But the last overnighter surpassed even that. We'd ridden our longest day of 35 kilometres through the Valley of Roses,the area's largest cash crop. Handpicked in May and June,three tonnes of petals make only I kilogram of rose oil. The yearly crop yielding 2 tonnes of rose oil. We'd riddenthrough and lunched in the village of Tuzha in the home of Maria,who served a national favourite,Tarator,cold cucumber and yoghurt soup – delicious – and climbed back up the mountain,reaching the summit just before sundown. There are 1900 varieties of flora in the high country,every single one of which must have been in bloom in the hidden meadow of our final resting place.
Drinking cold beer and watching the horses,of which we have become inordinately grateful and attached,rolling in the wild flowers while a hard-earned dinner sizzles on the barbecue plate,is ... well if it gets any better,I haven't met it yet. And then,out of the forest,comes looping,a massive brown bear and her cubs ...
Just kidding but,this area,(listed as category 1 according to the World Conservation Union),is the core of the South European population of the species and,as it's home to more than 800 bears,you could be luckier. Or unluckier. They eat a mostly vegetarian diet but,apparently,aren't fussy.
Picking our way slowly back down the stony tracks,we reflect on"best and worst"of the trip. Worst was the pillows (definitely bring your own),best is hard,there were too many but for sheer otherworldliness,it has to be early on the fourthmorning as we following a giggling river down the mountain towards the Thracian valley. In the distance we hear the advancement of rowdy singing. Our guide tells us,with some urgency,to get off the track. Around the corner a scruffy Russian truck appears stuffed with a load of carousing young men and behind them,a cavalcade of galloping horses,ridden fearlessly,mostly without saddles or bridles. All of them,young,dark and wearing earrings. Raggle-taggle gypsies. The forest zinged with their passing like we'd encountered a quick ghostly glimpse of a bygone people and its culture.
Finally,completing our mammoth trek,I reward my hard-working steed with a handful of oats only to be remonstrated for spoiling it. (I had shared stories about how badly behaved my horses at home were). My god,I mused,if I treated my horses as sparingly after a 160-kilometre trek over mountains such as these,I'd never be forgiven. But like the Bulgarians we have met in this secret,beautiful country,the horses trot off without complaint of their frugal lot. My horses and children have a shock coming when I return.