Eurocrank day 6.
Georgia v Wales
I'd left a lot of the planning of this trip to Ciaran, who, it is fair to say, is not known for his preparedness of the overall detail of any itinerary. His activity will involve knowing what exact loco is working what service. However, things like whether railway lines still exist, if places he is planning to stay in actually have hotels, or where the crossing points of international borders actually are, isn't something that general concerns him.
Thus, when I asked him about the itinery of getting to Georgia for the weekend, the sum total was "get a train to Kars, and someone said there is a bus from there to Tiblisi". Which would have been fine if my quick validation hadn't have revealed that it was a three day, 1700 mile train journey and the bus only seemed to operate five times a year on public holidays. Ciaran was unrepentant, with his qualification for optimism being that the by now omnipresent prefix of 'Harrogate Nigel says' offering that 24398 was working the mixed traffic train out of Van.
The standoff was settled by Ciaran revealing that we could fly Izmir-Istanbul-Batumi and get an extra day there to do some cable car moves. So we found ourselves at Istanbul Atatürk Airport in the dead of night, transferring on to a flight for Georgia.
Completely the wrong end of Georgia than where we wanted to be, but the right country at least, which when you are at the mercy of Ciaran's planning, you take as a victory.
Ever wanted to know what the bus layby at a provincial Georgian airport looks like at 0800 whilst you are still fucked from a hideously early flight? No me neither, but I've taken this picture so you don't have to.
Batumi is located on the Black Sea, so has been a popular Georgian holiday resort. However, it has now become a popular Russian holiday resort, and in particular, the eastern bloc Las Vegas. So whilst there is a lovely sea front...
It is slowly being overrun by tacky casinos. Who wouldn't want to lose all their rubles to the Russian mafia in an upside recreation of the Whitehouse?
We jumped off the bus here.
However, there is only so much viewing of fat Russians in speedos trying to paraglide, that human eyes can endure. Coupled with having been latched onto by a couple of locals who were desperate for us to go and visit their dolphinarium, and we'd had enough of this end of town, so it was back on the bus and off at the very ornate station.
It's opulence was considered even more extravagant when it was found that there were only four trains a day, the next being in six hours time, though it was already in the platform.
After the constant presence of the shoe and belt police in Turkey, Georgia seemed to have a slightly more relaxed approach to station security, ably demonstrated at the first station platform chainsaw dealership I have ever encountered.
The lack of any trains meant a minibus move across two thirds of Georgia, which necessitateted a bus ride back into town for the central bus station, though not before getting some photos of the city scape across the harbour. At the time I thought it was quite quaint to be photo bombed by a white Lada.
Ever wondered what a silhouette on a Georgia beach of an exasperated person trying to teach an Irish technophobe how to use panorama mode on their camera looks like? Wonder no more.
We jumped onto bus, safe in the knowledge that all of those heading in this direction were going to the city centre. Except that was, the one we got on, which suddenly dived off the main road onto a dirt track.
And through a housing estate mostly occupied by cows.
Needless to say, Ciaran was now trying to take every photo in Panorama mode.
But eventually we returned from the impromptu tour of the foothills of the Lesser Caucasus mountains and were dropped off in town. Next it was a spin on the cable car up the Anuria mountain.
Despite its recent ventures into tourism, Batumi is still very much an industrial city, with very active docks.
How about that view again with someone dressed as a thin Jason Marriner, still trying to get to grips with panorama mode?
With the fun over it was to the bus station where amongst the collection of battered mini buses was one on its way to Tiblisi, and an extortionate 40p got us tickets to someone who may or may not have had any official role in proceedings.
And so started a six hour meander along a mixed collection of road surfaces, a mixed collection of fellow passengers, and a very mixed standard of driving. We followed the railway for much of the time, and as well as a lot of the back of Ciaran's head, I also got to see the odd bit of freight.
