Marta My Deer

 

Marta My Deer

 

10 June 2026, Wednesday

The Mikalojus Konstantinas Čiurlionis Museum of Art was nowhere near as good as the Devils’ Museum had been. The man in whose honour the museum had been commissioned had been a Lithuanian composer, painter, choirmaster, cultural figure, and writer but had never attained international success with any of those skills on account of the length of his name. His mates just called him Mick, and we found his paintings so drab and uninspiring it was difficult for us to show respect and not take the mick. They were far better than anything that I could have done myself but if I’d had any say in the matter I’d have gone for tarting them up a bit with whatever they had instead of Photoshop back at the turn of the twentieth century. The museum offered no opportunity for us to hear the music he had composed so we assumed that it went well with his art.

At the nearby Old Boulangerie we felt more at home with death-black coffee and cylindrical croissants each with an estimated mass of one kilogram. Then it was exercise time so, in very warm sunshine, we walked the riverbank path to the Old Grand Bridge which looked significantly more old than grand. At the other side of the broad majestic Neris River (named after Nerys Hughes, star of the 1970s television sitcom The Liver Birds) high on the valley side, stood a place called the Observation Platform. To reach it there was a funicular railway but having observed this engineering marvel for ten minutes it became apparent that it showed no sign of movement. Priyatelkata, in words that might make a French nun blush, insisted that after Monday’s ordeal she would not be using the replacement steps service.

Agreeing to separate and reconvene after an hour, she wandered away in search of more windy cobbled streets in the Old Town and I crossed the river to make the ascent on foot. To assure her later that she had made the right decision, I counted each and every one of those 276 hot and sweaty uneven Communist era steps. At the top I found the lush greenery of the university’s sports grounds, people who had driven there the long way round eating their lunchtime picnics, and spectacular views across the older parts of the city in the near distance and the modern tower blocks in the far distance. Then, as I embarked on the journey back down to the river, the man who operated the funicular returned from his lunch, wheels and cogs clanked into motion and the opposing carriages began moving towards each other. Irritated somewhat, I continued on foot.

Some years earlier on a trip to Gdańsk in Poland, in a café at the end of a pier in the nearby seaside town of Sopot, we had what were possibly the crispiest and most delicious battered fish and chips I had ever had tasted. In Kaunas we weren’t a million miles from Poland’s Baltic coast (but we were 500 kilometres from it) so we wondered if we might experience the same sort of fishy delights at a hostelry in the medieval town square. We were glad we tried them because, although not quite up to Polish standards, they were still very good. They serve some wonderful fish dishes at home in Bulgaria, often complete with chips, but the fish and chips as we know them just aren’t a thing there.

A quick look inside the cathedral where in 1993 Pope John Paul II had said Holy Mass surrounded by untold amounts of gold and marble completed our trip. We walked back to our apartment taking the route with the gentlest incline but with views of all the places we’d enjoyed visiting over the course of five days. As we walked we reflected upon how clean the city was, how long the hours of daylight were as we had travelled so far north, and how although the local people were friendly, they were far from chatty. We were both beginning to miss Bulgaria so we knew we were ready to go home.

 

11 June 2026, Thursday

The alarm on my phone went off at a time that seemed like only five minutes after I had gone to bed. The 5:37 a.m. bus arrived at the bus stop at the bottom of the hill bang on the dot to take us to the airport. Ryanair did everything that was expected of them to fly us home. So by 11:30 a.m. we were back in Bulgaria.

On the long drive from Burgas airport we stopped for a wee at the OMV petrol station near the village of Gorno Aleksandrovo. We bought coffees that we didn’t really want on such a hot day because we knew that the PIN we needed to unlock the door of the toilets could only be found on a sales receipt. After finishing our drinks we saw a handwritten notice informing us that as the water supply for the entire region had temporarily ceased, the toilets weren’t working. We knew then that we really were home.

 

Reinstatement of Rule 14b(i)

The trip to Kaunas was complete right down to the bit where all our dirty washing had been put on a hot wash, so for journal writing purposes the one hundred words per day restriction was reinstated.

 

12 June 2026, Friday

I was home again and I was okay. It rained all day and I slept all day.

Trump was top trumps. His daughter had tried to turn an Albanian island into a luxury nuclear bunker seaside resort for Zionists, resulting in nationwide demonstrations. He’d ended his war in Iran, simultaneously claiming victory and conceding defeat. And his border force had made the World Cup tournament a shit show.   

In Belfast, the people who had burnt Catholic homes in 1929 and 1969 had been burning black and brown-skinned people out of their homes this week. Trump-Farage-esque hate speech may have contributed.

 

13 June 2026, Saturday

There was no water supply in our region today because there was no electricity supply in the region where the water pumping station was located. There was no rain either, even though the met boys said there would be. The Bulgarian word nyamma (няма) means ‘there is no…’. I spent an hour trying to think if any other European country had a national word.

