Deep Roots are Hard to Kill

Exploring memory landscapes

Deep Roots are Hard to Kill.

The resilience of the Bulgarian village

The British love to talk about the weather it’s true, but so does everyone. In the Bulgarian village I have called home for the last 15 years, it is more than just small talk. A conversation might begin with, ‘How hot it is! How cold!’ but can quickly develop into a detailed assessment of rainfall and snowfall. The old folk of Palamartsa place great value on heavy snow, because it nourishes the soil. A good winter is one, where the snow has lain thickly over the land for many weeks. When there is not enough, the natural order of things can be out of balance for the rest of the year and this is not just because the earth is dry.

The logic makes perfect sense in limestone country where the clay soil is thick above the porous bedrock. In summer we need as much moisture in the ground as possible. When the wheat is barren or the apples rotten or the grapes perish, the gardeners of the village blame the light snowfall we might have had the previous winter. Rainfall, these farmers explain, will run off the surface in streams and rivers. This is water wasted, as it finds its way quickly to the great flowing currents of the Danube, 40 km to the north. Snow, on the other hand, melts slowly so that the water seeps deeply into the ground, moistening the clays and filling the underground aquifers that serve as the village water supply.

I moved here 15 years ago from the UK and have watched the changing fortunes of rural Bulgaria with interest. The dominant media narrative is that the Bulgarian villages are dying. In TV segments and articles, the focus is always on the empty houses and the ageing population. These stories are written by people looking in from the outside. What you see from within, is not so much abandonment or decay, it is actually their stubborn resilience.

According to census returns from 2021 there are over a thousand villages in Bulgaria which have less than 50 residents and that makes about a fifth of the total. Even though most Bulgarian city dwellers have a connection with a home village, the number of people actually living in them has been falling since the 1970s. The high point for Palamartsa was 1934 when the population stood at 3400. By 2001 it had decreased to 850 and it is about half that now. When we arrived, most of the local people were pensioners living alone with their gardens and the majority of houses were empty. We saw very few kids. Since 2007 when Bulgaria joined the EU, there has been a steady influx of foreigners to this village so that now there are probably 120 non-Bulgarian immigrants in a population of 500. Most of the incomers are British but there are also residents from Ireland, France, Germany, Netherlands and even the US and Australia. There are still empty houses on every street but also quite a few that have been done up.

The viability of this community has been tested in recent years. An outbreak of swine fever, the Covid 19 pandemic, rising costs of animal feed and the loss of bus services are just some of the challenges. Each crisis has forced people to make a choice; either leave for a more comfortable life or grit your teeth, learn new skills and adapt to the new conditions. There have been enough people who have chosen to stay and I am convinced that this makes for a strong community, filled with independent people.

The place has a natural resilience which comes from being close to nature. Living in a climate where temperatures can plunge to minus 20 Celsius means digging out the snow drifts to the door and protecting water pipes against the subzero temperatures. Most houses are heated by a petchka and this wood stove becomes a lifeline in winter. When the big snow comes and the temperatures plunge, the fire has to be kept alight 24 hours a day. We also need to be ready for power cuts and it helps to have a generator and a gas burner to hand if the outage lasts more than a few hours. Wherever they come from, the people who thrive here are practical and adaptable. Some might say stubborn.

This kind of life does not suit everyone. Winter is challenging but summer too presents difficulties and this is because of the water supply. For years, none of us ever considered where the village water came from but these days, everyone is painfully aware because in recent summers there have been water shortages. The village supply is an underground tank fed by five groundwater springs and this source has become depleted. During the hot summer months, the village is often close to running out completely. The Mayor regulates the flow himself with a great tap, turning it on and off, so that on most summer days there is no water at all until the evening. The problem is made much worse by the poor condition of the pipe work. What’s more, the capacity in the system was never intended for the demands of the 21st century, with its flushing toilets and dishwashers. Even though the population is lower than, say, in 1975 the demands on the water supply are much greater.

For some, the water situation has become too much to bear and it has forced them to retreat, either to the local town or back home to Essex or Hamburg. For those of us who are left, we are learning lessons of co-operation and resourcefulness. At night, we store water for washing up and fill bottles for drinking from the mineral springs in Targovishte. Some people have dug their own well or developed systems for rainwater collection and grey water recycling. These technologies are actively being spread throughout the village, sharing skills, building community strength and bringing people together.

The seasons are not just something which unfold outside the window, but an essential framework of existence. We have to learn to live by them. This promotes a certain empathy with both time and Nature and all the elements that are outside our control. My Bulgarian neighbours are devoted to preparing for winter. In the village, the garden produce must be transformed into pickles, preserves and fruit compote to last throughout the cold months but even for those of us who continue to shop in the supermarkets, there is still a seasonal rhythm to life. Inevitably the winter brings a change of pace.

From December to April, the great walnut tree I can see from my window looks bare and the winter village is quiet and empty. There are few people in the centre. Only essential tasks are undertaken. But the place is not unproductive. What you cannot see is the valuable work of recuperation and rest going on inside every occupied house. My neighbours are sitting by the petchka catching up on reading or watching afternoon films on TV. This promotes good mental health not only for the people but also for the place as a living being, contributing to its natural resilience. Is that why these communities have survived so long? Is that another reason why the snow is so important?

In the last two years there has been an increase in new arrivals and a number of young Bulgarian families have moved here. There is a monthly market bringing together local people with the wider community from other villages, to share food and buy and sell second-hand junk. There is an active social club and a monthly meeting of residents who gather to clean up the public spaces. I have to say that it does not feel like decline.

This year the snow came back. As we watched the garden turn white, it forced us to turn inwards to take a rest and build our strength again, to reflect. There will be plenty of time to prune the trees and prepare the soil for planting when the snow has gone. This period of rest is an essential part of life and it builds stamina for long term survival. It is this that makes Bulgarian villages so independent, adaptable, and like one of those stubborn weeds in the garden which keeps coming back no matter how severely you prune it, very hard to kill.

Read more about life in this village in my memoir, Waiting for the Goats, which will be out in May 2025.