Up, Up or Only Slightly Up? Eight days of hills, thrills, spills and rakija in the Bulgarian Rhodopes

A charming chapel in the Rhodope mountains.

Aiming to master the art of solo travel, I once assumed that signing up for a group tour was taking the easy way out. Yet there was nothing remotely cowardly about the trekking adventure that the ten of us undertook last week. Although I’d been averaging 15 kilometres of walking a day before the trek, I quickly discovered that this was nothing compared with scrambling over slippery rocks, climbing steep hills and hopping across water-filled creeks while imagining the very real possibility of being swept into a fast-flowing river.

I was also struck by how gracefully some of my fellow trekkers managed their own challenges, including those who couldn’t participate fully. Everyone showed such care and patience, ensuring no one ever became a straggler.

Even more inspiring were their travel histories. Several had ventured to less conventional destinations — Mongolia, the African continent in its entirety, the various ‘Stans, even Tibet. One traveller, only 32, has already clocked more than 70 countries; another chose to make travel her life after her husband died a decade ago, now spending nine months of every year on the road. Others were hiking in their late 60s, an age at which many would have traded trekking poles for slippers.

Probably the flattest stretch of the Pirin mountains.

Peaks, Lakes and a Busload of New Friends: Hiking the Pirin Range

If you had told me that Bulgaria’s most beautiful mountains would introduce themselves via a mildly chaotic bus-stop encounter, I might have believed you. After all, this is the Balkans, and nothing here runs on dullness. I had arrived that morning from Niš, Serbia, slightly travel-worn but excited for my Peaks and Lakes Pirin hiking tour.

What I had not expected was an insistent taxi driver trying to bundle me into the wrong minibus. He nodded enthusiastically every time I asked “are you the Traventuria group,” which in hindsight should have been my first clue. His eagerness bordered on the suspicious. Thankfully, just as I was about to be spirited away to who-knows-where, I spotted the actual tour bus pulling up. I abandoned my would-be kidnapper, joined the correct group, and exhaled with profound relief. One wrong turn and I might have ended up in a monastery that wasn’t on the itinerary.

With the real group assembled, our journey began toward Koprivshtitsa, curled beneath the Sredna Gora Mountains. The town is a living museum where cobblestone alleys twist between brightly painted houses decorated with generous verandahs and ornate eaves. It felt like stepping into a Bulgarian storybook, only with hiking boots.

Day 2: History, Cities and a Surprise Boutique Stay

Koprivshtitsa’s charm hides a tumultuous history. It endured repeated burnings, raids and upheavals during Ottoman rule. Many national heroes of Bulgaria’s liberation movement were born here and we spent the morning visiting their beautifully preserved homes, each filled with artefacts and stories that make modern life feel embarrassingly uncomplicated.

Plovdiv came next, a city where seven thousand years of civilisation overlap like geological layers. We explored its Roman Theatre, revival-period mansions, cobbled lanes and the Ethnographic Museum with its embroidered treasures. Later, Bachkovo Monastery offered quiet courtyards and frescoed walls that felt like a spiritual timeout.

Our final stop was the mountain village of Kossovo, famous for its stone houses stacked along the hillside. Accommodation came with a twist. Our guide asked for volunteers to stay in a second guesthouse a short distance uphill. I put my hand up, as did Margaret, a fellow Australian. Together with Alexander, our unflappable driver, we hauled our luggage up the incline and settled into our charming off-shoot lodging.

The highlight came at sunset. Margaret knocked on my door holding a bottle of white wine. It was unchilled, but as we sat on the stone steps looking out across the rolling hills, the temperature of the drink seemed irrelevant. The sky softened, the mountains glowed, and our little trio of Aussies and Bulgarian driver became instant friends. It was one of those accidental travel moments that feel impossibly perfect.

Day 3: Wooden Bridges, Mountain Villages and a Dinner Straight from Someone’s Grandmother’s Recipe Book

Morning in Kossovo arrived with the soft clatter of cowbells and the smell of breakfast drifting across the terrace. From my perch overlooking the entire village, I felt like the temporary mayor of a settlement held together by stone walls, steep lanes and the good humour of its residents. After fuelling up on Bulgarian breakfast classics, our group piled into the bus and wound deeper into the Rhodopes.

Our first stop was Shiroka Laka, an architectural reserve of mountain houses so perfect they appear arranged by a stylist. Cobbled lanes curved around timber-framed homes with stone roofs that seemed to hover above the valley. A short stroll was enough to appreciate why folklore musicians and pipe-makers still gravitate here; the place hums with tradition.

From there we continued to the spa town of Devin, where the land folds itself into deep valleys and mineral springs bubble beneath the surface. Before any pampering could begin, we followed an eco-trail that wove its way along wooden bridges suspended above the Devinska River. The path snaked through a gorge of dramatic cliffs, and every now and then someone would stop and whisper “chamois!” which set the rest of us scanning the rocks for wild goats sunbathing like seasoned holidaymakers.

