Urban Exploration: No Leaf Clover, Bulgaria

Bulgaria's Black Sea coast is dominated by two port cities; Varna in the north, and Burgas in the south. A distance of roughly 130km separates the two, and although it would seem logical there is as yet no direct rail connection. As a result, taking a train from Varna to Burgas means a 210km detour with a change at Karnobat - the transfer often being the most painful part, given the frustrating irregularity of trains in this part of the world.

During the communist era, when Bulgaria served as an unofficial satellite to the Soviet Union, the country was slowly moulded into a highly efficient labour pool. The USSR outsourced production through sites such as the glass factory I once visited in the Balkan Mountains, as well as the larger arms manufacturer, Arsenal AD, who operated out of a large industrial plant near Kazanluk. Even the Soviet Union's standard issue Makarov pistol would often roll off Bulgarian production lines.

It was common in those days for manufacturing sites to be linked with their own independent rail tracks; the Soviet glass factory I explored had once been supplied by a track that ran all the way from Varna, bringing in vast quantities of sand to be processed. No wonder then, that in 1958 plans went underway to connect Bulgaria's two main port cities by rail.

The land between Varna and Burgas consists largely of forest and rolling meadows. However, it proved necessary to excavate a tunnel beneath the hills north of Burgas; planned to start near the town of Dolno Ezerovo (Долно Езерово), and reaching as far north as Dolni Chiflik (Долни чифлик), the project was abandoned before completion.

I first came across photos of the disused tunnel entrance while browsing through a forum for Bulgarian photographers. It took me a little time to locate the structure, and place it on a map - the site being well removed from human settlements, and with little-and-less information available in English.

When I did finally visit, it was with Nate from Yomadic; parking up near the coastal village of Kosharitsa on a bright May afternoon, and heading into the wilderness along an unmarked, overgrown path. We spotted our first clues early on - large square slabs of concrete set into either side of a ditch, which would have formed the supports for a train track.

The walk took us around 20 minutes, and we couldn't have picked a better day for it; the sun warmed our backs, and wherever we stepped the dry undergrowth would rustle with the movement of birds and lizards.

More signs appeared as we grew closer to our destination. The path we followed was littered with concrete fragments - supports and foundations - while a gravel embankment rose up above the babbling stream to our left.

At one point we wondered if we had gone too far; whether we should have crossed the water, or strayed a little further from the path in search of our goal. Then we came around one last corner, and there it was before us - a proud and prominent brickwork arch, rising out of the trees.

The imposing archway had been bricked up at some point, presumably when the project was abandoned; a small gap had been left however, providing access into the tunnel that burrowed beneath the hills beyond. We approached the entrance, peering into the gloom. The tunnel had been flooded, its floor a black mirror pool, and the darkness marched on beyond knowing.

In my research I had found a wide variety of mixed and contradictory accounts of the tunnel at Kosharitsa. Some reports reckoned it at 4km, others at 8. Another forum - frequented by trainspotters (and all written in Bulgarian, naturally) - suggested that this tunnel was a part of an 'understudy' line; that a direct line between Varna and Burgas would have been supported by ancillary tracks stopping at the towns of Obroz, Byala and Dolni Chiflik along the way.

One self-professed expert on the subject of Bulgarian rail had claimed this tunnel was part of a military installation - codenamed 'Project A'. The purpose of Project A, he explained, was to allow the rapid transfer of troops to the Turkish border. There seems to be some mileage in this theory. Bulgaria had only achieved its independence from the Ottoman Empire in 1908, 30 years after the end of the Second Russo-Turkish War. It follows that 50 years later, a Russian-influenced Bulgaria would remain wary of its southern land border with Turkey.

We scrambled up the grassy slope, hopping across onto the concrete portal. Some have suggested that this structure was intended to form engine room curtains; others dismiss it as purely decorative, as is suggested by the flagpole mounted on top of the framework.

I decided it was time to take a look inside.

Ducking under the brick lintel and into the darkness of the tunnel, I clung to the wall, my feet finding purchase on a narrow ledge over the murky waters. After the bright sunlight outside, it took a while for my eyes to acclimatise to the tunnel. I waited for a few moments, surrounded by soft plops and the mating call of frogs.

The water made for slow progress at first. It was hard to gauge exactly how deep it was, and so I was forced to leap from one concrete outcrop to another along the tunnel wall. I didn't have to travel far though, before the flood subsided; and pretty soon I was able to walk unhindered through the darkness.

The train tunnel was almost bare inside, save for ceramic insulators which extended at regular intervals from the ceiling - evidence that at some stage the Kosharitsa tunnel had had electric power; or at least dreamed of it. Chalk marks broke up the monotony of the tunnel walls, while neat Cyrillic script spelt out builders' notes to one another.

A deep groove dug down the centre of the tunnel marked where the track would have been laid. Instead of reaching completion though, this trench had simply been covered with a series of cracked paving slabs.

Occasionally a frog would be startled at my approach, and disappear into the central gully. Bulgaria is home to a couple of venomous snakes, and I wondered what else lay sleeping in the moist darkness around me.

