Postcards from... St Fagans

I had long intended to go to the food festival at St Fagans National History Museum, but I didn't wake up till 09:30. This wouldn't be such a problem if (a) it didn't take me a long time to get moving in the morning, (b) I didn't live so far from St Fagans, and (c) I already had a plan of action. But being the disorganised sort I am I still had to figure out how to get there. A quick Google told me that my choices were getting the train to Cardiff followed by a bus right to the door of the museum or getting the train to Waun-gron Park and walking the rest of the way. As it was such a lovely day I opted for the latter.

I caught the 10:42 from Treff to Radyr, where I changed for the City Line to Waun-gron Park. From there it was a two-mile walk to the museum. The walk up St Fagans Road took me past all my old driving lesson haunts – Wellwright Road where I used to practise parallel parking, Fairwater where I turned right into my favourite route (and the one I eventually passed my test on), and of course Norbury Road where the test centre is. But I'd forgotten that as you get into the village of St Fagans the pavement completely disappears and thus I found myself walking perilously close to the traffic on a VERY narrow road.

Nonetheless, I reached St Fagans National History Museum in one piece at 11:45 (just four minutes after the bus) and walked through the gate into the deceptively quiet gardens.

The entrance to St Fagans

St Fagans castle, a late 16th century manor house

One of the gardens in full bloom

Having snapped a few pictures I started the long walk across the stream and into the main complex. That was when I realised how busy the place really was. I literally could not move for all the people and quickly found myself hemmed in by wheelchairs, pushchairs and wobbly toddlers. I managed to sidestep the immediate obstacles and then picked up my pace forcing elderly people and parents with children to one side. Then as the crowds went left, I turned right down a quiet woodland path where, for a few minutes, I enjoyed complete solitude.

Crossing the stream

A woodland path

I soon located the two marquees housing the food stalls. Unfortunately, so had several hundred other people. They were rammed. That's the problem with tasting stalls – people park themselves in front of them and refuse to move, seemingly unaware of the massive queues behind them. My persistance paid off and before long I too was in front of one of the stalls. Not the cake stall unfortunately. No, I found myself standing in front of one selling relishes and chutneys. I tasted a few and then bought N a hickory-smoked naga chili BBQ sauce and moved on.

I bypassed a stall selling cookbooks (nothing to taste there!) and another selling cheese (the crowd was too large). Next up the paté stall. Well it would be if I could just get past the woman and her friend who were shamelessly devouring everything in sight. Eventually I managed to sneak a tiny taste of a smoked mackerel paté but that was it. I was wondering whether to simply shove the greedy woman out of the way when I spotted a cake stall three places up. Keep your paté, bitch. I'm all about cake. I treated myself to a miniature banoffee pie cheesecake (which was delicious!) and a miniature carrot cake and all but ate them on the spot.

Delicious miniature banoffee pie cheesecakes

Temptation

A little further down I noticed a Persian foods stall and went to investigate. Having taught some Iranians over the summer and befriended their group leader, I was intrigued. As with most of the other stalls I objected to their pricing structure which was unfairly weighted towards bulk-buying. What's wrong with selling them individually? Maybe I don't want five, six or nine pastries! Nonetheless I succumbed and bought five pastries for £5 (approx. €7/US$8). I was a little disappointed to discover that the Welsh woman manning the stall knew very little about the products. Thus I ended up playing 'guess the pastry' with most of my purchases.

Some of the Persian pastries

Feeling a little sick (that's what happens when you skip breakfast and pig out on pastries instead) I went outside to get some fresh air. Keen to find an unoccupied patch of grass I walked away from the marquees. My travels took me past a field with two huge pigs in it. As I rather like pigs, I stopped to have a look. One of them approached the fence so I stuck out my hand and went to stroke it. And would you believe it, it f***ing bit me! In front of a crowd of people! I hastily snatched back my hand and inspected the damage. The savage beast had drawn blood. Seriously, only I could get bitten by a pig!

The pig that bit me

Thinking it best to avoid all other animals, I headed instead to the second of the two marquees. This one boasted a range of stalls selling coffee, cider, chocolate brownies, tea, bread, pasties and pies among other things. After circling the marquee a couple of times I gave into temptation and bought a box of chocolate brownies. I then pretended I was keen to learn Welsh in order to get a free canvas shopping bag (I wasn't the only one I hasten to add!), after which I bought myself a cup of tea and went to sit in the sun.