In post-holiday anti-climax land, Priyatelkata and I agreed we both needed a trip. During the week that we had been away our garden had become wildly overgrown. We agreed we also needed a goat or a deer.

 

14 June 2026, Sunday

I wrote a limerick in his card…

 

Today’s your eightieth birthday dear Trump

I hope your countrymen give you the bumps

They’re doing sweet bugger all

To get a new POTUS installed

How can they stand such fat evil lump?

 

Sweeping up fallen mulberries from our stone steps is more exciting than you might think. Each daily layer’s a soggy wet mass about two centimetres deep that sticks to your shoes like shit to a blanket. And as alcohol fumes from a previous day’s fermenting layer bring tears to the eyes, swarms of greedy half-pissed wasps look on with menace.

 

15 June 2026, Monday

Today was the eightieth birthday of glam rocker, Noddy Holder. If he’d lived in New York he’d have been in Trump’s class at school but I’m sure Noddy would have made a much better U.S. president. Even the Wombles’ lead guitarist would have done better. 

Marta, the beautiful roe deer that visits our garden, ate all our beetroots. We watched her from the bathroom window but didn’t scare her away as she’s far more precious than a bucket of veggies. We hoped she wouldn’t be afraid the next time she went for a wee and saw it was bright red.

 

16 June 2026, Tuesday

Our garden’s wild plants showed signs of midsummer maturity, so on a daily basis Priyatelkata brings in the sheaves with her herb-picking basket. Some looked like victims of plagues of locusts as every space in our kitchen was taken by leaves and stalks drying, fermenting, pickling or infusing.

I’ve never been a moisturiser user but perhaps I should start as everything that’s a bit dry seems to end up in a glass jar or the teapot. The results of her labours will provide us with remedies or preventative solutions for any ailment apart from severed appendages and herbal tea overdoses.

 

17 June 2026, Wednesday

I picked four kilograms of plump black fruit from our best mulberry tree. The slightest vibration of a branch causes many to fall so I cunningly shook them into a bucket. Huge numbers remained when I’d finished so I weighed one and counted those still unpicked to calculate that I still had another 48.327 kilograms to go. My harvest was used to make jelly as a mulberry’s natural structure is unsuitable for jam making. 

Resuming Bulgarian lessons after the summer break, Mistress Adelina was stroppy because I’d forgotten much of what she’d taught me. Today I learnt some sweary words.

 

18 June 2026, Thursday

If ever I go on BBC Radio’s ‘Just a Minute’ panel gameshow to read this journal I’ll fail miserably on the grounds of repetition. And here’s why… we took Ludo to the vets today to have his leg wound cleaned up and to pump him full of antibiotics. The vet barely spoke because he’d seen it all before and knew exactly what was required.

The vet’s called Boris but he looks like Lenin. He doesn’t want to go to Benin. I was tempted to sing this during the operation but he was in a similar shirty mood to Adelina’s yesterday.

 

19 June 2026, Friday

I haven’t been watching the World Cup. It’s difficult to get excited by football if Leeds United or Ireland aren’t playing. I have soft spots, however, for all Balkan countries and places I’ve enjoyed visiting, including Iran. I’m put off this time because FIFA have their Infantino-Trump partnership playing up front, they’ve split each game into four halves, and added money-making gimmicks.

On the day it was announced that Elon Muskrat had become the world’s first trillionaire, Scottish football fans made large charitable donations to children’s hospitals, homes and special schools in Boston Massachusetts.

Who put the Trill in trillionaire? 

 

20 June 2026, Saturday

I stood on a bee and it hurt like bejaysus for at least five minutes. Friends said I shouldn’t walk around in my bare feet but the injury occurred in my bedroom. The same people insisted that the worst thing to stand on was a Lego brick. I suggested a landmine might top that.

In Iran do they call the Iran War the American War? They said last week that it had ended but it started again today. So again the Strait of Hormuz is as blocked as Trump’s colon and I still can’t send messages to my friend Farzaneh.

 

21 June 2026, Sunday

The Kinks’ Ray Davies, who wrote ‘Lazing on a Sunny Afternoon’, was eighty-two today, the day of the solstice. Perhaps he wrote it on his birthday.

I wasn’t lazing. I worked nine hours in our sunny garden. I bought and erected a metal arch to support trumpet vines. It took my mind off war, famine, pestilence and the World Cup.

Did I ever tell you about the time I saw a nine-spotted moth? Well once I saw a moth that had nine spots on each wing. I saw dozens today, mostly attached to each other in pairs, carnal knowledge style.

 

22 June 2026, Monday

After leaving Fyodor the Fiat at the menders I went home in a taxi. The driver lived only 400 metres from our house so we became instant friends, discussing the entire history of Bulgaria, Balkan football, and tomato cultivation during the ten-minute journey. His name was Tosho (a diminutive of Tordor). His son Gosho (a diminutive of Giorgi) drives the same taxi in the evenings. Together they’re 40% of the Bulgarian Marx Brothers.

