We struggle and strut through a steeplechase of descending slopes. Age-old Defensive Towers built of stone and labour dot the landscape like lonesome lovers, their pact unbroken yet crumbled through centuries of wear. We peer into Kistani village, revealing its singular family in a side-stepped world. Their rusted, busted and broken Soviet Caravans a metaphor for a forgotten way of life in an unforgettable land. Wending on withered and weary bones we make our way to the head of the Chanchakhi valley. The seclusion here heralds a day of rest before we clamber onward, back to the ridgeline and further still from what meagre settlements the Chanchakhi contains in its twists and folds.
The ridge rambles on as we glide effortlessly across undulating fields of green. The wild horses are curiously bemused, yet wary at such odd creatures entering their isolated oil-painting. My head spins as a panorama covering all degrees sucks the breath from my lungs as we draw gasps of adoration from the chilled altitude air. It spins all the way to a mountain lake, stepped in a saddle, a serendipitous location where the only sound is our heartbeats. A nearby spring, nudging its way out of the mountainside keeps the lake fresh as our senses are pushed into overdrive at the deliciously idyllic surroundings. A long-since abandoned shepherd's hut decorates our down-sized patch of luscious green saddle, a reminder again that we have walked into a side-stepped world. A world frozen in time, its past empty and vacated, its present a paradigm of solitude.
hugs and love from a side-stepped world in Khevsureti-Tusheti.
Joe and Griet
