I’ve been living in Bulgaria now for about 10 years, but I never cease to be amazed at the difference when you leave the city and venture into the countryside. In the villages, it can be like stepping back in time 50 years or so. Although there are now many cars and, for the older villager, his horse and cart provides transport, the land is often cultivated by hand or with donkey and plough, and it’s not unusual to see old folks walking home at night with hand tools over their shoulders. Shepherds graze animals on free land around the village and then bring them home in the evening. Old peasant ladies wearing traditional village dress sit on street benches in the evening sunshine, watching the world go by, chattering about the day’s events and, these days of course, what was on the television last night.

A few years ago we bought an old house, tucked way underneath the Rila Mountains in a traditional village. A weekend retreat in the peace and quiet of the countryside, we thought. We were wrong on that count, however, as real villages are not quiet places, but full of life, from cocks crowing, dogs barking, cows, sheep and goats wandering the streets and villagers arguing. Fortunately, they do retain some remnants of a fast-disappearing, gentler way of life. Recently, when the house behind ours came up for sale, we decided to buy it, partly to add some more land to our unusually small garden and partly for speculative purposes.

I was in the village for a few days trying to lure the builders into a lot less discussion about the job and a little more action. As we stood talking in the garden, relishing the spring sunshine, our friendly next door neighbour was trying to cultivate his large vegetable plot with donkey and plough. The donkey was being obstinate. Ivan sweated along behind the plough, throwing stones and shouting unintelligible Bulgarian curses at the recalcitrant donkey. I thought I had better tease him a little by making a few unhelpful suggestions.

Now Ivan has a rather large, intimidating wife who works in nearby ski resort to supplement the family income. There’s some speculation in the village as to what she actually does. My own pet theory is that she can only be a nightclub bouncer. “Why don’t you get the wife to pull the plough, at least she’ll do as she’s told?” I called out, tongue in cheek. “Hmm, some hope, it’s me who’s under the yoke,” he said, pulling a face. As he came to chat with us over the fence he was rubbing his arm. “I’ve got rheumatism,” he moaned. “Why don’t you rub in some rakiya?” I said. Rakiya is the strong traditional Bulgarian drink, the time-honoured village cure for most everyday ailments. He pushed his cap onto the back of his head and grinned, showing his nicotine-stained teeth. “My rakiya is for internal use only,” he said. “Do you like rakiya?” he asked, raising his bushy eyebrows. “Yes, I do, and I’ve got two barrels of grape juice fermenting in my basement, but can’t find anyone with a kazan (copper still) who will distil it for me.” He immediately brightened up “Oh, I’ve got a Kazan and I’ll do it for you. Let’s go and look at your brew, and then you can taste my rakiya,” he said, because every Bulgarian villager believes that he makes the best rakiya in the country. He called to his son Mitko to carry on with the ploughing, and, stamping the mud off his boots, followed me round to my basement. He opened the barrels, dipped in his grimy finger, licked it and sniffed the brew.

Then with an ancient lighter produced from his pocket, he held a flame over the gases. He sniffed dramatically. “Yes, smells good, it’s ready. Bring the barrels round tomorrow and I’ll distil it. Now let’s go and try my rakiya.” I followed him through the immaculate yard and into his kitchen. He quickly shooed the cat off the table, and wiping down the plastic tablecloth produced four glasses, two for the rakiya and two for the accompanying soft drink. He wiped them clean on a tea towel, then disappeared down the garden to fetch some of his prized brew from the store.

After a few minutes, whistling happily, he re-appeared with a plastic bottle containing the precious liquid, and with a large grin on his lined face, carefully poured two large measures. “Nazdrave!” (cheers). I sipped carefully and swallowed. A fiery trail ran down my throat and into my stomach, but as custom demanded, I managed to suppress my shock and congratulate him on the best rakiya ever. “Hubava, mnogo e dobra,” (excellent, very good) I said. After further sips and some idle chat about his animals, the crops on his other piece of land, and the latest village gossip, I decided that common sense should prevail before things got out of hand, so I refused his offer of more rakiya and went to my work. Ivan stayed in the kitchen, his hand lovingly wrapped around the bottle, and I guess he stayed there all afternoon because at about five o’clock there was a great deal of shouting and door-banging from his house. His wife had come home to find him still sitting there sampling his beloved rakiya.

The idea to brew our own rakiya had started when we had finally got our small garden into some kind of order, with a piece of threadbare grass – it could hardly be called a lawn, and various borders containing flowers and bushes – an English garden in the middle of Bulgaria! Our neighbours were most intrigued that the whole garden was not taken up with vegetables, and came with various excuses to take a look. However, we did have one vacant border and, as it was in a sunny position, we decided to experiment with tomatoes, peppers and cucumbers. To our great surprise the excellent hot summer gave us a bumper crop. We were villagers!

