Lakhiri to Adeshi – The Heart of Svaneti

The second day of the trek was not simply a stage—it was an ordeal, and perhaps the most beautiful day of the entire journey. We left Lakhiri early, the village still wrapped in mist, and began the long ascent towards the ridges that guard the way to Adishi.

The day of the trek unfolds as a journey deeper into the heart of Svaneti, where the landscape becomes increasingly wild and the settlements more remote. Leaving behind the stone towers of Lakhiri, the trail climbs steadily through alpine meadows, with an elevation gain of 832 metres that feels at once demanding and exhilarating. Each step seems to draw you further from civilisation, closer to the raw silence of the Caucasus.

The path crests at 2,487 metres, the highest point of the day, where jagged peaks close in like guardians of an ancient realm. From here, the descent begins—544 metres down into a valley cut by rushing streams and dotted with wildflowers, the air filled with the sound of cowbells echoing off the slopes.

In total, the stage covers 18 km, a six-to-seven-hour walk depending on pace, graded as easy in technical difficulty yet unforgettable in atmosphere. These figures, though, capture only part of the day. What truly matters is the feeling of isolation, of being suspended between sky and stone, of knowing that each ridge crossed carries you deeper into Georgia’s most storied trail—a 50 km, four-day journey from Mestia to Ushguli that has become legendary among hikers.

Adishi, today’s destination, emerges almost suddenly, a scattering of houses and medieval towers set against the looming Adishi Glacier. This tiny village, accessible only on foot or by horseback, feels untouched by time. Guesthouses along the route, as well as those here, are usually available without reservation; however, booking ahead is wise during the peak season. As night falls, the silence grows profound, broken only by the distant roar of the river fed by glacial melt.

This is no longer a simple trek. It is a passage into another world—one where the mountains themselves measure the rhythm of life.

The path began kindly enough, through wooded slopes and meadows flecked with wildflowers. But soon it tilted upwards with relentless severity, a climb of nearly 800 metres that felt less like walking and more like an interrogation of our will. Lorena and I moved slowly, stopping often, drinking water in gulps that seemed never enough. Sweat blurred vision, legs trembled, yet the mountains demanded more.

And then, as if to justify the punishment, the view opened: Mount Tetnuldi, vast and imperial, its glacier catching the light as though carved from fire and ice. For a moment, fatigue dissolved into awe. The Caucasus does this to you—it breaks you down, then restores you with something so immense you feel both humbled and exalted.

The descent towards Adishi—400 metres of rocky, twisting trail—was hardly easier, and by the time the first wooden houses appeared, we were stumbling more than walking. Adishi revealed itself slowly: a handful of homes, Svan towers looming in silence, and the sensation of stepping backwards in time.

Our accommodation was a creaking wooden house, offered with warmth by Grigol, a genial host whose family seemed woven into the fabric of the village. He ran a small restaurant nearby, and it was there, that evening, that the day’s exhaustion softened into fellowship. Around the barbecue, with skewers smoking and bread torn by hand, we joined other hikers—Irish, English, German. Over the course of five days on this trail, we never encountered another Italian. Instead, the path seemed to belong to the French, the Germans, the Japanese, the Koreans. Italians, I mused, prefer their travel comfortable: cities, hotels, itineraries arranged. Here, in the rugged Svaneti, their absence was almost conspicuous.

Grigol brought out chacha, the Georgian grape pomace brandy often likened to grappa. He insisted, as Georgians do, with a smile that brooked no refusal. “Never decline,” whispered one of our companions, “especially not in front of the Japanese guests.” It is a matter of respect, much like the endless cups of tea pressed upon travellers in these mountains. So I drank. And then I drank again. The fire warmed our faces, the alcohol loosened voices, and by the time the stars blazed over Adishi, I found myself giving in to the intoxication—not just of the brandy, but of the day itself: the struggle, the vistas, the communion of strangers brought together by hardship and wonder.

I went to bed in that wooden house utterly spent, my body aching, my head buzzing, my heart strangely light. The trail had stripped us bare and then, in its own rough way, rebuilt us. At specific points on the trail, the landscape seemed to conspire to remind me that walking here was not simply about covering distance. Along the shallower streams, clouds of butterflies gathered in delicate congress, their wings trembling as they drank. At my approach, they lifted, en masse, and for a moment the air itself turned into a shimmering mist—something between steam and confetti—before dissolving into silence again.

Every bend in the path carried its own slight astonishment: bursts of wildflowers, incandescent against the dun-coloured soil, petals stubbornly alive in a place where nothing should flourish for long. Then, suddenly, the towers: stern, vertical sentinels in stone, rising from villages like punctuation marks in a manuscript you’re only just learning to read. They weren’t so much landmarks as reminders that this journey is not yours alone; others have passed this way, sought protection, left their shadows behind.

And the people—always the people. You find yourself smiling before you realise you’re being smiled at, given directions you didn’t ask for, in a language you half understand, but a gesture you entirely do. Their hospitality is less performance than instinct: an unbidden generosity, as if in these mountains the act of showing you the way is itself a form of prayer.

The terrain unfolds like a sequence of chapters, each more improbable than the last: the crooked lanes of villages where chickens strut as if they own the street; rivers swollen and impassable except by improbable footbridges; glaciers gleaming like the backs of sleeping beasts; wind-harried passes where the air feels sharpened, metallic; vast clearings where light falls like revelation; and, at odd intervals, the small Orthodox churches—whitewashed, stoic—squatting by the roadside like guardians of something older than faith.

To walk here is to feel that you’re trespassing on a palimpsest: nature, history, belief, and accident layered upon each other, each step peeling back one thin, translucent sheet, revealing another.

Tomorrow, the mountains would demand more.