Even in the twilight they stun the eye: striated tan cliffs, topped with scrub verdancy, a lone pine on pinnacle, twists of pikes like sandstone Matterhorns. We are in a taxi from Sandanski, on our way to Melnik for the weekend.

One enters upon the panorama unexpectedly, among chapparel hills; the road turns: a sudden hewn valley.

Upon reaching the town of 275, one immediately remarks its picturesqueness: all the buildings built and maintained in the Bulgarian National Revival style. And it’s clean, and fresh, and charming. A canal runs down its one main street, itself lined with guest houses, hotels and mehanas (taverns).

We cross a bridge to reach Hotel Mario, where the proprietor enthusiastically greets us and shows us our simple, yet comfortable, rooms. He’s warm, animated, chattering in Bulgarian about random occurrences, something.

Once settled in, we take a short walk up the main street to Mencheva Kushta, a traditional restaurant, like all in the town. Inside, a hearth radiates warmth and cosiness.

Firstly ordering some of the house wine, we decide to share kyupoolu (mashed aubergine salad), tsarska tourshiya (lacto-fermented vegetables, a traditional saur-type preparation) and a kombinirani sach, a type of meat-and-vegetable dish served sizzling on a hot clay skillet. It comes, and the proprietor instructs us: “Tryabva da oburkvaite” (you’re to stir it around).

To accompany our second round of wine, we decided on desserts, thick house sheep’s milk yoghurt topped with green-fig preserves, and homemade ice cream, which tasted of honey and walnuts.

Saturday I awake early, at about 7.45am, to a clear sunny sky and the voices of calm local chatter below my window. “I want to live here,” I think.

And it’s true what they say: the wine of Melnik is a no-headache concoction.

After revelling a half-hour in the non-necessity to arise, I decide to explore the area, and set off on a trek towards Rozhen Monastery, about six km up the road. I hadn’t planned to attain it, but simply wanted to see what was around the village.

I had spied a cemetery on an escarpment across the river, and resolved to visit in on the way back to the village. Crossing the ancient Rimski Most (Roman Bridge) to find the place, I walk a bit around some houses, chickens scratching around, but don’t feel like traipsing through someone’s fenced-off yard and turn back.

At 11am, our driver arrives. Kiril Ivanov moved to Melnik five years ago with his wife to open a guesthouse. Before that, he was a caller at a casino in Sandanski.

His white VW van becomes an intrepid 4x4 as we drive the village roads to Harsovo (Хърсово), chalga on the radio, quick motorings interspersed with regular unforeseen near-stops for the potholes.

Hills lined with vines, or remnants, sandy soil.

We’re to spend the day with Kostadin Atanasov, a native of the village and chairperson of the board of the re-established local grape-growing and winemaking co-operative. The co-op wants to gather together enough growers to be a collective bargaining power against the buyers. Among other posts, Kostadin was a former state oenology expert.

In the van with us, he explains the area. “These were vineyards,” he says in laborious English, pointing out scraggling vines and remnants of furrows that line the hills, “and these, and these. Now there aren’t. The people are old, and can’t work.”

Nearly everything is done as it would have been 100, 150 years ago.

“The vine is like a lion, it fights to survive. To make it fight, we prune.” His grapes are of a high quality - 22 degrees of sugar, “which is sufficient for a nice wine”.

Numerous areas over the whole hillside have received his care. From each vine, three to four kg of grapes need to be produced to be profitable. He gets about 1.5 tons a 1000 sq m, which is the amount necessary for vineyards. For some reason, the varietal - Shiroka Melnishka Loza (широка мелнишко лоза) - isn’t good on the market, he says.

I’m not sure why this is, because, as one of Bulgaria’s unique varietals, it is not only notable in its originality, but also in its lushness and complexity.

After a forgettable lunch in Katountsi, we decide to sit at the one cafe in town and discuss the co-operative.

I ask Konstadin again about what he had been telling me earlier. It concerns a formerly common-use village distillery for the residents of Harsovo to distill their own rakiyas that had been seized in the period of post-communist property restitution. Because of a lack of money for requisite paperwork, the distillery went to Sandanski municipality. Part of why they formed the co-operative was to regain control of the distillery.

Konstadin decides to show me the house where the original Kooperatsia Melnishka Loza saw its creation. It’s an agreeable, somewhat run-down, smaller classical-style building with a plaque on it commemorating the founding. His current goal is to go to surrounding villages - Lozenitsa, Melnik, Vinogradi - and rally up support and members for the new grape-growing co-operative.

The people are old, he says; they can’t do much for the co-operative. He avers that when the locals can come together and form a fruit and vegetables association, they can get subsidies from Brussels, and survive.