The cavern just kept on going. Wide enough for a cargo train and somewhere around 5m in height, this subterranean space felt vast and endless. At one point it crossed my mind that I hadn't changed the batteries in my headlamp for a while... and I didn't have a spare torch. Nevertheless, this place didn't strike me as dangerous; just a highly inconvenient path to retrace in total darkness.

Once or twice I found signs of other visitors. A couple of plastic beer bottles were discarded in an alcove, beside the charred remains of a camp fire. Further along I found the skull and bones of some small mammal, long since perished.

By my reckoning, the Kosharitsa tunnel extends for a distance of around 1km. One report I read had placed it at 1,200m, and I'm happy to go with that. The far end was much like the entrance, blocked by a wall of solid grey brick. It was exactly as I had read, as I had expected; tools dropped, work finished, the half-built tunnel sealed and left to fester in darkness. Somehow though, I still felt a little disappointment.

I retraced my footsteps; the light from the entrance growing from a distant pinprick to a glowing orb, giving the illusion of a ghost train approaching out of the darkness. The orb grew further still, until I could make out Nate's silhouette framed in the brick entrance; his long shadow rippling over black water.

Despite exploring the Kosharitsa tunnel in its entirety, the site was still shrouded in mystery; what exactly had been the original purpose of this track, when was it abandoned, and why so suddenly? In a post-communist country it's easy to blame such things on a regime change... but when you look a little closer, you find that this isn't always the case.

Whatever the reason for its abandonment, the tunnel at Кошарица now takes its place alongside countless other relics from an age gone by; buried and forgotten beneath the green hills of Bulgaria.

More Urban Exploration...

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Dark Tourism: Buddhist Hell Garden, Thailand

Hidden away down an overgrown road, in a village not far from Bangkok, there lies a curious museum known to many as the 'Thailand Hell Horror Park'. Built adjacent to a local temple, the Wang Saen Suk Hell Garden - as it is correctly named - brings to life Buddhist teachings about the torments of the underworld, in a series of increasingly gruesome scenes. Curious to learn more, I set out in search of Hell.

Wang Saen Suk Hell Garden

I first came across photos from the Wang Saen Suk Hell Garden a couple of years ago, after they had appeared in The Fortean Times. When I finally got to Thailand for myself, it was right up there on my 'to-do' list. After a little digging around I managed to find a listing for Wang Saen Suk on Tripadvisor - which gave the address as Sai 2, Soi 19, Saen Suk.

The village of Saen Suk is located close to Chon Buri - around 100km southeast of Bangkok - and while its pleasant beaches do attract their fair share of domestic tourism, the majority of foreigners pass this spot by in favour of nearby Pattaya or the spectacular islands to the south.

I didn't have much in the way of a plan; I simply woke up early one day and headed down towards Bangkok's hectic bus station beside Victory Monument. Getting there seemed to be a relatively simple affair. Regular coaches run from the capital to the infamous sex-tourism hotspot of Pattaya, and they would all be passing Chon Buri on the way. From there I guessed I'd taxi it to the Hell Garden. Getting back worried me more, but I decided to think about that later.

Sure enough, by 9am I was wedged into the back of an old bus between a couple of elderly Thai women, with a breakfast of noodles and a syrupy iced coffee. The journey took us just short of two hours, escaping the horrific Bangkok traffic to leapfrog the beach resorts which lie scattered along the coast east. One-by-one the other passengers got off, until I was alone with the driver. Every few minutes I'd ask him where we were, terrified of missing my stop.

"This Bang Saen!" he suddenly declared, then, pointing off to the right, "Saen Suk!" He hadn't heard of the Hell Garden (and my graphic mimery wasn't helping), but I only had to get to Saen Suk and look for the palace, or "Wang". I thanked him and hopped off the bus - into a bustling street of Chinese markets.

Getting from Bang Saen to the Hell Garden was not as easy as I had imagined. Taxis seemed non-existent here, so for the next four hours I walked up and down rural lanes flanked with high hedges, beside highways and past grocery shops, barbers and massage parlours [1].

To make things a little more interesting, the weather was fast deteriorating. As the locals were dashing for cover, many of them looked out in puzzlement at the stupid farang who had gotten lost in a fishing village during a thunderstorm.

"Go home!" a mechanic laughed at me, when I stopped to ask directions. "Khaosan Road that way!"

He was pointing at Bangkok, and its heaving tourist district. Later I stopped for a coffee at a roadside shack, and the woman running it made conversation while I drank. She spoke in Thai, and I understood around four words in as many minutes - but it was somehow flattering that she would try speaking to me in her own language. I did have to text a Thai friend to get the word for 'toilet' however... that was one thing I wasn't going to mime [2].

It was getting late in the afternoon by the time I reached Bang Saen Beach. I had been following a map copied by hand from the Internet, but it seemed to bear less and less resemblance to the arrangement of roads in reality. I was tired and soaking wet, wondering if I would ever find this place. I got talking to a bunch of youths outside a 7-Eleven. At first they made the same mistake that others had - directing me to the temple, or Wat Saen Suk instead of Wang Saen Suk. The palace was new to them.

I was almost beyond hope when a nearby man suddenly joined the conversation. He was smoking in the rain, his feet propped up high on the handlebars of his motorbike.

"I take you to Hell for 20 Baht," he said.

