The plan for the day was a drive north to Kazbegi, roughly 150 kilometres from Tbilisi, with a few stops along the way. In reality, this was one of those days where the road itself became the experience. We were travelling on the old Georgian Military Highway, a route that has carried traders, armies, pilgrims, and travellers for centuries, threading its way into the heart of the Greater Caucasus.

Our first stop was the Chronicle of Georgia, set high above the Tbilisi Sea. The monument is impossible to miss — massive stone pillars rising against the sky, solemn and unapologetic in scale. Created by Zurab Tsereteli in the 1980s, it tells Georgia’s story in relief: kings, saints, poets, and moments that shaped the nation. Standing there, looking out over the reservoir, it felt less like a tourist stop and more like a reminder of how deeply history runs in this country.

As we left Tbilisi behind, the city slowly gave way to open roads and wider skies. The next pause came at the Ananuri Fortress, standing above the blue waters of the Zhinvali Reservoir. With its stone walls, churches, and watchtowers, Ananuri feels both defensive and serene — a place built to hold ground, yet softened by its setting. The views alone would justify the stop, but walking through the complex adds texture to the journey north.

Beyond Ananuri, the road began to climb steadily, and by the time we reached Gudauri, winter had asserted itself fully. This was where the snow truly made its presence felt — thicker, fresher, and stretching across the slopes rather than appearing in patches.

By now, snow was no longer a novelty. We had already learned how to walk on it, how to laugh at our own clumsiness, how cold fingers felt after a few minutes without gloves. That first wide-eyed moment had passed, but what replaced it was just as enjoyable — an ease, a willingness to linger, to play without overthinking it.

We stopped near the slopes, stepped off the road, and spent time simply being there. Snowballs were thrown with more confidence, laughter came more easily, and the cold no longer felt like something to escape from. It wasn’t dramatic or cinematic. It was uncomplicated, and thoroughly enjoyable.

By the time we reached Stepantsminda, the town at the foot of Mount Kazbek, the mountains had fully taken over the mood of the day. From there, the Gergeti Trinity Church rises above everything else, perched high on a ridge, seemingly suspended between earth and sky. The 14th-century church is stark and restrained, its power coming not from ornamentation but from where it stands.

We took the easier route up — squeezed into an old Russian Lada 4×4 — and even that short climb felt like an adventure. From the churchyard, the view stretches endlessly: Stepantsminda below, layers of mountains beyond, and Mount Kazbek looming quietly in the background. It’s one of those places where conversation naturally slows, not because it must, but because it feels unnecessary.

We stayed at Rooms Hotel Kazbegi, perched on a hillside with uninterrupted views of Gergeti Trinity. The hotel is known for its design, but what stayed with us was the way it allows the landscape to remain the main attraction. Large windows, open spaces, and long sightlines — everything oriented outward. After a day on the road, in the wind and snow, it was exactly where we needed to be.

That evening, as the light faded and the mountains darkened, it was clear this day had quietly reshaped the trip. Not through landmarks alone, but through moments — the road climbing higher, the first touch of snow, and the sense that the journey had reached its natural pause point. The following day had no plan attached to it. After so many roads and histories, it felt right to keep one day entirely to ourselves.