Svaneti by Amar Grover

Long before we even reached Svaneti, place names cast their spell. The overnight train had stopped at Zugdidi, we were now on a bus for Mestia and our goal, Ushguli, lay steeped in mystique and cradled by mountains. Mere mention of Svaneti, I found, takes most Georgians' breath away as they ponder its intriguing personality, sublime beauty, mercurial people and rumbustious reputation.

Tucked away in the northwest and barricaded by some of the Caucasus' highest peaks, this insular tangle of valleys is one of Georgia's most enigmatic regions. It is seen as the heartland of an old, lost Georgia. Jason and his Argonauts reputedly found the Golden Fleece in Svaneti's rivers, and the Svans once did pan for gold using sheepskins. They speak an arcane dialect, guard the country's finest icons, and have just about discarded their feuding ways. "A hungry land inhabited by an angry people.." wrote one glib Victorian adventurer who dismissed them as slothful savages.

It was a relief, then, to find the locals affable rather than angry. Nor were they hungry, judging by the sprigs of fresh hazelnuts thrust into my hands. Our tiny bus wound up through the Inguri Valley whose precipitous road hugged cliffs and ravines, worming through crude tunnels and skirting thick forests. The jagged Caucasus reared above these lush hills and even before Mestia it was clear that Svaneti's fabled splendour was no exaggeration.

The first man I asked about a hotel led us across the main square, up a steep path and into his house. Murat had an informal home-stay while his Russian wife ran what we soon judged to be a fine table. Looming over their yard and dotting the nearby slopes stood medieval tower houses, tall and crenulated, which guard these homes and valley like eerie sentinels. They are among the most arresting sights in Svaneti. Mestia once had up to a hundred; now barely thirty remain.

Despite their long brutal winters, the fiery Svans held deep reserves of wrath. Neighbours and nature were the enemy; one has the feeling there wasn't enough land or crops to go round. These towers became bolt holes from which they could hurl rocks, oil and insults. And if it snowed hard and deep, as it often does, they could escape that too.

Murat dispatched us to the family-owned museum along with his young son Vakho. First we climbed a sturdy tower, five diminishing storeys of trap door cells with earth floors. You can clamber out onto the gently-pitched roof for dizzying views across the lush valley. Vakho then led us to a nearby stone house now preserved as a traditional Svan home.

Man and beast lived in one large room with a central open fireplace. Stalls for cows and sheep lined the walls, and a family would have slept above these for warmth. There were chests, a bench and one boxy armchair for the patriarch. Their wood was carved with geometric patterns, especially a spiral motif (symbolising 'mother earth') similar to that on Georgian coins. From the ceiling hung a metal pan on which pine kindling once lent light and fragrance.

Life has softened and no-one seems to blame the Russians. Few, if any, now live like this and, as with Murat, newer more comfortable homes stand beside the old and crumbling. Towers, too, are used haphazardly for storage though I found virtually all remain locked. While the Svans lost their fierce independence, they are staunchly protective of their relics. It's said few will ever be allowed out of Svaneti. We strolled down to Mestia's Museum of Ethnography, keen to see what the State has managed to acquire.

The most highly regarded items are ancient Orthodox icons as old as the 9th century. Some are embroidered, others painted and a few blend this with silver repousse. The marauding Mongols never reached here and for a time Svaneti became a cultural safe house. Our broken-English guide did her best to explain other exhibits, many crudely displayed until new premises are completed. We admired exquisite wooden doors, dowry boxes and traditional garments including hemp underclothes. From the safe emerged a stunning pair of daggers with filigreed sheaths, and gold and silver coins.

Yet for all these venerable treasures, the scenery is king. One bright morning we set off for the mountains, Vakho leading the way. A steep climb through the pines brought us to a large cross overlooking town. We foraged for the elusive baski, an absurdly delicious wild strawberry that tasted of cherry and blackcurrant too. From a nearby hut came muffled grunts and groans; Vakho bounded in and beckoned us to follow.

Two bleary-eyed shepherds with felt hats sprawled in the gloom. One grabbed my hand, the other wiped a plate and last night's boozy stew doubled as breakfast. As always in Georgia, the drink was impossible to refuse. Before me stood a glass of chacha, a comically ghastly yet potent spirit, and now came my chacha moment. The Svans ride a roller coaster of quite baffling bonhomie and you don't want to spoil their run. Two glasses later I hadn't retched, seen stars or given the impression of anything but utter fulfilment.

Yet for an instant I felt I was seeing double with those distinctive twin peaks of Mt Uzhba poking above our ridge. Under a blazing sun we hiked up through bracken and pasture to several small ponds. Cows clustered by one while Vatho plunged into another, the stillness rent by his yelps as he swam that chilly water. Throwing caution to the wind I joined him. We walked on to a saddle of lichen-covered rock just short of the snowline. Stubby glaciers hung from distant gullies like tongues. Vakho sat glued to his binoculars watching raptors glide the thermals.

But this is no arcadia, for the Caucasus are as cruel as they are enchanting. On the rutted umbilical track to Ushguli, Svaneti's remotest village lying about 70km from Mestia, the terrain seems destined to strangle it. In 1987 avalanches destroyed several homes and killed seventy, mostly school children There followed a sizeable exodus of the hardiest Svans who'd simply had enough.

At 2200m, this is reputedly Europe's highest permanent village. Our jeep stopped at Jvibiani, the last of three distinct clusters of houses and a few tiny churches that comprise Ushguli. The foundations of some of its towers date back two thousand years and I was struck by the haunting beauty of their forlorn mildewed walls. There's another little museum even here complete with suspicious curator who still vets visitors. Far beyond, looming through thick cloud which often swirls about the head of this valley, soars 5068m Shkhara peak, Georgia's highest mountain. It is a heart-stopping sight worth almost any effort to reach. Yet I noticed most idle locals sat facing down-valley, as if contemplating a more modern relevant future.