Here’s a quick history. Commissioned by communist leader Nicolae Ceaușescu as part of his vision for a monumental civic centre to showcase state power, the Palace of the Parliament was built between 1984 and 1997. Construction required demolishing large parts of an historic district in central Bucharest, displacing many residents and erasing old neighbourhoods.

We all know what happened to Ceaușescu, the man who would be king, and we can only imagine such a fall will come to other world leaders who serve only their own vaingloriousness. History has repeated itself from Julius Ceaser to Nicolae Ceaușescu, so let’s keep our fingers crossed.

The reason for mentioning this is because we had booked a guided tour of the Palace of the Parliament. I’d booked this through GetYourGuide several months previously, but had later received a message to say the tour was cancelled that day. On the train yesterday, Jenine phoned the building and became great friends with Smaranda on bookings, and made a new reservation. If you plan to visit this building when in Bucharest, then don’t turn up at the gate hoping to get in. You have to phone the day before and join one of the few tours that they run in various languages. This, Jenine managed to do, so we knew where we had to be and when, and as usual, we were early.

Before that, though, we discovered that Bucharest has a Gregory’s. Gregory’s is a highly popular Greek ‘fast food’ outlet, a bit like Greggs in the UK, only better. They do pastries and pies, sandwiches and so on. Their prices are very good too, so to find one was a godsend for the godson.

Bear in mind that the bouncing puffer jacketed map-reading trailblazer teen has still not found anywhere to serve him a café Frodo — or whatever that ponced up spit of cold coffee and water is called — but now, beneath the gloriously blue morning sky, the patron saint of coffee, Saint Frodo, appeared in a glorious light like a vision. Not only is there a Gregory’s, but it sells these café Fidos, and the boy is delirious even before he has sipped his expensive coffee flavoured ice cubes.

I had a cup of tea, and we walked on.

Here are a few facts about the massive building you’ve just looked at.

Floor area of about 365,000 m². Length approx. 240 m, and width 270 m. Volume, 2,550,000 m³.  Height, 84 m above ground, with 8 underground levels extending as deep as 92 m below. More than 1,000 rooms (often cited as approximately 1,100). It’s considered the heaviest building in the world (about 4.1 million tons) and the largest civilian administrative building globally. In some rankings, it appears as the second-largest administrative building after the Pentagon. Cost estimated at around €4 billion, making it one of the most expensive administrative buildings ever constructed.

So, you’ve just got to have a look inside, right? Remember, if you do, book in advance. We arrived about 40 minutes before our tour, and didn’t have to queue in the cold for long, but the queue soon built up behind, as we passed through airport-style security, redressed, and found the ticket window. Here, you find a sign that tells you about how you have to pre-book, or go on a waiting list for the day, with no guarantee of success. You’d have thought they’d put this notice outside, so those waiting an hour to get in, get through security (passport scan and all), wouldn’t then discover they had wasted half a morning.

At the counter, Jenine gave her name, and told Smaranda on bookings that we had phoned ahead for the English language tour, and Smaranda on bookings found the entry on a rough piece of paper attached to her clipboard. Nothing about this, apart from the phone call, had been anywhere near a computer. This, at first, I thought endearingly old-fashioned, but then I realised it was probably the only safe way of avoiding hackers and the like. After all, we were in the building where the parliament met.

An exhibition of paintings kept us entertained while we waited for our tour, which turned out to be a mix of people and languages, though guided in English, and there were no more than 30 of us, so the group wasn’t large. Mind you, under the scale of that building, no group would look large. Is it impressive? Yes. Is it nauseating? In a way, yes. Is it worth seeing? Yes, if only for the gobsmack factor. Some of the curtains are about 16 m high, and weigh over 250 kg each — that’s more than 550 pounds per curtain. In total, the palace contains about 2,150,000 sq ft of woollen carpets, many of which had to be stitched together in situ. A total of about 900,000 m³ of wood was used for parquet floors, wall panelling, doors, and other decorative elements, and there are over 3,500 tonnes of crystal in the chandeliers.

I could go on, but you get the idea? Communism at its finest. Having said that, about 95% of everything used came from within Romania, including much of the gold.

The hour-long tour done and enjoyed, and it was back into the crisp day to gaze at what you might call the Church’s revenge. We will visit this tomorrow, but I’m talking about the largest Orthodox cathedral in the world, currently nearing completion on a plot of land that Ceaușescu had had flattened to make way for his palace. While doing so, he destroyed many churches, and now, they are building the cathedral right next to his ‘palace’ as if to reclaim territory with a vengeance. Looking at it from outside the palace, it seems small, but just wait until tomorrow when we’ll see it from the other angle.

