Sveti Vlas, kind of rhymes with Sweaty Arse, well not really but it tickles me. We slept a small amount the day before, having to make sure we’ve got the correct amount of chargers and electronic fuelers. As it happened I forgot to bring a load of plugs so we’re all having to double up, its the sleep deprivation.
Got to the airport and immediately actual time of day takes on a very peripheral meaning, and everyone with an ounce of respectability heads to Wetherspoons in the airport, orders egg Benedict and a pint of strong American IPA, I’m British and so I have to, there’s rules and airport etiquette one has to follow when about to disembark to far off lands. This continues until the end of the holiday and then develops into an issue regards employment, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, red as a lobster and eyes like a panda.
I’ve never been to Bulgaria, I went to Hungry for my Stag do, which was less of a holiday more of an ordeal, all be it with friends who thankfully were in the same boat, literally, come to think of it. So Bulgaria, old eastern Block, and probable sites of torture in the horrific film “Hostel”. Driving from the airport with absolutely no idea of the geography or topology of the place was slightly worrying, I knew the apartment looked good on trip advisor and Booking.com, the Google search images pointed to it being a wonderful place, even my daughter had shut up complaining about the sea being called the Black Sea; was it really Black? That’s disgusting and the temperature being only 30’C. But taking the back routes to our place of residence for the next two weeks, passing derelict farmsteads and old disused factories lent itself to some torture, for all we knew no one had any idea where we were or who we were, we were fair game.
How wrong could I have been, the hotel had a small sweeping drive at the front, a marbled floored air conditioned reception and the standard leatherette sofas peppering it, as flip flops squeaked across the floor. We arrived early, our room wasn’t set and so we walked down the resort to the sea where we found a wonderful beachside restaurant serving grilled chicken and vegetables in oil with a smattering of lemon juice, which would never taste the same in pastoral Worcestershire however hard I try.
This is the view from our apartment, we’ve got a pool and a sea view!! Theres 8 pools here and we have a beach 200 metres away, with 2 great bars. Separate bedrooms off either end of the sitting, dining room and a kitchen which we can cook from, theres a coffee machine which I used incorrectly this morning, possibly around the same time N and M were enjoying their coffee too, we are 2 hours into the future here, so we see all.
The further down the coast you head towards Sunny Beach, the louder the restaurants get, trancing the music up to prepare us for going to the clubs, which lets face it, is never going to happen, I’m 40 something for Christs sake.
It’s really fancy down the docks, or the marina as it actually is; there’s some amazing boats, lots of fancy brightly lit restaurants and lots of banging tunes. It’s a place to prance and postulate, it’s where the young go to smoke and drink and the physically adept go to try their airborne yoga. We were so shot, that my son nearly fell asleep into his pizza and we all regretted the time it took for the food and drinks to arrive. Well, I’ll be honest, it was the time it took the drinks to arrive really!
Anyway why am I doing this? I should be down the pool, lapping it up, and presenting my not quite beach presentable body!