I am a bit of an old lag, having lived here for more than 12 years. There have been great changes, particularly in the cities and on the roads, but not so much in country areas where life goes on following the seasons in much the same old way.

I often wonder what the peasant farmer thinks, as he rides his donkey cart slowly home after a day in the fields, and is engulfed by hundreds of cars and lorries blowing their horns and belching fumes all over him.  Here’s a story of two ways of life meeting in an old Bulgarian village.

It’s a long and winding road from Varna to Sofia, particularly for children, and with a young daughter who travels badly and wants to run and play, it can seem that a long journey in a car, is a never-ending prison.

On our frequent trips to Varna we have fallen into the habit of getting off the roaring motorway and stopping in a small traditional village, where they have a pleasant children’s playground  in the centre, and a little shop selling basic needs, complete with shady benches under the trees for those wishing to take light or heavy refreshment.

Bygone era
Slipping off the highway along the potholed and bumpy road, we entered another world of times gone by. Parking in the shade of an old walnut tree, all was tranquillity, with the singing of the birds disturbed only by the rattle and clip clop of a local cart.  

Galya, my wife, went into the garden so that Alice, our daughter, could play on the swings, and I strolled round the semi-deserted square with its quaint old shops, mostly boarded up and deserted now. My imagination conjured up past more prosperous times, when the village was thriving, and people regularly crisscrossed the square for their everyday needs, and to exchange news and gossip with neighbours and other villagers.

This square has probably witnessed the fight for release from the Ottoman Empire, the rise and fall of communism, village festivals, happiness and sadness, births, marriages and deaths of a small close-knit community, and sadly –  of late – the demise of village life. Now young people escape to the city in search of employment and "the good life" as soon as they are able to. Only the old people sit on the benches, chat, dream of good times past, and still tend the fields and animals as they have always done.

They are slowly but surely fading away, leaving once thriving communities deserted and silent.

Summer slumber
The square now sleeps in the summer sun, perhaps awaiting its next big event. As I strolled, I dreamt of the square, re-populated with little antique shops selling gifts, village foods and wines.

Umbrellas fluttering outside street cafés, the hubbub of tourists, small hotels and guest houses, new employment for the villagers, life again for the square. I was quickly awoken from my reverie, as to my horror I came to one of my favourite buildings. The end had completely collapsed. I was still puzzling the cause of this, just thinking that half the building was still occupied and that the broken half was only supported by some stout wooden poles acting as building props, when out of the door came a plump middle-aged woman wiping her hands on her apron. She was accompanied by an old baba in traditional village dress and headscarf.

The woman called a greeting "Dobur den, as am Syarka", and then started chatting away to me, gesticulating wildly in the direction of the building. With my limited Bulgarian I gathered that she was talking about the collapse, and that she didn’t have any money to repair it. "Oh moyat Bulgarski ne e dobur," I muttered,  "Moment, moment, jena mi Bulgarka" (my Bulgarian’s pathetic, but my wife is Bulgarian)

I went to fetch Galya. Syarka crossed her hands over her ample bosom and with tears rolling down her careworn face, cried "God has sent you to me", and began to regale Galya with the full details of the collapse, telling a harrowing story of how the end of the house had been washed away by a torrent of water caused by the huge rainstorms that had recently lashed parts of Bulgaria. This half of the house had last been occupied by some people who had returned to Bulgaria after living abroad but was now owned by the daughter who was living in America. She had made a visit earlier this year, but spoke only English.

 "So now God has sent you to me; will you write her a letter in English asking for help?" said Syarka. Galya immediately agreed. Turning to me, she said  "I’ll go into their house to write the letter. Meanwhile the baba will take you and Alice round the village to see the animals and flowers."

Sunday best
After a while, loaded with fruit and vegetables, given to us in greeting by other villagers, we came back to the house and were promptly invited inside to take refreshments. Brushing aside the hanging fly screen, we took off our shoes as is the custom, and stumbled into the darkened interior of a typical village house. Clean and orderly, but full of character.

Old-fashioned and basic, with beds, chairs and dining table in the same room, but with that warm, homely countryside feel. We were commanded to sit down, while the coffee brewed on the stove. Out came the chocolates and the Sunday best cups, and we were served by "the boy" aged about 40 who had just come in from his work in the fields.
Galya had written the letter on a piece of faded paper, hastily torn from an old notebook, to Patty (Penka), pleading for financial help. The letter had been written as Syarka dictated, but Galya advised her not to be too vague and to give Penka an idea of what was involved, and to ask for a specific sum.

 "Maybe a thousand dollars will do the job," mused Syarka. But after lengthy muttered discussions between her, "the boy" and baba, they all eventually agreed. A coy smile crossed Syarka’s homely weather-beaten face, and she said,  "No, let’s ask for two thousand, just to be sure, you know."