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A glorious, derelict 19th-century house with a locked wooden gate perches on a steep cobble-stoned street. Its shuttered windows overlook the sprawling castle ruins of Tsarevetz, City of Tsars, where the rulers of the Bulgarian medieval kingdom lived. This is Veliko Tarnovo, one of Bulgaria’s most historically haunted towns. Down below the fortress, the Yantra River snakes its mysterious way among lush greenery. Roof-tiled old houses perch on the steep banks of the canyon.

‘Who is the owner of this house?’ I ask a passing woman. ‘Oh, it’s a family feud,’ she says casually. ‘It’s been going for years, since the parents died. They can’t divide it up. Lots of people ask after the house.’ This is a common picture in provincial Bulgaria: siblings fall out, and the house sits unloved and unused for years. Property is the main asset here, and despite the country’s poverty by European standards, the average Bulgarian owns 1.3 properties.

But if Veliko Tarnovo has foreign visitors because it’s on the tourist map, the remote mountain villages and towns of Central and Southern Bulgaria are still only known to locals. Their real estate markets are burgeoning thanks to the expanding class of the new rich buying second homes. And while prices are already rising in tune with Bulgaria’s recent accession to Europe, the Bulgarian countryside is still a bargain-hunter’s dream. Provided the bargain-hunter operates in pounds Sterling, that is.

About 40 km south-west of Veliko Tarnovo, the prettily restored town of Tryavna has visibly benefited from the joint EU and local government Beautiful Bulgaria Project. Small stone bridges arch over the river, and buildings from the 19th-century National Revival period line the quiet cobbled streets. A museum of icons painted in the naïf Tryavna style of iconography perches on a sleepy hill overlooking the town. ‘We haven’t had visitors all week,’ croaks the young, tubercular-looking museum attendant who unlocks the door. Tryavna’s mountain air does wonders for those with respiratory ailments, I’ve heard. The velvety ranges of the Balkan Mountains, responsible for the name of the whole region, rise on all sides. The town clock in the central square sings an old Bulgarian song at the stroke of 10 pm. A tidy, generously sized house here goes for as little as 40,000 lev (20,000 Euro).

Less of a give-away are the houses in the exquisitely remote Bojentsi village - so remote it doesn’t even appear in guidebooks. Reached by a steep dead-end road off the main drag between Veliko Tarnovo and Tryavna, Bojentsi is a protected piece of mountain paradise, and home to a unique architectural village style. Houses are lime-washed brick and wood, with dark, slate-tiled roofs. Drenched in greenery and criss-crossed by cobbled streets, the village is wedged among brooding mountains which offer dozens of hiking routes. At the top end of the village, I wave to a group of sun-baked elderly tourists who seem to be moving under deep hypnosis. This is a good place to die, I think, and go straight to heaven. But for a price. Bojentsi is a historical reserve, and house prices reflect this: the burnt shell of a house where a famous painter lived sold recently for 15,000 Euro. I’m told that anything under 30,000 Euro won’t be inhabitable. The prices of the houses I like remain a mystery however – most owners are away, living in bigger towns near-by, and there is no estate agent. Another problem of buying here is renting the house out if you’re away: this remote area is mainly practicable for retirees and artists on retreats. But if you’re one, it’s ideal – provided you speak some Bulgarian to keep you out of trouble.

For a change of scenery, I travel south via Plovdiv to the Rodopi. This is the most soulful of Bulgarian mountains, and source of the most haunted folk songs about soaring eagles, mothers weeping for their lost sons, and fair maidens ravished by the Turk. Reaching the villages is arduous work, and I wonder at the Ottomans’ persistence. They had to face gorges, caves, and dense pine-forests before they could forcibly convert the local population to Islam.

To reach Kovachevitsa, a tiny but spectacular village on a rocky road, you need a car, or preferably a tank, neither of which I possess. Shiroka Laka is easier because it’s on a main road – an authentic, functioning village of picturesque 19th century houses, popular with tourists. I feel that tourists aren’t so popular with locals, however – every time I stop to look at a house, someone gives me a dirty look. Since no buses or taxes are leaving the town tonight, I hitch a ride with a young officer from the Alpinist Division of the Bulgarian Army. ‘Locals feel like they’ve been bought out by rich property developers from Sofia in the last ten years,’ he says, ‘hence their hostile attitude towards visitors.’ On the way up the winding road, he shows me where he hangs out during exercise: on a lethally vertical cliff-face called the Bride. Another legend of a wretched maiden follows.

More picturesque yet, if that were possible, is Pirin Mountain. Unlike all other ranges here, it is of alpine height and flora. Rugged peaks, pristine lakes, smooth skiing and heart-pumping hiking is what Pirin specialises in. Nestling at its foot is Bansko, a town distended by winter tourism, but attractively quiet in the summer. The main square features funky modern sculptures, a stone fountain, chill cafés, and souvenir shops. And houses whose wooden, sheltered balconies make you want to quit real life for a good book and a cup of Turkish coffee. And evening outings to the nearest courtyard mehana (taverna) for a fill of good Pirin food. Old women wear embroidered, puffed up Oriental trousers with woven aprons on top, and long plaited hair under head-scarves. One of them sees me snooping outside a huge, abandoned-looking house with built-in wooden beams the size of an ox-cart.

‘Are you married?’, she asks in a thick local dialect, ‘Why no children? How old are you? You want to buy this house? How much?’ She’s only flirting with me though. The owner of the house is doing it up, the old woman lets on, but she lives in Plovdiv. I foresee Byzantine discussions and feel relieved not to have to go through this.

After scaling the highest Pirin peak, spotting mirror lakes and wild goats, and crawling back sick with exhaustion, I regretfully leave for Sofia. In the city of creaky trams, fashion victims, gaudy ice-cream, and rampant capitalism, I’ll miss the butterfly-specked summer of the mountains. I’ll miss the quiet old women knitting in the square, and the soaring eagles. And here’s a confession: I never really intended to buy property here. The family apartment in Sofia is enough for this humble writer. Looking at houses was just an excuse to day-dream, while trawling through high altitude villages forgotten by time. But not by property investors.

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