From the palace, we walked over to Revolution Square, where we hoped to get into King Carol’s art collection at one of the museums, but found them all closed that day. Never mind, there’s always food, but after viewing other sights, and having found no suitable eatery, we wandered back to the Old Town, and surprised a tout by walking straight in. It was the first place we’d come to. This was a halal restaurant with all the usual Romanian fare, and we ordered what we ordered, including a glass of wine for Neil. ‘And a bottle of water,’ he added to the list. When, a minute later, the waitress put down an ice bucket and opened a bottle of Chardonnay, we realised there had been something lost in translation, but what the hell? It was New Year’s Eve.

It was also more than €50.00 for the bottle of wine, and we never did get the water, but, just like the polenta and sausages, we swallowed it, enjoyed our lunch and then visited a very popular bookshop. This is Cărturești Carusel, and here’s a Google quote about it:

Stepping into Cărturești Carusel feels like entering a dreamlike realm where books, art, and architecture merge seamlessly. The interior’s minimalist white décor highlights the grandeur of the neoclassical design, while the six levels of bookshelves create a mesmerising visual effect.

Indeed. The place was thronged with people who’d come in for a gander, and with others who had come to browse for a book, a game, a whatnot, and some who had come to pick up a book, take a seat and read, somehow finding peace among the mayhem.

The next question: What to do on New Year’s Eve in Bucharest? The internet had told us that there was always a fireworks display and noisy party in Unirii Square, but we’d passed that in the morning, and it was a building site. Various parties were being touted at various Irish bars and restaurants, but we declined and decided we’d spend the evening in. This required supplies, so we raided a small supermarket and unashamedly came away with three bottles of Prosecco, three bottles of Chardonnay, assorted snacks, water, gummy bears, and one can of beer for the sensible teen, and all for less than the price of the accidental lunchtime bottle of wine.

That secured, we made ourselves at home at home, ordered a random Chinese delivery, random because the menu was vague, but it arrived, and we enjoyed it while playing cards. All the way until nearly midnight, when we stopped, found a countdown on the TV, and waited for the midnight hour.

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This day begins with packing and a cup of tea. A couple of cars have been booked to take us to the train station, and the train isn’t until later in the morning, so there is no rush. We have nothing booked today, apart from the train and the accommodation at the other end. Apparently, we are about to enter a war zone.

Last night, Jenine and I chatted to a lady who was also staying at the unusual hotel. When we told her where we would be staying in Bucharest, she recoiled in horror, and like the village woman in Jonathan Harker’s journal, practically begged us not to travel there, and if we must, then to take this wreath of garlic and the crucifix. Nice. Thanks, missus. Really looking forward to our stay now.

We ended up having about an hour’s wait for our train, during which time I found a pharmacy in the railway station, half-hidden behind metal grilles, and we found the shop/café, so coffee could be arranged, and we witnessed another passing of the Romanian Bear Dance, banging their huge drums which boomed and echoed throughout the 1960s station concourse. When the time came, we girded this and that, wrapped up that and this, and headed out into the icy morning to find the platform.

To reach the main Bucharest line and the waiting train meant crossing a set of tracks, as if that final outpost of a platform had been tacked on after the underpasses had been built, and no-one had thought to put up a bridge. It was a bit of a thrill, to cross an active railway track, looking left and right as though a locomotive was going to suddenly bear down out of nowhere, and to skip a little as if that would help speed you up, but we made it across, bags and all, found our carriage and then our table, and went through the, by now, standard rigmarole of ‘Making one’s self comfortable.’ In our case, this meant finding a place for the hat, unpacking the sandwiches, biscuits, treats, drinks and phones, and muttering, ‘It’s a good job we booked,’ because the carriage was just about full.