Chutneys, jams and preserves

Chocolate brownies (and yes, I bought some)

Cider

Interesting choice... and no, I wasn't tempted

The bread stall

Having seen everything the marquees had to offer I walked past the pigs (not stopping this time) and down to the market stalls, which contained nothing of interest. As I had already stuffed myself earlier with miniature cakes and pastries, the outdoor food stalls held no interest for me either.

I had really been looking forward to this event and yet it was something of a letdown. The food stalls were samey, the market disappointing, the crowds unbearable. So by 14:30 – less than three hours after I had arrived – I had to conclude that I was done. And so I made my way back down the woodland paths, over the stream and through the gardens, pausing just long enough to take some photos of flowers. Then I walked the two miles back to Waun-gron Park and caught the train back to Treff. The verdict? It was too beautiful a day to just stay at home so I'm glad I went but it really wasn't all that.

Thistle

Strawflowers

Summer flowers in the walled garden

In full bloom

Sunflower

Discover Britain: Cardiff

Before I moved abroad, I lived in Cardiff. Well, sort of. I actually lived in the South Wales Valleys, a 20-minute train ride north of the city. And, with a train station right behind the house, Cardiff was an easy day trip. A relatively small city, Cardiff is jam-packed with sights, among them the Millennium Stadium, Cardiff Castle and the love-it-or-hate-it Bay.

Located in the centre of city, Castell Caerdydd (Cardiff Castle) was built by Norman invaders in the late 11th century. Commissioned by either William the Conqueror or Robert Fitzhamon, it was erected on the site of an old Roman fort (circa 55 AD), the remains of which were used as a basis of the outer castle perimeter. Inside these walls, they constructed a wooden keep on a 40-foot (12m) tall earth motte, which was the largest in Wales. More medieval fortifications and dwellings followed. In the 12th century the then occupiers began rebuilding the castle in stone, and erecting substantial defensive walls.

Over the years the castle passed through the hands of many noble families in England, among them the de Clares, the Despensers, the Nevilles and the Tudors. Then, in 1766, it was passed through marriage to the Bute family, under whom the castle was restored and transformed. It remained in the Bute family until 1947 when it was given to the people of Cardiff by John Crichton-Stuart, the 5th Marquess of Bute (1907-1956). Today it is one of the most popular tourist attractions in the city.
 

The outer wall and main entrance of Cardiff Castle











The 11th century Norman keep



One a pair of stone lions (dating from 1890) guarding the Castle Park Gate

A short walk from the castle is the St John the Baptist Church. Originally built in 1180, it was sacked in 1404 during the rebellion of Owain Glyndŵr, a Welsh ruler and the last native Welshman to hold the title 'Prince of Wales' (Tywysog Cymru). Glyndŵr instigated a fierce and long-running revolt against the English rule of Wales, but was ultimately unsuccessful.

The church was rebuilt in the second half of the 15th century and given a perpendicular tower with a peal of ten bells. Today it is the oldest church in the city and, after Cardiff Castle, the oldest medieval building in the city. In 1952, it was awarded Grade 1 listed status as a building of architectural and historical interest.

The 15th century church tower



The side entrance to the church

Flowers in the church garden

Once known as Tiger Bay, Cardiff's dockland district played a major role in the development of the city by being the means of exporting coal from the South Wales Valleys to the rest of world. As well as helping to power the industrial age, the coal mining industry contributed to the growth of Cardiff and made the then docks owner, John Crichton-Stuart, the 3rd Marquess of Bute (1847-1900), the richest man in the world at the time.

The docks continued to boom as a location for shipping companies until the early 1920s. The fall in demand for Welsh coal caused a dramatic fall in exports, and after WWII most of the industry closed down and the area became derelict.

In 1999, the building of the Cardiff Bay Barrage injected new life into the area, and Tiger Bay was rebranded as Cardiff Bay. Since then numerous buildings have sprung up all around the area, including the St David's Hotel, the Wales Millennium Centre and the Senedd (the Senate). Unfortunately, very little forethought has gone into the planning and the Bay now comprises a collection of mismatched architecture with modern monstrosities such as the Wales Millennium Centre standing alongside historic buildings like the Grade 1 listed Pierhead Building. Nonetheless, on a sunny day the views across the Bay are pretty nice.

