The Caucasus wasn’t really on my radar until Sarah took a meal in a Georgian restaurant. The word Khatchapuri – best described as a Georgian cheese pie – entered the lexicon of our household. Her mission to trace the pie to its source began to take the form of an obsession that went far beyond a dangerous calorific intake.

I like cheese, but there’s a limit to how far I will go for it. So a little research beyond the menus was needed to sell me to this mountainous spot on the cusp of Asia. But I was soon drawn to its history of clashing empires and a mythology based on dragons, giants, and heroic quests. The happy packs of wild dogs and the psychopathic nature of its drivers went unmentioned in the literature…

David the Builder airport, Kutaisi, Georgia. 1.30am.

Disappointingly, there were no signs displaying the unlikely name of the airport. It references one of the nation’s favourite sons – an empire builder from the Middle Ages rather than a brickie you might meet in the local pub. For what it’s worth, the fabled city of Colchis, where Jason sought the Golden Fleece is often identified with Kutaisi.

Our apartment owner, Mischa, picked us up. He was cheerful and drove safely. At the time, we had no idea how novel this was. The décor of his spacious apartment was mixed and uncompromising – cornucopias of fake fruit, elaborate kitsch ornaments, and plastic coffee beans broke up the yawning spaces. But nothing to actually eat or drink. We went shopping at 2am. The two young assistants were warily hidden in shadowy corners of the supermarket; the cashier smiled when we thanked her Georgian-style with a madlobt.

In the morning, we took the bus to the 11th Century monastery at Gelati. I sat down next to a grizzly old fellah with a long straggly beard. He looked vaguely homeless and shot me a cryptic glance. When we arrived at the site, he turned out to be one of the resident priests. Sarah sniffed out the ancient tomb of David the Builder. I scanned the impressive murals inside – half expecting to find Damien glaring out from a quiet corner. Outside, a trio of men strummed lutes and sang beautiful haunting folks songs.

We lunched in a restaurant that overlooked it. The menu was packed with cheese dishes. Our Khachapuri was enough to feed two. Before it arrived, we ordered a Caesar salad to help fill us up. It was also enough to feed two. It came with two types of meat and lots more cheese.

Greetings are rarely effusive here. ‘English or Russian?’ is a question commonly asked. The older folk meet us with inscrutable gazes. This detachment towards outsiders perhaps reflects the mutual suspicion of foreigners from the Soviet era. Or conversely, the fear of the onrushing outside world now that the capitalists have broken down the gates.

Cows, like dogs, wonder everywhere freely. The dogs are all tagged and neutered and seem completely trusting of humans. For two weeks, a happy affectionate dog was rarely an outstretched arm away. Sometimes we felt bad about leaving them, before watching them move off to the next table without a backward glance. The idea of owning a dog now seems slightly perverse.

Day 3

Before we set off to Gori, our marshrutka driver became enraged with one of his colleagues. (Marshrutkas are vans that operate as taxis over short or long distances.) With no clues given by the alien language, we could only observe the body language as the larger man snarled and pushed his slighter rival out of his territory. The latter retreated, his tail between his legs. Our driver channelled his simmering aggression into his driving. The grumpy gruffness of the men over 40 needs no translation.

We saw our first dog on a lead; a pampered slave doomed to only dream of roaming the streets freely with his thousands of emancipated cousins.

We visited Stalin’s museum. Very few signs in English – very few facts in Georgian. It would have been interesting to hear the translated gist of the tour guides. From their tone, the mass murderer was involved in many funny stories. Six pictures accounted for the 20 million or so victims. Jolly, serious, handsome, and heroic seemed to be the pictorial messages depicted of Old Joe. Along with romanticised paintings of his earlier life, the museum grounds contained his personal train carriage, his entire family home, and a thousand fawning gifts from rugs to vases on which his smiling inspired face was emblazoned.

We met a German guy, Thomas, over coffee outside the Museum. He recounted his past work as UN observer in South Ossetia and how the nearby Russians are stirring up trouble and shifting the border. Nobody in the outside world seems to care. He seemed starved of proper conversation. Now married to a Georgian woman, he confessed that his head was now too full of Spanish, French and English to fit in another language.

On the way to our guest house, we made two local dogs delirious with the remains of a sausage. Sniffing further riches, they followed us for the next three blocks.

For sundown, we visited the old fortress on the hill.

Khachapuli for dinner – a beef stew made with green plums. Very rich, herby and nourishing. Sarah looked happy with her borsch.

Other guests popped out of the shadows of the large sprawling guest-house. Friendly chaos amongst the packed bookshelves and the aged expensive-looking hard wood furniture. Our landlady reminded me of her Croatian equivalents – her kindness largely concealed beneath a stern veneer.

