I’ve always liked the idea of letting a journey evolve naturally. On a bicycle, strings of coincidences often piece together perfectly, making it feel like it was meant to be. Perhaps rigid routes hinder what might happen? Still, as much as I feel drawn to the spontaneous approach, entering a new country with no plan whatsoever feels a little anxiety-inducing. Last summer, however, this is what exactly happened.

​After slowly cycling east through the Balkans with my girlfriend, Sarah, we made the last-minute decision not to cross from Macedonia into Greece. Instead, we entered Bulgaria, somewhere we knew little about. Sarah suggested we simply cycle towards the nearest mountains and, caught in a free-spirited summer haze, I thought, why not?

​Our climb into the Pirin Mountains began. We were in search of a supposedly free campsite that Sarah had found, which was allegedly somewhere along the road. “The light through the forest is incredible!” she said, smiling beside me. And it was. But I was distracted. I remembered that wild camping in Bulgarian national parks was prohibited, and here we were, climbing 1,000 metres towards a campsite that might not exist.

​My heart beat heavily, labouring around each corner, dreading the thought of a wasted journey. The more fixated I became, the more each mile seemed to stretch. As a ruby light began clipping the surrounding peaks, I saw a welcome sign: Designated Camping Spot.

​We pitched our tent whilst cicadas and crickets drowned out the birdsong around us. Stumbling down a rocky track, Sarah plunged into a mountain stream, clothes strewn to the side. I joined, washing away the day’s grit, feeling exhausted. Uplifted. Captivated.

​I woke the next morning, feeling movement outside the tent. Unzipping the fly, wafts of hot fur and manure hit me—we were surrounded by a flock of sheep. Amongst the blur of moving hooves, a great shepherd’s dog slumped on the floor. His face lifted, noticing me peering out from the tent. Time slowed momentarily. A tennis ball dropped from his mouth, his head tilting quizzically to the side. A few more whistles brought the dog to attention, herding the remaining sheep away into thickets of bush.

​“Looks like you’re on a big journey?” a voice said from behind. Clambering out of the tent, I saw a broad man standing with his arms folded, looking at our bikes. Unsure at first, I told him we’d just arrived in Bulgaria.

“Amazing! I’m Deyan, by the way.” Then, without hesitation, “I’m just camped in a van over there with my girlfriend. You should come for dinner. It’s the red one!”

Despite being on the road for nine months already, the immediate hospitality took me by surprise. Bringing some melted chocolate as a gift, we approached the camper later that night, smelling rich, aromatic scents as we neared. The door opened to smiling eyes and curly hair: “Hi, I’m Pam! You’re the cyclists!?”

We spent the evening eating creamy coconut curry with what immediately felt like old friends. From Poland, Pam was warm and bubbly. Deyan was local, with a sterner character but a deep laugh. I felt inspired by their approach to life and the outdoors. They took days as they came, picking a hike or climb at a time, driving to a new location when it felt right. It all felt very natural.

​“So, where do you go after this?” Pam asked.

​With trepidation, I told them we had no route. They then explained they were writing a mountain biking guidebook for the Rhodopes, the mountainous region we were currently in.

“How about we build you a route?” Deyan suggested.

​It was the first I’d heard of the Rhodopes, but it didn’t seem like an opportunity we could miss. And so we said yes.

​The next morning, we said a heartfelt goodbye and began following the red line on our GPS. An empty road began pirouetting back down the mountainside, sunlight flashing between tree trunks and paving a ladder of light for us to descend. I realised I had no idea what lay ahead. I could see it was a 724-kilometre route through a region I’d only just learned the name of. But the thought drifted away as momentum gathered and the still-dewy forest blurred into a shimmer of greens.

​With the last switchback behind us, we flew out from the woodland onto our first long stretch of tarmac. My legs instinctively sped up, then I slammed on the brakes. The red line was at a right angle, pointing to what barely seemed a footpath to the side. I gestured towards the track.

“Are you sure? Sarah questioned. “It’s what it says…” Hesitantly, we dropped down from the main road onto the rubble track. Still downhill but slowed by sand, we began weaving between old tin-roofed houses and densely packed allotment patches. Sarah’s eyes lit up: “That’s a fig tree! They’re peppers and tomatoes… Look at the size of that squash!”

​An elderly woman in a colourful dress left her commanding vegetable-pulling stance to look up. Failing to hide a suspicious glare, her face slowly softened to an eager, gold-toothed smile. We rode through the late-summer morning; the sun’s rays had lost their barb and now filled us with contentment. We bumped along, immersed in village life, with little concern for the miles ahead.

The Pirin Mountains loomed behind, but ahead, forested peaks rose on the horizon, our thin red line leading towards them. Anticipation grew. This was our best glimpse of what lay ahead, but I resisted the urge to check the altitude map. We wove up into the forested mountainside, pedalling amongst flocks of sheep, shepherds, and their tired dogs. Under thick tree cover, little light reached us. We became absorbed in birdsong and the small changes in the trees. Eventually, a passionate debate took over, as we argued over the best borek we’d tried. By the time we emerged from the tree cover, the sun’s full weight was on us.