 

The iconic Wales Millennium Centre







 



Built in 1897, the Pierhead Building was once the headquarters of the Bute Dock Company

Painted horses on the merry-go-round



 



Norwegian Church where author Roald Dahl was christened (Photo © gwentman)

 

 

View across the Bay with St David's Hotel in the background





Postcards from... Plovdiv

From the moment I saw a well-travelled friend's photos of Plovdiv I knew I wanted to go there. I just had to see the Roman theatre. A trip to Sofia provided me with the perfect opportunity. From there, the journey to Plovdiv takes two hours by bus and, at the time of purchase, tickets cost a bargainous 14 Lev (approx. £6/€7/US$10). I quite enjoyed looking at the views too!


View from the bus window

But while the getting to Plovdiv had been easy, locating my hotel was not. My map was awful, my backpack was heavy and temperatures were touching 30ºC (86ºF). Eventually, I had to concede defeat and ask a schoolgirl for help. Shortly thereafter I had located the main square in the new town, but I still had a long way to go and, left to my own devices, the incessant heat and my shockingly bad map-reading skills led to an increasing grumpiness. Long story short, I finally located my hotel, had a quick shower and then went out to explore the old town.

One of the many church towers in Plovdiv's old town



Houses in the old town

Mangy cat enjoying the sunshine

A cobbled street



Another church tower

The gate leading to the Church of Saint Bogoroditsa

The bell tower of the Church of Saint Bogoroditsa

The one thing I wanted to see, in fact the whole reason I came here, was the Roman theatre. But could I find it? Could I hell?! No matter which street I took I ended up right back where I had started. In desperation I followed a party of school children, but they only led me to a church I'd already seen. Twice. Frustrated, I walked back the way I'd come and then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a sign I had missed the seven or so times I'd passed it – it clearly said "Roman theatre" and had a big red arrow pointing in the direction of travel. Duh!

I soon located the theatre and – of rather more pressing importance – found a place selling bottled water at over-inflated prices. Having stupidly left the remains of mine in the hotel, I was so parched that I almost downed the bottle in one. Somewhat rehydrated, I paid 3 Lev (£1.25/$1.50/US$2.10) to get into the surprisingly tourist-free theatre. I spent quite a while sitting on the steps taking in the views...

Built in the 2nd century AD, this well-preserved marble Roman theatre once held 6,000 spectators

A section of the cavea (open spectators' area), which comprises 28 concentric rows of marble seats

The skene (stage building) is 3.16 m high

View of the stage with the Rhodope mountains in the background

There were two other sights I wanted to see and both were in the new town. But I hadn't banked on being unable to find my way out of the old town! Seriously I must have walked around for 40 minutes or so searching for a route out of the place. I knew where the road I needed to be on was – I just couldn't get to it! Eventually, my travels took me past a café-bar. I remembered that I'd entered the old town near a café-bar and sure enough, that was the one. Phew! Minutes later I was back in the new town where I found the tourist office and thus a decent street map, and then I treated myself to a huge ice-cream.

I followed my new map until I reached the rather disappointing remains of the Roman stadium. What's there is lovely, but so there's just so little of it. And to make matters worse, the effect has been further spoiled by incorporating the remains into the concrete jungle that is Plovdiv's new town. However, barely a stone's throw away was the beautiful mosque I had come to see, which more than made up for the disappointment of the stadium.

The Dzhumaya Mosque with the remains of a Roman stadium (which once seated 30,000 people) in the foreground

All that remains of the Roman stadium

The sundial on the corner of the mosque

The gorgeous minaret

Having seen everything I wanted to see, I was happy just to stroll around the town. I wandered aimlessly for a bit before heading back to the old town and my hotel. The next day I got the bus back to Sofia and, once again, enjoyed looking at the changing countryside.


The road back to Sofia

Back in Sofia and I had every intention of doing a little more exploring but on stepping outside the station I was confronted by black clouds and a rising wind. Sightseeing in stormy weather is NOT my idea of fun so I decided to get a taxi straight to my hotel. The next question was which taxi – there were so many of them, parked two or three abreast, that it was impossible to know where the queue started. Being British and therefore keen to adhere to queue etiquette, I stood and watched to see what other people did. Suddenly a man ambled up to me and said hopefully, "Taxi?" I glanced around but none of the other drivers, who were far closer to what I presumed to be the top of the queue, objected. I showed him my hotel's address and asked how much it would be. His response, which was probably calculated, was to say "Yes, OK", as he tried to usher me into his cab. Knowing what rip-off merchants taxi drivers are (especially the eager ones), I stood firm. I wanted to agree a price before I got into the car.