Of course, whilst Ciaran had no idea where we were, he did know that there was an afternoon loco hauled working halfway across the country, being hauled by a VL11, so we were dropped off in the obscure destination of Zestafoni, to the bemusement of every other passenger who could not comprehend why a local would want to alight here, let alone a tourist.
Though we were instantly rewarded for our intrepidness with a VL10 ploughing through the delightful truck stop we'd alighted at.
Further payback came on the other side of line as the indispensable multi-maps alerted us to the presence of the town's football ground, which was fronted by an awesome line-up of classics lorries.
It looked like the ground itself was on lock down.
However, a side gate found this less than daunting security challenge of a motionless old woman, with her male counterpart sprawled out in the shade either sleeping or dead.
They were successfully navigated by waving and smiling at them, and I was in to get some photos of the ground.
The long standing football club in the town were formed in the 1930s by workers at the local Ferro-Alloy Plant, and went under the name of FC Metalurgi Zestafoni. As well as a few Georgian cup wins, their glory year was surely in 1938 when they competed in the 1938 Metallurgist's sport-society tournament in Minsk, losing in the final to Electrostatic Moscow. No matter what your political ideology is, you have to admit that the communists sure knew how to name a football club. Georgian independance saw Metalurgi usurped by a new club, Margveti Zestafoni, for a place in the top league, but they went bust in 2000, and four years later, FC Zestafoni emerged. From the start they have played at the top of the Georgian leagues, the Umaglesi Liga, winning it twice in 2010 and 2011, playing in the Champions league, though not progressing past the qualifying stages after losses to Sturm Graz and Neftçi PFK of Azerbaijani.
Central Stadium was opened in 1952, built by the neighbouring metal works. It was rebuilt with its current stands in 1981, and these were refurbished in 2004 for the newly formed FC Zestafoni, with a capacity of 4,500 seats to compete in the Umaglesi Liga. It is now named the David Abashidze Stadium, who is a club official seen as the person who revived football in the town.
With the football now dealt with, the next unexpected sight was a roar and huge flag coming from the neighbouring works of Georgian Heavy Alloys. We thought this would me the main plant strenuously trying to make, well, heavy alloy, but were delighted to find it was instead a TEM-4 banking a loaded aggregate train up the ferocious incline out of the works.
We couldn't see what was on the front, but a convenient footbridge gave a decent impromptu run by photo shoot.
We carried on to the station, which being abroad, was naturally a walk down the line.
With the answer to our prior quandary about what was on the front of the train being banked, apparently being a dead VL10, so no wonder the gronk was struggling.
To the station and 15p got us tickets for the two hour run. This was a 6,165 hp VL10 on a train of two carriages. These locos are named after Vladermir Lenin and are two part locos, built over a forty year period from the 1960s.
This stretch of line winds its way through the Dzirula river valley.
It is a real bottle neck for railway traffic and is therefore having upgrade work with new tunnels and straightening work. This meant a lot of rateable works trains were encountered. Needless to say, a battered ЧМЭ3, twenty foot away, required an attempt at a panorama shot from Ciaran.
There were also random stops to pick up workers on the new line, who once on the train, either slept or played cards, though both activities produced similar levels of noise.
We carried onto journeys end at Khashuri.
We'd missed the connection onto the branch train, which wasn't surprising as Ciaran's detailed research were that there were two trains a day, omitting to further explore at what time they may actually run. So a taxi was taken, which did the two hour train stagger to Borjomi in twenty five minutes, for about four quid.
Next morning and it was to the adjacent sports cafe for a bit of stadium spotting.
Firstly, I vastly approve of hand painted home brew adverts welcoming spectators into grounds.
This is the Jemal Zeinklishvili Stadium, home of FC Borjomi, who have played in the top level Umaglesi Liga for the last ten years.
In a faithful recreation of Burnden Park, a supermarket was being built in one corner. The building site security and H&S regulation didn't seem to offer much challenge so I was able to get a shot from amidst the second storey rebar.