Not for the first time, breakfast was plentiful but difficult to stomach in quantity. Lots of hard boiled eggs, dodgy porridge, and salty cheese; little in way of juices, plain bread, milk or honey. I siphoned some of it off for the dogs to avoid looking ungrateful.

In the morning, we headed for the troglodyte cave town of Uplistsiche. Inhabited up to 5,000 years ago, this pre-Christian site was sanctified in the usual way: a church sitting atop the caves sold relics and candles. On the way, our driver shouted at Sarah when she tried to engage the defunct seatbelt. He angrily snatched it from her hands as if her gesture was a personal insult to his skills.

Day 4 - Tiblisi

We took a marshrutka from Gori to Tiblisi. It only took an hour due to him driving like the clappers, which turned out to be Georgian cruising speed. With my travel-card existence at home, I had forgotten how dangerous non-rail driving can be.

The city reminded me or Prague or Budapest despite being 4,000km further east. Lots of international tourists gave it a stag-friendly feel. Irish football shirts on men of a certain age were filling the quarter in readiness for a European qualifier. All seemed delighted with the low prices and high quality fare. The ancient spot-lit fortress on the hill provides one focal point; elsewhere fading buildings from bygone eras perch at the top of precipitous cliffs. Taking a post-prandial stroll could be spectacularly fatal.

Dinner alone in German-Georgian restaurant as Sarah had a bad tummy. The trout in a creamy mushroom sauce was great but lonely without vegetables. ‘Service with no smiles’ was the title of my first TripAdvisor review. Nobody met my eye, bar the trio of musicians who were possibly chained to the bar.

Terrible night’s sleep. I dreamt I was a dentist with a full roster of clients waiting impatiently. Even in my dreams, I am not a dentist. Woke up in a cold sweat.

We are staying at Hotel Jerusalem in Bethlehem. To remember how to get home, I just thought of the Bible. We have a balcony big enough for us to relax in the sun without crowding each other. A nice spot beneath the looming statue of Mother Georgia on the hill who stands proud, full-breasted, and armed with a sword and cup of wine. She stands alongside the old walls of the city fortress. A surreal mix of East, West and Medieval.

It is more accurate to describe the legendary Georgian hospitality as mythological. I now realise how dissimilar these two words can be. An exception to this is George, our receptionist at the hotel, who appears to run the establishment single-handedly though he occasionally phoned Mr (or Mrs) Big when serious decisions loomed. A sepia-tinted portrait hanging in the lobby suggested the former. In the musty-smelling reception, George can be found wrapped in a pink blanket late at night. This morning, I broke the shower. It was a calamitous five minutes due to it being a very powerful piece of work. George stalled the watery carnage temporarily by switching off the water supply after I sought him out wearing a small towel to protect my modesty. He got soaked for his troubles, but didn’t seem to bear a grudge.

Yesterday, I took a picture for a couple. Afterwards, the man raised his first and cried: ‘Long Live Ukraine!’ I’m not sure if he was making a point to me or just unable to restrain his patriotism. His girlfriend looked embarrassed.

We had an excellent lunch in which we injected some rarely served vegetables into our diet. I had a stew heavily involving aubergines – Sarah had a cauliflower soup that didn’t stint on the cream. We ate outside beside a pianist who many people photographed enthusiastically without thinking to tip. She was very grateful for our own contribution and applause. A Russian trio were equally appreciative. On leaving, I smiled at the man. He responded with a meaningful look that was literally full of mean. The smile of a man who is about to fight you to death in the amphitheatre. It may have been a status thing: I had only one woman with me, he had two.

Later, we were tempted into a fancier restaurant than usual by a slick young man with a smile and all the answers. He gave the impression he would one day go far in an unrelated field. I had a succulent creamy garlic chicken; Sarah countered with a trout. We finished off with some chacha – a Georgian brandy. Churchill allegedly liked it more than the French version. Stalin sent it to him by the case-full.

Sleep was short-lived due to a neighbouring tourist talking loudly from the early hours till dawn in an endless monologue just loud enough to keep me awake. Before this, my dreams conjured up Sally Gunnell, who talked me through her athletics career in an atmosphere of mild eroticism. I was concerned that I hadn’t washed, but also suspected that she liked it. Later, Penelope Cruz flashed me unexpectedly. In another episode, I realised I had travelled two days back in time. I tried to ring my friend Jake to warn him that something mildly disappointing was due to befall him. I forgot what – so didn’t bother.

In the evening, we took the train to Yerevan. Third Class.