Just then another man (or should I say, an accomplice) rushed over and tried to help with the bargaining. He calmly suggested, "20, maybe 25 Lev?" (approx. £8-10/€10-13/US$14-17), which is a complete and utter rip! It only costs 12 Lev (approx. £5/€6/US$8) to get to the airport and this place was located between the city centre and the airport so it should have been less. And I told him as much. His unbelievably cheeky response was to tell me that it would cost more because it was sunny (ummm, hello black skies!) and when I laughed in his face, he made some excuse about having to drive down back streets. In the end, I agreed to a 20 Lev fixed-fare, which was well above the odds but I just wanted to get to my hotel. I told the man that I would not be paying any more than that. He nodded and said, "Yes, yes. Fixed fare", and then spoke to the taxi driver in rapid Bulgarian. I guess it was naïve of me to assume that we had a deal. Live it, learn it.

The taxi was baking hot – clearly aircon does NOT come as standard in Bulgarian models – and the driver was smoking, which made for a fairly unpleasant ride. I was surprised when he pulled over about five minutes later and said, "Hotel here". It was down a dirty back street, and had it have been my hotel I would well and truly have been being ripped off. After all, 20 Lev is a little over £8 (€10/US$14), which for a five-minute journey is extortionate. But it blatantly wasn't my hotel and the taxi driver didn't appreciate being told so. He then spent fifteen minutes driving from taxi rank to taxi rank trying to find a driver who knew where the hotel was. And I was getting increasingly irritated. Nonetheless, I remember thinking how sensible I was to have agreed the fare beforehand, because all this stopping and starting would cost me big.

Finally, he got going again and I breathed a sigh of relief as the road changed from city back streets to busy highway. But before long he had darted down the most run-down of estates and I began to feel uneasy. He stopped to ask seven more people for directions but no-one knew where to find the elusive street. I tried ringing the hotel three or four times, but the phone just cut off. Feeling rather concerned I said, "Take me back to town. I'll get another hotel". The taxi driver, clearly getting enraged as his rip-off fare was now turning into rather less of one, snapped, "One MOMENT, lady. PLEASE". And then we struck gold – a man who knew where the bloody street was. Except that number 37 (my hotel's address) was nowhere to be seen.

Again, the driver asked for directions. This time we learned that you had to cross a busy highway to get to the other half of the street. He pulled out at high speed, narrowly missing a bus, then slammed on the brakes (in the middle of the carriageway) and pointed angrily behind us and snapped, "Hotel Consul". And it was. Thank God for small mercies!

I reached into my purse for the agreed 20 Lev and was confused when he waved it away. He switched the meter's screen on, turned to me – all wide-eyed innocence – and said, "44 Lev" (approx. £18/€22/US$31), pointing at the meter. The slimy b*stard had had the meter on all along! My protests about fixed fares fell on deaf ears, and – surprise, surprise – the little English he'd had suddenly vanished. I was gobsmacked. I repeatedly asked him to call the man at the station, but it was like talking to a brick wall. I had no idea what to do, and matters were not helped by the taxi driver insisting (now rather menacingly) that the fare was 44 Lev. Eventually, he grumpily conceded that I could have a 1 Lev (!) reduction. I sat there silently weighing up my options. And then it dawned on me that this wasn't a London Black Cab; this was just some beat up sh*tbox with no central locking. Which meant that there was no reason for me to still be sitting there; no reason what-so-freaking-ever!

I sighed and reached into my bag as though looking for the fare, grabbed my backpack, pushed the door open and got out. He didn't even try to stop me, but just before I shut the door I heard him say, "OK, OK, 40 Lev". I could have turned and walked away as I was pretty sure he wouldn't have done anything. He could hardly have called the police because he was trying to charge me 44 Lev for what was essentially a 12 Lev fare (or less!) AND I had already agreed to pay 20 Lev, which was well over the amount he was legally allowed to charge. I could have taught him a lesson and left him fare-less, but I was brought up to be honest and fair so I opened the passenger door, threw a 20 Lev note on the seat and said through gritted teeth, "It was a FIXED. F***ING. FARE!" Then I slammed the door shut with all the rage I could muster and ran towards the hotel, glancing back over my shoulder in time to see him pulling off in a cloud of dust.