The stadium consisted of a bank of vegetation challenged open seating behind the goal...
...coloured as the Georgian flag.
With more weed adverse seating down the touchline cut into the valley side.
All of which gave a spectacular setting.
I've never taken much notice of corner flag height to kicking area ratio before, but this must be one of the most oddly proportioned.
Amongst the groundsmans clutter was an abandoned coach.
If cheech and Chong did team buses.
I headed out of the town.
Across the river with the locals now taking to horseback.
To the railway station, with another opportunity to be photo bombed by a white Lada.
I went looking for a ticket office, in a station that fitted into the Georgian practice of being very elaborate for the two trains a day it has.
Whilst I found the freight office...
...and a huge cheese stall. But alas, no tickets.
However, sat in the platform was the object of my attention, not the main line but this state owned narrow gauge.
It winds its way up the Gujaretistskali river gorge.
With lovely views to the snow capped mountains of Samsari Mountain, which the Soviets had sympathetically framed with tower blocks and a cement factory.
Ciaran had by now crawled out of bed and made it to the train with a good 15 seconds to spare, aided by open verandas at the end of each carriage making it possible to leap on and off trains.
For once, vindication of panorama mode. Not that he could actually get it to work.
The wayside shack of Dabba offered no passengers but did provide the ear worm for the day (Mr Lubberman - Dabba).
Departing the station we took in the lineside Futsal court.
The guard informed us this was for the local track gang.
Who were soon encountered, obviously not letting the day job tire them out for their important recreational pursuits.
More trackside accompaniment, this time of a bovine variety.
We rounded into the next shack on the line.
Which was the passing point at Tsagveri.
This was one of the most amazing settings for a station, being amidst a wooded glade.
From here on, the line performs massive switchbacks to gain height up the valley, and indeed the abandoned waiting room gave a vantage point of our crossing train passed thirty yards or so behind the station...
...before turning back on itself and re-appearing a good five minutes later.
We had considered getting off at a Dabba in order to ensure the connection, but I'd persuaded Ciaran that it was pretty solid to rely on making the switch here. This was confirmed when the train arrived conveying a passenger's firewood.
The two crews then had a lengthy chat.
While the firewood was duly unloaded in a fairly unskilled manner.
But eventually we were off.
The guard on this train was less chatty, being asleep the whole time.
I don't know how much faith the operators have in the P-Way, but the evidence of re-raiders being on board, suggested not a lot.
If anyone ever complains about the state of a British train toilet, I would refer you to this as a benchmark.
The windows not only opened, but were complete droplights, meaning some very comfortable bellowing.
And some framed shots out of the open rear door of the train.
As well as good views from the front veranda of the loco and crew.
A plinthed kettle...
...signalled our arrival back into Borjormi.
It being the last train of the day (well it was almost 1100), our stock headed off to the adjacent depot.
Swiftly followed by us, the entrance signified by the clanking of cow bells from a herd grazing on the main line.
The transfer yard for switching goods between the standard and narrow gauge wagons.
We had a look at some of the refurbed locos.
And some awaiting works.
And some awaiting a one way trip to Cashmores.
Back in the yard was this beast of a snow plough, seemingly made of two locos perched on top of each other.
We encountered some workers, but their complete indifference, emboldened us to explore further.
I had a quick look in the works themselves. I didn't have a clear picture of what I was expecting to see, but it probably wasn't a box van with a chassis-less Lada Riva on top, draped in a lace table cloth.
It was across the Mtkvari river.
Whilst Georgian infrastructure was generally in a good state, they appeared to have a very liberal attitude to the upkeep of bridges, with a lot of them having gaping holes through to the rebar.
But it was time to head off, with the next venue being the war memorial bus stop.
Which had being plastered in election proporganda, with this candidate looking like the love child of Ciaran and James Richardson.
Our bus turned up, seemingly heading for Batumi...
...with the two of us, one other passenger...
...and a huge bag of onions.
