Base camp for Scotland's must-win European Championship qualifier in Georgia was twenty kilometres up a track off the Georgian Military Highway, deep in the Caucasus Mountains. Obviously.
After months, and I do mean months, of planning, we had settled on Juta as it was the remotest place we could confidently get to, and, more to the point, back from, in time for the game. Lying at 2,250m, it is one of the highest villages in Georgia, with a winter population of 18. Alternatives considered were Svaneti, but the helicopter return service did not sound too reliable, and Bakuriani, which would suit a future visit but we felt lacked the drama of Juta and the High Caucasus.
The Juta Hotel had appointed Alex to be our guide and driver, and we met at Tbilisi airport. Alex is a family man, always a relief in countries where driving veers to the exciting, and that night was to take us up the Georgian Military Highway, from where we would turn off to Sno, famed for its' mineral water, and on to the roads' end, where Juta, a settlement of around 100 people in summer, lies. The Georgian Military Highway was built by the Russians through the Gorge to help secure their control over the Caucasus, much like General Wade's roads in Scotland.
As we climbed through the passes, Alex mentioned that he had just driven from Vardzia, in the south of Georgia, a good 10 hour return journey from Tbilisi, and yet here he was now, taking us over the 2,400m Jvari Pass, well after midnight. Tourism is a precarious business and money has to be made whenever it can be.
Leaving the Highway's hairpins behind, the road lead into the village of Sno, its' tidy Georgian houses often with trellised vines and gourds. Having found our way through the village, the road became a track and on we went, crossing streams and avoiding boulders, thinking, "It can't be this far out", but it was. Starting to climb, in the moonlight we soon realised there were some serious drops on one side. Alex, fighting sleep as well as his Merc's ground clearance, coped admirably, and we eventually reached the cluster of houses that is Juta and the hotel, too find it closed. Not surprising, as by now it was nearing 3am, but, just as I was about to settle for sleeping in the car, someone got up and it we got in and off to bed.
Day 1: Chaukhi Range
I never sleep well at any kind of altitude and Juta was no exception. It was unbelievable to step onto my balcony into the cold, bright morning and look back down the valley we had come up the previous night and higher up the mountainside, towering above the village. The meadow behind was alive with birdsong. A wallcreeper flew onto the side of a boulder in the field, its' pink flash startling in the sunshine. There were rosefinches in abundance and a Caucasian Chiffchaff, an endemic, flew back and forward in front of my room. All this from my balcony, sitting with my feet up, binoculars, and a cup of tea.
There were a number of homestays around the village, which is inhabited by Khevsurs, and the hotel was somewhat incongruous in such a small place. It was built by a gentleman who had left Juta and become a success in Georgia's construction industry, and creating this was his was a repaying the village. The rooms were perfectly clean, showers perfect i.e. blasting enough to help wake you up, and the staff, ladies from the village, were charming. Though we lacked a common language, there was enough communication to generate laughter, which is always good.
The plan for the day was to walk up the valley towards Chaukhi, a multi-peaked range rising to 3,842 metres. One of the peaks was first climbed in 1932 by a Scottish lady, Una Cameron, part of the Dewar whisky family and an alumni of Cheltenham Ladies College. The idea was to spend the day locally, avoiding going back down the road we had come up the night before. Alex organised a local guide and we set off, tip toeing past and turning right at the big dog, highlighted in Peter Nasmyth's excellent book, Walking in the Caucasus, Georgia. Luckily, it stayed asleep, but we were conscious that it must be an absolute monster to deserve specific warning and use as a landmark in a guide book.
 |
| Great view and good excuse for a break |
Here there were a couple of mountain huts, mostly occupied by hippy campers doing yoga and such like. We stopped at the second, a more robust building, for a quick refreshment before setting off properly. The owner was a young Georgian, staying up there six months of the year. Idyllic, except for the god-awful rave music they insisted on playing. As we were sitting reflecting and enjoying the peace, a Russian camper heard our accents and started yelling, "Eleven, eleven !". The power of the internet ! For those not aware, he was paying tribute to a YouTube sketch, where an American voice-instructed lift fails to understand a Scotsman's accent.
