Words and photos Magdalena Kukulska
Tusheti sits where clouds scrape the jagged Caucasus peaks, in the far northeast corner of Georgia. Getting there feels like chasing the edge of the world. There is only one road, a dirt ribbon carved into cliffs, washed by waterfalls, blocked by landslides and guarded by sheer drops that can swallow a jeep whole. By the time our wheels clawed onto the plateau of Omalo, my hands were shaking and my heart was racing.
Horses grazed beside medieval stone towers, built to hold back raiders from the Golden Horde. The air tasted of cold grass, woodsmoke and adventure. Ravens wheeled above the roofs like black kites.
I had not come as a tourist.
I had come to be a shepherd.
For the next week, I would ride with Tushetian herders and help drive 900 sheep and fifty horses down from the high summer pastures before winter slammed the mountains shut. The trail would drag us across ridges, through river-cut valleys and over a 3,000-metre pass where the wind could tear the breath from your chest. When the snow comes, everything living must move or be buried in white silence.
Our first stop was Shenako, a village so small it looked as if the mountains might swallow it in one breath. Sunflowers nodded in the wind, wooden houses leaned into the hillsides and a stone church stood watch. At the edge of the village, a shepherd with three determined teeth waved us toward a low hut that smelled of wool, smoke and boiling meat. He fed us fatty boiled lamb, warm sourdough bread and chacha poured from an unlabelled bottle. Before we could eat, he lifted his glass.
‘May the trees that will become our coffins grow tall and strong.’
It was not morbid. It was a wish for a long life and a peaceful end. The chacha burned a clean line to the heart, and the journey began.
By afternoon we reached Dartlo, a village of stone and timber houses stacked like steps against the ridge. Horses waited in the narrow lanes. Someone brought out aludi, the sacred beer of Tusheti. It ferments in clay pots deep in cellars cold enough to feel like winter. To drink aludi is to drink the landscape. We passed chipped enamel mugs filled with the cloudy amber liquid. It tasted sweet at first, then sharp, like wildflowers and smoke. Wool hats were brought out for sale, knitted by the women who stay behind when the men drive the herds. They smelled of lanolin and hearthstone.
Before we left, we raised a toast.
‘To friends and loved ones: for those waiting in the valleys, and those carried in memory.’
Aludi foamed, glasses touched and strangers became companions. Once you share bread and beer in Tusheti, you are one of their own.
We left Dartlo before sunrise. The sheep poured across the meadow like a white river, pushed by dogs and horses. Hooves struck stone in a rhythm older than language. For two days we rode from ridge to ridge, through pine and juniper, along paths where one wrong step meant falling into nothing. The mountains demanded silence.
On the second afternoon the herd settled on a high shoulder of rock and frozen grass. The wind smelled of coming snow. Someone opened a bottle of chacha, clear in the sun, and offered the next toast.
‘To the beauty of the land. To the peaks and rivers, the forests and the wind, and the silence that holds everything together.’
We camped in a valley beside a sharp and restless stream. The horses were turned loose. They needed no ropes and no fences. They knew the land better than we ever would. By morning they waited for us in the frost. When the fire died low and the night took us, we lifted another glass for a quiet toast to the shepherds who work without pay.
‘For the dogs and the horses. For the ones who guard under snow, rain and moonlight, and ask for nothing.’
Morning came cold and bright. Frost crusted the tents, saddles stiff with dew. We climbed toward Abano Pass. At 3,000 metres, clouds slid below our horses’ hooves and the world was reduced to sky and wind. The road clung to the mountain like a loose thread. Even the dogs walked silently.
On a scrap of level ground we laid out bread and cheese, and someone uncorked red wine dark as earth. We raised a fifth toast.
‘To the road, to the risk, to the journey. To the trail that tests you. To the danger that sharpens you. To the miles seen only by you and the mountains.’
Days later, when the last of the sheep disappeared into the valleys and winter barns, we rode on with only the horses. The mountain felt strangely quiet without the bleating and dust. The path opened into a meadow of golden grass, and someone shouted. We kicked into a gallop with loose reins and flying manes, hooves pounding the earth in wild rhythm. For a moment there was nothing but motion and wind.
When the horses slowed, sweating and proud, someone pulled out a bottle of chacha and we drank where we stood.
‘A toast to love, and the strength it gives.’
By dusk we reached the winter pasture, wide meadows where the wind smelled of earth instead of snow. We unsaddled the horses for the last time, brushing dust from their necks and whispering goodbye into warm ears. They knew the place. The moment our hands lifted, they trotted into the field, already half-wild again.
A tree nearby hung heavy with ripe kaki fruit. We picked them with stiff fingers, juice running down our wrists. Someone opened a bottle of sweet Georgian white wine. It was the last, seventh toast, spoken softly into the darkening field.
‘To the dead. May they stand behind us like angels and guard us.’
We drank, and the mountains answered with silence.
Magdalena Kukulska
Based in Warsaw, Magdalena Kukulska is many things: an architect, a travel writer making her published debut with this winning story and a woman who steps fully into the worlds she explores. As a member of a Viking historical reconstruction group, she fights as a shieldmaiden, transforming research into lived experience. She competes in Historical European Martial Arts tournaments with sabre and longsword, and she travels – truly travels – on horseback, her preferred way of moving through and understanding the world. Her immersion in history continues to deepen: soon she will make her acting debut in a full-length historical fiction film. Follow her work on Instagram: @fencingmagpie
- ‘Travel Writing Competition 2025 Winner: ‘The Seven Toasts of Tusheti’ by Magdalena Kukulska’ by Abigail Peters’ is published in Anthology Volume 25. Read more features from this volume or buy it now.
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