This was until we got to a remote truck stop, where a young couple proceeded to load dining room furniture and a disassembled bed.
Ciaran was getting jumpy as he had identified a local insect move from Khashuri, so despite the best efforts to commandeer this truck, instead it was a passing Toyota Prius taxi.
This would have been helpful except we had the only taxi driver in central Georgia who didn't know where the station was, so in the end it was a thirty second make not this.
With the bloke with the onions from the bus having stayed on it and comfortably made the train, although with a slightly novel riding position (we are doing about 50 mph at this point).
Straight out of the station and we passed here, but more of that later.
Soviet era Georgia decided that things like station names were too dissident, so those that aren't in major settlements, are just given the distance marker. So we alighted at the first shack, the romantically titled 2.373 Km.
To be honest, I think it would need more than an actual name to make it a place beauty.
Our train rolled off into the hills, it forming the outward service of the train we'd had the day before. Ciaran is yet again in full panorama shot mode.
As the locals use the accepted practice of crossing to the opposite platform.
Full marks to this bloke, who didn't let the fact that the seating part of the station bench was missing, get in the way of him having a quick perch as he waited for a train to whisk him and his load of sticks the, well, 2.373 kliks back into town.
This is a fairly remote part of the country and this was the main road back into Khashuri, with the village centre roundabout perhaps a little underwhelming.
Nevermind, at least there was a handy supply of roadside horse shit, should you be needing any.
The presence of blaring horns alerted us to a light loco move.
But the locals seemed more nonchalant to the potential dangers of it. Well, at least they would have had the honour of being ploughed down by a slightly more modern VL11.
I'm glad we stayed alive, as otherwise we'd have missed the wonder that was to come. We'd made our way back to the stadium seen from the train earlier, which was the Grigol Jomartidze Stadium stadium, and what a place it was.
The stadium opened in 1933 and the home of FC Iveria Khashuri. It was renovated in 1990 for the start of the new Georgian Premier league, but the club dropped out in the late nineties, and the ground has deteriorated since. The ticket office didn't look like it was doing that brisk trade.
I declined the opportunity to wade through the mix of piss and oil into the dressing rooms.
Instead it was out onto the pitch, and a stunning location.
Opposite was a small but rapidly deteriorating terrace.
On the near side a crumbling main stand.
Devoid of all but its last few seats.
From the top of which there was a magnificent view.
Especially as it gave a @nonleague_train opportunity when a double headed Speedlink service sauntered past.
Football seemed to have given way to rugby, but in a makeshift way, with the pitch markings in piles of sand.
And the rugby posts sellotaped to their footballing counterparts.
It's length of the passing train had given the opportunity to climb down onto the pitch and get the arse end of it framed through the players tunnel.
With the fun over it was time to head back to the station, naturally, down the cess.
Just as the local youth arrived to smash up what remained of the ground. Or play rugby. Equally pointless activities.
We got to look at a plinthed BA19, known affectionately as Dinamo, like a shrill voiced Bradford Illusionist.
We were back to the lavish main station buildings, which for once, host more than two trains a day.
Ciaran's photographic motto has always been very much 'if it is rusty and has wheels, take a picture of it'. He took a lot of pictures in Georgia. Needless to say, in panorama mode.
The depot breakdown train was parked in the sun, looking like a 1980s Lima starter train set.
Eventually, our intercity rolled in, which we were very happy to see had a VL11 on top. As this was a four hour run into Tbilisi, we'd splashed out £1.60 on first class tickets. This was a mistake, as it was actually a six bed compartment. So you've been spared of any crazy lineside shots.
Instead, here is arrival into Tbilisi, with the driver immediately cleaning the windscreens, for the 200 yard shunt to depot. Just look at how unsafe that platform edge is? Yes, that's right, no white line.
Ciaran gives a disapproving verdict to the new Swiss double deck Stadler units that are coming into service and replacing the junk we'd just had.
