Days 12 and 13
By Layla
Yesterday was cold and miserable. Another ‘free day’, our plans to potter by the pool and go for a picnic were clearly doomed. After consuming our whole melon and suchlike breakfast items, we huddled in our little bedroom and tried to work out a plan. Eventually we used the internet to identify that there seemed to be an ice rink in Sibiu. We had someone drive us there, despite their misgivings. On arrival at the address, there was nothing even vaguely resembling an ice rink. However on turning the corner we found a dry rink, with ice machines sitting silently, mockingly, at the side of a circle that lacked any ice at all. It was deserted. Boo! No ice skating for us, then! And no further belief in Sibiu’s tourist website! Instead we braved the grey sky and went for a walk in the park. As the sky grew darker, we turned around and walked into Sibiu centre for our final day in this lovely town.
We pottered along Sibiu’s main street, discussing my career, and then popped into a stationery shop to obtain a notebook so that we could create a three year plan for me over lunch at an outdoor restaurant. I felt like a massive nerd… with a very planned three years! From lunch to the Orient Express where we ate chocolate and pretzel sticks and read our books and lamented that this was our last visit. And then up to Café Wein for our last mohitos. To the square for our last lovely pizzas as we watched the world go by. And then to the ice cream stand for our last ice creams. We walked back along the main street and caught a taxi home, where we watched Once on DVD and started feeling sad about our imminent return to London…
Today we were up early as demanded, had our breakfast, and were ready for our last day in Romania. This was our last activity day and we had to join up with the new arrivals, four retired middle English people, raring to go. We drove up into the Fagaras Mountains, which is bear country and looks just as you might imagine a Romanian mountain to look: dark, misty, mysterious. We caught a cable car further up the mountain, which after a long trip, deposited us at the top, next to where there is an Ice Hotel in winter. Obviously not in summer, though there was some snow on the ground and the climate was decidedly chilly. Our heads were literally in the clouds as we embarked on what turned out to be a five hour walk back to the car, through a range of mountain scenery. The first half hour was steep uphill. Then we started to descend, with the clouds so thick we could barely see in front of us, and moisture in our hair. Further descending brought us to a more open valley and as the clouds moved, we caught glimpses of the pine forest ahead. We had lunch at the bottom of a valley, next to a river, and then moved on. It felt like Lord of the Rings country, and the suspense when we passed several flocks of sheep, horses, donkeys and pigs, guarded by reputedly very fierce attack sheepdogs, added to the feeling of us being on a quest fraught with danger. I placed myself between two men holding big sticks but luckily the dogs did little more than bark and vaguely move in our direction. Which, after being warned of their ferocious risk, nearly gave me a heart attack! Then it was into the forest, with the pine trees rising and an array of rivers trickling down the mountainside as we climbed along a ridge. By this time I was getting a tad exhausted. The four pensioners were not: they skipped along like mountain goats, without a wheeze between them. I was very ashamed and resolved to do some exercise when in London (maybe). Roz fared rather better. I struggled along as the least fit person and whimpered when the track started to slope up over yet another mountain. Though I must admit, the scenery was spectacular.
Finally, it was the last descent. We climbed down, down, and the car park came into sight. I thought this moment would never come. With a burst of energy I marched towards it. All that stood between me and a comfy car seat was a roaring torrent of a river. But apparently there was a bridge. Except there wasn’t. The torrential rain over the last fortnight had in fact washed it away and all that remained was a single intact log, and one rather rotten one. Oh dear. Jez started talking about retracing our steps, finding a place to walk across the river. I didn’t want to walk any more. And I didn’t want to get my feet wet. It was time for me to be intrepid. I mounted the log and, elegantly, I bumped along it on my bottom, using my arms to propel myself along. Roz thought I was doomed to plummet into the white water below. Fortunately I wasn’t, and they all followed my lead. Soon we were driving home and my sore knees sang in relief.
Due to all the guests, our usual dining for two experience was lost to a barbecue. Always tedious for the vegetarian, we accepted our three vegetable kebabs and looked on while everyone else gorged on various meat items. I yearned for the previous nights where our dinner conversation had been about financing public services; tonight’s was inane, punctuated by middle-English mildly offensive comments about race, and a massive, detailed discussion about the World Cup that excluded us entirely. They debated whether to support Spain or Holland in the final. My very favourite moment was when Roz, in an attempt to appear interested in the conversation, asked them if there were any other teams that one could support in the World Cup. Her utter lack of knowledge that these two teams were the ones playing in the final, and there could be no third team, caused so much consternation that we were able to soon make our escape.
A final walk around the village, a settling of our bar tab, and it was home to blog and book and bed. A mere few hours of sleep await before we’re up horribly early, deposited at the airport, and transported home. Unusually, to the sun. And to a church fete where we have tombola-running responsibilities.