It was while on the way to Bucharest that I realised how much (some) Romanian trains had changed in 12 years. Our previous experience of the same journey had been… okay, but the train had been basic, even in first class (for €15.00 each). This time, I had cause to use the facilities, and was dreading what I might find, but the experience was not what I was expecting. The WC was in the next carriage, so I walked through, and after passing some seats, took a few steps down to a large open area which had a couple of stools at the window, and one random seat, and realised this was the wheelchair access area. There was a coffee machine set into the wall (though you needed to bring your own cup), and a wide, clear path to the WC. This had a curved door as the bathroom was a cubicle pod fitted into the middle of the carriage, with its door facing the first couple of rows. It was a large door, and when I pressed the green button, it slid open gracefully to reveal a man doing up his trousers. It was only then that he realised he needed to press the red button once inside, so I stood back and waited, while the rest of the carriage had a peek and a snigger. Once I’d gained private access (and pressed the red button and heard a reassuring clunk), I found the bathroom massive, with everything working and clean. There was a drop-down table for laying out your picnic, or a body. I expect either is acceptable. There were soap, taps and air blowers you didn’t need to touch, plenty of paper hand towels too. The only thing missing was the TV screens like you have in the gents’ public toilets in the Rhodes Old/New Fish Market. No, honestly. Sometimes, it’s tempting to pop in just to have a look. The screens are above the urinals, and they play endless loops of people falling into swimming pools, tripping over dogs and so forth. Nothing too hilarious, as they don’t want to be responsible for splashback, but nicely quirky all the same. I don’t know what they have in the ladies’, but I doubt they have urinals. Anyway, that might have all changed by now, because the last time I was there (last month) the whole area was being ripped apart and renovated. But I digress…

The mountains fell away to leave us travelling a long, flat plain all the way to the industrial outskirts of Bucharest, and then, into the heart of the city by cab and a walk to our accommodation. A walk, I reckon, because Mr Grump in the driving seat didn’t want to hack the one-way system, but we weren’t to be thwarted. Mr Grump was, after all, only an NPC (a non-player character), a means to an end, or almost an end, for our journey ended on foot as Harry led the final push into the area we’d been warned not to stay in. This was a loft apartment up several winds of stone and marble stairs, with the entrance secreted in a corner of a little-used, small square that also housed a restaurant (closed for the hols), a rough-looking block of flats, and closed or derelict buildings opposite, but just around the corner from everything the Old Town had to offer.

And what does the Old Town of Bucharest have to offer? Touts, for one. Either leggy young ladies outside bars and restaurants trying to tempt you inside, or kamaki guys doing the same – and all good naturedly, I should add. All very friendly, although you could see in their eyes they didn’t really care if you came in or not. There were other things on offer too…

I’m walking along apart from the others, enjoying the architecture, when a cheery middle-ages man comes towards me saying, ‘Ciao, sto dicendo una sciocchezza totale, come qualsiasi italiano saprebbe leggere, ma poiché non parlo la lingua, non avevo idea di cosa stesse dicendo quest’uomo.’
I gave him a hard stare, and replied, ‘I have no idea what you just said.’
‘You are not Italian?’
‘How observant you are.’
‘Where you from?’
On these occasions, it’s rude to say, ‘Mind your own business,’ so you go through the ‘England but live in Greece’ thing, and usually, the investigator replies, ‘Oh? What do you do in the winter?’ or similar, and off you go. In this case, my random investigator sidled closer and whispered, ‘You want a woman?’

There isn’t time to explain why I decline, so I thank him but say no, and point him in Harry’s direction.

And onwards through the Old Town streets to find the tiny orthodox church where we once bought Harry an icon of Ag Haralambos (the church was closed for Christmas). Through busy, bustling streets, still admiring the huge classical buildings and the parts of the city that Ceaușescu left intact, and on to a late lunch.
The rest of that day has become something of a blur, and my photos run out at lunchtime, which was, if I remember correctly, late afternoon, so more like an early dinner before an early night. There were still several things lined up for us over the next three days, including a guided tour, a guide, and a tour. Before that, though, some photos.

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We kept on ascending, with occasional periods of quick descent, but in the main always ascending. Suddenly, I became conscious of the fact that the driver was in the act of pulling up the horses in the courtyard of a vast ruined castle, from whose tall black windows came no ray of light, and whose broken battlements showed a jagged line against the sky. (Jonathan Harker’s Journal. Dracula. Chapter One.)

We kept on along flat roads cutting through a plain more industrial now than it had been twelve years before. Our driver took us from the main path towards Bran, cut through quiet villages, and out again along a road bordered by factories, with the Carpathian Mountains white-topped and forbidding behind. Our drive pulled up, eventually, outside the entrance to a carnival that was taking place beneath a restored Saxon stronghold, which stood only a few feet above the level of the ground.

