to me, grasped my hand warmly and said "I see you are British, a tourist?" Barely able to restrain myself from tugging my forelock I indulged in disgusting fawning. "Oh no Prime Minister, not a tourist, I've bought a house over here in your beautiful country!" He smiled easily, obviously used to sycophants and replied "Ah yes, my advisers tell me that many British people are buying a retirement home over here. Welcome." Now I consider myself a youthful looking 50-year-old, so naturally felt insulted that anyone would consider me near retirement age...with hindsight I should have retorted "Do I look like I'm about to retire you fool?" We all know hindsight is wonderful, but this man was once a king, so instead my British genetic programming cut in and I merely responded "Thank you Sir, best of luck with the elections!" He smiled somewhat wistfully and came back with a prophetic reply "Thank you, I think we're going to need that luck" and with that, the man who was king turned and was swallowed up by the cheering crowd. Personally he would have got my vote!

After the high of not only chatting to the former king but being insulted by him, the rest of my stay at Tryavna was a bit of an anti-climax, but I do recall it as a pretty little village with lots of interesting crafts and gift shops.

Meeting Simeon was one of the high spots of my month in Bulgaria, but there were other memorable moments still to come…me discovering my liking for mastika, my encounter with Sofia's sexiest pickpocket and the chap who claimed that all Bulgarian women were female werewolves. Never a dull moment!

Colin Munro