Naraka & The Hungry Ghosts

My Virgil left me by the entrance, where a great Buddha sat in watch over the gates of hell. From here it looked unremarkable; there were life-sized sculptures of men, women and animals, grouped to portray scenes of religious significance. A man was cutting off his hair in one diorama, while another man, presumably a saint of some sort, was slaying some mean-looking crocodiles. Here and there monks floated about, their orange robes wet from the storm, while a sign on the wall proclaimed, "Welcome to Hell!"

I followed the path around a corner, when suddenly the space ahead of me was opened up into a surreal tapestry of pain.

Two vast figures dominated the clearing, the emaciated forms of a man and a woman. At their feet, four sinners were boiling alive as guards jabbed at them with spears. Around the caul-dron and the giants, there danced 21 figures - all at a similar height to me. Their twisted human bodies were conjoined with the heads of animals, and arrayed in a variety of threatening poses: lunging, reaching and clawing, or prancing about like fools.

In Buddhism, Hell is known as 'Naraka'. It's not eternal damnation in the Abrahamic sense, but rather the punishments of Naraka continue until the sinner's negative karma is spent. Texts such as the Devadūta-sutta (a part of the Pāli Canon) give descriptive accounts of the tortures conducted here, which are decided by the particular crimes of the individual. The tormented are not 'cast' into hell, as is the case in other religions; but rather, it is the weight of their negative karma that brings them here.

According to the Traiphuum Phra Ruang, the newly-dead are brought before the 'Death King', Phya Yom. It is Phya Yom who informs you of your fate, after comparing your list of good deeds (inscribed on a gold plate) against any bad actions you have committed in life (listed on a scrap of dog skin).

The demon closest to me had the head of a savage pig, and a plaque between its feet that read:

"Ones who make a corruption are punished in the hell, they are named as the spirits of the pigs."

I walked through the dancing rows, reading the inscriptions as I passed. The ungrateful become tigers, the jealous rabbits, and those who instigate brawls become ducks. Stealing aquatic animals earns you a fish head, while those who steal cooked rice are named as the spirits of the birds. All are punished in the hell.

Ones who sell the habit-performing drugs are punished in the hell, they are named as the spirits of the cows.

Phya Yom, the Death King, was seated in a grotto to my left. Before him stood two freshly deceased souls, chained about their necks and awaiting judgement.

I wanted to find out more however, about the two figures that towered over all else: a male and a female form, with skeletal features and stretched tongues hanging halfway to the ground. A donation box was placed at the feet of each giant, while signs in English explained the fate of these two tortured beings. They had transgressed the five sacred precepts of Buddhism, and "plunged themselves into the four Causes of the Misfortunes". Namely, "the Connoisseur of Women, the Habitual Drinkers, the Habitual Gamblers the Fellowship with the knaves and behaving against the virtue or the moral principles".

These colossal figures were named as ghosts. The male was 'Nai Ngean-Nai Ngean', guilty in life of vice and disorderly conduct. The female ghost - 'Nang Thong-Nang Thong' - had made mistakes of "sexual intercourse, misconduct, mind without morality".

There are many ghosts described in Thai folklore; often inhabiting forests or coastal areas, they range in personality from the highly aggressive to lost and lonely souls. Nai Ngean and Nang Thong seemed to fit the description of Preta; or, 'the hungry ghosts'.

The concept of preta is common to Buddhist, Sikh, Hindu and Jain texts. These are spirits who have been greedy or jealous people in life, and by punishment are afflicted with insatiable hungers in the afterlife. In many traditions the object of their hunger is something repulsive, such as human faeces or cadavers.

Stories about the preta vary from culture to culture. Generally though, they are characterised as having great height combined with mummified skin, skeletal limbs and distended bellies. Their necks are long and thin, too narrow to allow them to fill their stomachs - and serving as a visual metaphor for their hunger.

Preta are highly sensitive to heat and cold, and unlike the tormented souls of hell they are free to wander the earth - forever searching for nourishment. Some traditions say that the ghost's food will burst into flames as it tries to consume it; other sources describe preta as being invisible, or visible only to humans in abnormal mental states.

Behind the hungry ghosts I examined another row of demons, some with less mammalian faces: a snake, a dragon, a lizard and a lobster.

I learned that those who exploit and cause suffering to others are named as the spirits of the dogs; vandals are rats and tortoises undermine the authority of others, while those who destroy the areas of wilderness are named as deer.

Ones who are employed to put fire on the others properties are punished in the hell, they are named as the spirits of the snakes.

The Bowels of Buddhist Hell

Thailand has a number of Hell Gardens, but the Wang Saen Suk Monastery Garden is the largest of them all. Entering the garden proper, I passed a sign which warned;

"If you meet the Devil in this life, don't postpone merit-making which will help you to defeat him in the next life."

Naraka consists of eight large pits, each of them attached to a further 16 areas, giving a total of 136 pits altogether. These regions vary in terms of punishment, and individuals are assigned to a pit based on the nature of their transgressions.

This formulaic system of torture shares much in common with the Christian traditions illustrated by Dante's Divine Comedy; unlike Dante's own Inferno however, the dead may be reborn from Naraka once their punishment has finished. Only one pit differs, and that is Avici: the 'non-returning hell'. This deepest region of the underworld is cold rather than hot like the others, and reserved for those who take the life of their parents, a Buddha or an enlightened 'Arhat'. Souls in Avici remain in torment until the birth of a new Buddhist era.

