We started late, unhurried. Kutaisi was bright and dry when we left, but by the time we crossed Surami, rain had begun to fall — the kind that follows you patiently rather than chasing you away. The hills tightened around the road, the Mtkvari River stayed with us, and the journey itself began to feel like the destination.

Borjomi sits in a narrow gorge, wrapped in forest, within the vast Borjomi-Kharagauli National Park. It is best known for its mineral water — bottled, exported, and instantly recognisable — but arriving there, it’s the air that makes the first impression. Cool, clean, and scented faintly with damp leaves.

Borjomi Central Park

The park is where most visitors begin, and we did too. Near the entrance, pipes bring up the mineral water directly from the ground. It’s warm, sulphurous, and frankly not pleasant in taste — but people line up anyway, cups in hand, trusting tradition over flavour. We took a sip, made the expected face, and moved on smiling.

The park itself is gentle and family-friendly, with walking paths, small amusements, and trails that lead deeper into the forest. Somewhere beyond, sulphur baths steam quietly, and a cable car climbs the hillside, but we kept things simple.

The Kukushka Train

One plan mattered to us more than most: the narrow-gauge train from Borjomi to Bakuriani — the Kukushka, or “cuckoo” train.

Tour operators often sell it as a quick, fun ride. It isn’t. It takes time. It meanders. It refuses to hurry. And that’s exactly why we liked it. We boarded not at Borjomi but at a tiny intermediate halt, thanks to timing, persistence, and a driver willing to help. We watched the forest change, the climb begin, and the temperature slip lower.

(You can read the full train story here →)

Bakuriani and the First Touch of Snow

Bakuriani sits higher, quieter, and calmer. A mountain town shaped by seasons. Ski lifts were idle — it was early December, not yet winter’s peak — but Lasha had other ideas. Snow had fallen higher up. Not much, but enough. Though it wasn’t on the itinerary, he drove us up towards Didveli, following instinct more than plan. The road narrowed, fog rolled in, and then suddenly, there it was — snow on the ground. For us, this was the first time!

Not a dramatic snowfall. Not postcard-perfect drifts. Just real snow, underfoot, cold enough to sting, soft enough to gather in your hands. We laughed far more than expected. Slipped. Tried to pack snow into misshapen balls. Took photos that probably don’t capture even half of how it felt. It wasn’t refined or cinematic. It was spontaneous, slightly chaotic, and utterly joyful. Lasha watched us with the quiet amusement of someone seeing this moment for the first time through someone else’s eyes.

Borjomi and Bakuriani didn’t overwhelm us. They didn’t try to. They eased us into the mountains — with rain, mineral water, a stubborn little train, and the simple wonder of touching snow for the first time. Some days don’t announce themselves as special. They only tell you later.