During his fervent discourse, another older local man has joined us, and keeps inviting us to his house to drink some of his wine.

Konstadin seems annoyed.

My friends and I go with the man. Konstadin stays at the cafe. He wants to spend time with a cousin of his who has also stopped by.

The man has introduced himself as Kiril Simeonov Dimitrov, and has lived his whole life in Harsovo, growing grapes and making wine, among other work.

Kiril prods us into the foyer of his house, into the kitchen, insists that we sit at the table: on chairs that he drags up, not on the two beds that side the table, which look to be the typical place for seating. Taking some random glasses from the counter, he rinses them out, sets them on the table before us. Searches out two little pitchers, a jar of canned beef that his daughter-in-law made. He fills the pitchers with his wine - a red and a white - and gimps back to the table, insists on pouring our tumblers to the brim.

He goes to the sink and washes dust off the jar of beef. We eye each other, wondering if and how we’re to eat home-canned meat. Kiril plomps down the plates on the table, sets out four forks: we’re guests; he won’t eat any. Cautiously we try the meat; it’s tender, tasty, in a delicious beef-broth jelly.

“Nasdrave!” we cheer.

Kiril’s wine is amazing: fresh like a natural product should be, not manufactured-tasting. It looks somewhat thin, and we are deceived. Ambrosial, a fruitful nose, a perfect balance of coarse and soft. I mark in my notebook that the white is “dancing”.

I think we’re all surprised.

The white he makes from a mixture of the cepages Brestovitsa (Брестовица), keretsouda (керецуда) and chaoush (чауш), and the red from rubin (рубин) and merlot. He insists that we drink more, finish the meat. He looks worn, older than his 60-some years. Life here has not been easy. We appreciate his hospitality.

Back in Melnik, we decide to wander about. Climbing up a hill takes us to Shestaka Izbata, reputed as one of the finest cellars, run by winemaker Mitko Manolev.

We later go to the Kordopoulov House, a house-museum. The four-storey estate was constructed in 1754 for wine merchant Manol Kordopoulov in the Revival style of the era. I admire its beautiful tile-decorated ceilings and curious-shaped fireplace hoods.

For dinner, we go to Mehana Aleksova Kushta, another smallish, traditional-style restaurant.

The house red, a salata snezhanka, a salata tikvichka c kiselo mlyako (grilled courgettes in garlicky yoghurt), an order of chicken hearts, and braised lamb sound tempting. The delicious dishes arrive Bulgarian-style, when they’re ready, and we share.

Back at Hotel Mario, we partake of a bottle of Melnishka loza with a bear on the label. It isn’t as good - maybe, not as real, down-to-earth and complexly simple - as what we’ve drunk from pitchers.

Sunday morning I again awake early, and decide to climb the facing hill, where there is a ruined mediaeval church with frescoes, and go ask Hotel Mario’s Petar for directions to a path. He says something about how after the third bridge, I take a right between some traditional houses, and will see a path. I think: “All the houses in Melnik are traditional”.

I set off, pass the third bridge and take a right. And don’t see a path. And wander. And ask. Finally, someone says that the path is by the church (the one that is currently in use, not the mediaeval one). A few empty water bottles and crumpled tissues in brush on the side of the hill is enough of a path for me. I’m climbing, hands on the ground, grasping at branches, hoping they’ll hold, boosting myself up ledges using rocks as footholds. Eventually, my “path” crosses with a main path - one wider than 20cm - and I proceed to the top of the hill, no longer afraid of falling off a precipice.

The first ruin I see is of the 12th-century St Nicholas Monastery, out on a promontory over another valley.

Because I’m up there, I decide to see everything from one side of the hilltop to the other. The walk to an older - but not old, not in ruins - chapel on another promontory is pleasant and not daunting. Attaining the ruined 13th-/14th-century Slav fortress on the opposite end of the hilltop, I am becoming tired and decide to take the clear path down the hillside. It’s easy and quick and dumps me into the village, right next to the current church, where it should have been originally.

Back in the village, my friends and I gather our baggage: our bus to Sandanski should pass through on its return trip from Rozhen Monastery, at about 12.45pm. It arrives at 1.08pm. No problem, as we arrive in Sandanski with five minutes before the 2pm bus to Sofia.

And it’s back to reality - with no headaches involved.

Mencheva Kushta
Tel: 07437/ 339,
melnik-mehana.hit.bg

Kordopoulova Kushta:
Tel: 07437/265,
kordopulova-house.com

Shestaka Izba:
Tel: (guestrooms): 07437/ 239, 236

Mehana Aleksova Kushta:
Tel: 088/ 958 87 33