By afternoon the official itinerary shifted to relaxation. Devin is famous for its mineral waters and the group dispersed in search of massages, pools and other forms of bliss. Once I had regained feeling in my legs, we regrouped for an early evening transfer to Lyaskovo, a rustic mountain village where time appears to move at half speed.

Dinner took place in the home of a local family and arrived in generous waves: salads sparkling with herbs, slow-cooked meats, homemade rakia that could probably power a tractor, and enough stories to fill the rest of the week. It was warm, unpretentious hospitality of the kind that makes you feel like a long-lost cousin rather than a paying guest.

After we had eaten our bodyweight in Rhodope cooking, we rolled back into Devin for the night, full, content and slightly soused on village charm.

Day 4: Caves, Cliffs and a Forest Straight Out of a Fairy Tale

By Day 4 our group had found its rhythm. People had settled into their preferred bus seats, snack-sharing alliances had formed and we had all agreed that Bulgarian breakfasts are a force for good in the world. A short morning transfer delivered us to the entrance of Yagodina Cave, one of Bulgaria’s underground showstoppers.

Inside, the air cooled instantly and the world transformed into a cathedral of stalactites, stalagmites and formations so strange they defied categorisation. Our guide pointed out shapes resembling curtains, pipe organs and even a heart, depending on one’s imagination and caffeine level. It felt like wandering through geology’s version of a surrealist art exhibition.

Emerging back into sunlight, we passed through Yagodina village, a charming cluster of homes surrounded by smallholdings. Elderly women tended vegetables with the focus of brain surgeons while roosters crowed with an enthusiasm that suggested they had been waiting specifically for our arrival.

Our trail climbed above the village and into rolling hills before eventually entering a dense fir forest. The canopy was so thick it filtered the light into a soft green glow and for a while the group walked quietly, as if aware that this was the sort of place woodland creatures might hold diplomatic meetings. The scent of pine followed us until the trees opened abruptly onto the edge of Trigrad Gorge, a vast cleft in the earth that looked as though a giant had sliced the mountains in two.

By late afternoon we reached the village of Trigrad, tucked into the folds of the gorge and wrapped in a sense of alpine tranquillity. This was home for the night. After a day of caves, peaks and forests, the stillness of the village felt like a reward in itself.

Day 5: Lakes, Clouds, Panic, Rakija and the Handsome Driver’s Homecoming

It was Day 5 of the tour and, if we were honest, the “hiking” so far had mostly consisted of gentle strolls through traditional cobblestone towns, monasteries fragrant with incense, and villages where time moves to a pastoral rhythm. We breathed in quintessential Balkan scenes of horse-drawn carts, shepherds guiding cows across roads, lush green hills stitched with poppies and the occasional waterfall performing for passing hikers. It was charming, picturesque and deceptively restful.

But Day 5 brought with it the anticipation of the famous Pirin Mountains, as well as the promise of something even rarer on a group tour: two nights in the same place. This was a luxury for those of us with suitcases that multiplied mysteriously each morning. Our bus driver, Alexander, may well have had something to do with this arrangement since Bansko was his hometown.

Alexander deserved it. Our shy yet robustly handsome driver had coolly negotiated oncoming traffic, livestock, bicycles, tractors, potholes, rocks, hairpin bends and creative detours. He retrieved medication from pharmacies for the travel-weary, tolerated our post-dinner tipsiness while remaining sober, and delivered us safely from one destination to the next. The prospect of two nights at home was, unquestionably, his reward.

We left Trigrad and wound our way through meandering mountain roads until Bansko appeared at the foot of the Pirin National Park. After dropping luggage at our accommodation, we transferred to Vihren Hut, the starting point for our much-awaited hike through the Cirque of the Banderishki Lakes.

We fuelled up on lunch before setting off because the weather was shifting and our guide, Nadya, was keen for us to move with purpose. Mindful of the changing sky, she encouraged us to pick up the pace. Nadya had struggled all week to keep the company’s ambitious itineraries on schedule. Each day seemed to drift a little later than planned and today was no exception. Determined not to disappoint, she led us to as many lakes as humanly possible—her version of alpine speed-dating.

As we ascended, the terrain became rocky, uneven and increasingly demanding. Some of us found the “up up” rocks a challenge, where one wrong move could have unpleasant consequences. My hiking poles, acquired in a moment of rare foresight, became my best friends. Their steadying presence made the climb feel not only possible but empowering, and the reward was immense. From the peaks we enjoyed sweeping views of the snowy mountains we had previously admired from a comfortable distance.

Then everything changed.

