I planned early in the year to visit the hometown of a close old friend whom I have known since the secondary school. He never lived in his hometown, but was just born there and then the family moved permanently to the city and left uncles and aunts still living there. After a very long absence some family business obliged him in the last few years to regularly go back in quick trips.
The town is more like a village. It is in a remote region surrounded by the river on one side and rocky hills on the other, and the village itself is on the edge of the hilly part of the region. The train takes around 7 hours to reach the closest town and then a 30-minute bus ride is needed.
My friend showed me some pictures which were not actually very impressive, but what attracted me most how he talked about the village, although what he said might not be very different from what could be said about any small village any place on earth. Sleepy houses, dozens of families who knew each other and a continental weather of burning heat in summer and freezing temperatures in winter particularly at night.
He said that ghosts' stories thrived in the village, and regardless of their credibility, he believed that the view of the fog surrounding the huge old trees in winter nights and until the dawn could easily feed the imagination to picture strange shapes and creatures moving between the trees.
Whenever he arrived there he felt he cut off attachment with the world as he knew. It was like going decades or centuries back into history. Signs of poverty were also quite visible.
His family still owned an old house there that, despite being in a decaying condition, revealed remnants of old beauty.
We agreed last February to make the trip together, but then some circumstances impeded us from achieving the plan. It is sad that I am now thousands of miles away from my friend and his village.
This photo I took almost two years ago in a region that was not far from where the village is located.
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