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A few years ago now, I spent several months staying in a remote mountain village in Bulgaria. We were driving back from a visit to the nearby city of Gabrovo one evening, when nightfall caught us unawares, and in hope of speeding the return journey, we decided to navigate a shortcut through the mountains.

It was a good idea in principle, but in practice it led us high up amongst the wooded peaks, guessing our way across numerous unmarked forks in the road. Eventually we found signs pointing towards a nearby town, and followed them in the hope that we would come out the other side of the ridge onto a main road.

The road turned out to be a dead-end, culminating in what would once have been a busy little mountain town. In the hollow between two peaks, trees had been stripped away from the rocky slopes to allow room for numerous little houses, clustered around a railway line like insects drawn to a light.

Judging by the imposing hulks of warehouses on either side of the six tracks, it was clear this was once an important depot. No doubt the houses had been homes for the workers and their families. Under Communism this would perhaps have been a storage place for grain, coal or machinery, and a waystation for refueling engines.

Now it is a ruin. Windows are smashed, the tracks have rusted and sheared apart in places, and wild dogs roam the platforms scavenging for non-existent scraps. A few engines still lie sleeping on side tracks, where they have corroded beyond use, or possible removal. No graffiti mars the scene - it is the natural and peaceful death of industry, out of sight and mind. Vines and creepers have extended a grip onto these fading obelisks here and there, poignantly dragging the iron back down into the earth it was once mined from.

Most of the houses are no different, brickwork falling away in chunks, exposing tables and chairs gone to ruin. It seems the penniless inhabitants must have left on foot, with only as much as they could carry to their new lives. Badgers and wild pigs have left their trails in and out through the holes in walls, but even they haven't stayed here long - there is no sustenance to be had from rotting wood.

Only two signs of life remain here: the central train track, conspicuous in its state of good repair, and the dim light of candles burning in the window of one house. Someone still lives in this ghost town. Perhaps they maintain the track for passing trains, or guard the station wreckage from looters - scrap metal can easily be traded for a handful of cash here. The trains don't stop any more.

It is a strange thought, that this once proud nexus of state commerce and travel is now forgotten by its own offspring. Only now and then, on a particularly moonlit night will someone look out the carriage window at the right moment, see the shells of vast concrete buildings, and guess there was once a station here.

There was a time when Communism was a beautiful, well-oiled machine. Here it lies dead though, its soft belly exposed to the vultures.

Learn more about this author, Darmon Richter.
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