Over the entrance to our drive, there is the traditional lozen or frame covered by two ancient grape vines. This provides shade for the car in the hot summer and grapes in the autumn. This year we had a massive crop, and in September we were frantically giving grapes to our friends, relatives and anyone else that would take them, but still we had masses. The baba (grandma) from over the road came to give her advice, “You must get those grapes in quickly before the frost spoils them. Why don’t you make some wine or rakiya?” I was very enthusiastic about this, and immediately began to fantasise about Chateau Clark 2007. So we set out to pick the grapes, remove the stalks, crush them, and put the so-called porridge into two plastic barrels to ferment.

We had not realised how hard peasant life is, and how much effort goes into this seemingly simple task. Our five-year-old daughter wanted to stamp on the grapes to crush them, but we decided that this may be good fun, but impractical, not only because of the mess she would make of herself and the grapes but because of the time factor. I devised a crusher using a five-litre bottle of mineral water and a washing up bowl. This was highly successful and after some long hours the vine was stripped and the grapes crushed into a porridge and left to ferment.

We strolled around the village trying to find someone to ask about wine-making recipes. We soon came across three babas sitting on a bench enjoying the evening sun. There are so few children in the villages now that they love to spoil our daughter, so after the kissing and hugging we asked how to make wine from our grapes. They looked at us as if we were crazy. “Personally, I always make rakiya with my grapes,” said one of them, the others nodding in agreement. I quickly concurred. “So what do we need to do?” Well, they all had their own ideas on amounts of sugar, water and period of time left to ferment, so we decided we should take the middle line and hope for the best. Often in the villages there’s someone who has a large kazan and produces the golden liquid, against a small payment, so we asked, “who has a kazan?” “Who hasn’t?” replied one baba with a smile. “Many people in this village have them, but a lot of them are old and out of order, or leaking.” They told us to try various people, but our efforts proved fruitless. In the meantime the word had gone round, and we were visited by various experts who tested our brew by sniffing it, dipping their fingers in, stirring it with various unsavoury looking sticks, and testing it with their lighters held over the liquid to see what gases were emitted. Finally, one of our village friends brought the master rakiya makers to see us. One of them was extremely tall and kept bumping his head on our cellar ceiling, but it didn’t deter him from this serious task. They discussed our mixture and after the traditional tests decided we need more sugar – one said “three kilos”, the other said “no, two will be enough, or it will give him a headache”. “But I want a headache,” I said. “Oh no, you don’t, not this kind of headache!” they said.

The fermenting continued until December, when the experts declared it ready. Now we had to find someone to distil it, but we still couldn’t find a usable kazan until one Sunday when we met the local builder walking his goat down the street. “Do you know anyone with a usable kazan?” “Oh I’ve got one, and I’ll do it for you,” he said, “but it’s got to be a fine day, as I can only do it outside over a wood fire”. We arranged to do it one day next week, but were foiled again by an early fall of snow. “Look,” he said, “you can leave it until spring, it won’t spoil in the barrels, and in fact it will be better”. “Oh, but we wanted to treat our friends for Christmas.” “Well, I’m sorry but it’s just not possible,” he said, so there the precious liquid stayed until spring, and until our offer from Ivan.

The next day I had to return to Sofia and there was no sign of Ivan, so I presumed that he had received instructions from his wife to carry out some work and he would get round to our task sometime. Villagers are very come-day, go-day in their country lifestyle, so I didn’t expect the rakiya to be ready particularly quickly. However, as we arrived for the weekend we spied Ivan riding on his cart down the street pulled by the now well-behaved donkey. “Rakiya?” I called out, “Later or tomorrow,” he replied, so we continued our unpacking. Later I went round next door to look if the builder had done any work. By this time Ivan was in his garden, and when he saw me, he shouted and gesticulated to go round. On his kitchen table were three five-litre mineral water bottles. “Our rakiya?” I asked in surprise. “Yes, 15 litres and it’s good too, 48 per cent. I’ll get the glasses and we can try it, but leave it for about a month or two to settle down and it will be even better,” he said. With an expert hand he poured the clear liquor into the glasses, “Nasdrave, congratulations, it’s nearly as good as mine”. A sip or two confirmed it. “Perhaps even better,” I said, smacking my lips. “Eh,” said Ivan with a dismissive wave of his hand, “beginners’ luck!” Yes, it tasted great, beginners’ luck it may be, but I am immensely proud of my brew. Maritsa Gardens 2007, genuine village rakiya.