While Abrahamic religions focus on the Ten Commandments, the Buddhists live life by a series of 'Precepts'. According to the Pali Canon the Five Precepts forbid murder, theft, sexual misconduct, dishonesty and drunkenness. There are more precepts besides these however; novice monks must live by a series of 10 precepts, while an adult monk must uphold a total of 227.

As I walked around the garden, I was introduced to the various punishments prescribed for a range of different crimes. Stern men dressed in Buddhist robes were appointed the role of torturers. In the middle of the courtyard some naked figures were climbing up a thorny tree; the dogs of hell harassing them from beneath while ravens pecked at their eyes. Beside this diorama, a donation box explained:

"Ones who violate the third one of the Five Precepts "Infringing the sexual intercourse, being paramour with the others’ wives or husbands" receive the results of the bad action as shown in this picture."

Other punishments included a woman being penetrated with a spear, as recompense for "injection, aborticide, birth control"; "cheating and overreach" were punished with the removal of eyes, while a man who had undermined Buddhism was having his head savagely beaten off with a metal bar.

Some of these punishments were conducted singularly, while others were meted out on larger groups of sinners. One particularly gruesome scene featured a corrupt man and a rice thief (with the heads of a pig and a bird, respectively) being hacked apart with axes; an undutiful ascetic (toad) was having his intestines torn out by a bird, whilst a bull-headed drug dealer had his throat crudely slashed.

A human-headed sinner was being sawn in half beside them, another had a throwing star embedded in his forehead. It was interesting to note one other figure, which bore a strong resemblance to a 'Blemmye'; a mythical tribe of cannibals reportedly discovered in Africa, headless and with a face growing from their torso. The Blemmyes were described as early as the 1st century AD [3], and have appeared in notable works of fiction throughout the middle ages and since [4].

Beside this group an inscription read: "Ones who violate the second of the Five Precepts "Stealing, Cheating or destroying the others' Properties" receive the results of the bad action as shown in this picture."

Another scene depicted a woman who had killed her husband (a good father), having a spear thrust through her heart. A woman who had committed the sin of abortion was being slowly crushed in a vice, by two of the hell guards. A nearby rapist had been chained to a post and was having a trident shoved at his genitals.

I made my way towards the back of the garden, through the throng of twisting figures. All along I kept spotting faces out of the corner of my eye; many of these cement and plaster figures were surprisingly life-like, and I would often look up to find their eyes meeting mine directly. It was an unnerving sensation.

Other articles I had read about the Wang Saen Suk Hell Garden have reported its popularity amongst Thai families and domestic tourists; the park was abandoned on my visit however, as the rain continued to fall and thunder rumbled ominously over the horizon. Once or twice I saw the giant ghosts lit up by bolts of bright lightning. The electricity seemed to give life - just for a brief moment - to their hungry, withered faces.

At the other end of the garden I met the alcoholics. These men were still clinging to their bottles, as the hell wardens poured boiling oil down their throats.

The Path of Prayer

The Wang Saen Suk Hell Garden is not intended merely to frighten, but rather to instruct. In addition to the vicious punishment it details, there are also illustrations of the reward for good karma.

In the furthest corner of the garden, some figures were grouped about a tree. A nearby donation box read: "Ones who give alms and Yellow robs to the Buddhist Monks and build the Buddha’s immages will be born in the religious period of the next Bodhisattaya (Sri – Araya mettaraya). In his religion, there will have been a Kalapapluek Tree growing in the future world yielding which contain every thing one may wish for."

In fact, having now walked the length of the torture fields it was a relief to find such a positive message waiting at the end. Nearby, in the shade of another tree perched an image of the Buddha. He smiled down benignly, at the sinners who raised their hands in desperate prayer before him.

I returned towards the entrance, taking an open path that ran parallel to the hell garden. The statues here were not as violent, but rather showed scenes of appeasement. I did note however, that the macabre streak remained... as I contemplated a man peacefully feeding his own entrails to birds.

Thai Buddhism is fascinating, in that it embraces so many different ideas. Their extended cosmology incorporates an underworld structured much like that of Christianity in the Middle Ages, while themes from Vedic Hinduism have been absorbed into the religion through Cambodia to the north; Hindu gods such as Vishnu and Ganesha are commonly adopted here as personal and household deities.

Further illustrating the point, near the exit I came upon a series of twelve figures which corresponded with the signs of the Chinese zodiac. Collection boxes urged for a donation to the visitor's protective spirit, and so I located mine. The storm was still blowing, and it was just beginning to get dark. Soon I would need to venture out of the relative shelter of the Hell Garden, and try to find a way back to Bangkok. I was going to need all the protection I could get.

The sign read: "Who was born in the year of the pig has an influence on the twelfth, sixth month and year of the small snake. He must drive away the evil spirit by donating one Baht per age."

I fed a handful of Baht into the slot, and gave a little bow to the female spirit who rode before me upon a giant pig. I wasn't sure if that was the correct procedure, but it seemed to please a passing monk. I looked up to see him smiling kindly at me, as he arranged potted plants around a nearby Hindu shrine.