Once more we set off, fairly easy level walking, crossing a stream a few times, and came across a group of fairly mature mountain bikers from Ukraine. They had camped, with lots of gear, and we saw them pushing their bikes along as they left their camp site. They went left, towards the Roshka Pass and we later saw them, way higher up, still pushing their bikes.
By now, we were close to the end of the valley, and stopped above a tarn, and it was here that I unveiled the Tunnock's Caramel Logs, matched by John Docherty's Murray Mints. What could be better ?
We pressed on to the foot of Chaukhi. There was a huge boulder which John Green began climbing around and the guide from Juta climbed impressively to the top of. A distant rumbling sound, like explosives in a quarry, or a low flying jet caught the attention. Suddenly, we saw the sound was coming from a rock fall high on the face of the mountain. Hundreds of rocks and boulders were falling and clouds of dust billowed high. We thought mountain goats, tur, had caused the small avalanche, but could not definitely see any though the binoculars. It was quite sobering to realise how loose the rock is on the face of Chaukhi, and I was glad not to go too much closer.
Alex had never been in this area before, and was revelling in discovering a new place as much as we were. The area around Kazbegi is, according to Alex, heavily protected and hunting is banned, which has allowed large birds of prey to flourish. At that point, a Griffon vulture emerged from behind the mountains as we headed back to Juta, soaring for some time before it disappeared, perhaps to pick the bones of the Ukranian mountain bikers. Alex explained that most hunting he does is of a bird which sounded like a big grouse, and is for the pot. I was impressed by the respect given to the protected area, which I was certain, at least in Alex's case, is genuine.
Returning to the mountain hut, we had a couple of beers outside, well earned, and still in view of the stunning peaks of Chaukhi. Similar to the Dolomites, according to the Doc. As we were taking on refreshment, John Green caught a lizard. We ordered some food - amazing to get this in such a remote place - and asked, more in hope than expectation for lobio. Lobio is a Georgian delicacy, a thick kidney bean paste, served in clay jars. It is also magnificent for generating strong wind. The owners' girlfriend produced the lobio, with a sprinkling of spring onion, and we all agreed adding the spring onion was a stroke of genius, adding a little bite of spiciness.
By now, after a few beers, sunburnt, well, at least half sunburnt like a lorry drivers' arm, we decided to move on back down the valley. We stopped at the first camp, which really was more of a yoga retreat, with the same inane music, for another couple of beers. The girl serving did not seem too happy to have to be doing something, and I got the impression that the beer had been sitting for some time, probably not a high priority for their top knotted clientele, keen on getting in touch with themselves.
Local kids cantered around bareback on horses as we walked slowly down into Juta, the steepness burning the front of our legs. We passed Towser, still asleep, and realised it had seen better days, the years since the walking book was published not having been kind to the former terror. In the high Caucasus, horses are main means of getting around and have been for centuries. John Doc and I had considered a day horse riding, though I eventually chickened out, for fear of falling and cracking my head. Up the valley, we had seen a group of four or five riders being lead pony trekking. They were small ponies, and were being lead, so there would have been no chance of going too fast.
Evening saw us launching into a few beers followed by caraffes of red wine, labelled Juta but grown in Khakheti, Georgia's famous wine region. The food at the hotel was excellent, especially considering how remote we were. A group of border guards came into the bar after their shift, and we saw the mutual respect given in Georgia, as Alex stood and, acting as "tamada", toasted the men, to which they responded by sending more caraffes our way. Georgia's people are famous for hospitality, and love of wine and brandy, and this is particularly true in the mountains, I am happy to record.
Day 2: The Dariali Gorge and the Devdoraki Glacier
Day 2: The Dariali Gorge and the Devdoraki Glacier
Today we would venture out of Juta, back down the track to the Highway to visit the famous Dariali Gorge, and the Devdoraki Glacier, close to the border with Russia. Seeing the track in daylight for the first time, I wondered how many months of the year it must be closed for snow, and once more respected Alex for getting up there in the first place.
The bottom of the valley is flat and gravelly, washed round by years of spring melt water. Lots of colourful bee-eaters were on the telegraph wires and swooping after insects as they build themselves up for migration. Looking up each pass that fed into the main valley, each fired the imagination with what could be seen in its' remoteness.
