“The Banitsa Prophecies: A Tale of Bears, Beers, and Bad Decisions”

Darren Ledger
Jul 6
10 min read

Great ideas are like babies. Not the cherubic kind with fluffy cheeks and gentle gurgles, but the other kind. The ones that scream at 3 a.m., defy gravity with projectile fluids and make you question every decision that led to this catastrophic miracle. So naturally, Watson and Clarke, otherwise known to the local wildlife as “The Analog Nomads” (because ‘Digital Drifters’ was already taken by a techno DJ duo with questionable hygiene), were the proud midwives of just such a bouncing bastard of an idea.

The conception of this brain-belch occurred in the now legendary Tipsy 360, a bar that prides itself on its total lack of panoramic views of the Pirin mountains and its ability to obliterate cognitive function for less than the cost of a haircut. Watson and Clarke, both trembling from a harrowing encounter with the concept of “thrill” earlier that day, had taken refuge at the bar. Like two shell-shocked veterans of a war waged by bad decisions, they drank. Heavily. And with purpose.

Let’s rewind to the morning when they’d decided — using the same logic normally reserved for game shows and flat-earth conventions — to sign up for an ATV tour with the deceptively chipper Bansko ATV. And while most people consider this an exhilarating romp through nature, Watson and Clarke experienced it more as a high-velocity gastrointestinal exorcism.

You see, they were not built for adventure. Or movement. Or decisions. They had stomachs like overused trampolines and brains that functioned like dial-up modems. So within five minutes of off-road “fun,” they had transformed into mobile biological warfare units. The trail behind them was not so much dust as despair. Local sheep flung themselves into ravines to escape the acrid winds of misfortune.

A marmot was later found weeping into a pine cone.

Watson, having achieved an airborne pirouette worthy of a constipated walrus, landed in a barbed wire fence like a rejected Banksy installation. Clarke, meanwhile, performed a perfect head-dive into a bog, from which he was retrieved — half-drowned and three-quarters humiliated — by a tractor, a farmer, and a dog named Chubbs.

It was after this debacle that Haggis McHoof, ATV guide and part-time werewolf impersonator, politely requested they walk back to Bansko. It wasn’t so much a walk as a stagger of shame, a slow-motion parade of intestinal regret.

The Epiphany at Tipsy 360

Back in the warm, judgemental glow of Tipsy 360, the duo slumped in a corner nursing their beers and their egos. And possibly dysentery. The TVs above the bar were — through some unspeakable cosmic coincidence — screening vintage episodes of Johnny Fartpants as if the universe itself had a sense of irony and access to Bulgarian cable.

And that’s when it happened.

The Idea.

It struck like divine intervention. Not a majestic bolt of inspiration, mind you, more like a falling toilet seat from a high-rise window. “Let’s go hiking,” one of them said. Or maybe both of them. Or perhaps it was a ghost whispering through the beer foam. History would never agree on who first uttered the words, and they would bicker about it for decades. But the idea stuck.

Tomorrow, they would conquer the Pirin Mountains. And nothing — absolutely nothing — could possibly go wrong.

Pivoteka: The Brewing of Doom

After being ejected from Tipsy360 for what the management referred to as “table-top Morris dancing” and “structural collapse,” Watson and Clarke shuffled — nay, oozed — into the revered Pivoteka Craft Beer Mountain Base. This was a place known to hikers, climbers, and people pretending to be both.

Nursing a pair of Funk Aroma Pale Ales (7.4% ABV and tasting faintly of sock), they plotted their expedition with the fervour of two men who hadn’t learned a single bloody lesson.

Illian, the bartender and local demigod of booze, watched them with the same expression a parent gives a toddler holding scissors near a power socket. Rumour had it he was due to be immortalised in bronze for his services to hospitality — though, given his proportions, the cost of the statue had bankrupted three local sculptors and caused a minor economic collapse in the cheese industry.

Spying the velcro on their hiking boots — velcro, dear reader — Illian knew doom was afoot. He brushed the crumbs of a half-eaten Banitsa from his shirt (a foodstuff he claimed to eat “only recreationally”) and heaved himself from behind the bar like an iceberg breaking loose. Approaching Watson, he tapped him on the forehead — firmly, as if knocking on a particularly stupid door — and pointed to a poster.

Pirin Pathfinders Bansko it said, featuring a cheerful-looking dog named Shadows. Illian, in his signature grumble, suggested — if only to keep the body count down — that they hire a guide.

Watson looked offended. Clarke looked confused. Illian looked hungry again.

And as he shuffled back to his domain behind the bar, his sacred temple of fermented nonsense, he pulled out a small, weathered card and placed it on the counter.

