How I Met Your Grandmother

Wake up dear disciples, mister gingerandbankrupt has risen once more with another whimsical travel update on find penguins dot com. What ever will he do next? Turn putrid river water into wine? Feed five thousand midges with a single slice of bread? Or part the mountains with another sarcastic quip?

After a quickfire opening to the trip, terrorising here, tantalising there, the last couple of days have settled into a gentler rhythm. The slower pace of a multi-day trek has allowed us to shift focus from bumbling frenetically to a more grounded connection: with people, with place, and with peace. Basically, our terrorism has mellowed into more of a mild passive aggression (much more British) and our tantalism into awkward small talk about the weather.

I expected the journey to Mestia to be another harrowing ordeal which might come complementary with a head trauma injury or two. But no, miraculously we chug(didi)d into Zugdidi without any major train incidents. Well, unless you count Thomas walking in on an old lady using the toilet, or sparks raining down from the overhead lines while we were broken down on the tracks of course (quite safe, I'm impressed).

The route mashed on the mashrutka leg was similarly serene, apart from the engine's agonising gasp every time we restarted after a pit stop. But after possibly two thousand train photos from Thomas, only one footprint written by myself (I really need to stop yapping so long on this god damn app😔), and a mild ten hours, we arrived in Mestia, the capital of Georgia's Svaneti region.

And the result? Our experience of Mestia has really been one of our bestia yet (pun or otherwise). Streets cobbled with ancient stone anchor stoic Svan towers that pop up like medieval meerkats between slate roofs and vegetable patches. But the highlight of our stay wasn't the towers nor even the mountain vistas, it was a gracious grandma called Ijorda.

Speaking of which, I have made a shocking discovery: almost no-one in this entire country is called George or Georgia. They're not even Geordie (shaking in disbelief rn, expect to see them on Rogue Traders soon).

Still, granny's name was close enough, and without so much as a word of English, she waved us through the weathered gates of her home and into the mismatched chairs of her front room. What followed was somewhere between a dinner and a culinary ambush.

Plate after plate arrived, all homemade, homegrown and dished out with the unrelenting generosity of someone who clearly viewed being 'full' as a personal insult. There were eggs: boiled, fried, and quite possibly reincarnated given the clucking from beneath the floorboards; there was Plov so greasy it stood a good chance at getting a Soviet tractor rolling again; and there was Chacha, a hard spirit so strong that I felt a coma coming on with every sip.

Communication was a charming mix of gesturing, nodding and mime. Ijorda would watch us for almost every mouthful, pointing us towards each plate we'd yet to try. We'd nod enthusiastically, and then she'd respond by bringing over an entirely new dish! Still, she was a real sweetheart and it was a pleasure to feel the warmth of her heart and hospitality.

The next day, still nauseous from overeating, we waddled out of the guesthouse and left for our trek to Ushguli with an attempted hug (but Ijorda wasn't having any of it). With extra saucy views in mind, we decided to take an alternative route, up the chairlift then cable car up to the Zuruldi range, and along a panoramic ridge trail to the Ughviri Pass.

A cast of ice encrusted peaks shimmered on the horizon, while the warm air buzzed with the clicks and chirps of all sorts of vibrant insects. I'll spare you the gritty hiking details, those are what the following footprints are for, but one moment does deserve a special mention: Chris Rea reared his ugly, festive head.

As we unwound by an algae stricken lake with a game of cards and aching heels, 'driving home for Christmas' played on repeat from a nearby family barbecue (!?) in the 30°C July heat and in a Georgian paddock no less.

Maybe they recognised me as gingerandbankrupt tbf, but today isn't my birthday, just another resurrection.Read more