My name is Simon Feek and I am the owner of Thunder Box Media who produces this guide as well as the Ski & Snowboard Guide to Bulgaria and the Business Guide to Bulgaria.

This is my dog, Douglas. He’s a British Boxer dog and has lived in Bulgaria with me for over three years.

Between us, we have decided to take a “little walk” later this year in support of some local Bulgarian charities and at the same time, we are going to record our adventures here on the Summer Guide to Bulgaria.

We will update you as to where, why and what we are walking for over the next week or two but until then, we thought we would give you a taster of what to expect as we document our build-up training to the walk in September.

First steps

As is usual for this time of year my girlfriend (known as “Beloved”), Douglas (Doug to his friends) and I jumped in the car to go and spend the holidays with the in-laws in lovely spa town of Hissar. What was unusual about this trip is that instead of relaxing in the garden drinking copious amounts of beer and wine whilst gorging on fresh lamb, Doug and I were going to spend the weekend training for our “little walk” later this year.

This would involve us heading up into the foot hills of the Balkan Mountains to test our equipment and ourselves and at the same time give us an idea of what to expect when we start our challenge in September.

Now it’s been about 6 years since I last did any kind of “serious” walking but most of my equipment (much of it “liberated” from various armies around the world during my time in the British Armed Forces) seemed to be up to scratch so I packed my bergen (rucksack) with enough food and water, sleeping bag and various other items Doug and I would need for the following 48hrs or so.

Now I needed a map of the local area and the hills surrounding.

“No you don’t!” said my girlfriends Dad, “It’s easy, just follow the path” during dinner the previous night when we were talking about route selection for the next day.

Just as well really as a quick scan of the local shops revealed that maps were available for driving around Bulgaria, Turkey, Italy and even Spain. Nothing however, of any use to Doug or me but based on the experience of Beloved’s father (a keen hunter and outdoors man) I thought “what the hell”!

The next morning he dropped us off at the outskirts of Hissar and pointed us in the direction of a dusty yellow path that led to some small looking hills in the distance. “Follow the yellow markers” he shouted to us as we set off.

Our aim was to cover 20km a day for the next two days and drop down from the mountains (after a refreshing night’s sleep in the forest) to Starosel, the next town along from Hissar.

We pushed up the track at a good pace for about 4 or 5 km until the path started getting steeper and we became surrounded with pine trees. The weather was warm enough for shorts and the 35kg on my back was making me shed a little sweat for my endeavours but nothing too taxing.

We were however about to learn our first lesson. As soon as we started walking through the pine trees we began being swarmed by hundreds of large flies that seemed intent on hitching a ride on Doug’s back or my bald head. And of course, what was the one thing I didn’t bring: insect replant.

I hate flies. I really, really hate anything crawling on me and the incessant buzzing and itching was driving me mad after the first hour or so until I had a flash-back to some god-forsaken-training area in the north of England several years ago whilst I was on a training exercise with my infantry company and we were plagued by tiny “midges” (mini mosquitoes) which “dive-bombed” us for days. The only people who were happy on that training exercise were the smokers as it seems insects have the same tolerance to passive smoke as a Californian mother-to-be.

So we stopped, dropped our kit and as quickly as I could I rolled a hasty cigarette (I started to roll my own “death sticks” in an effort to quit a month or so ago) as Doug rolled around on the floor trying to shake his passengers.

I lit up and hey presto, less than 30 seconds later the majority of the annoying aviators had retreated. Doug (being the bright dog that he is) quickly came and crouched between my legs as I sat on the verge of the track blowing smoke in every direction. I swear to god, if Doug had opposable thumbs he would have rolled a cigarette himself!

We set off again as I finished my cigarette and as soon as I did the flies returned. By now the path was beginning to get steeper and I was wondering why I hadn’t seen a single yellow marker as described by Beloved’s father as I set off. I should not have worried as half an hour later I heard the distant rumble of a motorbike which came into view ahead of us shortly afterwards. This was the first human I had seen since leaving Hissar a couple of hours before and as the big dirt bike stopped in front of us, the rider lifted his helmet, pointed at me and said “Simon?”

Needless to say I was quite surprised to see anyone let alone anyone that knew my name!

It turned out, this was Rumen, a friend of Beloved’s father who had been sent out to make sure I was on the right path, which it appeared I was. Rumen offered me the use of their mountain hut that night which I declined but it was nice to know I had a “guardian angel”, especially as I was beginning to feel a little exposed without a map, proper GPS or any other form of navigation equipment that I was used to.

I thanked Rumen, bid him farewell and continued up the track.

Onwards and upwards

We kept moving up the slope as the trail started to wind more and more and the angle of the slope increased. Doug was charging ahead whenever possible, enjoying the freedom of being off the lead and the fresh air as well as the new sites and sounds around him.

I can’t explain to anyone who is used to trekking in places like Britain’s Lake District or Dartmoor just how nice it is to have no other people around. The most popular paths in Britain I am most used to are usually over crowded most of the year and at high points resemble some human exodus where it is virtually impossible not to see another hiker (and their dog) every 30 seconds or so.

After nearly three hours I looked to Doug in front of me. He had stopped in his tracks and was intently studying the forest to our left. This was normally a sign of something unusual and as I got closer I was amazed to see what Doug had spotted.

