A spooky campsite

We stayed at a campsite on the Black Sea coast and met a nice young German engineer who got us very drunk in a bar. I threw up secretly into a bush.

 We rode down the coast, stopping briefly to gawp at the tourists in the resorts and the Pub Crawls being advertised by young touts in different languages.

We rode past more prostitutes along the way-side and watched a young flashy girl in the back of an old man’s car, leaning over to him and giggling.

There was a big coach-load of young Bulgarian city-kids, resplendent in giant earrings and high heels, and the Cuban-styled boys checked their quiffs in our wing mirrors.

We were almost in Turkey, but it was evening again and time to start the hunt for a sleeping place.



There were supposedly campsites everywhere in the area. Maybe they had all slipped off for a little holiday of their own. There weren’t any.


We spotted some caravans from the highway and found a route down to them. It was possibly a campsite, though you couldn’t really tell. The gate was open but the reception was closed, and we rode through the torn-down huts and café shacks to the caravans we’d seen. They were permanent, with proper built outside showers. There was a strange man chopping wood with no shirt on. He ignored us. We ignored him back. There was a woman who smiled briefly and played with her toddler. A large dog was chained to a post.

We set up the tent and went for a walk down the deserted beach, past bars that were still broken-down for winter, and miles of beach umbrellas flapping about in the wind.

There was a grave close to where we had set up the tent. I did not investigate, obviously. I like sleep. Adam told me the next day it was the grave of a young couple our age who had somehow died on the same day there. Their photos were on the gravestone.