Day 1.
So, the start of the annual autumn endurance eurocrank.
This year saw a major development in my newly found (well, one week) acceptance of flying meant less mammoth trans-European rail slogs, so instead of three days overland to the arse end of the continent, instead it was the 0600 EasyJet off Manchester, which landed in Sofia three hours later, and the first winning traction of the trip being wide bodied skirted transfer buses.
Over to the metro where it was the relative novelty of the older Metrovagonmash 81-71 stock on the blue line from the airport.
Despite its looks, These are actually a 1990 build, albeit of a 1970s design. Because of the harsh winters and open air running, the system has carried on buying Soviet origin traction, as they are designed to withstand the snow and ice that most Metros are immune from.
Though come the moment in rolled the more contemporary 81-74 "Rusich" stock on the right to whisk us into the centre.
Onto Sofia Central, which used to be one of the big three of European capital city central stations that absolutely reek of piss. However, Sofia has recently gone through a major rebuild and it has freed itself of its previous joint status held with Belgrade and Bratislava hlavná stanica. For none capital cities, the undisputed champion of Europe is Zilina, which stinks more of piss than piss itself.
Strange Bulgarian imagery part 1. Zooming in on the photo above shows a homeless bloke on the bench, with his worldly possessions being packed into none other than a José Mourinho laundry bag. Whatever Ferguson may have achieved at United, he has still never been immortalised in an East European mass clothing carrier.
Strange Bulgarian imagery part 2. Changing at Serdika and it was a novel type of traction depicted by this Bulgarian escalator supplier, for some reason thinking a charcoal drawing of a Pacer is the sign of progressive and reliable engineering.
After sorting out sleeper berths for the overnight to Istanbul, there was some time for a few moves before the football. First off a mooch around the station was disturbed by the passing of a class 06 on freight which was a surprise as all the gen suggested these little Sulzer powered locos had all been withdrawn.
The next bonus was that a class 69 centre cab electric was out vice a unit, so a fill in turn was taken out to Gorna Banya, which meant we missed the planned first game of the day, Septemvri Sofia U19 versus OFK Purim U19 at the mysterious Stadion German.
This was justified by a -37 being made onto a service which wasn't even booked to stop, and it being hauled by 44002, one of the two class 44s that has been repainted into the blue and yellow Bulgarian inter city livery.
The rebuild has meant the demise of the fake Macdonalds on the station, which didn't actually sell burgers, just ham and cheese toasties. This is a library shot from a Balkan tour of 2005.
**Wanker posting picture of plate of food on social media alert**
Instead it was to a local restaurant where the cheese board was an exotic selection of Dairylea triangles, kraft cheese slices in various stages of oragami treatment, butter curls, and what appeared to be breast milk Philadelphia. Best £1.40 ever.
We were heading into the centre so it was some tram action, flagging the refurbed artic fleet...
...for some classic bogie CKD T6B5 trams cars. If you have a spare moment, you can get to know more about Bulgarian trams to a soundtrack of East European progressive trance.
As ever, the local youths had their hair styled like their favourite footballers. Who knew that Sofia had so many Glynn Snodin fans?
Into the centre where we attempted a man of steel connection onto one of the ex-Basel Be 4/6S trams.
For some reason these were donated by the BVB canton, in order to assist the mobility impaired citizens of Sofia, as these trams have a step free central section. There green livery has seen them acquire the nickname of 'cucumbers' or 'gherkins', depending on how well pickled you like your vegetables.
However, there was some sort of commotion ahead, with twelve trams all stacked up, giving a cracking opportunity to take in all the Sofia fleet.
Just as we reached the front, a lorry blocking the way moved, and the driver of the front tram was hand barring over the points, so we leapt on. The driver muttered something and a lot of people got off. I am now a bit more conversant in what is the Bulgarian for "Fuck you lot, I'm due a break and I'm flooring this bastard all the way to the depot" as he took off, unhindered by traffic lights or passengers desperately trying to get off. Our very own Balkan version of Speed was interrupted by having to negotiate ninety degree S bends with a station in between, and threats of pulling the pass com, resulted in a few of us being given the briefest pause to alight.
First stop was the Vasil Levski stadium. This was built as the new national stadium in the 1950s. It was doubled in size to 45,000 seats in the 1960s. I was heartened to read that the first non- Bulgarian performers at the stadium were the Scorpions, as they and David Hasselhoff united to bring down communism.
