It was September and the trees were losing their overblown ripeness, segueing into the crimson and golden splendour of autumn. The landscape possessed a beauty that sent me euphoric. So yes, we both loved the surrounding countryside, but the houses were just simply not suitable. They were mainly large cement blocks, as you would expect of a former communist country, and I’m talking about houses here, not the “red” apartments that are totally hideous.
The next day, we decided to look at new apartments instead and informed Ivo, our agent. He said that there was just one house in a village that might interest us, as many English people lived there. He drove us round the village, which seemed ok. At least it had shops. We had toured round a village that had none. When I remarked that the village was isolated with no shops, he informed me that many of the villagers bartered their wares. What could I barter, I wondered? I have very few domestic skills, although I do enjoy gardening.
And then we came to a place with large gates built of dark wood and walls made of stone. My heart was pounding. Surely this couldn’t be it, could it? I hardly dared to hope. It was indeed the house. The walls to the side of the gates were adorned with a varnished painting of Saint George and another one of Jesus.
Our knock was accompanied by a cacophony of loud barking, followed by someone snarling who opened the door and we entered. I was transfixed. I saw a house made with a love of beauty. Set back at some distance from the gates, it was built in the traditional Bulgarian style of white stone and dark wood. A stone path led up to the house and antique-style lamps were spaced along the path. It was not just the house that excited me – it was also the surroundings. The walls were made of a mixture of brick and stone with wood interlaid. Sections were painted white and niches were decorated with different artefacts. Thus, a wooden crucifix was attached to one part, the stone face of Apollo to another. As a child, I had read and loved Greek and Roman myths and this delighted me. An old wheel, a bow and arrow, and different effects adorned other parts. It was enchanting. Angel (pronounced with a hard g), the builder, walked us around, showing us the different sights. The garden was a large area and had been dug over with nothing planted in it, and, for me, it had all the magic of a secret garden waiting for us to bring it to life.
Angel spoke very good English and he told me how working in Italy had influenced him. Inside, the house was actually an empty shell. Downstairs was open-plan. In the dining area on the wall he had created, in brick, a map of Bulgaria. There were two bedrooms, two splash-rooms and a huge terrace. Dave and I were holding hands and I knew that he felt the same excitement as I. There was energy going through our hands like electricity. “I want this house,” I whispered. “So do I,” came the reply.
We could not go upstairs – it was too dangerous. Angel said that we could if we wished, but we declined the steep climb on ladders. The house had very thick walls, he explained, which would protect us from the cold in winter and keep us cool in summer.
Dave told Ivo that we wanted the house. He was surprised by the immediacy of our decision and then we were surprised by how quickly everything happened. We were taken off to the office, where a description of the house was read out to us, we signed papers, paid a deposit and that was it. Phew!
