I stayed another day to explore the region as just outside the city, nestled within
the Sataphlia-Tskaltubo karst massif, lies Prometheus Cave. I had heard
whispers of its beauty, its scale, its ancient secrets. But nothing prepared me for
the awe that awaited.
The cave stretches over eleven kilometres, though only 1.8 are open to visitors.
Still, each step felt like entering a cathedral carved by time itself. I moved slowly,
reverently, through six caverns, each one more surreal than the last. Stalactites
dripped from the ceiling like frozen rain. Stalagmites rose from the ground like
silent sentinels. Helictites twisted in impossible directions, defying gravity.
Needle-like anthodites shimmered like stars caught in stone.
It was quiet. Not the silence of absence, but the silence of presence—of
something vast and ancient watching from the shadows.
Prometheus Cave is estimated to be 60 to 70 million years old. That number is
impossible to grasp. But as I walked, I felt it—not as math, but as memory.
Fossils of cave bears, starfish, and molluscs from the Cretaceous period have
been found here. The walls themselves seemed to breathe history.
I paused often, placing my hand on cool stone, imagining the millennia that
shaped it. Water, pressure, time. The slow alchemy of nature. It made my own
journey feel small.
The lighting inside the cave was subtle, theatrical. Blues, greens, and golds
illuminated the formations, casting shadows that danced like spirits. It was
beautiful, yes—but also humbling. A reminder that the earth holds wonders we
barely understand.
When I emerged, blinking into daylight, the world felt louder. Brighter. Faster.