About 30 meters into the forest was a herd of around twenty beautiful wild horses and their off-spring.

A large black stallion started to approach Douglas in an effort to let us know to “stay back” from his family which of course my playful hound took to be an invitation to play “chase” until I got him back on the lead. We stood there for nearly five minutes watching these animals watching us. The baby horses had all taken cover in the low brush of the forest whilst the adults warily kept an eye on us as we photographed them.

It’s when you see things like this that you feel exhilarated and glad to be alive!

We said goodbye to the family of horses and kept walking for another couple of hours, having covered about 13km’s, until we saw our first (rusted) yellow marker confirming we were on the right route. Every once in a while I would light another cigarette in an effort to give our unwanted companions (the damned flies) lung cancer in the hope that their leader would decide, for health reasons, that they should leave us alone. He obviously didn’t.

Meeting the locals

As we came to 1,000m of elevation (that’s larger than most “mountains” we have in Britain) I heard the sound of banging and as we rounded the corner, there was a building in the middle of nowhere with several men working on the roof and to the sides of the property. I decided we should go and ask for a water re-fill which we did and were pointed around the corner of the building to a tap fed from a local spring by the four or five guys sitting eating and drinking on the veranda.

“Do you speak German or English?” I heard from around the corner from an unknown source.

“Uhhh… English!” I replied rather surprised by the fluent question as a big friendly looking chap came around the corner sporting a white beard.

“Come and join us for a drink” he said in perfect English. I was glad of the rest and Doug was certainly glad of the large plate of meat that he was given straight away as I joined gentlemen around their make shift table and introductions were made.

Costa was the man behind the invitation and the excellent English and as I joined him to try some of his food (which it turned out was all from their own hunting trips) he explained what they were doing in the middle of the forest.

It turns out that Costa is the chairman of one of the local hunting clubs and this was their lodge which they had been renovating from scratch, installing new windows, fixtures and fittings to make their time in the mountains more comfortable. Apart from that, it seemed that Costa and his club also saw this hunting lodge as a way of helping to protect and manage the local game which they hunted.

“Real hunting is not about going into the woods and killing everything you see” he explained. “Here we can keep track of animal numbers to make sure the wildlife is protected and sustained. We hunt what we need, nothing more. It’s about the nature”. As a demonstration of their commitment he pointed to a large open area next to the lodge that he told me had been recently cleared of trees and was now a large potato patch for the explicit use of the local wild boar population.

Costa told me he had spent the last three nights sleeping in the derelict lodge whilst his buddies commuted from the local towns to lend a hand with repairs.

“Some of our members [56 of them] give money to buy materials, some give their time. We all work together. We have the same interests; nature”.

It was clear Costa and his club were passionate about every aspect of the local wilderness although judging by the feast on the table in front of me and the five or six different types of alcohol being consumed, I couldn’t help but wonder if I wouldn't make a "good hunter" after all! They seemed to be having a ball!

After trying several types of home-made sausage and a group photo, we said our good byes and headed back up the path. By now it was nearly 1900 and although I thought we had only covered 15km or so I decided it was time to look for a suitable place to make camp for the night.

Home for the night

Another couple of km’s up the track we found a fork in the road with a natural spring surrounded by forest. “Good enough for us” I thought as I searched through the tree line for a perfect spot.

I found it and Doug, with our flies for company came and joined me. Knowing the flies would not leave until I made a nice smoky fire; I quickly began preparing the ground (removing any dried leaves) and got a small flame from the kindling in a couple of minutes. A few minutes later and our unwanted companions decided to move on somewhere else as the smoke from the wet wood I placed on the flames started to kick out a thick curtain of grey fumes.

Now for some overhead cover. It had rained a little earlier that day so I began unpacking my bergen and got out my old army-issue “basha”. This is basically a large tarpaulin with attachment points for bungees all over the material. Light-weight and malleable, you can make almost any shape of shelter out of one of these and I have been using a “basha” since I first joined the Army Cadets aged 13. I prefer a basha to a tent as (depending on your design), you can have 360 degree vision from inside, it goes up in seconds and I don’t feel as claustrophobic as I would in a cramped tent.

Doug watched me with intent interest. Having never spent a night “wild camping” before, I don’t think, at this stage, he realised we would be stopping here for the evening. That didn’t stop him, however, from making himself comfortable under the basha on my sleeping bag as I collected more firewood.

The light was by now fading fast so I unpacked a can of chilli for myself to eat and arranged Doug’s travel bowls for water and food.

The other “essentials” I had brought for our first night in the forest was three cans of Zagorka beer. An old PTI (Physical Training Instructor) from my basic training had once told me that after heavy exercise (I thought the last 16km or so counted!), two or three “large, strong quality beers” were excellent for rehydration and replacing a lot of the minerals you had sweated out earlier. Many dieticians may disagree but this had been a mantra for me since I was 19. The problem is, I love beer and the recommended limit of “two or three” large beers usually turned into six or seven which often had an adverse effect on my performance the next day!

I didn’t come up for air as I downed the first one before I remembered it was a little hike to the liquor store to get more so the next couple I took my time over.

To read Part II click here...