Back to Blagoevgrad | Across Sea & Winding Roads

Winter travel always has its own rhythm in Crete, quieter streets, heavier coats, and the kind of delays that can test both your itinerary and your temperament.

After many flights between Crete and mainland Greece, I decided this time to do things a little differently. The festive season was nearing, and rather than taking to the skies, I opted for a more grounded (and sea-salted) route northward: with Greece’s local KTEL bus network, linking up with the ANEK ferry service, and eventually crossing into Bulgaria. A journey stitched together by timetables, terminals, and on this occasion, more than a little patience.

Now, if you haven’t travelled by KTEL before, it’s worth knowing that this system is impressively expansive. From coastal towns to mountain villages and city connections, chances are there’s a KTEL route that’ll get you there. That said, not every ‘bus station’ or bus stop is what you might expect. In some places, your bus will stop not at a formal station, but outside a local kafeneion, where your ticket might be handed to you over the same counter serving ouzo or coffee.

And when I say ticket, I mean one ticket. KTEL doesn’t let you plan multiple future segments. You buy your ticket for that day’s journey, from the departure station or ticket office, or the local bus services kafeneion. Want to travel two days from now? You’ll need to wait. Want to continue on tomorrow? Get your ticket then, from wherever you’ll be starting your journey. And, strangely enough, it’s a system that works.

Walking from home to Chania’s bus station for an 8:00pm departure, I was already a little on edge. The winter skies over Western Crete were grey, darkening, and threatening.

The plan? Bus to ferry, overnight crossing, back on the same bus in the morning, and arrive in Thessaloniki by midday the following day, Christmas Day. Then, with military precision, I’d catch the 2:00pm bus north to Blagoevgrad in Bulgaria.

But this was winter. And Greece, beautiful, unpredictable Greece islands, had other plans.

What happens when storms roll in over the Aegean, delaying the ferry’s journey from Chania's, Souda Bay to Athens, Piraeus port? What happens when your tightly woven travel dominoes start falling one by one, until you're standing outside a locked Thessaloniki’s bus terminal for 5½ hours after your connecting bus to Bulgaria has already departed?

Let’s just say: it becomes a cool travel story of patience, problem solving, and a touch of soul travel perseverance... and the gentle reminder that sometimes the God of the Sea, Poseidon, doesn’t always play along.

I’m back at the Chania bus station the next day, and by mid morning, I was boarding the ANEK ferry, finally bound for Athens’ Piraeus Port. The ferry itself, an institution in Greek transport, offers everything from shared lounges to private cabins.

And here's where it gets quite efficient. When travelling with KTEL and ANEK Lines, you and the bus stay together. The bus boards the ferry just like any other vehicle, engine off, passengers disembark, and we all move into the ferry’s shared lounges, cabins, or wherever we’ve chosen to spend the journey. No frantic transfers or awkward luggage heaves. Just a seamless continuation from land to sea, where the ferry becomes a floating extension of your bus journey.

A day out on the Sea of Crete brings an opportunity to really take in the crossing. The mid morning departure takes you through the natural harbour of Souda Bay, formed between the Akrotiri Peninsula and Cape Drapano, before sailing across the open sea.

So, I settled in for the approximately eight hour journey before arriving in Athens, Piraeus Port. I found myself staring out at the beauty of winter waters, restrained, quiet, and deeply reflective. With the hum of the ferry engines, and nowhere to be but onward, it became a day of sea bound stillness.

Of course, stillness is one thing. Timing? Entirely another.

We arrived into Piraeus Port just on dusk, with a long journey still ahead, and an overnight bus to Thessaloniki. These long distance bus services have their own flow: pick-ups, drop-offs, on the side of the road, and the occasional stop at a bus station. Then there’s the unknown reminder that not all plans align neatly when you're travelling during the Christmas period. One such reminder came as a passenger seated beside me, before getting off; KTEL bus stations across Greece close at 11:00pm on Christmas Eve.

Cue the slow realisation that I would arrive into Thessaloniki’s Macedonia Intercity Bus Station at 2:45am… to find it completely closed. And sure enough, it was. Dark. Quiet. Locked.