Harker continues: The impression I had was of gloomy grandeur. It was built of massive stone, and though the stones were greatly worn by time and weather, the general effect was one of barbaric splendour. There was no sign of a bell or knocker…

What there was, however, was a queue of people ten deep and a hundred yards thick, all waiting for the opening time of midday. Aware that we would be waiting in line for at least an hour just to reach the ticket gate (and about the same again on the slope to the castle itself), and as we had e-tickets, I suggested we wander down to the front of the queue to see where we should go when the time came. The others followed, and lo! Just as we were approaching the gates, the clock struck twelve and, honestly, Miss, we were taken along with the crowd, and were through them gates before you could say Stick that in your queue and stake it, Van Helsing. Mind you, we still had to join those who had gone before in a long line that snaked up the sloping path from the ticket booth to the knockerless front door.

On our last visit, Neil and I had wandered into the Dracula-Land beneath the castle that thrives on tacky shops selling all things Vampire imported from China and nothing genuinely local, through, up and to the castle with no sign of a queue. We even had to open the front door ourselves.

Clearly, the popularity of the thousands of unrelated legends that have grown up around this place and the original novel, is as strong now as it’s ever been. Admittedly, the castle did open three hours later than normal that day, and it was the holiday season, granted, so it was very busy, but once inside, as long as you followed the arrows, kept in line with the other sheep, and didn’t try to turn back, you got to see everything on offer. This now includes an exhibition of Romanian folklore wrapped up in exhibits and projections of ghosts and ghouls. Most fascinating was why a trio of ‘three little maids from school’ waited for so long simply to stand in a chamber containing a single coffin and each take fifteen photos of it before squealing away to photograph the Pricolici. (A Romanian werewolf legend.)

Those in the know know that Bran Castle has nothing to do with Bram Stoker, his character, Dracula, or even Vlad III ‘the Impaler’, who provided Stoker with some inspiration but who 99% probably never set foot in the place. It’s popularity now has all to do with the post-WWII Romanian Tourist Board who came up with the idea of marketing the place as Dracula’s Castle. Our guide told us that there is no regulation of ticket sales, i.e., no limit to the number of people who may visit at any one time, and, as the queue to enter was even longer by the time we came out, I had to wonder how long it could continue to be a victim of its own success. How long until, dare I say it, something happens in that overcrowded building to draw the world’s attention?

After a good look round, and after signing the visitors’ book, we traipsed off downhill to the additional seasonal attraction, the Medieval Village. This, I have to say, was more like it. Local artisans were producing arts and crafts right there in a massive tent. Blacksmith, leather worker, knights at practice, pottery, all interesting to watch, and the only place in the area, I suspect, where you could buy something actually made in Transylvania. It was atmospheric, and there were few people viewing. I expect they were still in the queue, where we would have been had not some unseen, supernatural force compelled us to sneak in at the front. Ahem.

And onwards, Driver!

That morning, our man for the day, Marco, had collected us in his very comfortable car (for full details of make, model, engine capacity, torque, etc., see Harry). He’d listened to what we wanted to do, taken us for a hearty, local, breakfast followed by a healthy, informative walk around the old Saxon walls of Brasov, driven us to Bran via the quiet route (all those back roads avoided the coaches and the traffic then jamming Bran town), waited for us to see the castle, and was now driving us off towards our next stop, Râșnov Fortress.

Again, I must compare now to 12-years previously. Then, there had been a space to park cars, a hut serving the drivers coffee, and very little else. Oh, apart from the ‘Noddy’ trains which ran visitors up the hill to the peasant fortress. The fortress sits on a hill backed by the Carpathians, overlooking the long, flat plane between Bran and Brasov. It’s known as a peasant fortress because it was a fortification built by and for rural Saxon communities for communal protection, rather than having to rely on the protection of a lord. Inside the battlements today is a reconstructed Saxon village, and although it was bitter, windy and quiet the last time we were here, the working village was the main attraction.

Now, at Rasnov, they have Southeast Europe’s largest dinosaur park, Dino Parc. There’s also a restaurant, a huge car park, and ugly tractors rather than jovial (if nauseating) Noddy trains. It’s a shame that the medieval village inside the fortress walls was being renovated, so we couldn’t see it, but it was lucky that it was December and cold. There were fewer viewers about, mainly families visiting Dino Parc, but that was below the fortress, though some creatures lurked and moved in the thick forest around us as we climbed the hill.

I’ll put the views in the gallery, so as you view the photos, you can imagine the biting cold, and the sound of the thin, bitter wind which watered the eyes, and I hope you take as much enjoyment from the sights as we did.