Saturday 10 July 2010
Thursday 8 July 2010
A quest for Dracula in Transylvania
Day 11
By Layla
Today was one of the first days on holiday I’ve managed not to wake up at 6am. Usually the insistent crowing of a rooster and the jangling bells as cows and goats are taken up to the fields shakes me well awake and I have to spend the next three hours watching Roz slumbering in smug peacefulness. Alas we had to get up semi-early anyway as today we were off on a ‘citadel tour’. I blame Roz: on her first day at the guesthouse while making polite conversation, she indicated an extreme (and fallacious) interest in visiting churches. Our hosts have been keen on fulfilling her churchly desires and today promised a full schedule of ancient Saxon church action. One full melon, plus an array of other breakfast items, later, and we were off.
First, and probably best, was a ruined 14th century Saxon castle on a hill in a place called Slimnik. We were the only visitors, possibly for days. We were encouraged to climb up into the bell tower though cautioned that we were not allowed to touch the bells. We were initially confused: why would we want to touch the bells? It was soon clear: there were several, attached to long cords that hung at different levels, all within reach and so excruciatingly tempting that if I hadn’t been strictly warned, the village would have been serenaded with my first bell ringing attempt… or maybe the ancient bells would have shattered… We climbed to the very top for some lovely countryside views, and explored the grassy grounds.
It was then on to a far less romantic-looking church, 10th century and still in use. They wouldn’t let us climb the bell tower as it was too rickety (or perhaps they saw the look of bell ringing temptation in my eyes) but sent us round their random museum instead.
Our main stop of the day was the citadel town of Sighisoara (pronounced ‘Shigyshwara’), birthplace of Dracula and home to cobbled streets, gothic churches, and a rather rubbish statue of the vampire himself. We had lunch in a nice little café and then wandered amongst thousands of souvenir shops (looking for snow globes for our friend’s collection, to no avail) before retiring to another café where I ordered pancakes, much to Roz’s amusement as she sipped her beer. And then I tried to make her forget about the pancake consumption and lure her to a nearby ice cream cart… we walked through the park eating ice creams before finding the car and proceeding to the final Saxon church of the day in a town called Biertan, and one of the dullest, as it was large and plain. Good organ though. We had a little wander in the adjacent village and then returned to the car just as the first raindrops started to fall.
We drove home through a torrential downpour which abated as we neared Sibiu, and we arrived just in time for a bit of pre-prandial internetting. Dinner was excellent and I’m afraid I overindulged (not for the first time) – I fear a post-holiday diet is looming…
By Layla
Today was one of the first days on holiday I’ve managed not to wake up at 6am. Usually the insistent crowing of a rooster and the jangling bells as cows and goats are taken up to the fields shakes me well awake and I have to spend the next three hours watching Roz slumbering in smug peacefulness. Alas we had to get up semi-early anyway as today we were off on a ‘citadel tour’. I blame Roz: on her first day at the guesthouse while making polite conversation, she indicated an extreme (and fallacious) interest in visiting churches. Our hosts have been keen on fulfilling her churchly desires and today promised a full schedule of ancient Saxon church action. One full melon, plus an array of other breakfast items, later, and we were off.
First, and probably best, was a ruined 14th century Saxon castle on a hill in a place called Slimnik. We were the only visitors, possibly for days. We were encouraged to climb up into the bell tower though cautioned that we were not allowed to touch the bells. We were initially confused: why would we want to touch the bells? It was soon clear: there were several, attached to long cords that hung at different levels, all within reach and so excruciatingly tempting that if I hadn’t been strictly warned, the village would have been serenaded with my first bell ringing attempt… or maybe the ancient bells would have shattered… We climbed to the very top for some lovely countryside views, and explored the grassy grounds.
It was then on to a far less romantic-looking church, 10th century and still in use. They wouldn’t let us climb the bell tower as it was too rickety (or perhaps they saw the look of bell ringing temptation in my eyes) but sent us round their random museum instead.
Our main stop of the day was the citadel town of Sighisoara (pronounced ‘Shigyshwara’), birthplace of Dracula and home to cobbled streets, gothic churches, and a rather rubbish statue of the vampire himself. We had lunch in a nice little café and then wandered amongst thousands of souvenir shops (looking for snow globes for our friend’s collection, to no avail) before retiring to another café where I ordered pancakes, much to Roz’s amusement as she sipped her beer. And then I tried to make her forget about the pancake consumption and lure her to a nearby ice cream cart… we walked through the park eating ice creams before finding the car and proceeding to the final Saxon church of the day in a town called Biertan, and one of the dullest, as it was large and plain. Good organ though. We had a little wander in the adjacent village and then returned to the car just as the first raindrops started to fall.