Also in platform was the stock for the overnight service to Azerbaijan, which is on the list to tick off next year.
After hotel drop off, it was onto the evenings activity, which was a lucky coincidence of the Georgia v Wales World Cup qualifier, at the prominent Dynamo stadium. Almost as prominent as the omnipresent white Lada.
Whilst we were sure the game wouldn't be a sell out, we were unaware of the ticket situation. I'd got one from that most apprehensive of situations; someone you only know as a casual acquaintance off the internet. This was for the Wales end and Ciaran, being of Irish extraction and therefore vying for the remaining play off place in the group, was determined to support Georgia and go in the home end. The scrum at the ticket office ended with a rigorous vetting process:-
- Can I have two tickets for the game.
- Ok, but there is security. What is your name?
- Ciaran.
- Ok, thanks, now where would you like to sit.
And from that, two tickets emerged for £1.40, the mid priced range.
Meanwhile, I made my way to meet my new acquaintances. I generally have three rules with internet forums:-
1. Give up when you get to a thousand posts, you will have nothing interesting to say after that.
2. Never, ever, ever meet any posters in real life.
3. If you must flaunt rule 2, make sure it isn't any poster who has a user name of 'football club nickname + location' (eg Hampshire Gooner) or 'First name + initial of surname' (eg PaulS) as these will be some of the dullest members of mankind to ever inhabit the earth.
Those I were meeting complied with this rule and were long standing members of the When Saturday Comes forum, so were less likely to have killed their own mother or enjoy drinking piss through used socks, or whatever other sort of things the usual internet dwellers get up to (to be fair, those two activities would be at the more normal end of residents of the Tony Kempster forum).
Anyway, come the event and they were all fine, upstanding fellows, devoid of food stains and obvious mental scars, and a pleasure to spend the game with.
Georgia 0 v Wales 1, World Cup Qualifying - Group D
The stadium is fairly modern, starting life in 1976 as the Vladimir Ilyich Lenin Stadium, being built on the site of the 1936 vintage Dinamo stadium. On opening, its 75,000 capacity made it the third largest in the Soviet Union. This requirement came from it being used by the likes of Spartak Moscow and Dynamo Kiev for Autumn European games, when their grounds were snowed in. In 1995, the stadium was renamed the Boris Paichadze National Stadium, after a former Georgian football player. 2015 saw the latest works to the ground, with new seats and spectator, player and press facilities, in order for it to host the UEFA Super Cup between Barcelona and Sevilla.
Anyway, the teams emerged.
As did this banner which appeared to be a very bad depiction of an eagle and dragon playing swingball.
In the Welsh flag stakes, surprisingly, Machynlleth triumphed with four, Corwen an equally surprising runner up with three, and then Merthyr and New Tredegar with two.
This bloke took position in front of us and immediately stripped down to pants and footwear/sock combination normally incumbent of a German beach dweller. It is perhaps a measure of modern tolerance that the greatest offence caused was his inability to spell 'budgie' properly, a memorable observation from one cyber cohort being that this was especially negligent as they are one of Wales' greatest rock groups.
It was at this point that I realised I didn't know any Welsh players, or even if they were playing in red or white. Fortunately, careful study of slightly above average Championship clubs Wikipedia pages gives all the details. Just bookmark Hull, Derby, Ipswich and Reading and you've covered 90% of the Wales squad.
The first half was relatively unremarkable, save for my admiration of Ashley Williams steadfast tactic of kicking the ball very hard in whichever direction he was facing, being much more effective than the piss-arsing tapping it around the defence that is plaguing the modern game.
Half time and I went in search of a programme, which I was advised could be obtained from a stall on the concourse. I headed up to it and turned right. I then did a complete circumnavigation of the stadium, as I took in the 35 entrances to the seats, with the programme kiosk being one entrance to my left.
The second half started whilst I was still at the opposite end of the ground, with segregation seemingly not being a consideration.
This meant my viewing of the Wales goal was amongst the home fans.
