Apparently "Hobo" means something entirely different here...

...which is a shame really, because it sounded like a delicious flavour for an icecream. A small prize (hint: a postcard) for the first member of our no doubt vast readership who posts the correct translation.

Bulgaria continues to engage and amuse, as well as providing Christina with dozens of seemingly identical handbags of which to ask my opinions (the smaller, lighter ones tend to be my favourites). We went horse riding today in a small village outside Veliko Tarnovo (or "Vitello Tonato", as I've been telling Chris it's called - just a little recipe humour there for you folks back home...). I was saddled (har!) with the world's most disobedient horse ("horse-face") and consequently spent much of the time yelling frantically ("horse-face!!") and being dragged through trees (no, really), but the bleeding has largely stopped and a good time was retrospectively had by all. We also mounted an assault on the Thracian Fort overlooking Vitello, and purchased a variety of traditional Bulgarian rose-scented cosmetics. Favoured family members and selected friends can look forward to smelling, literally, of roses on our return.

(the next paragraph takes place before the previous one, as I'm told wonky chronology is the kind of trick booker prize winning authors employ; be sure to pay attention, I may slip in an unreliable narrator later on)
Plovdiv continued to provide us with a delightful combination of the ancient and the merely out-of-date, not to mention monstrous (or, "Bulgarian" as we're starting to learn to think of them) portions of grilled meat and beer. My attempt to trick Chris into eating a skewer of chicken hearts ("duck") was undermined by their stubborn refusal not to taste exactly like I imagine chicken hearts must. Also, there is corn in everything, up to and including the cake Chris ordered for dessert. And the pizza features gerkins and is served with a delicate blend of tomato sauce and mayonaise...

Having bid a somewhat tearful goodbye to Plovdiv ("the Plov" as the guide calls it) we took a long, winding bus ride through frighteningly narrow mountain roads and small towns distinguished only by their choice of socialist realist statues in the main square. The statues were awesome, the mountain roads, somewhat less so...

Attentive readers will be aware that that gets us to Veliko Tarnovo ("Vitello Tanato"), clinging awkwardly to the edge of a precipice like an Australian tourist who shared a 2.5 litre cylinder of the local beer with another Australian tourist who does not pull her weight, drinking wise. But I digress... Beautiful revival era buildings, stunning views of the valley, easily located accomodation and angry homestay touts who now cast aspersions on the entire Australian race each time we pass.

And with that I'm off to try a Bulgarian portion of something made with two types of sausage and two types of cheese and a glass or two of the local wine. Wish us luck for the walk home...

[Suggested caption: "Now, try finding a working bathroom..."]