Autumn in Mingrelia. November 2025

My three weeks in Georgia were strikingly similar to our isolation in Japan during the pandemic. This time however, I chose to slow down, stay in one place and reflect. Each day offered a glimpse into local life and revealed a little more about my immediate surroundings. The wooden Mingrelian house retained some warmth from the long, hot summer in the valley. In the small kitchen, my friend’s hands moved gently and precisely as she made suluguni cheese. Steam from the boiling whey settled on the windows, casting the bare trees outside in a silvery, misty glow. After a week of our anxious waiting, one of the cows gave birth to a healthy, strong calf. Its eyes were the color of the Black Sea, mirroring the clear blue sky.

A pile of hot chili peppers drying on the terrace sparkled in the soft, low sunlight. Sprinkles of yellow and green adorned the table: dill, parsley, lemons. As the glittering gold of October gave way to the milky fog of later autumn, the nights grew chilly and damp. Dry logs burned faster in the stove, which, even on sunny days, felt like a necessity rather than mere coziness. Only the smell of freshly baked khachapuri brightened the gloomy mornings. True to its nature, the calf had already begun to eat hay and jump, kicking up its hind hooves. One of the twenty chickens had died, leaving the remaining nineteen to peck at the dirt until spring.

With winter rapidly approaching, everything around gradually grew still and numb. And in this ringing silence, the frosty air from the snow-capped mountains arrived imperceptibly.