But travel always seems to offer up a moment of grace when you least expect it. Parked near the entrance was ‘one’ city bus, engine running. With little hesitation and even less English, the bus driver motioned to me. I explained my situation in my best broken Greek, and he offered a ride. "Airport and back," he said, smiling.

So, I rode.

One hour to the airport. One hour back. A loop through the night, with the city still and sleeping. We didn’t speak much, but the kindness in that gesture stayed with me. It always does, when these unknown moments of generosity from strangers who simply choose to help. No agenda, no fuss. Just kindness.

Back at the station around 4:45am, the doors were still locked. It would be another three hours before staff arrived. Finally, around 8:00am, I was able to purchase a ticket to Blagoevgrad, Bulgaria, with Arda Tur, a Balkan cross border bus line that links much of southern Europe. And not a moment too soon. The bus was due to depart just ten minutes later.

Learn more about the destinations offered by Arda Tur lines here.

Departing the Macedonia Interchange Bus Station, and skirting the outskirts of Thessaloniki. It felt like I’d already lived a full day, and yet this part of the journey was just beginning.

A comfortable and scenic two half hour journey on the road north from Thessaloniki to the Greek-Bulgarian border that cuts through a scattering of quiet villages and rolling countryside.

Greece gradually gives way to hills, and those hills slowly give way to snowcapped mountains nestled in the distance.

Border crossings in this region can be straightforward or slow, there’s rarely a middle ground. Fortunately, on this occasion, it was the former. We made a short but required stop at Kulata (BG – Кулата), border, near the small village in the Petrich Municipality of the Blagoevgrad Province. This is the major border checkpoint between Greece and Bulgaria. Passports were collected and returned, and before long we were travelling into southwestern Bulgaria.

The road from the border takes approx. 1 ¼ hours to Blagoevgrad and curves along the Struma motorway through the snow-dusted Pirin foothills, and I felt it, that subtle shift. A change in rhythm, in pace, in language and atmosphere. There’s always something different in the air when you cross into Bulgaria from Greece, not better or worse, just… different. More interior. More reserved…well, at least for me.

I arrived in Blagoevgrad around midday, not at all when I’d planned, but deeply grateful to have made it.

The bus eased into the central station, and I stepped out into the cold air; now familiar with the backdrop of the mountains in the distance and the calmness of Blagoevgrad, the small Bulgarian city that had quietly made its way into the flow of my journey.

It was also a welcome relief to be met by my friend for a slightly delayed Christmas Day lunch, now turned Boxing Day lunch, shared with stories, warmth, and the kind of grounding presence you’re grateful for after such a long travel stretch.

But the journey wasn’t quite over yet.

After lunch, we set off south toward a place I’d long wanted to visit, the natural open air hot springs near the small village of Rupite (BG – Рупите). Just over an hour’s drive from Blagoevgrad, this quiet corner of southwestern Bulgaria sits in the shadow of Kozhuh Mountain, an extinct volcano with a landscape that breaths with antiquity, earthy energy.

The hot springs lie around 2km from the village itself, nestled at the foot of the mountain in a setting that feels almost dreamlike in winter. Back in the early 1960s, this area roughly 0.4 hectares, was officially declared a natural landmark, protecting both the terrain and the mineral rich waters that rise continuously from beneath it.

For those wanting a little more privacy (or warmth), there’s a modest paid area offering separate male and female bathing facilities, as well as a shared swimming pool available between April and September.

But me? I was drawn to the open air pools, steam rising against the snow capped landscape, the crisp air biting at your shoulders while the volcanic waters cradle the rest of you in pure warmth.

The springs run hot, around 74°C, with a continuous flow of approximately 35 litres per second, but the ever resourceful locals have devised clever ways to regulate the temperature. Using layers of fabric and simple blockages, they redirect the water’s flow through cascading natural pools, cooling it just enough for blissful soaking.

It was everything I’d hoped for, peaceful, essential, and incredibly restorative. One of those experiences that asks nothing from you but still gives so much. Just an hour or two immersed in those healing waters, surrounded by quiet earth and distant snow, and I felt the past days of motion begin to settle.