Just north of Kazbegi is the Dariali Gorge. Historically, the main route through the Caucasus, it has seen armies passing through for millennia, including the Romans, Persians and Russians. Narrow enough to be held by a few men, its' steep sides were once the home of brigands ready to rob the unwary traveller. Sharp rocks on the road, having fallen from the cliffs, were a cause of concern, and you wondered at the number of accidents there must be in the winter, and how many drunk Russian tourists must go over the side, regardless of season. The sides of the gorge reach 1,800m, and the rock appeared very loose, impossible to climb, and the escarpments are great habitat for the many birds of prey, including eagles and vultures, that make the area home.
As we proceeded along the gorge, towards the Russian border, the turn off presented itself at Gverleti, 8km north of Kazbegi, on the left after a bridge over the swirling River Terek. Gverleti, barely inhabited, is a cluster of buildings, with old rusted machinery lying around, and up a steep, gravelly road, was a spot where we could park out of sight. Off we went, along the base of the canyon, low forest on the left and a deep cut stream on the right, overhung by cliffs, and baking hot. The valley split into two, with the Russian border at the top of the cliffs and the glacier at the head of the left hand fork.
 |
| Alex, John Doc, John Green |
A jeep approached with soldiers. Luckily, Alex was with us, and passed the message that we could only go as far as a rise around a kilometre further on, the issue being our proximity to the border and a Georgian border post. The jeep continued on to the border post. We were mildly disappointed, but hoped that we would at least see the glacier. On the bright side, we would be quicker back into Kazbegi for lunch.
After a few minutes, the jeep returned, and another conversation ensued. We expected to be turned back, but Alex came back with the excellent news that were now allowed to go past the border post. The soldiers at the post welcomed us warmly, glad to break the monotony. They pointed out where we could go, and were happy for us to take photos as long as we did not take any of the border post. We dropped down through gorse scrub, keeping an eye out for snakes, and got our shots of the glacier as it drops off the north face of the massive Mount Kazbegi. My first glacier, not counting any flown over. We admired the massif that is Kazbegi, flitting in and out of the clouds, for a while before we climbed back up to the path.
I was delighted to have accomplished our plan but we were now starving so, after briefly discussing and dismissing the option of continuing up the road to the Russian border, food was in order.
Stepantsminda, or Kazbegi, never sure which is the right name, had been a revelation on our last trip in 2007. The road into Russia was closed then, I think, there was certainly no traffic. The town had felt like the end of the world. After walking down from the famous church, we had spent the afternoon in a bakery that sold beer, the lady making the most amazing fresh bread as we got more and more intoxicated, stunned by a sign for Vladikavkaz.
This time, delighted to see the bakery still there, we were alarmed to discover Stepantsminda had found its' way onto the tourist trail. Dusty, sunburnt and needing to eat, I was confronted by bus loads of tourists, cafes, traffic and money exchange kiosks. If you are a Scot, you will understand the comment, "Tyndrum, eat your heart out". Maybe it was always like that and we had been there out of season before - October, who knows ? But to more urgent business, Alex found us a cracking looking restaurant with a verandah, so we found a corner and had a fantastic meal including pork, chicken, salad, lobio and lobiani, washed down with a few beers. Most of the clientele seemed to be from the Peace Corps, carefully nursing their drinks, plugging their laptops into the restaurant's power supply, and generally not adding much to anything, unless you consider top knots worthwhile. The view of the Gergeti Trinity Church, sitting on a hill above the village, with the giant Kazbegi behind, is unbelievable, and the sight of vultures soaring around the church added to the mystique. There cannot be many more picturesque churches in the world.
On the road back, we halted in Sno, where the surfaced road to Juta from the Highway stops. A tower offered photo opportunities which John Green and I were happy to take. As we approached, we noticed two local fellows, one standing and the other sitting, where the standing one seemed to be examining his older friends mouth. Then we noticed the string emerging from the old man's mouth, wrapped around the other's hand. Dentistry in rural Georgia ! Like watching car crash TV, we could not leave. There was a sudden yank, yell, and pitiful groan of disappointment. It had not worked. The tooth was still there.
Day of the game. Plan was breakfast and head off with no significant breaks to the journey, which meant missing out on the Truso Gorge, until the next time, but would give us time for a decent refreshment in Tbilisi.
