The trip to Arbanasi, a small village in the foothills of mid-Bulgaria, took a couple of hours from the ship, but the difference was obvious almost immediately.

Where the Romanian countryside had felt flat and empty, Bulgaria rolled out green hills, patchwork fields, and cattle grazing as if they actually belonged there. It was alive in a way the previous day hadn’t been. Not perfect, though. Scattered among the greenery were abandoned buildings, reminders that something here has shifted.

Our guide filled in the story as we drove. In the 1950s, around 80% of Bulgarians lived in rural areas. Then came the communist ‘reforms’. Land was appropriated, farms were absorbed into the state, and people were pushed toward the cities to work in factories. Now, that number has flipped. Around 80% of the population lives in apartments in towns and cities. Entire villages have been left behind. As many as 160 have been completely abandoned.

You don’t need statistics to see it. It’s written across the landscape.

Our guide shared a tradition that’s been part of Bulgarian life for centuries. Around the 22nd of March, when winter finally loosens its grip and spring begins in earnest, the storks return from Africa. Their arrival is more than just seasonal, it’s a signal that life is starting again. When people spot a stork on its nest, they tie red and white threads onto a nearby plant or tree, a simple ritual to welcome the new season, a reminder that some things still follow an older, steadier rhythm.

We made a quick stop at a roadside restaurant clearly designed for groups like ours. Three busloads, about a hundred people, all funnelled in for coffee, tea, a few nibbles, and a necessary visit to the facilities. Efficient, functional, and clearly not built for quiet contemplation.

Then we reached Arbanasi.

The village sits in the foothills, a place of narrow streets and dry stone walls that feel older than they probably are. These days it’s something of an enclave, with houses built in the traditional style but carrying a price tag that says otherwise. It’s less a preserved village and more a curated version of one.

We visited two churches, both shaped by centuries of Ottoman rule.

The Church of the Nativity

The first was tiny and easy to miss, which was exactly the point. When this region was under Ottoman control for around 500 years, building a Christian church required permission from the Sultan. That permission usually came with a discreet exchange of money. Even then, there were strict conditions. The church had to be smaller than the smallest mosque in the area, and domes, a defining feature of Orthodox architecture, were not allowed. The church is now preserved as a museum.

Over the years permission was granted to expand the church adding rooms of icons – and uncomfortable seats around the edges. The doorways were very low, apparently deliberately done so people had to bow to enter the rooms.

Inside, the walls were covered with icons. We were told they had been darkened by layers of soot from centuries of candle smoke. Oddly enough, that soot preserved them. When the Ottomans withdrew in the nineteenth century, the layers could be cleaned away, revealing the artwork beneath. The church itself dates back to around 1350, a quiet survivor of a long and complicated history.

Our guide pointed out something else. During those centuries, the churches did more than serve religion. They helped preserve culture. Muslims were forbidden to enter Christian churches, which made them one of the few safe spaces where locals could gather freely. Not just for worship, but for conversation, planning, and the occasional hint of rebellion.

Church of St Michael and St Gabriel

The second church, also a museum, was newer but followed the same restrained design. While we were there, a small group performed traditional chants still used in Orthodox services. One man and three women, their voices filling the space with a sound that felt both simple and powerful. The man, we were told, was an opera singer. It showed.

https://youtube.com/shorts/an8HuTBVHIc

Lunch was in a local restaurant, and it was exactly what you’d hope for. Salad, vegetable soup, and a chicken stew. Simple, filling food with no pretence. The standout for me was the bread, round, soft, not quite flat, the kind of thing you tear apart rather than slice. It felt honest. A reminder that village life once revolved around growing your own food, making your own wine, and feeding whoever turned up at the table.

Veliko Tarnovo

From there we continued on to Veliko Tarnovo.

Once the capital of the Second Bulgarian Empire, this was the seat of power before the Ottomans arrived. It’s built across steep hills, wrapped around a river that cuts through the landscape, with the remains of fortress walls and towers still clearly visible. Even from a distance, you can see why it was chosen. Defensive, commanding, and difficult to attack.

At its height in the twelfth to fourteenth centuries, Veliko Tarnovo was one of the major cultural and political centres of southeastern Europe. That ended in 1393 when the Ottomans took the city after a long siege, marking a turning point for the region.

Today, restoration work continues, slowly bringing parts of the old fortress and walls back to life. We didn’t have time to visit the fortress itself, which felt like a missed opportunity, but that’s the nature of these tours. You get a glimpse, just enough to know there’s more you’re not seeing.

At the time the town was setting up for one of Bulgaria’s most meaningful spring celebrations, tied to 22 March, the day the city marks both the arrival of spring and its own historical glory. The date coincides with the medieval victory of Tsar Ivan Asen II at the Battle of Klokotnitsa in 1230, a defining moment when Tarnovo stood at the heart of a powerful Bulgarian kingdom. Today, the town celebrates with a mix of tradition and pride, there are flags, music, and gatherings across the old capital, along with the red and white threads of early spring customs still seen around the streets. It’s a moment where history and season come together, the past remembered while the country shakes off winter and looks toward brighter days.

Our guide took us into the cobbled old town, down a street lined with working artisans. Leather goods, embroidery, carved wood, porcelain, jewellery, all made on the spot. No mass production, no shortcuts. Just people practising trades that have been handed down over generations. It was one of the few places on the trip that felt untouched by the usual tourist gloss. Always check for the ‘made in China’ sticker.

And then, just like that, it was time to head back.

By the time we returned to the ship, the day had stretched from empty fields to layered history, from quiet villages to former capitals. Bulgaria had shown a different face, greener, older, and in many ways more grounded, but still carrying the marks of a past that hasn’t entirely let go.

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If you’ve missed any of the posts for this trip, go here. Europe 2026