It read simply: Bansko Mountain Rescue — Ask for Miro, bring vodka.

He knew he’d be calling it soon.

Chapter Two: The Hills Have Thighs (and Bears with Questions)

Morning arrived like an aggressive debt collector — loud, uninvited, and with the faint scent of regret and socks. Watson and Clarke were already ten minutes behind schedule for their “grand hiking adventure,” which was impressive, considering they had failed to set a schedule in the first place.

Watson, having managed to wedge his left foot into what he believed to be a hiking boot (it was, in fact, a kettle), was lurching around the hotel room like a peg-legged pensioner attempting flamenco. Clarke, meanwhile, had committed to the strategy of wearing all his clothes at once in case of “weather mood swings,” which left him resembling a particularly anxious laundry pile.

They were ready.

Or, more accurately, they were present.

Into the Pirin: The Path to Hell is Paved with Trail Mix

Pirin National Park: a UNESCO-listed wonderland of alpine majesty, awe-inspiring peaks, and, as it turned out, a deeply suspicious goat with a squint.

The Analog Nomads, armed with nothing but a half-empty bottle of sports drink, a dubious map scrawled on a napkin, and an enthusiasm born of total ignorance, entered the forest. They walked with purpose — though the purpose seemed primarily to get lost as quickly as possible.

After 43 minutes of hard(ish) hiking, Watson declared they were making “solid progress,” despite the fact they had inadvertently walked in a large circle and were now back at the same suspicious goat, who looked angrier this time.

But just as morale was beginning to fray (i.e., Clarke had started weeping quietly into a protein bar), they stumbled into a clearing.

And that’s when they met… The Three Bears.

The Three Bears: Wilderness Edition

Now, these were not the bears from children’s fairy tales. These were real, honest-to-God Bulgarian bears — massive, hairy, and with expressions that said we will not be singing, dancing, or wearing waistcoats.

Watson froze. Clarke squeaked. The bears stared.

The biggest bear, whom Clarke would later describe as “looking like Chewbacca after a bad divorce,” stepped forward. He sniffed the air, recoiled, and promptly sneezed into a nearby pine tree, which exploded.

Then, in a moment that would haunt both men forever, the bear spoke. Not with its mouth, of course. That would be ludicrous. No, this was more of a telepathic announcement transmitted directly into their hangover-addled brains.

“Do bears shit in the woods?” the bear asked, in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Patrick Stewart reading a Russian phone book.

Watson, trembling like a jelly in a thunderstorm, nodded slowly.

“Yes,” said Clarke, desperate to appease. “Yes, they do. All the time. Religiously.”

The bear narrowed his eyes.

“Then why,” he asked, “is there a toilet behind that rock?”

They turned. Sure enough, behind a suspiciously symmetrical boulder was a small, white ceramic toilet. It looked out of plac, like someone had started building a spa retreat and got distracted by bears.

Clarke, whose bladder had decided this was exactly the right time to rebel, took a step forward.

“May I?”

“That is Papa Bear’s throne,” the big bear growled. “He does Sudoku on it. With his mind.”

Watson screamed, Clarke wet himself, and the bears — clearly unimpressed — began advancing with the slow menace of an unpaid parking ticket.

The Great Escape (and Mild Internal Bleeding)

Flight, as it turns out, is a great motivator — even for men wearing Velcro hiking boots and too many layers.

The Analog Nomads bolted through the forest like panicked jellyfish on roller skates, flailing in every direction, occasionally tripping over roots, branches, and each other. Behind them came the thunderous crashing of angry ursine footsteps, accompanied by the faint plop-plop of a trail of half-digested trail mix bouncing from Clarke’s overstuffed cargo shorts.

Watson screamed. Clarke screamed. Somewhere, even the goat screamed.

They ran until their lungs felt like burnt toast and their knees had started filing for independent citizenship. They eventually collapsed into a hollow tree trunk, panting and bleeding lightly from several places that normally do not bleed.

Silence. Blessed, pant-stained silence.

Aftermath and Banitsa

By the time they limped back into Bansko, dusk had fallen and the local wildlife was holding a small parade to celebrate their absence. They made it to Pivoteka once again, where Illian, stone-faced as ever, handed them each a beer, a first aid kit, and a complimentary leaflet titled “What Not To Do Around Bears — Vol. 6.”

He said nothing. Just made the face. That only he can make.

Watson took a sip of his beer. Clarke applied ointment to his ego. Both stared off into the middle distance, contemplating life, death, and toilet etiquette in the wilderness.

“Next time,” Clarke mumbled, “let’s just go to the spa.”

Watson nodded. “At least bears don’t shit in saunas.”

They both laughed.