The road travelled by many between Blagoevgrad and the Rupite hot springs winds through the picturesque Kresna Gorge, a narrow valley carved by the Struma River and hugged by forested hills. It’s a route that feels quietly cinematic, dramatic rock faces, deep bends, and the occasional glimpse of a distant village clinging to the slopes.

On the way back to Blagoevgrad, we made a brief stop in the village of Kresna, hoping to find a local taverna or something simple to eat. The town was quiet, and the wintry air was filled with the scent of woodsmoke.

Kresna is an interesting and eclectic mix, a small village that the Struma highway runs through, and a quiet charm of its own. A couple of days each week, a minimalist local market springs to life, with tables and crates of produce grown and preserved by locals from their own gardens. Nothing flashy, but it’s genuine, jars of pickled vegetables, plaited garlic, and various preserves passed down through generations.

Lining a short stretch of the road is where we stopped to check out the street food stalls, serving up simple and very local food, mostly chicken or pork grilled over hot coals, then tucked into a toasted bread roll. If you're feeling a little adventurous, you can add a spoonful of local salads, perhaps, a herbed potato mix or something tangy with gherkin. From what I saw, pork seems to be the favoured choice here, and often appears in its cured form, as a salami style preserved sausage.

But let’s just say, it wasn’t quite my kind of culinary adventure. The local food reflects the place: rustic, unpretentious, and very much a product of its history, shaped by resilience, resourcefulness, and the legacy of limited supply during the communist period.

So I waited. A heartier meal would have to wait until we were back in familiar surrounds.

Saturday morning in Blagoevgrad was a quiet treat, the kind that invites you to bundle up, step outside, and see the town through its people. Despite the chill in the air, we ventured out for a visit to the local farmers market, where the community gathers week after week, even in the depths of winter.

Here you’ll find an amazing array of locally grown, seasonal produce, cultivated by backyard farmers and small scale growers. There’s a proud simplicity to it all, no frills, just real food, fresh from the soil.

Tables are lined with jars of homemade fermented vegetables, shelves of pickled everything in season, and barrels of whole cabbages, earthy winter root vegetables, local herbs, and golden jars of honey and beeswax. These stalls are a true reflection of what the land offers this time of year, and how Bulgarians have preserved the traditions that stretch far beyond convenience.

And if you happen to wander back along the central boulevard, keep your eyes open, you might just spot a street vendor selling soft, sweet squares of loukoumi: the Bulgarian version of the original Greek treat, and a close cousin of Turkish delight. Dusted in icing sugar and bursting with flavour, it’s a little indulgence after the earthy heartiness of the market, and just the thing to warm your tastebuds and lift your mood.

A few days later, we were back at Rupite for another slow soak in the warm waters, a ritual that already felt familiar. But in between, a day visit to the capital had called (you can read more about that in Sofia’s Arabic Neighbourhood & Zenski Pazar.

The winter morning was crisp, and steam once again danced above the surface of the mineral pools. But this time, curiosity tugged me beyond the warmth of the waters. I’d learned that there were ruins nearby, something ancient, something half forgotten.

On the dirt road leading toward the natural hot springs, a weather worn sign pointed towards the Ancient City of Heraclea Sintica (BG – Хераклея Синтика, Ancient Greek – Ἡράκλεια Σιντική). Yet once you arrived at the springs themselves, no further signs appeared. The landscape gave no clear indication of where to go next.

So, I approached the attendant at the paid bathing area to ask for directions. We spoke different languages, and it wasn’t easy, but with a generous spirit, he phoned a friend who spoke English fluently. “Follow the dry riverbed,” the voice instructed. “It runs alongside the railway line. Just keep walking.”

And so, I did, and grateful for the kindness of the local attendant, and his call a friend on the other end of the mobile phone.

Not far beyond the crossing of the dry riverbed, the dirt road curved, and there another timeworn signpost. Quiet, almost easy to miss. But it marked the way.

The walk was quiet, solitary. The dusty ground underfoot and the cold winter air lingered.

Eventually, the earth path opened up, and there it was, a section of an ancient Roman city wall, still standing. A fragment of a civilisation long past, and yet somehow still present.