​“There’s no way we’ve climbed back up that high!” Sarah said, standing next to the Ortsevo village sign, proudly stating its 1,550-metre elevation. We crossed the horizon line and could finally see land fall away to a sprawling valley. Tiny villages we may have passed through. Horses trotting along isolated farms, just specks in the distance. We kissed and celebrated. We felt an unexpected triumph in reaching a high point we never knew was coming.

​Sarah’s instinctive curiosity seemed to be pulling her ahead. She began towards the sparse collection of buildings that stood atop the valley like an outpost. At a walking pace, we rode past the occasional timber houses dotting the village. Many seemed vacant. Remnants of old cars and fallen paddocks lay scattered. Chatter came from one of the buildings. Sarah poked her head in, then let out an audible “wow.”

​Inside, old-timers sat in a small room, enjoying their cups and barely surprised by our arrival. A few darkened fridges lined the walls, and instead of aisles of shelves, a bizarre variety of dusty products was amassed on a table in the middle of the room. Biscuits, cleaning products, jars of preserved foods, beer and wine, mystery bottles of unlabeled liquids.

​“Welcome!” came a booming voice, half-hidden amongst the items.

A white-bearded man greeted us. He gestured to our helmets and smiled. “Ortsevo is the highest village in Balkans. Well done!”

​We bought some biscuits and cold drinks, then sat outside. A small puppy and kitten joined us. I watched the contented smile on Sarah’s face, looking out from this sleepy village. It felt forgotten but peaceful. Like time had continued but not much else. We sat longer than usual, immersed in the stillness. Eventually, we gathered our things and pushed on.

The red line pulled us further into the emptying valley. From behind, we heard cheers and calls as three teenagers galloped along the track on towering horses. They thundered by, a cloud of dust and grins, calling thanks as we moved aside. Ahead, a wide dirt track paved an obvious direction, climbing steadily into rolling pastures. But again, the red line suggested a dubious turn. A hint of a trail climbed the steep valley side, swooping back and forth towards farm buildings.

​We pushed uphill, but I somehow felt like we were intruding. As we got closer, I noticed the rich smell of barbecued meat drifting towards us. Behind a heavily vine-covered building, a family celebrated: a young girl in a yellow dress twirled to local folk music, while older relatives with lined faces watched, admiring. She saw us and the dancing stopped. A smile shone, and she came to greet us.

​“You are going to the Veliytsa Hut?” she asked.

​Between laboured breaths, I responded, “I’m not sure. The route is taking us into the woodland.”

​“Oh, then you may see it… Do you need anything?”

​I thanked her and said no. Then, without hesitation, she skipped back to her dancing family members.

​Past the farm, the gradient steepened, and my feet slid in the sand. Wheel stuck beneath a rocky bulge, I began desperately readjusting to stop my bike from sliding back down the hillside. The sun beat down, and a Hansel-and-Gretel-like trail of sweat led back to Sarah, who was out of sight somewhere behind. I was suddenly aware we had no idea where we were going. It no longer felt quite as liberating. I fell beside my bike and waited.

​“I better get a chance to sit down, too!” Sarah shouted, coming into view. She slumped beside me, sticky and dusty, and we sat together, oppressed by the heat. I could see the woodland shade within reach, so we kept moving, tackling the last rocky section together. Heaving in unison, we watched the shaded treeline get closer and closer. Soon, our first rideable section began. Crossing into the cool forest abyss, a sandy track slowly weaved amongst the conifers, their low-hanging branches causing us to dip and sway like boxers.

​As momentum carried us, we rolled out of darkness and into another bright clearing. I grimaced, waiting for my eyes to adjust. Gradually, into form came a large, wooden hut, tucked beneath the trees only 50 metres away. Standing above parched thickets of grass, a two-storey hut was nestled amongst deep green spruce and pine trees. It was just like a bothy from home. Are there huts like this in Bulgaria? I thought to myself.

​I shared an inquisitive glance with Sarah. Slowly, we dismounted our bikes and pushed ahead. It was a big cabin, carefully varnished, with a corrugated roof and large glass windows. I could smell the hot timber, sweating in the sun. Curiously, I shouted hello. No response. I peered through the window. A stove, large wooden tables, and raised bedding. No personal items.

​“It’s not lived in. I think it’s like a bothy?” I said to Sarah.

​Apprehensively, she pushed open the door. The tension I didn’t know I was holding released. My calves relaxed, and I took a deep breath. Inside were the familiar stickers from cyclists, hikers, and motorcyclists—all who’d found their way here. It was somewhere we could be.

​“We’ve got to stay the night. We’d be crazy to keep going.” Sarah said eagerly. It was probably mid-afternoon, but I could see she was hoping I wouldn’t protest.

​“I knew you were going to say that.” I chuckled.

​Our bike bags came off. I sat and thought of all the other people who’d made it to this hut. And then about our journey here. This had never been the destination, but it now felt like one. Every corner had brought a surprise. It had taken away all expectations and pressure. I realised how much of our journey had been spent trying to reach somewhere, and all of a sudden, that felt pretty silly.

​Gradually, the light turned a burnt crimson. We cooked a slow meal, listened to Johnny Flynn, and watched the sun fall behind the trees. When the final lingering light had gone, we wrapped up and sat outside. It felt like we’d never seen stars shine so bright. I felt the GPS beep in my pocket. I pulled it out and instinctively looked at the route ahead. Then stopped and put it away. I pulled Sarah closer and kept watching the world spin by.

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