Borjomi

Borjomi, with just over eleven thousand residents as of 2024, lies 165 kilometers west of Georgia’s capital along a narrow floor of the Borjomi Gorge. Nestled in the northwestern corner of the Samtskhe–Javakheti region, the town abuts the eastern boundary of an immense forested reserve spanning some eighty-five thousand hectares. From this vantage, the settlement commands a landscape shaped by mineral springs, verdant slopes and a history that extends from medieval fortifications to imperial summer palaces.

In its earliest chapters, the valley formed a strategic corridor within the medieval province of Tori. On the surrounding ridges, the ruins of Gogia, Petra and Sali forts still watch over the settlement, mute sentinels to centuries of defence against Ottoman incursions. With the Avalishvili family presiding over the territory from the sixteenth through the nineteenth centuries, the highlands once thrummed with village life—until depopulation followed successive Ottoman pushes.

The Russian annexation in the early nineteenth century set in motion Borjomi’s revival. Military patrols soon gave way to baths and modest lodging by the 1830s. High-profile patronage began when the Viceroy of the Caucasus, Yevgeny Golovin, brought his daughter to sample what were already famed mineral waters, transferring their guardianship from army to civilian hands. His successor, Mikhail Vorontsov, took residence each summer, transforming the hillside with landscaped parks, new villas and promenades. By mid-century the name Borjomi—or Bordzhomi, as early cartographers recorded it—had become synonymous with aristocratic leisure.

Grand Duke Mikhail Nikolayvich received the town as a personal fief in 1871, a gift that underscored Borjomi’s status within imperial circles. His son Nikolay added a chateau and formal gardens in the nearby hamlet of Likani, granting the valley an air of cinematic grandeur. Hotels multiplied along winding lanes and by century’s end the mineral waters were being bottled for export across the Russian Empire, carried in wooden casks by rail. A demographic turn accompanied this prosperity; by 1901, ethnic Russians slightly outnumbered native Georgians among the town’s inhabitants.

The Soviet epoch repurposed aristocratic villas into sanatoria, preserving their facades even as corridors echoed with party elite convalescence. The town’s union-resort designation ensured a steady flow of visitors seeking balneological treatments and retreats among pine-clad hills. A devastating flood in April 1968 gouged terraces and washed away sections of the central park, yet Borjomi’s core survived, and expansion resumed in subsequent decades. After the Soviet collapse, the town faced a period of decay, only to recover in the early twenty-first century through renewed investment in bottling facilities, hotels and infrastructure.

Borjomi’s primary allure remains its water. Emerging from deep springs, the liquid carries high mineral content prized for digestive, hepatic and metabolic therapies. Drinking courses are prescribed year-round, while balneological procedures and peat-mud applications bolster treatments for cardiovascular conditions. The microclimatic basket of districts—Likani with its valley warmth, Papa perched on higher slopes, and the windswept Plateau—offers distinct therapeutic milieus. Visitors may arrive in summer for climatotherapy or in winter for low-intensity regimens; the season never truly ends.

Adjacent to the town, the Borjomi-Kharagauli National Park administration occupies a modest headquarters at 23 Meskheti Street, from which maps, permits and sleeping-bag rentals (at five lari per day) are issued without fee. Encompassing strict nature reserves, managed sanctuaries and a petrified forest monument, the protected area crosses six municipalities and shelters eight marked trails. Distances range from short ambles of four hundred meters to extended treks surpassing two thousand six hundred, each punctuated by shelters, picnic glades and basic wooden bunk-rooms. Shelter fees run ten lari, campsites five, and rangers patrol to ensure the free permit is carried.

This network invites horse riding, mountain biking and cultural tours amid fir and beech groves. Day hikes may ascend to cross-ridge ridges at elevations beyond two thousand meters. One path links Borjomi to the village of Qvabiskhevi; hikers can then arrange local transport back, or plan multi-day itineraries with lightweight gear. Birdlife, endemic flora and medieval church ruins offer unexpected rewards for those venturing off the main routes.