I’d stepped into the story of Heraclea Sintica, nestled along the right bank of the Struma River and resting in the shadow of the Kozhuh volcano. Once a prominent centre in the ancient region of Sintica, the city held a commanding place in the cultural and political landscape of the time.

Its roots stretch deep into antiquity. Founded as a Greek (Hellenistic) settlement during the reign of Philip II of Macedon, father of Alexander the Great, it rose within Thracian lands once inhabited by the Sintians, a tribe even Homer referenced in his epics.

For years, the exact location of Heraclea Sintica was the subject of academic debate between Bulgarian and Greek scholars. But in 2002, a Latin inscription dated to 308 AD ended the dispute. The stone recorded a letter from the Roman Emperor Galerius, written in response to a plea from the city's citizens, asking for their civil rights to be restored after a period of decline. In that single inscription, Heraclea Sintica reclaimed its name, and its place on the map.

Today, much of the ancient city is still being uncovered, carefully, methodically, with its urban layout slowly emerging from the soil.

Among the most significant sites excavated is a section of the forum, the city’s main public square. Built in accordance with Hellenistic and later Roman design principles, the forum served as the heart of public life, a gathering place for civic discussions, marketplaces, ceremonies, and the daily flow of the city’s citizens.

Walking among the limited ruins, I learned about the worship of Heracles, the shifts toward early Christianity, and the cultural overlap that marked the final years of the Roman world. Heraclea Sintica flourished, until an earthquake in 388 shook its foundations. By around 500, it had been fully abandoned.

Since my initial visit to Heraclea Sintica, more of its story has come to light, quite literally. The site is now formally open to visitors every day between 10:00am and 5:00pm, with a minimal entrance fee for adults and even less for students and retirees.

As archaeologists continue their meticulous work, it’s now believed that Heraclea Sintica was once home to over 40,000 people, making it not only one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the region but also one of the largest of its time. It was once a thriving economic, commercial, and cultural hub, strategically connecting the Balkan Peninsula with the Aegean coast, Thrace, and Macedonia, a perfect crossroads for both trade and everyday life. The city is also believed to have been inhabited by people of many nationalities, and its energy lingers in the stones, the silence, and the soft rustle of wind across the ruins.

And yet, even in its final days, the spirit of the city was preserved. In recent excavations, archaeologists uncovered a well preserved marble statue of Hermes, the Greek god associated with communication and passage between worlds, hidden inside a Roman sewer. The statue is believed to have been deliberately concealed, buried in haste to protect it from the rising tide of Christianity during the city’s decline. This prominent figure, with its features remarkably intact, still stands poised. A quiet act of worship for the old gods, tucked beneath the earth.

And maybe that’s what struck me most about Heraclea Sintica: it isn’t just another site of stone and story. It’s a place where you can feel the intent, of those who lived, built, prayed, hid, and hoped here. Where the street stones beneath your feet are over 2,300 years old, and the air still carries the echo of forgotten rituals.

Fittingly, just a few kilometres away, the volcanic slopes of Kozhuh Planina send up their own ancient breath, the mineral springs, sulphur steam, and raw earth energy rising into the winter air. This part of the world holds its past close. And Heraclea Sintica remains one of its quietest, most powerful chapters, still revealing itself, patiently, like so much of the region.

Walking back toward the hot springs, I found my friend still content in the mineral waters, and her dog quietly curled up close by. With the morning still unfolding, I set off alone to visit the nearby Memorial Temple of St. Petka of Bulgaria, a short 15 minute walk from the springs.

Set within the now manicured grounds of what’s known as the Vanga Complex, the church was built in 1994, and funded by the Bulgarian mystic Vangeliya Gushterova, more widely known as Vanga. Her legacy is deeply rooted in this land. Born in 1911, and blind from childhood after being caught in a fierce storm, an event that is said to have sparked her first vision. Living most of her life in Rupite, until her death in 1996. Her family believed the healing energy of the nearby hot springs amplified her psychic abilities. Over her lifetime, she became known for her thousands of prophecies, touching on everything from natural disasters and wars to the personal destinies of those who came to seek her guidance. Today, she is a figure of both national pride and spiritual mystery, drawing pilgrims from across Bulgaria and beyond.