After this visit, a long walk and a chat with Marco about matters of history, and his experiences growing up under Communism, we drove to Poiana Brașov, Romania’s premier ski destination. Yes, it has much expanded over the years, is more popular, there are now banks of holiday chalets, new hotels going up, bowling alleys, fast food alongside financially impossible food, all the après ski you could need, and nowhere to park. We stopped only briefly for a look and a play in the crumbling snow.

It may sound as though I wasn’t particularly enamoured with this day, but I was. Very much so. Tourism has grown in the country, that was obvious, and that’s a good thing – as long as it doesn’t get out of control, as we have seen in other places, like Venice and Santorini. Every sight was a new one for some of our party, and an interestingly changed one for us. Marco was incredibly knowledgeable and drove safely. As he said, you don’t have to drive well in Romania, you only have to be clever. If you’re ever heading to Bucharest, Brasov or the surrounding area and want a reliable driver/guide, then check out his Facebook page. Highly recommended.

On the way back to Brasov, we stopped for more photos of the city from high on the road, and stopped again to take a look at one of the ancient towers, where Harry nearly took a purler on the slippery path. Growing up on Symi, you don’t get to walk on black ice very often, but his self-stabilising internal gyro worked in tandem with the flailing arms and ‘Whoa!’ sounds, and he remained upright. This proves that such an instinct must be passed down through the genes. At the end of the day, we were delivered back to our hotel/stage set. Here, we were able to warm up, change and prepare for another food hunt through the still glittering and thronged streets of the old town. After a wander, we found a restaurant that provided something slightly different to the norm, and ordered a fine dinner with local wine and beer. The meal provided the perfect end to a day of adventure, and saw us head home fed, tired, and contented.

Before you go, you might like to know that there are only a few more days left of this ‘What I did in the holidays’ before we return to normal Symi Dream viewing. I.e., not much news about anything because it’s that time of year. Just to let you know, it’s been wet and windy, the boat was delayed a few days ago, it’s now clear and cold at 6° this morning (Tuesday), and each time I venture into the village, I see no-one, unless we’re going to the super market, in which case, it’s its usual riot of warmth and humour. Not much to buy, of course, not unless you hit delivery day, but you know… Symi winter survival tip #1: If it’s there and you want it, have it; if not, make do.

Check back tomorrow for more of this kind of thing, and enjoy the gallery.

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The locomotive steamed west from Budapest, its steel plough slicing snow and hurling it aside in swathes. Its pistons pumped an incessant pulse, while the chimney belched a constant stream of smoke that billowed from tunnels and trailed behind to hover above the sleeping countryside. Cities fell away to become dense forests topped with silvery-blue moonlight that bathed the land from the hedgerows to the star-showered horizon. The Danube glinted beneath the cloudless sky until the train left the river to its meandering and sped away on its own path. The warm throw of yellow light from the dining car brushed banks and fields, the silhouettes of the wealthy rising and falling over cuttings in distorted shapes and vanishing as the carriages pounded across bridges. Firemen shovelled, stewards served, and passengers dreamt of elegance in gently rocking bunks, unaware of the urgent night cry of the whistle. The Orient Express kept its times…

Thank you for thinking that was an extract from ‘Murder on the Orient Express.’ It was actually a transition scene from my ‘The Clearwater Inheritance,’ and the full section takes us from Budapest to Cornwall in one tracking shot of prose. Meanwhile, I’m taking a slower tracking shot from my bunk on the overnight train from Prague. Lying there and looking out of the window, I find us motionless by a snow-dusted platform, and we stay there for some time. I’m aware that people are outside. I can’t see them, but work is taking place somewhere, and there comes the occasional clunk of a carriage door. Eventually, the train moves away, silently at first, and then returning to the speed and rhythm that lulled me to sleep several hours ago. Then, we were in Hungary; now, we are in Romania, in the heart of the Transylvania region, and heading towards our next two-night stop.

Brașov

There was snow. Not as much as at this time in previous years, we were told, but still, there was some. Certainly more than has ever been seen on Symi. It became more apparent as the sun rose, and we passed rolling, tree-covered hills, houses dusted with icing sugar snow, wide fields and frozen rivers. The city of Brașov was the same, with the outskirts of town a collection of chillingly Communist-built housing projects, and the centre of town being a collection of all kinds of architecture, but the oldest part being a mix of medieval Saxon and Baroque. The railway station was a testament to the post war regimes throughout Eastern parts of Europe, functional but not fun, and we were approached by a secretive taxi driver before we’d left the building. This kind of touting still happens in places, and it used to happen on Symi as people disembarked from the boats. Maybe it still does. As it happened, our guy was a genuine taxi driver in a city cab, and all he was doing was jumping ahead of his colleagues (by touting inside) and offering his services for the whole day. Not those kinds of services, Mrs! Did we want a driver and a guide? He could take us to… Yeah. No. We’ve already got one booked for tomorrow.