But it did give a view of the travelling masses celebrating. Apparently 3000 tickets had been sold. But at £20 a go, this seemed to be mostly for the purpose of collecting loyalty points, and most there put the away attendance at circa 450.
During my time watching Reading, I remember us providing Wales with Paul Bodin for that penalty miss, and I perused what other offerings we had made. Looking at Wikipedia, I was most surprised that I somehow missed Adie Williams become Wales record goal scorer. Although Simon Church scoring three is just as unbelievable.
89 minutes and 56 seconds signalled the arrival of Hal Robson Kanu. In a fairly amusing aside in comparison to normal crowd humour, the bloke behind me announced, 'come on Hal, see what you can do in these four seconds', although he was tamed by his mate next to him who observed 'four seconds too fucking many for him'. I'm not sure there would be that much disagreement from Reading fans. Anyway, matters were soon bought to a close...
...with Wales 0-1 victors, to the joy of the travelling masses.
Attention then turned to the not as simple as you might think task of working out what time it was in Dublin, and whether Ireland's game had started. Never mind, this result just meant Wales needed to avoid losing in their game on Monday, when they took on the exciting, entertaining, fast paced attacking football and good sportsmanship that are a trademark of Martin O'Neil's Irish team.
Next morning and I blew out the plan for early morning tourist shots around the city. Let's face it, European capitals are pretty much just a river, a few bridges, some sort of yellow lit palace and a war memorial. Stations however, well, they are all different, so it was back to Tbilisi central.
For the 0900 to Ingiri.
We were booked in the sleeping coaches again, but an 80p sweetener to the attendant got us an open coach of our own.
So we could see castles on hills.
Deserts.
The latter stages of the river Mtkvari, previously encountered in Borjormi.
Aimlessly wandering locals in remote villages.
Phurnacide plants.
Gory fortress and football stadium.
Gori was an important military stronghold in the Middle Ages and the birthplace of Joseph Stalin. Which of course necessitated another attempt at a panorama shot. By now I'd given up trying to explain to him that if everything fits in frame, then there is no point doing a panorama shot.
We were off at our old friend Zestafoni.
Where the station frontage revealed not the hoped for bus interchange, but instead being photobombed by a Lada, this time a lovely pea green.
Apparently, the bus stations architectural delights merited a prominent location on the outskirts of town.
With the car park occupied by an East London vehicle recovery vehicle. Obviously.
A collection of half decent looking Mercedes Sprinters were staunchly immobile, instead we were herded to the fucked looking Transit on the left, which according tot he signage on the door was being operated by a Mr Janssen Marcel, of Campstraat in Gruitrode.
Normally there is a clamour for the back seats on these buses, but strangely, this was loading from the front. On boarding, I realised why, as joining us on the trip were thirteen huge clear plastic sacks of horse manure.
We headed off, but the main stop in town produced a number of additional travelling pensioners.
So I got shoved to the back to sit with the manure, with me contemplating what could be worse than being sat in a rusting Transit, amongst fresh horse manure that was steadily fermenting in the midday Georgian sun?
Well, the answer is, the above scenario but with one of the sacks dropping onto a container of cheap Georgian wine, which not only smashes the wine to spill over the rest of bus, but also cuts open the bag to give the full benefit of the decomposing equine faeces.
This meant I spent the next 90 minutes like a builders Alsatian, with my head stuck out of a Transit window and tongue out, as the driver undertook various engineering defying overtaking manoeuvres.
Near misses with horses.
Fortunately the pigs knew better.
And Graveyards. A lot of graveyards. In fact the ratio of graves to people seen was perhaps 100-1. Perhaps they were all mini bus passengers who died of horse shit/Merlot asphyxiation.
After an hour or so we crested the escarpment peak, with our valley bottom destination led out before us.
A man of steel move between two beasts of Soviet trucks signalled ur arrival into Chiatura.
Which was where we left Mr Marcel to carry on his journey to his North West Belgium home.
So, why were we here? Well, Chiatura is a lovely place now, but in the 1950s, large magnesium deposits were discovered here. That nice Mr Stalin therefore opened up a mining system, however, there was one major problem; the location is an extremely steep sided valley, making roads or rail impossible, both for the movement of goods or people to work in the mines.
The answer was an extremely complex cable car system, linking the mines, and also the various housing estates dotted around the hillsides. The remote location means that the system has remained unmodernised since construction, but the closing f the mines and de-population of the estates means the system is on its last legs, necessitating a visit.
The first point of call was the central cable car station, where the majority of the routes converged. However, on reading it, instead we found a building site.
Apparently, it had been closed earlier in the year and was to reopen as a modern system on just a couple of the routes. Oh, look what's just appeared in view.
Rather distraught, we consoled ourselves with a wander to the railway station, across a traditionally knackered bridge.
However, the timetable revealed the only train of the day was in seven hours time, but there was some ЧМЭ3 smoking out the valley as it shunted some wagons.
Back into the town centre and Ciaran had consoled himself with this being the only cable car action available...
...when we spotted some action on the valley side away from the central station. (The two blue dots above the concrete tower block).
A dash down the road, with a woman sweeping it with an upturned tree.
Did indeed reveal that there were some cars in action. At last, Ciaran had given up on Panorama mode.
This beast of a winding house...
...had this oddly located outside.
So in we went.
Unannounced, we jerked to a start.
Which was like being in an airborne police van.
And too a very precarious platform jutting out from the top of the mountain side.
Which was looked after by a very cheery old woman who's main purpose appeared to be to wave in any photograph.
The reason this cable car still operates is that this is one of the last quarries still operates, and is the workers transport.
But it does give absolutely stunning views for any tourists that do venture up here.
We now got to see the rather precarious state of the pylons that had supported our ascent. Ciaran gives them more of a thumbs up than I would.
We were randomly joined by a Russian who on hearing our English, was keen to recount his term at university in Brighton. Only on reflection do I realise the surrealness of being in a Georgian magnesium mine, discussing the Worthing real ale scene with a Moscovite. Anyway, we both agreed that Dark Star have lost their way of late, and went our separate ways.
On returning down the valley, a visit into the winding house revealed the delight of another route in action.
What's more, this looked bigger and even more fucked than the other one.
Needless to say, we partook.
The rather primitive controls. The emergency equipment seemed to be a religious slogan and a sprig of lucky heather.
This headed out to the opposite valley side.
This was one of the passenger routes, linking these Hill top flats with the main town.
As well as their porcine residents.
The views from up here were equally stunning.
Though the site of Ciaran having another attempt at panorama mode...
...was enough for me to head back to the cable car station.
We awaited the arrival of the incoming car, having flagged the previous one in order to ensure we had scratched off both units for haulage.
The wooden cover in the centre is less for shelter from the elements, but more to protect from the steadily collapsing masonary roof.
With the train back not for another four hours and taking an absolute age, and no direct bus back to Kutaisi, instead it was a hastily negotiated two hour, 16 euro taxi ride.
With the train back not for another four hours and taking an absolute age, and no direct bus back to Kutaisi, instead it was a hastily negotiated two hour, 16 euro taxi ride. Ciaran was keen to hand pick a vehicle that the Flintstones would have flagged, and the obvious choice was a white Lada on the rank, but the driver wasn't to certain about it making it up the hill out of town, let alone to a different province, so it headed off, and for once, I had to make a special effort to get a picture of it.
So instead it was a rather odd right hand drive Nissan, with the driver keen to point out Katskhi pillar, a natural limestone monolith. It didn't have a cable car so we weren't interested.
We were cutting the corner across the hills, which gave some stunning views.
Until the road suddenly ended.
And the sun started setting.
So farewell to Georgia. A first foray into the country, but it certainly won't be the last.
But for now, the start of a proper week of football cranking.
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