The ground doesn't traditionally have a resident domestic team, instead being used for big games and CSKA's champions league matches. However, Vitosha Bistritsa are a team from a town ten miles south of Sofia. They have recently been promoted to the Bulgarian premier league, but their stadium has not passed the grading, so they use various stadiums in the capital, this one against Botev Plovdiv supposedly being played here, however, the ticket office was ominously quiet.
We therefore made our way into the stadium, through the subtle tactics of not waking up the security guard.
However, the only activity was packing away the finish line from a running event.
Some more searching and assistance with translation from a passing local revealed that the game had been switched to 1300 on the Sunday. However, Soccerway was teasing us by not only still advertising the game as being played here and now, also giving score updates. I still have no idea what actually went on.
So instead it was a short walk through the Borisova gradina Park to have a catch up on the CSKA stadium before it is redeveloped.
A handily open access gate...
...took us past the least safe floodlight wiring I think I have ever encountered.
I was about to take a picture of the main stand when a fat bloke with a crap moustache and a dog almost as manky as its owners tracksuit, started shouting at us in loud Bulgarian. After identifying that we were English, and that we couldn't speak a word of each other's language, this inspired him to shout even louder in Bulgarian. We went through the natural 'My hovercraft is full of eels' response, before walking out, as he strarted to become even more rabid than his dog. So here is a picture of a large football outside a run down main stand, with a gibberish local on the left.
Though I could not fail to be impressed by his collection of demic ride on lawnmowers.
The next opportunity to be impressed was with this bloke, who was the last known owner of an item of clothing made by Quasar, a brand which last existed in the 1980s.
So instead it was to the last resort for football supporters looking to watch a game - Futsal.
This is basically swarthy Europeans playing on a shrunken pitch with a kids football, prevailing in fast flowing, short passing. Until one team scores that is, and then they spend the time hoofing it out of the court to run down the clock. For some reason it has never taken on in Britain, the fact that the main area for it is East Garforth reflects its lack of anlglacised popularity.
We headed back to the tram stop, where this time we were successful in getting an ex-Swiss tram.
It was back to the station, for the delights of the 'warm' waiting room.
Eventually a loco was lashed onto our Turkish sleeping stock.
My travelling companion for the first week of the trip was Ciaran seen here silhouetted by the patriotic frosted glass work of the compartment windows. He was on a final warning from his girlfriend as eight of the last ten weekends he'd spent cranking some dated diesels across Europe. His cunning ploy for this trip was therefore not to tell her he'd gone, spending the week pretending he was actually texting her from Tilehurst rather than Tbilisi. Anyway, a ten euro bung to the attendant got us a first class sleeping berth each.
Bulgaria is also the outlying reach of the Schengan zone, so the passage into Turkey involved a two am passport hoss. Competing plane and bus routes mean the overnight train service is on its arse, and there were less than a dozen who were decamped to the platform at Kapikule, for a great moment of nocturnal comedy. With feral dogs, sniffing around us on the platform, we were eventually let into the customs hall, which was in the process of being repainted. In time, a knackered Renault appeared and from it emerged four not particularly Alert looking border police. They marched into the hall we were in and one of them immediately barked something in Turkish which was met with equal amounts of bewilderment and stifled sniggers from those that could understand. Before I had chance to ask, he spoke again, this time in English, he demanded to know who the only other item in the room belonged to. The offending item was a set of paint splattered step ladders. It was tactfully pointed out to him, that they more than likely belong to whoever was responsible for the stench of paint and half emulsioned walls, rather than an intrepid traveller being accompanied by a set of trestles that look like they were the star of a recent bukake event. This seem to rile the head honcho, as the most perfunctory of passport checks was undertaken until they got to Ciaran's Irish passport, and he was led away, and a black French bloke soon followed. Seeing as they seemed to have adopted the investigative skills of the 1970s West Midlands police searching for pub bombing suspects, the dogs outside look worried, but instead it was the only other UK traveller who was detained, it being of complete coincidence that he was a British Asian. I showed solidarity by going back to compartment to sleep, but was awoken by a guard as I had Ciaran's electronic Visa on my iPad. This was handed over, but to ensure all was legit, I followed it down to the customs hall, where there was the quite magnificent sight of the three detainees, all in separate interview rooms, all with massive pictures of attaturk hanging over them, all being quizzed by plain clothed thirty somethings, feet on desks, chain smoking some of the most pollutive cigarettes going. Here is a photo of proceedings from my sleeper cabin, you can just about make out a Turkish border police car.
So, welcome to Turkey. Welcome to 1973.
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