The whole affair had left me rather shaken, but at least my hotel was within reach. Except that as I drew closer I could see that it was in darkness. I prayed that it was open, because if it wasn't I'd just lost €40 (£33/US$55) on the booking and, rather more worryingly, I was in the middle of nowhere.

My luck was in. Sort of. The hotel was open, but there had been a power-cut, hence why the phone had gone unanswered. The friendly but unconcerned owner said that the power would be back by 18:00 or maybe 19:00... Oh, and how did I intend to pay, since the card machine didn't work?! I told her I would be paying by card (not least because the few Lev I had left wouldn't cover the bill). She shrugged and said I could pay later. She then used a torch to show me to my room, which was HUGE; it was bigger than my entire flat in Poland! I collapsed on the bed, relieved that I had finally reached my destination. Minutes later the skies opened and a massive thunder storm erupted...

As promised, some four hours later the power was restored and I was able to have a cup of tea and go online. Nonetheless, the events of the previous few hours made for a disappointing end to what had been a great holiday.

Postcards from... Sofia

I don't remember when I first became interested in Sofia, but I do know that it had something to do with the Aleksander Nevski cathedral – that was one place of worship I was going to have to see with my own eyes. And what better time than my upcoming spring break?

The flight from Vienna was smooth and, at just 80 minutes, time passed quickly. And suddenly I was in Bulgaria. My first port of call was an ATM as I was 'Lev-less'. For one horrible moment it looked as though I might have to stay that way as both my Nationwide VISA credit and my ING VISA debit cards were declined. Fortunately, my HSBC debit card came up trumps – thank God for MasterCard! – and I breathed an audible sigh of relief as the machine deposited 250 Lev (approx. £105/€125/US$175) into my hands. Next, I had to find my way out of the airport and into the city centre.

I walked out of the airport to be hit with a wall of heat. Although at 28°C (82°F), it was the same temperature as it had been in Vienna, there was no nice breeze to make it feel cooler. I located the surprisingly deserted bus stop and noted that there would be a bus in five or ten minutes.

I had been waiting for a couple of minutes when a shifty-looking man approached me and spoke in rapid Bulgarian. I shrugged and turned away, assuming he was asking for money. Which in a way, being a taxi driver looking for a fare, he was. Realising I was a foreigner he switched to broken English. He demanded to know why I wanted to wait for the bus, which was expensive and didn't go directly to town. I didn't believe him for a second and so made it clear that I would be getting the bus whether he liked it or not. He shrugged and walked off, each of us no doubt thinking "stupid foreigner". Turns out he was right! At 20 Lev (approx. £8/€10/US$14) the bus was more expensive than the 12 Lev (approx. £5/€6/US$8) fixed-fare taxi! And it went all around the houses. And the five (!) conductors I encountered were rude and unhelpful. Being shouted at in Bulgarian when it's obvious you're a tourist who doesn't speak any is far from pleasant. I just ignored them, and as they didn't speak any English, there was nothing they could do! Still, I got into Sofia centre eventually. Now all I had to do was work out where exactly I was. The problem was that the street signs were all in Cyrillic while my map helpfully used Roman script...


Hmmmm... is that...? Ummm...

Nonetheless, I somehow worked out where I was and where I wanted to be, and minutes later I had reached the very thing I had come to Sofia to see. With its gold cupolas glittering in the sunshine, the Aleksander Nevski Cathedral was unmistakeable. I ran the last few yards and stopped dead. The cathedral was as glorious as I had imagined – huge, ornate and proud. I spent quite a while trying to capture its brilliance.

Occupying an area of 3,170 sq. metres (34,100 sq. feet), the Aleksander Nevski Cathedral is one of the largest Eastern Orthodox cathedrals in the world and the second-largest in the Balkans. Built in the Neo-Byzantine style, construction started in 1882 although most of the building work took place between 1904 and 1912. It was created to honour the 200,000 Russian soldiers who died fighting for Bulgaria's independence during the Russo-Turkish War (1877-1878). If you were going to have something built in your honour, you could do a lot worse than this!


