Global hard times this year will see many euro-families head into the great outback of Bulgaria in pursuit of a cheap and cheerful holiday away from it all among gritty rustic folk, rather than packaging up for the usual four-star basting between seven-footer Scandinavians on one of the plastic Costas at the other end of the continent.

For many of these daring souls it will be their first time off the beaten track in this part of South East Europe. Which means that, oh dear, the innocents have no clue about some of the larger than life adventures and country bumpkins they are going to encounter during their fortnight of fun.

So to aid and abet them on their haphazard way here’s the heads-up on a couple of the more curious denizens of rural society in Bulgaria as well as a rundown on how a handful of virgin visitors could actually end up going far more native than they ever intended, even in their wildest dreams.

Before taking a look at individual character types, however, one thing should be made quite clear. All Bulgarian yokels are very friendly and hospitable indeed. They are up there with the Irish in this regard. But in another habit they are equally well up with the Spanish.

Because they, too, are also in absolutely no rush which has been a cause of rigorous frustration for travellers in a hurry, sweating Roman legionnaires after Spartacus to sardined Thomas Cook tourists after a cocktail since time immemorial.

And, without doubt, one of the natives any tourist is just bound to encounter amid the rural hedgerows is the slowest of the lot. She is instantly recognisable because, funnily enough, not only do you see her here, you also see her there. In fact, you see her everywhere. On village benches. In cottage gardens. Wobbling along country lanes. Cruising vegetable markets. And, of course, dawdling in dozens of newspapers and magazines the world over, week in, week out.

I am referring obviously to the East European little old country lady, that three-foot nothing darling of the international media. There she is innocently shuffling along a side street in Elhovo, sick donkey on back, when suddenly out of the bushes emerges a Route 66 long telephoto lens and then next day, hey presto, she is on the front page of a newspaper in Bangkok under the screaming headline "East Europe collapses for the 654th time this week. Population eat pets".  

An icon of the paparazzi, so frequently do assorted brands of said granny appear in different printed rags across the globe, that people from Peru to Paris to the Philippines might honestly be forgiven for thinking that the entire rural population of any country east of Finland or Germany really is made up of such simple old dears clad in dusty black, heads cocooned in the regulation tattered shawl. No wonder the place is in disarray, readers must blanche, but presumably the cakes are surely good (very true).