I left the Hell Garden behind me, and headed back out towards the main road. It was early evening, and the dark clouds made it appear darker still. I hadn't seen a taxi all day, and I was already formulating a back-up plan; perhaps the monks would take pity on me, and let me sleep on the temple floor.

As I walked the long road between Wang Saen Suk and the village of Bang Saen, I was joined by a pair of stray dogs who trotted beside me, one on either side. After around 10 minutes I reached the main road, and tentatively waved at the first passing vehicle.

To my surprise, the van pulled over. I tried to mime a bus, alternately asking for "Bangkok" and "Krung Thep" [5]. The driver was amused, but he seemed to understand what I needed. He drove me straight to the nearest bus station, and five minutes later I was sitting on a coach headed back to the capital; pondering on the nature of karma.

More Dark Tourism...

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[1] I don't usually like to travel with a smartphone, although I'll admit that on this occasion I would have murdered for Google Maps.

[2] "ห้องน้ำ" or "hông náam".

[3] "It is said that the Blemmyes have no heads, and that their mouth and eyes are put in their chests." - Pliny the Elder (c75 AD) 'Natural History', Book V.

[4] "And of the Cannibals that each other eat, The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders." - William Shakespeare (1603) 'Othello'.

[5] "Krung Thep" is the traditional Thai name for Bangkok.

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Editorial: June

Welcome to the June editorial! Inside you'll find links to decrepit communist monuments, Nazi hotels, an abandoned Star Wars film set and the gateway to Buddhist Hell. Proceed with caution...

Link Roundup

I'll kick this editorial off with the usual selection of locations that I'm dying to visit... this time including an abandoned Nazi holiday complex, and a 'Jihad Theme Park' in Lebanon!

Kiev's Night Towers
General Kosmosa

What Luke Skywalker’s Home Looks Like Today
Buzzfeed

The 10,000 Bedroom Nazi Hotel that was never used
Amusing Planet

Hezbollah's Jihad Theme Park
VICE

Communist Party Headquarters, Buzludzha
Yomadic

Bulgarian Road Trips

May has mostly been a quiet month, filled with cider and sunshine. The weekend before last however, I had the great pleasure of meeting Nate Robert - the Australian writer and photographer behind inspiring travel blog Yomadic. Nate and his girlfriend were keen to see as much of Bulgaria as possible, in just five days... and with a particular interest in the country's broad selection of decaying socialist monuments. A man after my own heart.

We were on the road together for three days, cruising up mountains and through thunderstorms in a hire car that Nate had picked up back in Serbia. We made it out to some of Bulgaria's most famous communist landmarks - such as Buzludzha (see Nate's excellent report here) and the Park-Monument of the Bulgarian-Soviet Friendship - as well as dis-covering some new treasures.

Needless to say, it has given me plenty of ammo for future posts. Over the coming weeks I'll be revisiting some of those sites I have documented in the past (this time of course, capturing them with a far superior camera), as well as introducing some new locations... including an unfinished Soviet train tunnel, an abandoned outdoor cinema, a MiG graveyard and the spectacular 'Monument to 1300 Years of Bulgaria' at Shumen.

May Features

This month I wrote a piece for my friends at Young Pioneer Magazine, the first in a two-part exploration of what might well be the world's largest ghost town - the Chinese 'ghost city' of Ordos.

I've also now begun contributing towards the Atlas Obscura; for those not familiar with the site, the 'Atlas Obscura' is an online database which aims to provide "the definitive guide to the world's wondrous and curious places." I know, right? I'm absolutely loving their site right now, and I'm delighted to be adding some of my own locations to the atlas.

Next Month

After a relatively quiet month, I'm planning a few special trips for June. First off I'll be visiting London, where I'm catching up with a few local urban explorers to investigate a whole different side to the city. I'll also be stopping by Poland in June, to document the site of perhaps the most horrific episode in recent human history: the concentration camp at Auschwitz.

Coming Up Next

People often ask me which is the strangest place I have ever visited; well, allow me to introduce you to one of the main contenders.

The Wang Saen Suk Hell Garden is located a few hours east of Bangkok, and aside from domestic tourism it remains relatively un-known outside of Thailand. I managed to find my way to the Hell Garden in the middle of a thunderstorm back in April... and embarked on a truly bizarre journey into the bowels of Buddhist Hell.

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Dark Tourism: Cape Kaliakra, Bulgaria

Cape Kaliakra is a long rocky headland, that juts out into the Black Sea from the coast of northern Bulgaria. Located in the region of Southern Dobruja - not far from the Romanian border - it's a popular spot for sightseeing and picnics, as well as featuring golf courses and a nature reserve. Beautiful as it may appear however, Cape Kaliakra nevertheless conceals a brutal history of suicide, siege and warfare.

The Cape of 40 Maidens

Cape Kaliakra (Bulgarian: Нос Калиакра) is located 60km north of Varna; Bulgaria's 'Summer Capital'. Offering a strategic vantage point over the Black Sea, the cape has seen a long history of fortifications; occupied successively by the Thracians, the Romans, the Byzantines, the Bulgarians, the Ottoman Empire and the Kingdom of Romania.