At the top, and again during our descent, we found ourselves literally in the clouds. Our blue sky darkened with theatrical menace.
“I don’t like the look of this sky,” Nadya cried.
“Hurry up,” she ordered, and we obeyed.

Descending the newly slick rocks became a nerve-testing exercise. The likelihood of slipping grew with each step. The rain arrived without mercy, drenching us as we navigated the steep path. One by one, soaked and rattled, we scrambled back to the safety of the bus and the steadfast shelter of Alexander. Not all of us made it without injury—our bodies and egos took equal hits—but we survived the Pirin Mountains with new stories and a heightened respect for gravity.

Recovery came not in the form of bandages or rest but at a traditional mehana, where the cure for a stormy hike was served in litres of homemade rakija. We devoured hearty local dishes as our hosts serenaded us with folk songs, then cheerfully coerced us into donning what felt like twenty kilograms of traditional costume. Before long we were dancing in circles, laughing at ourselves and marvelling at how quickly fear turns into joy when strong spirits and mountain hospitality collide.

It was the kind of night that seals a group together: injuries forgotten, egos restored, and rakija consumed in heroic quantities.

Eating lunch on Day 4 had consisted of shooing some healthy dairy cows away from the picnic table in the Rhodopes so that we could take their place at the picnic table; two persistent calves stayed on and joined us, partaking of our leftovers.

If things couldn’t be any more idyllic, our Bulgarian guide, Nadya, offered us a choice: ‘Do you want to go up up or only slightly up?’ she gestured, with vertical and horizontal hand motions. We looked up at the ‘up up’ mountain and most of us decided to give it a go. ‘Slightly up’ meant a more economical walk around the corner, but no experience of the mountain. But from Day 5 onward there was no choice; it was ‘up up’ all the way.

Days 6 & 7: High Lakes, High Drama

To kick off Day 6, four-wheel drives were essential. Our swarthy but capable drivers bounced us over boulders and up the infamous “up up” hills so we could begin the hike near the Bezbog Hut. While we trekked, they put their time to good use—smoking, fishing and socialising beside the first lake in a way that suggested they had perfected the art of the mountain workday.

From there, we wandered through one of the Pirin Mountains’ greenest regions and made our way to Popovo Lake, the largest and deepest in the range. By the time we descended and returned to Bansko, it was already evening—just enough time for dinner and a quick drink before falling into bed.

It was at this point that I made a small tactical error. If you order a glass of wine in Bulgaria, they serve you something that looks more like a bowl for orphaned tadpoles. Encouraged by one of the younger hikers — “Come and drink red wine with us, Helen,” Jean insisted — I indulged in more than I should have. A poor choice, as I would discover the next morning.

Day 7 began with a visit to the majestic Rila Monastery, a UNESCO masterpiece and the largest Orthodox complex in Bulgaria. While the group admired frescoes and courtyards, I was privately reckoning with consequences — let’s just say that dry-retching into a fly-infested squat toilet was not part of the original itinerary, and I sincerely hope it remains the lowest moment of the entire tour.

From Rila we continued to the celebrated Seven Rila Lakes, accessed by chairlift. These glacier lakes — sitting between 2100 and 2500 metres — are named for their shapes: Babreka (the Kidney), Okoto (the Eye), Salzata (the Teardrop), among others.

Nadya, meanwhile, had intensified her frenzy of lake-point scoring, determined to tick off all seven. But many of us had done the maths: with only a couple of hours before the chairlift closed at 4.30, a full circuit was looking ambitious. Add to that one injured hiker, one with a cold, and me feeling decidedly subpar, and our group naturally split.

I joined the main cluster for a few lakes, then doubled back to encourage the other “sickies” up to at least one vantage point. We took it steadily, shared our mismatched scraps of lunch, enjoyed a peaceful view, and chatted at our own pace. Two others also realised the seven-lake dash was unrealistic and sensibly retreated.

That left five of us descending on the chairlift, wondering if the rest would make it. They did — just — thanks only to some heartfelt pleading that persuaded the chairlift operators to stay open an extra five minutes.

By evening we were back in Sofia, tired, triumphant, and ready for our final dinner together.
(And no, I did not order red wine.)

It would have been impossible for me to replicate the experience of trekking through so many mountains and lakes without joining an organised tour. For a solo traveller, a trip like this offers something invaluable: camaraderie. It breaks up the solitude of travelling alone and replaces it with shared stories, collective triumphs and the occasional mutual groan over a steep ascent.

That said, when the bus rolled back into Sofia on our final evening and familiar signs of the city appeared — hipster fashion, architecture both communist and contemporary, cafés and bars, and notably no tractors, cows or bucolic peaks — I knew I was back where I belonged. I couldn’t wait to immerse myself in Sofia’s culture for the next four nights.