Isolated Incidents

Unbidden, the taxi lurched to a halt outside Nato and Lado’s Guesthouse – the preferred destination of the driver, obviously a close relative of the proprietors. I gingerly unhooked the seatbelt from the handbrake, a makeshift concession to safety, and peered through the spiderwebbed windscreen at the concrete and corrugated iron.

Sensing a gentle sting, we retired to a nearby bar to confer, and breakfasted on red wine, Spam, omelette and fine local breads. Having spent the last 14 hours on the night train from Yerevan with little food or drink, other than peculiar savoury snacks and apple soda the colour of Kryptonite, the humble meal was transcendent.

Sated and newly reanimated, we decided to take the offer of the guesthouse, and we immediately we knew it would be the best decision of our Sighnagi adventure. Nato showed us to the terrace with views of the rolling hills beyond the village walls, and furnished us with more wine and glasses of the local 60% proof aperitif, chacha. It was 9.30am.

Next day Lado drove us across a vast plain to visit the vineyards, through tiny villages which seemed to be solely inhabited by gaggles of weathered old men, draining 40oz beers in the fierce midday sun.

Our car also sported a cracked windscreen, on closer inspection caused by a bullet. As was the livid scar he showed us, snaking down his forearm. He told us matter-of-factly how both came about in the 2008 war, and during a light-hearted game of comparing unflattering passport photos, he joined in by producing his police ID - we all laughed at how different he looked with a full head of hair.

Lado assured us it was lucky to drink shots of chacha three at a time, and engineered it such that often 12 were downed at each vineyard we visited, along with flagons of deep red sherry, and curious golden wine which tasted of caramel and seemed to dance in the warm afternoon light.

We returned that evening to find Nato’s young daughters rehearsing their school play, and they insisted guests join in with traditional folk songs as more chacha flowed. Lado told war stories, Nato said how nervous she was about her driving test in a week’s time.

This scene of pastoral family bliss of course had to be relayed to me the next morning, having on my return fallen asleep in a star shape while trying to remove my shoes. The chacha had beaten me, but the warmth of Sighnagi’s welcome had revitalised me, and we were ready to return to the effervescent and unhinged capital, Tbilisi.