The name 'Kaliakra' comes from the Byzantine Greek words, 'καλός' ('beautiful') and 'άκρα' ('headland' or 'fortress'). Even before the arrival of the Byzantines though, the cape was settled in the 4th century BC by a Thracian tribe known as the Tirizi.

Unsurprising then, that this picturesque stretch of coastline has been the inspiration for countless myths and legends, tied in with a history that goes back as far as the earliest written records and beyond.

We drove to the cape from Varna; past the Park-Monument of the Bulgarian-Soviet Friendship and through the peculiar town of Kavarna, whose otherwise bland apartment blocks are decorated with towering murals of heavy metal musicians.

The Kaliakra peninsula stretches 2km into the Black Sea. We took the car as far as we could, along the single dirt track that rides the crest of the headland. At one point the peninsula narrowed to no wider than the road itself; we were faced on either side by a sheer drop, 70m down to the crashing waters below. We parked when we ran out of road, and made our way down to the tip of the peninsula on foot. Here a single stone arch rose forlorn, the entrance to a structure long since lost.

The Ottoman Empire invaded Bulgaria in the late 14th century, burning and raping their way across the country. According to the stories livestock were slaughtered for sport, villages and crops were set aflame, and those who resisted were killed where they stood; girls who were captured were either kept for the pleasure of the Ottoman officers, or sent to join the Sultan's harem at Constantinople. It is said that when the Ottoman army approached Kaliakra, 40 local girls fled to the end of the headland. They tied their hair together, and jumped from the edge of the cliff; preferring to die on the rocks beneath rather than be captured. An obelisk known as 'The Gate of the 40 Maidens' (Bulgarian: 'Портата на 40-те девици') now stands at the entrance to the cape, in memory of their sacrifice.

As we explored the narrow peninsula we came across numerous smaller monuments, statues and engravings. Some of these looked to be recent additions, while others, well eroded by wind and water, appeared almost timeless. At the end of the cape, overlooking a stone balcony peering out from the cliff face, there now stands the secure compound of a medium wave broadcasting facility. Formerly the site was a dervish monastery, built under Ottoman occupation and said to have contained relics of the Muslim saint Sarı Saltık.

Another local legend explains the formation of the peninsula. Saint Nicholas, patron saint of seamen, was fleeing the Ottomans at Kaliakra. To aid his escape God created the cape beneath his feet, a narrow path stretching out into the sea. Saint Nicholas was nevertheless captured, and a chapel built here in 1993 stands memorial to his death.

Kaliakra Fortress

Cape Kaliakra has long been regarded as a point of key strategic significance. In 1444, while marching south to face the Ottoman Empire, King Władysław III of Poland made camp at Kaliakra. He would later loose his life in the Battle of Varna, to be honoured with the title Vladislav of Varna, or 'Vladislav Varnenchik' (Bulgarian: 'Владислав Варненчик').

The cape was to play a key role once again, in the later Russo-Turkish War. It was here that the Russian Admiral Fyodor Ushakov sailed south to smash the Turkish fleet. The Battle of Cape Kaliakra, fought on 11 August 1791, was the fiercest naval battle the Black Sea had ever seen and brought an end to the Russo-Turkish War of 1787-1791.

Following the peninsula back to the mainland, we passed a statue of Admiral Ushakov - cast in the cubist style so typical of Bulgaria under communism. The celebration of this Russian admiral also fits the pattern of memorials such as Shipka, Buzludzha and the monument in Varna, immortalising the strength and determination of the Soviet forces through hyper-proportioned, brutalist effigies.

Just past the monument to Ushakov we passed through row upon row of stone foundations, the remains of a town that once surrounded the Kaliakra Fortress.

According to the ancient Greek geographer Strabo, it was at Kaliakra that King Lysimachus built his capital. Lysimachus, or 'Lyzimah' as he is otherwise known, was ruler of Thrace and a successor of Alexander the Great. It is said that he returned to Kaliakra with bountiful treasures won in his campaigns against the Persians; but after hiding his fortune in caves scattered along the cape, Lysimachus and his entire fleet were drowned in a major storm.

The Kaliakra Fortress continued to grow. A second fortress wall was built during the Hellenistic period, and later the Romans would extend the original Thracian design. By 342 AD, the fortress featured inner and outer townships, while impressive round towers rose inside the fortress walls. A third fortification appeared in the late 4th century, with walls believed to have been 10m tall and 3m thick. Recent archaeological work also shows the remains of an early Christian necropolis on the site.

Kaliakra Fortress remained an important military outpost throughout the 5th and 6th centuries; here in 513 AD the Byzantine General Vitalin and his rebel army dealt a crushing blow to the forces of Emperor Anastasius I. The fortress at Kaliakra did not begin to decline until the 7th century. Later, when the Ottomans arrived in the 14th, what remained of Kaliakra Fortress was destroyed altogether.

The Despotate of Dobruja

We drove back along the coast, passing through popular resort towns such as Balchik and Golden Sands. Every year these beaches draw thousands of tourists, many coming from Britain, Russia, Germany and Scandinavia. Much like Cape Kaliakra though, these picturesque resorts bely a turbulent and bloody history.