Also booked in advance was our accommodation. Described as a hotel, I’d say it was more like the soundstage set for a remake of La Boheme. Under the eaves, it offered sloping roofs, large communal areas to share with other guests, a kitchen, comfort and warmth with a touch of luxury, and came complete with baffling coffee machine, a slightly OCD hostess, and an out-of-tune piano. It was fab. Apart from the bathroom in our room, where someone had had a thing for levels. The WC stood on a raised dais, so taking the throne really was like taking a throne, and the shower was also raised about nine inches from the ground. Climbing up and in was easy, but it was also easy to forget you were on high, making stepping out of the thing something of a gamble.

Again, it was a case of dropping bags and heading straight out for a gander. On my last visit here, I’d wanted to see inside the famous Black Church, but it had been closed. In the summer, they give organ concerts there at lunchtimes, but we weren’t so lucky in the winter, though we were able to go inside. This church has the largest mechanical working pipe organ in Romania, the notes tell me, and we admired it from a distance, as we also admired the medieval tapestries and other treasures. Originally dedicated to St Mary, the church is now named the Black Church because of a fire that destroyed most of the city in 1689. The church was blackened, and the name stuck. Interestingly, that was only 23 years after the Great Fire of London. I don’t know why that’s interesting, though. It just is.

As was the rest of the old part of town, which isn’t that big, so it’s easy to walk around. Except when it’s the Christmas period, and everyone has come in to see the market, to chill, perhaps to stay and visit relatives, or go skiing nearby. Whatever the reason for it, the place was heaving with people, and finding an eatery was often a case of either being lucky to get a table or having to wait. We were on the lucky side of things because we never had a problem finding somewhere to eat, the food was plentiful, and the local wines were spot on.

We did do one crazy thing that day. The city is surrounded by the Carpathian Mountains, and overlooking the city is Tâmpa Mountain. On the side of it, they’ve erected a massive sign showing the town’s name, a little like we have in Symi right now. (Up on the road overlooking the harbour, we have a large (ish) sign saying ‘Symi’, except smaller and lower down. Much lower down. I should try for a photo one day.) To reach the visitable summit of Tâmpa Mountain requires either a very long walk or a cable car. We took the latter, and looked down on poor souls hiking to the top in the afternoon flurries, no doubt freezing their fingers off and either getting a rush from their sport, or wishing they had never bothered.

The reward for this upward journey was the view. On the day we were there, the clouds were hanging low over the Carpathians to the east, and hiding most of the valley ahead of us, so the view was mainly of the snow-dusted town from a couple of thousand feet up. It was freezing. The wind was blowing in, lowering the already below-zero temperatures, and we didn’t stay admiring the place for long. We were soon inside the summit hotel, sipping various varieties of coffee to warm us up.

The rest of the day was about sightseeing and shopping at the local supermarket, which was reminiscent of Sotiris’ super market in Horio, but without the cats. On the way to dinner, we caught one of the local and ancient rituals being played out in the street. In the Jocul Ursului, the ‘Bear Dance’, people in heavy bear costumes dance to drums and flutes, symbolizing the death and rebirth of nature, warding off evil spirits, and bringing good luck/health for the new year. And there they were, drumming and dancing through the glittery streets on a cold December evening, making a lot of noise and causing a lot of cheer, and giving us an unusual sight to remember. We encountered another troupe at the railway station a couple of days later, but that wasn’t as magical.

Here’s a minute of noisy video.

Afterwards: Dinner in a cavern, some excellent Transylvanian wine, a chilly walk back to the Attic of Antiquities to rest, relax, and finally stop travelling. It felt like we’d been on the go since yesterday morning when we left… Where were we yesterday morning? Prague! That was it. Trams, trains, two countries, taxi, cable car, it was definitely time to put the feet up.

Tomorrow, Dracula Land. Now, today’s gallery:

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3 May. Bistritz.—Left Munich at 8:35 P. M., on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late. Buda-Pesth seems a wonderful place, from the glimpse which I got of it from the train and the little I could walk through the streets. I feared to go very far from the station, as we had arrived late and would start as near the correct time as possible. The impression I had was that we were leaving the West and entering the East; the most western of splendid bridges over the Danube, which is here of noble width and depth, took us among the traditions of Turkish rule.