Closer to town, Borjomi Central Park extends along the Borjomula River. The lower half hosts kiosks, cafés and an ecological amusement area—unique in the Caucasus—while the upper section reveals a terraced waterfall crowned by a modern sculpture. Entrance carries a modest charge; the park marks the first four fountains of the mineral spring, from which water still flows free at public taps. A cable car near the entrance ascends to the plateau above, depositing travelers beside a Ferris wheel and a cluster of Soviet-era hotels overlooking the valley. A one-way ticket costs fifteen lari; some elect to ride up and taxi down, yet the descent on foot through forest lanes rewards with opening views at each switchback.

Adventure seekers may leave the park to follow the Cross Mount trail. Beginning at a sharp hairpin on the eastern edge of Pirosmani Street, the path climbs from eight hundred thirty meters to over eleven hundred in under an hour, emerging on a rocky crest with sweeping panoramas over Borjomi’s rooftops. From there, the track winds to the ruins of Gogia Fortress before veering northeast through untamed woodlands back toward the town, exiting near the western end of Pirosmani Street. The full circuit takes roughly two to three hours, weather-permitting.

Beyond the usual itineraries lie hidden diversions. Three sulfurous hot pools—semi-thermal now—nestle in a steep ravine north of the plateau, reached by rough track or by private “taxi” whose fare can exceed ten lari roundtrip. The village of Libani, thirty minutes by ride-hail, conceals an abandoned Soviet sanatorium and an overgrown narrow-gauge rail corridor leading to the ghostly Libani station. A walk along these rusty rails through pine forest ends above the village of Tba, from which marshrutkas return to Borjomi. Further afield, the waterfall at Tshala near Sadgeri village remains a rarely visited site of layered cascades and pastoral calm.

Connections to Borjomi arrive by both road and rail. Intercity minibuses depart for Bakuriani, Batumi, Kutaisi and Tbilisi at regular intervals, with fares from one to seventeen lari and journey times spanning one to four hours. A small red marshrutka stop lies on the main road outside the station, running unadvertised shuttles to Chobiskevi, Dviri, Gori and Khashuri throughout the day. The Georgian Railway trains roll twice daily between Borjomi Park station and Tbilisi, tickets priced at two lari for a four-to-five-hour ride; the freight line farther east remains dormant.

Within the compact centre, most streets are walkable. A city bus for twenty tetri threads between the square and the freight yard; other routes cross to Likani, Kvibisi and beyond, each terminating at small village stops. Taxis and ride-hail apps fill the gaps, though many travelers relish exploring on foot, inhaling the sharp scent of pine and the faint tang of iron in every bronzed sip of spring water.

Those inclined toward cultural immersion find the Museum of Local Lore on Tsminda Nino Street, where exhibits recount the town’s stages—from medieval passes through imperial spas to Soviet sanatoriums. Admission remains three lari, with guided tours available in English and Hebrew for fifteen. Opening hours adjust seasonally, extending from 10:00 to 19:00 in summer and closing at 17:00 through winter.

Monuments of stone and plaster trace Borjomi’s cosmopolitan past. The Romanov Palace at Likani, now a presidential retreat, perches among manicured lawns. Nearby stands the Blue Palace, or Firuza—built in 1892 by an Iranian consul, its walls bear frescoes that fuse Persian vegetal motifs, Georgian stonework and European flourishes. A short drive leads to Timotesubani Monastery, where ninth-century frescoes still gleam behind graded arches, testament to Georgia’s medieval artistic flowering.

Throughout its trajectory, Borjomi has balanced health and leisure, nature and nurture. Even the grandest structures remain modest in scale, grounded in the promise of the springs that first drew travelers centuries ago. As the seasons turn, the town’s human and natural histories converge in a living landscape—one where geology, climate and memory combine to foster both quiet reflection and unexpected adventure.

In the clarity of its mountain air, Borjomi continues to cradle both visitor and native within a setting that is at once unassuming and profound. Here, amid the hush of forest and the hiss of mineral water, a narrative unfolds that traces the ebb and flow of empires, the endurance of local tradition and the restorative touch of the earth itself.