The nearby town of Dobrich takes its name from the 14th century Dobrotitsa (or 'Добротица'), ruler of Kaliakra Fortress and remembered by many as 'the Despot Dobrotitsa'. Dobrotitsa and his navy won notable battles against the Ottomans and Genoese, in the name of the quasi-independent Principality of Karvuna which once covered the northern half of Bulgaria's Black Sea coast.

The Turkish form of Dobrotitsa, 'Dobruja', now lends its name to the entire region.

In 1444 the Karvuna Principality, or Despotate of Dobruja, fell to the Ottomans following the Battle of Varna. Bulgaria was finally liberated in 1878, although later, following the Second Balkan War of 1913, parts of Southern Dobruja were absorbed into the Kingdom of Romania. In 1921 the Scottish-born Queen Marie of Romania visited the ancient Thracian settlement of Balchik, not far from Kaliakra. She was so enamoured with the place that she had a royal palace built here.

We stopped briefly at Balchik Palace. Constructed between 1926 and 1937, the small palace overlooks the Black Sea and features residential villas, a chapel and monastery, wine cellars and a stylised minaret. Nearby, the overgrown remains of an unfinished holiday resort provided a stark contrast to the grandiose palace.

During WWII, in a bid to secure Bulgaria's allegiance, Hitler forced Romania to cede Southern Dobruja to its former owners; the return of these lands was later formalised in the 1940 Treaty of Craiova. The Bulgarians established the Balchik Botanical Garden that same year, adjacent to Queen Marie's palace.

Kaliakra Now

Cape Kaliakra today, with its ecological reserves, wind farms and championship golf courses, offers few clues as to the countless bloody battles which have been waged along this length of the Black Sea coast. However even now, the dispute remains unsettled.

The Treaty of Craiova saw the resettlement of 110,000 Romanians who had made their home in Bulgaria; many Romanians still condemn the 'theft' of Southern Dobruja (or as they know it, 'Cadrilater'). On my numerous trips between Varna and Bucharest I have often found myself playing the role of messenger between Bulgarians and Romanians in this ongoing debate.

According to a Balchik census in 2011, no more than 72.9% of the local population is Bulgarian. Of the remainder, most notably, are 15.8% Turkish and 8.8% of gypsy heritage. A taxi driver once told me that the Romanians here hate the Bulgarians, the Bulgarians hate the Turks, and everybody hates the gypsies; meanwhile the green grass of Kaliakra grows over the bodies of countless battles past.

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Urban Exploration: Brewer's Droop, Australia

An eyesore to some, proud heritage site to others; despite its severe state of decay this Australian brewery presents a fine example of Victorian architecture. Dense graffiti masks ornate polychrome brickwork. Redevelopment plans have been on hold since 1997, and the site remains a popular haunt of street artists and urban explorers.

However, the climb up this eight-storey brewery - once the tallest building in Australia - proved easier said than done.

Getting In

Melbourne's old Yorkshire Brewery isn't hard to find, its Romanesque tower and grain silos rising high above the surrounding streets. The brewery was built in 1880, working to a design by the architect James Wood. Standing eight floors tall from the courtyard up to the French style mansard roof, the tower remained Australia's tallest building for another decade.

The site was purchased by the Carlton and United breweries in 1909, to be used for many years as a cooperage and standby plant. The move from wooden barrels to steel casks in the mid-twentieth century brought this to an end, though; while advances in brewing techniques rendered the premises unsuitable for their original role.

I visited the Yorkshire Brewery with another British photographer, just a few days after our trip to an abandoned mental asylum on the city limits. Locating the tower was easy enough, although I had heard that getting inside would be trickier... and the stories didn't disappoint.

The silo block, tower and outbuildings were clustered about a large central courtyard, its heavily chained gate facing onto a quiet backstreet. We made a discrete circuit of the perimeter, finding nothing in the way of an entrance; every window on the first two floors had either been bricked, barred or bolted. We returned to the main gate.

The entrance was situated directly opposite a small Aikido club; it was a warm evening, and the black belt class were training with the double doors open. We had to hope they wouldn't care or preferably even notice, as we rolled under the gate and scuttled out of sight around the corner.

Inside the courtyard, we began to realise just how secure the site was. Every visible entrance to the brewery was well out of reach, except for a raised walkway - three floors up - which could perhaps be reached by climbing up the loose bricks jutting from a collapsed corner in the wall. It wasn't an attractive plan.

On the off chance of a shared basement level, I scouted the outbuildings. They were little more than shells though, filled with cooking pots, mattresses and spent aerosols. We were almost considering defeat, when we eventually stumbled across the entrance.

The Tower

After a little cursing and squeezing we were inside, through the bars and headed down beneath the silos.

What should have been a steeper drop had been filled with broken appliances; instead of jumping we were able to climb down a heap of junked washing machines, impossibly wedged in between the curved concrete walls. Beyond hung the outflow taps of the chambers above, thick with cobwebs and leaving very little in the way of headroom. We stooped under the mighty silos, past a soiled certificate (the 2003 application for a Heritage Permit), and climbed the raised platform on the other side.