That’s the opening paragraph of Bram Stoker’s ‘Dracula’, and, like Jonathan Harker, we are heading to Transylvania.

Saturday, December 27th. Day nine of the trip. Roughly 1,521 miles travelled so far since leaving home, and 541 miles to travel today before we reach our next destination tomorrow. First train, 10.36, arriving at Vienna 4 hours and 13 minutes later (14.49). Second train, the Datcia 347 overnight from Vienna to Brasov, with two two-man sleeping compartments, leaving at 19.08, and arriving in Brasov at 11.03 the next morning.

Let’s see how this day is going to go then…

It begins with packing and preparation. Somehow, we all work around each other in the kitchen. The masters of the coffee machine masterfully make sludge, while the tea drinkers of the group do the decent thing with Colette’s donation. Bags packed, rooms tidied, washing up done, anything edible of use goes into a bag for life, final check of all rooms, passports, tickets, money, another final check of all rooms, leave the Christmas tree, check again that we’ve not forgotten anything, and leave the penthouse to enter the chilly morning.

The thing is, we’re not leaving by the same station as we came in to, so Jenine has checked and double-checked the appropriate tram route. This is a good idea.

I once flew with Olympic from Rhodes to Athens to Berlin, there were no delays, my luggage came out first, and I was in a taxi to my hotel before you could say Freundschaftsbeziehungen. The weekend trip went well. I met up with some friends, and as they were leaving before me, they told me their easy route to the airport. This, I took the following morning, and arrived feeling very pleased with myself because I’d done it all by public transport. I wasn’t so pleased with myself when I discovered I was at the wrong airport, and had to spend the €50 I’d saved on a quick cab around the city. Hoppla! As they say in German.

The same mistake was not made on this day, as we took our tram across town, over the river, and into the more industrial and less picturesque part of the city, where, for some reason, every other building is another home for Allianz. A quick investigation of the station reveals, among its brutalist design, cracked tiles and failing concrete, a small café in which we can wait and where we can feed the teen, while the scout checks out which platform we will need, and the Master Controller checks the punctuality of the train. Here, we fuel ourselves for the hours ahead.

Soon enough, we’re on the icy platform, doing that thing where you look up and down the tracks every five seconds in case something has miraculously appeared like the Flying Dutchman from the mist, or the Flying Czech from the blue and icy air in this case, and, eventually, it does. We are at the right spot on the right platform for our carriage doors to open right in front of us (the European customer care ethos is still prevailing, for now), and on we board to find our reserved table.

This bag up there. I’ll put yours here. Will that go under your feet? Mind the hat! Whose is this? Where’s the bag for life? It died. No, here it is. Is there a loo? There will be, sit down. I can’t, there’s a bag in the way. What, no hatstand? Sorry madam. I hope this isn’t a quiet carriage. Where’s my pills?

Alan Whicker used to say, ‘Any fool can be uncomfortable, so when you are travelling, always make yourself as comfortable as possible.’

And we do. Settling into our new space, we look forward to the next four hours and thirteen minutes, and off we set.

From city to countryside, over plains, through stations busy and not, past engines, the snow fades away, the ground is brown and ochre as if this were autumn, the time passes quickly, as do Brno and other names I vaguely recognise, and, in the midafternoon, we glide into Vienna.

Vienna railway station is not unlike a small town. They have maps and online guides showing you what’s available in what supermarket, shop, department, café, restaurant, and probably hospital, and being Austrian, it is all very well organised and signposted. This means we’re able to stow our bags in a large locker before heading out to see at least one Viennese sight/site before boarding our next train in just under four hours’ time.

Out of the station, do up your buttons, turn right into the wind, look back at the sinking sun beyond stark, modern buildings, and keep going, up to the lights, cross, turn right, and there’s the long view of the Belvedere. The Belvedere is a historic building complex in Vienna, Austria, consisting of two Baroque palaces (the Upper and Lower Belvedere), the Orangery, and the Palace Stables. The buildings are set in a Baroque park landscape in the third district of the city, on the south-eastern edge of its centre.

I am sure you knew that. You might also know that the Belvedere currently houses museums and art galleries, none of which we have time to see.

