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Latest blog: 10 January 2008

Being a castaway on a desert island in my youth has proved good training for winter existence in rural Bulgaria a quarter of a century later. Both situations require infinite adaptability.   

Last night it was tricky climbing external stairs with supper under one arm and a puppy under the other. This morning, when I put the puppy out and he slid to the top of the stairs, then down, before the rails saved him, I knew it was a day to practise survival skills. There was black ice everywhere. A fall wouldn’t be good. I’ve already had spinal surgery.

First, I lit the stove, which is surrounded by emergency wood. There was no chance I’d reach the main supply in the barn. Then I layered up strategically, from long johns to ear-muffs with a hat on top.  Hypothermia wouldn’t be good. Twenty minutes of rail, wall and rose bush-clutching later, I reached the kitchen, where there were plenty of  eggs.  Fetch emergency dog food from barn, when possible, I noted, making omelettes for six. The dogs were thrilled.

Usually I perform domestic chores, including carrying four loads of wood upstairs, before settling at my desk by 9 am. Don’t fret because you can't today, I told myself, check the news for how the rest of the country’s faring.

Rapid speech burst from the radio, followed by what sounded like part of an anthem. It was. The beginning of January is a busy time in the Bulgarian calendar. On the 6th, wherever there’s enough unfrozen water in the form of rivers or lakes, men young and old bearing the name of Jordan, leap in, scantily clad. It’s a tradition brimming with exuberance and bravado. Very Bulgarian.  

Here, where the river is solid, the only liquid involved in the celebrations was rakia - the National firewater. Glasses were also raised to the blessing of Bulgaria’s colours. Some villagers keep their red, green and white flags flying full time. Finally, there were toasts to revolutionary poet Hristo Botev, who was killed aged twenty-eight in a courageous rebellion against Ottoman rule. He’s still a hero 160 years on.

What I like about extreme conditions is how they put things in perspective. Rural Bulgarians don’t worry about cleaning when it’s freezing. All that matters is that there’s enough fuel and food in the house to sustain life.

Icebound as I am, I look out of my window and count the comforting plumes of chimney smoke indicating Babas cooking pots of beans in the stoves below. Younger people venture out in silence, mouths gagged by scarves against the cold, to feed hens that will become chicken soup if the freeze lasts.   

Cellars are packed with the summer’s bounty preserved: jars of pork sealed with fat, peaches and cherries suspended like chunky jewellery in syrup.

The villagers’ way of life is hard, but there’s something admirable about it, a kind of purity. When my ears are warm enough, I take my hat off to them.   

Written by Lucy Irvine

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