The corridor here passed the true entrance - now sealed behind sheet metal. A series of cages divided the walkway, the last space arranged carefully as though lived-in. The corridor took us clockwise around the building, along the length of the silos before turning a sharp left onto the hollow at the tower's roots. This large open chamber felt all the more organic for its collapsed floor, the walls twisting down into trailing floorboards, which slid messily into the earthy sump below.

Making our way around the pit we began to climb, a series of metal ladders and tarnished gantries that led up towards the main building. It was clear this site was a popular destination amongst local kids; daredevils, artists and arsonists had all left their marks here and there across the hundred-year-old brickwork. Often the graffiti seemed to leapfrog upwards and out of reach, or extend further and further above a yawning gulf - each visitor trying to outdo the last, their tag a badge of courage.

Reaching the base of the tower - from this angle a cathedral, its vaulted ceiling cloaked in shadow - we began the climb. A metal walkway spiralled up the inner wall, its thin gantry extending a few feet above an ever-growing drop.

It reminded me, strangely, of one of those sadistic tower levels in a videogame, where the screen keeps advancing upwards and the slightest mistake could spell instant death.

A few floors up the metaphor took on new life, as we encountered our first falling platforms. The walkway ahead had once formed a bridge across the centre of the tower - connecting the stairs on which we now stood to the next flight, which clung to the far wall.

Our gantry, however, was separated from the next by a gap of roughly four feet. I was bracing myself to jump, until I began to doubt the integrity of the far platform.

The surface was old sheet metal, fastened over a lattice of girders. The left-hand side of the platform was severely battered, seemingly hanging loose. It was the right that I would be aiming for, if I jumped, to put my weight straight onto the beam beneath. From this angle though, the surface could simply have been balanced across the girders. The supporting beam looked questionable, too - I couldn't have said if the structure was secure, or its components merely touching.

It was a two-floor drop to the next level, which itself was rotted and gaping with holes. If this jump went wrong it would be an unpleasant fall; but from here there was simply no way of testing the far platform.

I'm 95% sure I could have made that jump - past experiences in derelict buildings have taught me to be cautious, though.

For me this is not about proving a point, about getting to the highest level, the lowest, or further than anyone else. There is enough inherent risk in simply entering such an abandonment, that I see no appeal in placing further wagers. So, while I trust my own ability to climb, dodge, jump, swim or even hide if needs be, I harbour a healthy mistrust of any material prone to rot or rust.

The path ahead was traced in graffiti, where the staircase snaked on up towards the rooftop. I wondered how long the tags had been there, how long since the last successful crossing. More than once I psyched myself up for the jump. I'd make up for it though, I decided: I'd be sure to reach the top of the silos.

The Silos

We had passed under the silo staircase on our way to the brewery's tower. A flight of metal steps had long since broken away, and lay useless below. The jagged edge of the top step was almost within reach, but pulling oneself up there would have been an unpleasant business.

Three storeys up however, in a large empty room adjacent to the base of the tower, we found our route. The cavernous green room was furnished with several chairs and a mattress, a single door set in the far wall. It opened outside; where, above a deep drop into darkness, wooden planks formed a crude bridge to the silo block. A scaffold pole fastened at chest height formed the handrail.

I crossed first. The wooden beams were supple, but reassuringly solid underfoot, balanced on an even series of metal crossbeams. It was safer than it had looked and by now we had the night on our side; in one window it was overtime at the office, while through another a half-naked man sprawled on his sofa: a stone's throw away and yet oblivious to our venture.

Once across, it was an easy ascent. Flight after flight of steep stairs wound up a narrow concrete spine, which itself rose like a bookend after the six pairs of silos. The dust was heavier in this enclosed space, the air ripe with the acrid tang of pigeon shit.

Before long we reached the top floor (this building stood taller than the tower, so I would guess it at 10), and a long, vaulted chamber directly above the silos. Ducking the technicolour frames of the low roof, we made our way along the pillartops. The walls here were dotted with regular windows, allowing us a panoramic view of the urban landscape.

I didn't have long to enjoy the view before my attention was drawn sharply elsewhere. Namely, towards a circular hole in the concrete walkway ahead. I got a little closer, tensing as I did, and peered over into the abyss. On top of each grain silo we found the same circular port, the space inside falling away into a seemingly bottomless void.

Giving each successive silo as wide a berth as the space would allow, we made it to the far end, the pillars in the east. Here the cityscape opened up before us, the distant CBD tagged in smudges of blue and green. The courtyard beneath us, a flood of orange sodium, seemed dizzyingly distant as I leaned out for a photo over the titan shoulder of the concrete silo.

Getting Out

We made our egress with ease. Back down the stairs towards the base of the silos, we found the broken staircase we'd passed earlier on... but this time we had gravity on our side. It wasn't a difficult drop down to the next level, allowing just a little care to land on the metal walkway rather than the stairwell.

At one point we heard a dog barking outside, seemingly close by in the courtyard. We froze - it was less likely a dog walker in the padlocked compound so much as a visit from site security. Minutes later we heard both man and dog leaving the yard, and we were alone again.

After that, it was back the way we had come. Down the stairs, past the cages, then dropping quietly into the space beneath the silos. The kitchen appliances shifted in the dark as we climbed them; then we were squeezing between bars, and back out into the night in search of a good pub. After all the exhilaration of the brewery, we were both in need of a pint.

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