locals rearranged themselves and waved us over to join their table laden with food , ashtrays , and beer . In Georgian tradition a table less than overflowing was unacceptable when you have guests . The beers , tomato salad and khachapuri kept on coming . Khachapuri is different in the various regions . Here it was a scrumptious fluffy flatbread stuffed with minced meat and onions , seasoned with the local herb salt mix known as Svanish salt .
In keeping with traditions , a toastmaster was appointed . That bottle of water at the end of the table wasn ’ t water . Once again , we found ourselves obligated to knock back shots of Chacha before the day ’ s riding was done . We were yet to find a place to stay , and the locals pointed us down the road to a guest house . As the daylight was fading and the pub was closing , we said our good-byes with the handshake and kiss on the cheek that is custom here . I wasn ’ t keen on heaving my bike about in this state so Aidan kindly rode both our bikes down the slippery , stony path to the back of the guest house .
Our host greeted us from the kitchen and waved us straight up the stairs . We had a simple but cosy dorm with three double beds all to ourselves and settled into the flowery sheets , catching up our diaries and sipping from a two-litre bottle of beer . In Georgia beer is sold in twoand five-litre plastic bottles . The idea is to pour it out into glasses and share it . We had no glasses and classily drank from the bottle instead , flattening the lager-style beer with every swig .
In the morning we popped down to the bikes with the intention to change the tyres . We had ridden up here on street tyres and ironically had carried brand new off road tyres strapped to our luggage . But it was cold and wet , and we did not fancy the cumbersome procedure with clammy fingers . The street tyres still had a few thousand kilometres in them , so we would carry them and not reduce the weight at all . And anyway , we wouldn ’ t want to disturb the cute calf moseying around the bikes , would we ?
Having thus reasoned our way out of a sensible decision , we decided to hike to the local glacier instead . Walking through the village we were sort of adopted by Nico , an older local with gum boots and a fast stride . He happily chatted away to us in the Svan language without a care in the world that we didn ’ t understand a word . In exchange Aidan shared his cigarettes . Eventually Nico made a sign that we did understand . Lifting your chin a little and flicking your neck with your finger is the universal sign in this part of the world , for an invitation to share some hard liquor . It wasn ’ t even eleven in the morning yet ! We agreed to meet him in the
pub later and went on to the glacier by ourselves .
Behind Ushguli a narrow path follows the meandering stream through a valley awash with wildflowers in blue , pink , orange , yellow , purple , and white . Cows graze on the slopes and tiny birds fly this way and that . Only the trickling of the stream and the buzzing of countless insects disturb the peaceful silence . At the end of the valley a magnificent glacier retreats up into the jagged grey mountains towards Russia . It seemed so close , but it was deceivingly far away , and after a few hours we turned around .
Back in the village Nico found us in the pub and we learned the history of the chair . It was hand made by the owner of the pub as a present for their baby . The delicately carved writing , scenery and patterns took six months to complete . No one ever sits on it and the locals were amused that I had . Oops !
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