Before setting off, Milena Saha latched a small trailer filled with glass jars and used clothes to her Lada. “Students helped me gathered these during a collection drive,” she explained. We then stopped at a market to load up on provisions.

Her 13-year-old car proved surprisingly adept, flying in the face of Cold War propaganda regarding the quality of Soviet products, lugging us the 46km from Rousse to the hamlet of Brestovitsa.

Nestled along a small valley surrounded by sunflower fields and pastures, it presented the classical paradox: the occasional German car sharing the road with the occasional horse cart, and old, Balkan-style homes sprouting satellite dishes. Catering to a population of 350 were four small shops, stocked with the latest in salamis, detergents and candy; two cafes, a bread distribution centre, clinic, post, church and – most essential of all – a distillery.

Milena pulled up to a huge, old farmhouse which she purchased out of her own Bangladeshi gynaecologist husband’s pocket to serve as a half-way house for eight grown-up orphans whose residency at a nearby orphanage had expired.

“They used to stay at a state-run transition home in Rousse until they could manage on their own,” she explained. “But then it got transformed into a three-star hotel. With no family and very little financial support to fall back on, the orphans found themselves in ‘the wilderness’.”

Here, however, each person had a modest room with a bed, and amenities such as heaters and even a television set. We entered their garden, about a third of a football pitch in size, where various vegetables were taking shape. Together with the residents, Milena weeded and patched things up. I tried to lend a hand, but she objected.

“Let them do it. They need to learn and become responsible, not you.” How does she know?

Although not quite a victory garden, it displayed horticultural know-how. “The orphans created this,” Milena said, admitting that having grown up in the city, she picked farming up as she taught them.

Back at the farmhouse, they showed their storage room partially filled with jarred fruit and vegetables. “We preserved these last week,” Milena said. “They’ll need it for winter.” She also buys bread for them in advance, as a safeguard against splurges on cigarettes and drinks with their meagre public allowances. On this account, she has berated local shopkeepers about selling such items to the orphans; they in turn lecture her on the inviolability of free will.

We then headed off to her little cottage about 100m away. Formerly her grandparent’s adobe, as a youngster, she would often spend holidays here, and came to befriend the orphans.

“We’ve become like a family; I just had to help them,” she said, explaining her unconventional hobby. “If I could, I’d build fully adequate facilities for them.”

Milena has nonetheless helped the orphans in obtaining work in Brestovitsa and nearby villages, and buying their own old, rundown houses which they refurbish. Such has been the case for numerous ex-orphans: Maxim, Ivailo, Vesilina, Yanko, Dancho.

Milena says rural life is better for the orphans than the city, as the cost of living is lower, and they can raise much of their own foodstuff. Moreover in place of vices and seedy characters, elderly villagers provide them with farm work and village chores – and in a way adopting them as surrogate grandchildren (their biological ones have gone).

Maria Nikolova (22) disagreed. “Given the chance, I’d live in Rousse.”

That evening we sat down to a village feast. The orphans, especially, ate with great gusto – it had been a week since they had such a meal. The rest of the evening, under the backdrop of chalga music, everyone talked about his/her adventures and mishaps.

The next day, we drove to the nearby town of Borovo to obtain new documents, essential for receiving benefits, for 21-year-old Georgi Elenkov, who had lost all his originals.

Following that, Milena picked up Desislava Mircheva at the train station. A former resident of the halfway home, the 23-year-old was paying a visit from a distant town where she now works at the local bazaar.

On the way back, Milena stopped at a market, and spent considerable time seemingly gossiping with the proprietor.

“That lady owns a restaurant,” she explained upon returning with a two big sacks. “And she’s agreed to take Maria on part-time! It’s a step towards independence.”

She then took us to the Yantra River, where everyone began fishing. After two hours, we left with a minnow.

The evening brought about another feast lasting well into the night.

“To the only family I have,” said Desislava during a toast. Naiden Rosev (22) described his plans of attending a seminary to become a priest, then assist others. This would represent a major turnaround in his life.

“My mother had abandoned me in a cornfield as a baby. There a farmer found me,” he related.

Milena added that everyone keeps in touch through letters, phone calls, and visits. “They know everything about everybody: where someone is; who’s landed a job; who’s in jail (not an uncommon recourse for some such as Milko).” Arrested several times for stealing, most recently breaking into an elderly woman’s house, he ended up in prison. Eventually released, he found work as a cowboy in a neighbouring district.

The most prominent feature in Brestovitsa’s “centre” is an orphanage, the only multi-storeyed building there. Here abandoned children from throughout the region live and attend school, which has outlasted the nearby gymnasium. Next to it stands a small building that houses a post office, clinic and municipality facilities. Across the street is the old theatre, the inside of which, with its classical motifs, resembles a micro royal opera house caked with dust. An adjacent room serves as the town library.

Milena took us for a walk into the woods. Out of nowhere a large, old, mansion-like structure emerged. She explained that it once served as a community and recreation centre; now it’s a summer hostel for Rousse teens. “Don’t come by at night. Wild jackals roam about,” she cautioned.

Even this remote backwater sported an immaculate football field. That afternoon, the orphans participated in a match against visiting city youths.

On the way back we pass by the local distillery (on the ground floor of a woman’s house) with Naiden busily stoking the boilers and tidying up, while the three villagers who had brought the raw ingredients – rotting plums – sat under a tree drinking.

By this time I half-jokingly asked Milena if she could take me on as an orphan. Her cheerfulness faded. “You have absolutely no idea what they’d gone through,” she said sternly. Oh-oh, now I’ve done it. “They were living in run-down rooms and buildings…or in the ghetto, scavenging in garbage bins for plastic, paper – even food. The boys were pressed into smuggling contraband…and the girls...”

As an example, years ago a panicked Desislava had come to Milena seeking refuge from some men who had been stalking her. She first stayed in Milena’s flat for three months, before becoming one of the first to stay at the farmhouse. There she performed odd jobs, until something permanent came by. Leaving Brestovitsa proved very wrenching for her.