Starmer resigned as British prime minister. Some people expressed sorrow for this man who said Isreal had the right to cut off power and water to Gaza.

 

23 June 2026, Tuesday

Doctor Tatchev said that unblocking the anal gland of Gaïa the Shih Tzu made a refreshing change from all the cat illnesses we present to him. Everyone in attendance seemed happy with the outcome, including the dog once she’d overcome her embarrassment. 

Does hoovering cobwebs from the eaves of the house count as housework or garden work? It’s a pity mosquitos can’t be hoovered up too as they dined gluttonously on my legs throughout the two-hour task. A consequence of their blood-sucking activity was that I lost two kilograms. This is a key feature of the Bulgarian Weight Watchers plan.

 

24 June 2026, Wednesday

Enyovden (Еньовден) marked the middle of summer. Apparently the Orthodox church moved the celebration from the day of the real summer solstice (which was also Saint Enyo’s day) to coincide with John the Baptist’s birthday. Quite a gesture as John had only asked for a pair of slippers. I can’t remember us having this one before, and nobody knew what rituals and customs were to be observed, so we just put on an Enya CD and the kettle. Those Orthodox people should take their religious things and write them all down in a big book so we know what’s going on.

 

25 June 2026, Thursday

The tenth anniversary of my arrival as a permanent resident of Bulgaria! People I knew predicted I wouldn’t last here more than eighteen months but now a week-long visit to England’s a struggle brought on by homesickness for Bulgaria.

I flew out from Manchester the day after the Brexit referendum. I’d booked my flight long before the voting date was confirmed so it was an amusing coincidence. People who didn’t know me well asked why I was leaving, so I replied ‘Brexit!’ Just twenty-one hours after Cameron was on the air to confirm the result, I was in the air.

 

26 June 2026, Friday

I read that a scientist had said we should all enjoy the current summer weather because every summer after this will be hotter. It was only 37°C in Malki Chiflik today but I knew that within just a month we’d be topping that up by an extra 5°.

A friend in Ireland told me that people he knew couldn’t cope with their tropical 28°C, and local shops had sold out of ice cube trays, coleslaw and cider. The Irish nation, with their reputation for distributing themselves around the world, were already eyeing up Finland as a place to emigrate to.

 

27 June 2026, Saturday

Amazing Bulgarian Facts #2

Cyrillic Script is the fifth most used alphabet in the world with only the Latin, Chinese (Han), Arabic and Devanagari systems being more popular. It’s often erroneously referred to as the Russian alphabet but it was created in Bulgaria in the 9th century by disciples of two brothers, Saints Cyril and Methodius. Today it’s one of three official alphabets of the European Union and it’s used by 250 million people across Eurasia.

The Russians only stole it from us, as they did with much of our cuisine. And they envy our fruit, wine, sunshine and beaches.

 

28 June 2026, Sunday

FIFA’s cheating and US immigration thugs’ harassment sent Iran home too early from the World Cup. Other countries’ fans expressed sadness while Iranian team members expressed anger at the American abuse, but gratitude to the welcoming people of Tijuana in Mexico, the town they were forced to use as a base.

US Department of Homeland Security Secretary, Markwayne Mullin, said he was glad they’d gone and ‘danced a happy dance’ as he cancelled their visas.

The USA proved it doesn’t deserve to host such prestigious tournaments. What’s going to happen at the 2028 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles, I wonder.

 

29 June 2026, Monday

According to old beliefs, the gates of summer opened today because it was Petrovden (Петровден, meaning ‘Saint Peter’s day’). Custom suggests we dance around bonfires whilst praying for health and protection from the evil spirits that inflict natural disasters on our crops, but anti-wildfire legislation currently forbids this.

Baba Stoyanka, sitting beneath the pomegranate tree in the square, foretelling catastrophes brought on us by the deeds of sinners and fornicators said to me, ‘In our mythology, the arrogant Narcissus was brought down by a reflecting pool, and powerful men should take heed for it will happen again.’ Should we tell Trump?

 

30 June 2026, Tuesday

So far this summer everything in our garden had flourished to a much greater extent than previously known. This included little creatures that keep us company, cracking on with their own hard labour as we struggle with ours. The bees are always there in their hundreds. We provide water for them which they love. Slurping in their dozens from pebbles in the bowls they look like bee soup and big meaty grasshoppers might be ideal substitutes for prawns in a king prawn bhuna. Meanwhile, huge black ants lurking in their thousands under every stone appear to want to eat us.

 

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Image:

Marta, the beautiful roe deer that visits our garden. Photograph used with the kind permission of Priyatelkata. Taken through a bathroom window that probably needed a wash, it might be a bit fuzzy.

 

Part One:

The Dumplings of Count Tiškevičius