On closer inspection it revealed itself as Uplistsikhe. A city carved from stone,
older than memory. The cave complex dates back to the second millennium
BCE, a pagan stronghold long before Christianity swept through the region.
Temples, dwellings, tunnels, and streets—all hewn from rock, all whispering of
lives once lived. I wandered through the ruins, running my fingers along ancient
walls, imagining the rituals, the markets, the quiet moments of a civilization now
vanished.
The northern approach had once been fortified with ten-meter-high rock walls, a
natural defence against invaders. Now, it was open to the sky, the wind, and the
occasional wide-eyed traveller. I stood at the edge of a cliff, looking out over the
valley, and felt the weight of millennia settle around me. I was not the first to
pass this way. I would not be the last.
That night, I found a room in a timber house with a vine-covered pergola. My
host, a woman with kind eyes and strong hands, served me a mountain of
khinkali—dumplings bursting with flavour—alongside slices of watermelon and
a cold Georgian beer. We didn’t share a language, but we shared a table, and
that was enough.
I sat beneath the vines, the sky darkening, the air thick with the scent of grapes
and earth. The day had begun with no plan, no destination. It ended with
ancient stones, unexpected friendship, and a full belly.
This, I thought, is the magic of the road: not knowing where you’ll end up, but
arriving exactly where you need to be.