The Vanga Complex itself is serene, humble, and reflective. A small museum displays moments from her life, while her modest home, preserved onsite, offers a quiet look into the woman behind the legend. Shaded gazebos, grassy lawns, and even a pond with turtles and guinea fowl, adding a natural farmyard like feel to the peaceful setting.

Vanga’s grave lies near the striking non Orthodox church, adorned with the unique iconography of Bulgarian artist Svetlin Rusev. It’s a sacred space, and whether or not you believe in her gifts, there’s no denying the calm, magnetic presence that lingers in the air.

The myth of this sacred site stretches further back than the days of Vanga. According to local legend, during the time of Ottoman rule, a shepherd tending his flock near the volcanic slopes noticed a mysterious glow in the bushes. As he approached, he discovered a small icon, encircled by thorny branches, radiating light. He shared his find with the local Turkish official, who dismissed the tale and had the shepherd imprisoned.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans. The officer soon fell gravely ill. Remembering the shepherd’s words, he ordered his release and together they returned to the glowing spot. Upon touching the icon, the officer was miraculously healed. In deep gratitude, he began the construction of a modest church on the site, as a gesture of reverence that marked the beginning of something enduring.

Over time, that original church became the spiritual heart around which a modest monastery complex gradually took shape. Though still humble in scale, it carries deep symbolic weight. Today, the main church of St. Petka and the small chapel dedicated to St. Machenitsa Nedelya sit within the manicured grounds of the Vanga Complex.

Within the monastery courtyard, a towering ancient tree spreads its limbs wide, as if keeping vigil over all who pass through. Deeply rooted in both legend and landscape, this tree, like the monastery itself stands as a reminder of the quiet endurance of faith, healing, and the land’s whispered mysteries.

Just beyond the manicured grounds, another striking presence marks the landscape: a large cross, embedded into the slope of Kozhuh Mountain, enclosed within a gated area. Visible as you arrive at or depart from the Rupite hot springs, this sculptural monument was commissioned at the request of the late prophet Vanga. Built to commemorate the 15th anniversary of the church’s consecration, it honours both her enduring spiritual legacy and the volcanic land that she believed radiated healing energy. The story goes that before her passing, Vanga had asked for a sign to be placed upon the mountain, to honour the victims of a long forgotten eruption, and to act as a visible reminder of both the power and fragility of life.

After an enriching morning steeped in quiet discovery, wandering the ancient remains of Heraclea Sintica, where ancient stones still hold the weight of forgotten civilisations, and then exploring the reflective stillness of the Vanga Complex, where mysticism meets memory, I returned briefly to the hot springs. My friend, warm and unhurried, was just wrapping herself in her towel, her dog curled contentedly nearby. We set off together, making our way back toward the border. A brief stop at a roadside petrol station and takeaway just off the A3 near Kulata that offered a Bulgarian version of fast food burgers, a comforting and simple food that filled a need for food.

Then, back on the road north, the Pirin Mountains rose alongside us once more, cloaked in winter’s patchy blues and greys. By mid afternoon, we were back in Blagoevgrad, the winter sun casting a low golden glow across the rooftops. This small city, with its quiet charm and gentle familiarity, welcomed me back once again, after a morning so deeply rooted in both history and spirit.

My time in Blagoevgrad, in particular, invited a softer kind of discovery. I share more about the planetary placements that shaped this part of my journey here. It is a place of pause, reflection, and gentle beauty, woven together with traditions that whisper through the mountains and echo in the stories told over stone and soil.

 As this fifth Soul Travel blog in Bulgaria unfolds, I return once more to Blagoevgrad, this time arriving across Crete’s ferries and bus service to connect with a local bus service travelling through Bulgaria’s winding mountain roads. This chapter explores the ancient ruins of Heraclea Sintica, the mystical atmosphere of the Vanga Complex in Rupite, and the restorative warmth of open-air hot springs against winter’s chill. Add to that the homely rhythm of a Saturday morning market, and there’s a grounding familiarity here that I hadn’t expected. I rarely return to a country, but something in Bulgaria continues to call me back.

See you soon,

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