And somewhere, in the dark of the forest, Papa Bear completed a particularly fiendish Sudoku.

Chapter Three: Spa of the Damned (Where the Towels Go to Die)

The next morning, Watson awoke on the floor of their rental flat, having spooned a camping stove he’d mistaken for Clarke during the night. Clarke, meanwhile, was curled in a foetal position on the balcony, whispering things to a croissant he’d named “Captain Flakey.”

Neither man could remember why they’d thought hiking was a good idea, but both now agreed on one thing: they were broken — mentally, physically, and in at least one unidentifiable metaphysical way.

“We need healing,” said Watson, clutching his lower back like it was trying to defect.

“We need divine intervention,” said Clarke, as Captain Flakey was blown off the balcony by a breeze and fell four storeys to his crispy doom.

And thus, they made a fateful decision, born of desperation and a Google search with a spelling error: They booked themselves into Banya Thermal Spa, a place advertised as “a tranquil mountain haven of ancient thermal springs, holistic renewal, and surprisingly aggressive exfoliation.”

Arrival at Banya Thermal Spa: A Place of Steam and Screaming

The spa, nestled just outside Bansko, looked calming enough — white walls, ambient pan pipe music, and the faint aroma of eucalyptus mixed with a hint of despair. A stone Buddha sat near the entrance, possibly judging them.

Inside, they were greeted by a receptionist named Valentina, whose voice was smoother than dolphin butter and whose eyes suggested she’d seen things — horrible, steamy things. She handed them each a robe, a towel the size of a napkin, and a waiver form that ominously included the phrase “not liable for spiritual detachment or salt-based injuries.”

Watson raised an eyebrow. Clarke signed immediately.

Steam Room: Smoked Like Sausages

Their first stop was the Thermal Purification Chamber, which sounded majestic but felt like being licked by the devil inside a kettle.

The steam hit them like a punch from a ghost. Within seconds, they were drenched, blind, and deeply questioning their life choices. Other spa-goers sat in silence, eyes closed, communing with their chakras or possibly just fainting.

Watson sat awkwardly on the tiled bench, which had the warmth and texture of Satan’s griddle pan. Clarke attempted a lotus position but achieved something closer to floppy octopus meets Ikea disaster. Then came the sweat whisperer — a spa employee dressed entirely in black linen, with a towel wrapped around his head like a turbaned warlock.

He circled them, muttering what might have been mantras or ancient insults, before slapping Clarke across the back with a bunch of wet birch twigs.

Clarke screamed.

“Soothing forest massage,” whispered the sweat whisperer.

He slapped Watson too. Watson yelped and immediately tried to book a flight home using only his smartwatch and sheer panic.

The Sauna: A Portal to Elsewhere

Next, they were herded into the Deep Detoxification Sauna, which was approximately the temperature of a small sun being murdered.

Inside, a man sat humming ominously while placing chunks of something labelled “volcanic salt crystals of the lost Thracian kings” onto the coals. The air hissed. Watson hissed louder. Clarke attempted to lick the salt, then passed out momentarily and was revived by a stray drip of eucalyptus oil that landed directly in his eye.

And then, the hallucinations began.

The heat, combined with post-traumatic bear stress and the residual effects of Funk Aroma beer, triggered visions. Watson swore he saw the Three Bears in the corner, reading back issues of Cosmopolitan Bulgaria. Clarke claimed a large talking loofah told him the meaning of life (it was, disappointingly, “moisture”).

When the door creaked open and a figure entered wearing nothing but a towel and an expression of existential dismay, they both screamed. It was Illian, the bartender.

He nodded gravely.

“You came to the spa,” he said. “They always come. After the forest.”

He dropped onto the bench beside them with the weight of someone who has given up on trousers.

“The sauna… changes people,” he whispered, sweat pouring down his face like a slow, spicy waterfall. “Last week a German couple left here speaking dolphin. A man from Sofia tried to marry a fern.”

The coals sizzled. A high-pitched wail echoed from somewhere deep in the spa. Maybe a pipe. Maybe a soul escaping.

Watson and Clarke stood up.

“I think we’ve been purified enough,” said Watson, one eye twitching like a Morse code message from hell.

Clarke nodded. “Yes. I feel… hollow. And slightly marinated.”

They left, ignoring Valentina’s offer of a complimentary reiki leech alignment session, and staggered into the daylight like two freshly boiled prawns.

Back to Pivoteka (Again)

Hours later, still leaking sweat and spiritual confusion, they returned once more to Pivoteka. Illian was already behind the bar — how he’d arrived before them remained unclear. He poured two beers without asking. He had the face again.

“Spa?” he asked.

They nodded.

He slid a new flyer across the bar. It read: