Songs and legends of the great, of King Crum, Tsar Simeon, and the Asens, kept alive the intense feeling of Bulgarian nationality during centuries of Turkish domination. Under the heavy oppression of Ottoman rule the Church founded by Cyril and Methodius lived on, deeply rooted in the hearts of the people. So, when Bulgaria awoke in the beginning of the nineteenth century there were found men like Dedo ’Mitri to take up arms, to sacrifice all for their country’s liberty. He was a baby when Russia declared war against Turkey in 1827, but still remembers the depth of feeling that stirred his folk and urged him to take his share in the work as soon as his arm was strong enough for it. He was in the full vigour of manhood when his own efforts, and those of other patriots, had brought about the establishment of a Bulgarian Exarchate at Constantinople. He rejoiced when the Congress of Berlin ratified the treaty of San Stefano, making Bulgaria autonomous, and his militant activity came to an end when Eastern Roumelia was united to his country.
Now Dedo ’Mitri lives at peace with all the world in his quiet little village among the Rhodope Mountains.
To get to Radoïl, where Dedo ’Mitri lives, two roads are open to you. You may train from Sofia to Bellova, then drive along the high road towards Tshamkuria in the mountains. The road is good, because the King has a shooting-box at Tshamkuria, and he is very particular about the roads he travels over. Radoïl is half-way to Tshamkuria, and every one who passes that way stops to bait at Dedo ’Mitri’s.
If you wish to see more of people and country than is possible from the train, another way to Radoïl is preferable. Take a seat in the motor which goes to Tshamkuria every other day. The chauffeur is a young Englishman, who has a good deal to say if you ask him about the state of the road. It is in parts a very bad road indeed. In fact, but for the trees that line it with more or less regularity on either hand, you might mistake the road for a dried-up watercourse. The first part of the road is not so bad, quite good, in fact, but it suddenly becomes incredibly bad, about eight or ten miles from the small town of Samakov, and the streets of that town are quite Oriental in their uselessness as such. You stop at Samakov to let the engine cool down a bit, and find it quite an Oriental town. Here and there an old mosque, a Turkish fountain, and mules, donkeys, heavy-going buffaloes drinking at it. The costumes of the people you meet are Oriental, though the women go unveiled. Samakov has a garrison; it is not far from the Turkish frontier, and the uniforms of the fine-looking Bulgarian soldiers strike a Western note. But on the whole the aspect of the town is Oriental, the smells intensely so.
The road improves as it leaves Samakov, it becomes really quite a good road, and carries you upwards into the mountains. There on a high plateau embowered in a forest of pines lies Tshamkuria. It is a hot-weather resort—everybody who is anybody in Sofia comes here for the summer. But we are not concerned with such fashionable matter, we have set out to visit Dedo ’Mitri at Radoïl, so start at once.