It’s a case of snap this, look at that, appreciate this and look over there, but all from the outside as we walk the gardens, and then a circuit of the complex where we visit a war memorial, and ignore a Christmas market, while trying to find a café, and deciding to have something to eat back in the station. We also need to do some shopping ready for the evening and night on the train. Someone has the foresight to buy noodles and beer, so I’m happily restored to full health, and the game can continue. So happy am I that I venture into a clothes shop and pick up three scarf/snood/things for us boys, and on the way back, check out where the Spar is, so we can buy supplies. This, as it turns out, is not as easy as it sounds.

Perhaps Saturday afternoon is the time for the Viennese to come out and do their shopping in a small, railway station branch of Spar, as that is what is taking place here. We enter in pairs, but it soon becomes apparent that we are not alone. I mean there are about 500 people crammed into long queues, and the time for departure is heading our way. We decide to divide and conquer, so H and I leave the other two to their side quest and go to pick up the luggage. This we do with ease – well, entering the code and retrieving the bags is achieved with ease; carrying the 15 bags back to the Spar upstairs is another matter. But we manage, and message our success to the B team, and wait. And wait. And bob up and down trying to see in, catching a glimpse of a bobble hat and a bald head, both belonging to the wrong people, and wait, and watch the clock, and… Finally. The B team break free from the clutches of the great Spar and appears with more bags for life (or at least, bags for the next couple of hours), and with those added to our caravan, we set off for the platform.

Now, here’s a short tale. Once, when Neil and I were travelling around, we travelled from Prague to Vienna on a smart train with buffet service and a dining car, but as we had a longer, eight-hour journey coming up, we decided to leave the new-to-us experience of a dining car until then. That day came, Budapest to Belgrade (roughly eight hours, in theory), and we set off in an equally smart, first-class carriage that had locked toilets and no buffet car, so I investigated second class to find no dining car, no buffet anything, and only the very basic of toilets. I mean, practically the hole in the floor to the tracks kind of job, and one was so bad, someone was keeping chickens in it. Things became stranger when we arrived at the Hungary/Serbia border, and three sets of officials boarded, one lot with sniffer dogs, and someone ran across the roof, another man was taken off, never to be seen again. Nor, when we set off, and I turned behind to see about using the loo, was there any sign of second class. Those carriages had vanished, but at least someone opened the 1st class WC. But I digress… Kind of, because…

Our Romanian train doesn’t let us down. We have a compartment for each pair with two narrow bunks, and a third if needed (as long as the sandwich filling is very thin and no-one is claustrophobic), and we have… not much else, actually. A window, and just enough room to shove bags in corners as long as we sit on them. We try a seating compartment a way down the train, and find a six-seater with only one sceptical looking woman using it, and we try sitting there for a while, but the lighting is so dim, and we don’t feel able to relax because we know we’ll be disturbing our fellow traveller, so we bundle back to our cabin to become students on an interrail adventure. Three on the bottom bunk facing the wall, one on a bag in the corner, drinking beer, having a laugh, chatting the evening away and enjoying the blackouts. These happen at the start of the journey. We’re moving, but there’s no light in the cabin. Then there is. Then there isn’t. Then there is. A passenger comes to ask if our heating is working. Yes, it bloomin’ is. I’m sweating like a glassblower’s armpit, and even with the AC off and the window open, we’re at a toasty 98°. He is clearly unhappy and mutters his way towards the steward (who we rarely see after our initial grunt of welcome).

The evening draws to a natural end, and we prepare for bed. If you are of the type who likes to shower before bed, and you find yourself on a Romanian night train, then abandon all hope. I mean, you could try, but you’d have to squeeze into something smaller than a telephone box with one tap, one hosepipe, and I’m not sure I remember drainage, while standing not three feet away from the leaking WC and holding up a queue of others wanting to be somewhere else but needing the facilities.

We don’t bother. Instead, we climb into the bunks with me worrying that Neil will roll out (he doesn’t), and wondering where I will wake up, and before I know it…

Oblivion for a short while. A speeding train passes. The window is slammed shut by the suction. Things calm. Rattling, rhythm, swaying… Screaming whistles from the engine. I think they are doing it for fun. Then, I suspect, we are crossing the border. I don’t know the time, but I am grateful I am not woken to show papers and passports, and then… Definitely time to get up. My T-shirt is soaked as usual, and I need the facilities, but it’s not yet dawn, so it’s quiet out there, and we’re stationary in a station. Which turns out to be Sighisoara in the heart of Transylvania. And it is tomorrow, so we must now wait until, strangely, tomorrow to talk about Brașov.

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