Another beautiful sunny day, the three of us climbed into Alex's Mercedes, our combined weight challenging its' suspension. We rolled off and the already low ground clearance seemed even lower than normal. Flat tyre.
I admired Alex's calm as the bags were unloaded to get the spare out. Despite Alex being under the car, two girls from the camp approached him directly, having asked before, but now basically insisting he arrange transport for them from Kazbegi. Why they had travelled to such a remote place without a return journey in place was never explained but throughout the episode, Alex remained the chivalrous gentleman. Traditions of chivalry and hospitality run deep in Georgia. It was impressive that in circumstances stressful enough on their own, without these girls mithering him, Alex remained true to good Georgian principles.
Back onto the main highway, we were shocked at the miles and miles of trucks parked, likely for days, as they wait to cross the border into Russia. This is the middle of the Caucasus Mountains - there are no shops, no toilets or running water and nowhere for the truck drivers to go - an unbelievable sight and it must be a dire experience for the drivers in the heat or in bad weather.
We stopped at the concrete oddity that is the Russia-Georgia Friendship Monument, named by the Soviets, which is spectacular with a drop hundreds of feet down and across, almost into South Ossetia. Looking north, we felt for the lorries disappearing upwards across the desolate expanse knowing they would soon be stuck for days in the queue.
There had been nothing there on our previous visit but this time, there were tea stalls, fruit sellers and a whole variety of people selling touristy goods. Across the valley, we could make out tiny dots of flocks of sheep, and thought of the real Towsers that must be guarding them, slightly putting one off any notions of hillwalking alone.
Further down, as we exited the mountains, we broke the journey for a coffee. Two women ran the café and appeared to live there, I thought very brave in that isolated spot, until I saw the monster that was Big Towser. It was so big, it looked as if its' kennel had been built around it, and it was held in place by a thick chain. No-one in their right mind would rob the place with a dog like that on the premises.
So we reached Tbilisi, driving becoming more terrifying as we got closer, passing a sign for Tehran which was quite cool. The heat and slow progress was oppressive but we eventually reached the hotel, up a side street in the Old Town. Cutting a long story short, the hotel was fantastic, the people incredibly welcoming, though they made clear the impending Rugby World Cup was a much bigger event than Scotland's visit for the football. Actually, everyone we spoke to mentioned rugby long before football and many thought we were there for a rugby match ahead of the World Cup. The build of Georgian men suits rugby and the social traditions of rugby, as well as the physical competition, would appeal to the Georgian psyche.
The game itself, a must win for Scotland's qualification, was a massive anti-climax, as we slumped to a fully deserved defeat. Whether the shock of emerging into the heat and humidity in the stadium was too much, I do not know, but the players looked flat, and similarly the Scotland fans barely mustered a song all night. So another very promising campaign died in Tbilisi, same as the last time, and once more because of taking Georgia too lightly. The passion that the Georgians have for their country is incredible and drove their players to commitment our team could not match. Their fans were ecstatic at their victory. As a relatively new country, sport provides a vehicle for Georgia to assert its' identity, so it matters, and Scotland's management never grasped that. Again.
While the sport bordered on disaster, this trip to remote mountains, meeting new people, enjoying new foods and wines, is probably the best Scotland football trip I have ever been on. The variety that Georgia offers, from its' wild areas to the excitement of a Tbilisi night out, to the honest friendship, hospitality and spirit of the Georgian people, there are many reasons to visit Georgia and then to keep returning.
Final Note
If you are going to Georgia and need a guide, you can get in touch with Alex on +995 599 377 287, and can get in touch using what'sapp. Alex is a friendly, enthusiastic and knowledgeable guide, with good English, and above all is a safe driver.
On my return, I joined the British Georgian Society. BGS is a very active group and organise events which focus on Georgian culture, business development and architectural heritage. If you are interested, I would also recommend you visit http://www.britishgeorgiansociety.org/.
 |
| John Green, stupefied by an appalling performance |
  |
 |
 |
| Dariali Gorge |
 |
| Devdoraki Glacier |
 |
| Dentistry Caucasus style |
 |
| Towser, best days behind him |
 |
| Big Towser |