The stunning cathedral

Since the centre of Sofia is so small I decided to just wander, and thus I stumbled across many beautiful churches and sights. In need of sustenance I retraced my steps to the Starbucks I'd seen earlier. Then, refuelled, I decided to find my hostel. Yet again, my map reading skills served me well and before long I had reached what turned out to be a very nice hostel indeed. I stayed there for a while chatting to some of the other guests before venturing out again at 16:15. It was not so much as one degree cooler than it had been.

I decided that my first priority should be more food (I blame the heat!) and so I went in search of the Subway I'd passed on my travels. As sullen as my server was, I was most relieved to find that she spoke English. I thought I'd find a nice cool, shady park to sit in. Unfortunately, the only park I could find had grass you wouldn't sit on if your life depended on it! I was also put off by the rabid-looking dog roaming around – not having had a rabies shot I decided to steer well clear. Instead, I found a nice fountain to sit on the edge of and eat my sandwich.

With the sandwich devoured I walked around the corner and realised that I knew where I was. I had apparently walked in a circle. Not quite willing to call it a day I decided to go check out the mosque (from the outside obviously). I wasn't especially impressed, but then something caught my eye. Behind the mosque there was an absolutely fabulous building, which turned out to be the former Central Mineral Baths. The architects had been inspired by Byzantine church architecture, but it was the beautiful glazed tiles on the façade that had attracted me. Seeing something this lovely more than made up for the disappointment of the mosque.

The disused mineral baths

This beautiful building has been out of use since 1986, although there are restoration plans in the pipework

Aesthetically-pleasing lines

Close up of the tilework

For my second day, having seen much of what Sofia had to offer already, I decided to walk a different way. While waiting to cross a busy road, a splash of purple came into view. I grabbed my camera just in time to get a shot of a tram disguised as a bar of chocolate.


If Milka did public transport...

I went down Makedonia Blvd where there was an obelisk to something or other. Unable to read the Cyrillic letters I could only guess at what it was. A little bit of Googling later, and I learned that it was the Russian Monument. Dedicated to Tsar Aleksander II of Russia and the Russian warriors who lost their lives in the war against the Turks, it was the first monument to be built in Sofia following the country's liberation from Ottoman rule.

The Russian Monument

From there I went to the National Palace of Culture, an ugly, late '70s, concrete and glass construction. The overall appearance was not helped by the grounds being in a serious state of disrepair. But then I saw something that made my efforts worthwhile – a Costa Coffee! There's nothing like a bit of your own culture to help you appreciate someone else's! Over tea and a chocolate muffin, I studied my guidebook to see what else I still wanted to see.

The far from aesthetically-pleasing Palace of Culture



Mt Vitosha which overlooks the city

Having decided I just wanted to walk, my travels took me all over town. I walked along Vitosha Blvd, past the huge Court of Justice. From there I went to the City Garden, where I found myself standing in front of the Ivan Vasov National Theatre. I paused briefly to take a few photos before continuing on with my wanderings...


One of a pair of lions outside the imposing Court of Justice

Ivan Vasov National Theatre

One of a series of statues

One of my favourite sights was that of the Russian Church. Officially called the Church of St. Nicholas the Miracle-Maker, it was erected on the site of the Saray Mosque, which was destroyed in 1882 after Bulgaria's liberation from the Ottoman Empire. It was built in 1907 as the official church for the nearby Russian Embassy, and was named – as was the tradition for diplomatic churches – after the patron saint of the ruling Tsar, in this case Nicholas II.

The gorgeous Russian Church

Who could fail to be impressed by the detailing?

But the one thing I had come to see, the Aleksander Nevski Cathedral, drew me back time and again. I just could not get enough of it. Having taken as many photos as I possibly could, I found myself a shady spot from where I could just sit and admire the views...

Sheer perfection

Not being overly-familiar with the Balkan countries, I had no pre-conceived ideas about what Sofia would be like. Other than wanting to see that one cathedral, I was simply curious. Sofia did not disappoint. I found it to be a small and very walkable city and, once I'd gotten to grips with the Cyrillic alphabet, I was able to navigate the place with relative ease. I loved the mix of architectural styles – so unlike anything I'd seen before – and the stories behind them. I hope one day to revisit Sofia (mainly so I can see the cathedral again) and, while I'm there, I'd quite like to explore a little more of the country.