We drove home through a torrential downpour which abated as we neared Sibiu, and we arrived just in time for a bit of pre-prandial internetting. Dinner was excellent and I’m afraid I overindulged (not for the first time) – I fear a post-holiday diet is looming…
Wednesday 7 July 2010
A lot of melon, a cycle, and some magical mud
Day 10
by Roz
Layla rather undersold the glory of last night’s dinner. But she also failed to mention that the owner, Di, had commented on our impressive consumption of the melon she’d provided for our breakfast that morning. In fact, we’d consumed the melon over a longer period (dinner, breakfast and then a little for lunch) but were too ashamed to admit this – particularly when Di said she’d specifically asked one of her staff to get off the bus early on his way on to work to buy us a melon for us to have for breakfast (since she’d now understood our true level of enthusiasm for the fruit)…! And so we found ourselves in the position of having demanded a full melon to eat for breakfast every day.
Oddly enough, eating an entire melon didn’t seem that difficult when it actually came to it. (I reserve judgement on whether it is going to be achievable every morning!) Though the plate of it did look slightly daunting for a minute or two…
From the glory of breakfast (which also included scrambled eggs – though Layla assures me that mine are much better) we headed off in a Range Rover with bikes up into the mountains. The intention of the day was every lazy biker’s dream: a beautiful downward ride through rural villages and beside babbling brooks (and with few cars). And indeed that ambition was achieved. It’s hard to describe how lovely it was. We saw the odd lazy dog, a few horses and carts and even the odd ancient villager on a bike. But no tourists and indeed no city dwellers. A truly joyful experience.
Having made it through the villages to the hideousness of an upward slope we stopped for a packed lunch in the village. A lunch made all the more delicious by knowing that part of the sandwich was a tapenade made by smoking the glut of vegetables at the end of autumn for 24 hours…
Although the temptation to cycle further was quite strong, in the end we decided to keep to our original plan of visiting old salt mines that had, over the years, been turned into salt lakes with very muddy bottoms. We drove there through very pretty countryside and to the sound of the BBC World Service. And what a random place it turned out to be! Visited by enthusiastic locals for the mud’s healing properties, it is now in the process of being redeveloped (by whom, who knows). But the redevelopment (and even the signs of “danger”) are still not a deterrent for locals who we found bathing in salt water – and covering themselves with mud – with glee. Always keen to fit in, Layla and I had to join them and dived in (ignoring the adjacent bulldozers). The salt water was fun (why does salt make it impossible to swim on your front?!) and the mud copious. Having daubed ourselves in mud appropriately, we baked along with locals until the mud was caked on – and then dived back in to the salt water to wash off the magical mud.
On the way home, Jez, having heard about the current ongoing manhunt in England, started asking about criminal sentences and how they are determined. In the circumstances, and given my job, I felt obliged to bore him and Layla with a lengthy explanation about how sentences are set (and how a sentence is served partly in jail and partly in the community). Fortunately before they’d both dozed off, we were back home. A fairly quick swim (for Layla) and a more languorous one for me, and then it was dinner time. Hurrah.
My only sorrow is that Layla is now waiting impatiently for me to finish my current book – Theodora, by Stella Duffy. This will teach me not to rave too much about anything until it’s read. This misguided book chat came about through the slightly odd atmosphere of dinner in the guesthouse – which is to say dinner a deux, in a tiny dining room, with not quite dim enough lighting to be appropriate and absolute silence. This leads to the need for un-holidayish intelligent conversation to fit the weird ambience: last night was public service and the pros and cons of commissioning and privatisation (aren’t you all, dear readers, glad you aren’t married to me?!) and tonight what is the definition of a historical novel – and particularly what makes a good historical novel.
Speaking of which, I must go: I have 40 pages of “Theodora: Actress. Empress. Whore.” to go and I can’t wait! And nor can I wait for tomorrow and the next bit of our Transylvanian fun….
by Roz
Layla rather undersold the glory of last night’s dinner. But she also failed to mention that the owner, Di, had commented on our impressive consumption of the melon she’d provided for our breakfast that morning. In fact, we’d consumed the melon over a longer period (dinner, breakfast and then a little for lunch) but were too ashamed to admit this – particularly when Di said she’d specifically asked one of her staff to get off the bus early on his way on to work to buy us a melon for us to have for breakfast (since she’d now understood our true level of enthusiasm for the fruit)…! And so we found ourselves in the position of having demanded a full melon to eat for breakfast every day.
Oddly enough, eating an entire melon didn’t seem that difficult when it actually came to it. (I reserve judgement on whether it is going to be achievable every morning!) Though the plate of it did look slightly daunting for a minute or two…
From the glory of breakfast (which also included scrambled eggs – though Layla assures me that mine are much better) we headed off in a Range Rover with bikes up into the mountains. The intention of the day was every lazy biker’s dream: a beautiful downward ride through rural villages and beside babbling brooks (and with few cars). And indeed that ambition was achieved. It’s hard to describe how lovely it was. We saw the odd lazy dog, a few horses and carts and even the odd ancient villager on a bike. But no tourists and indeed no city dwellers. A truly joyful experience.
Having made it through the villages to the hideousness of an upward slope we stopped for a packed lunch in the village. A lunch made all the more delicious by knowing that part of the sandwich was a tapenade made by smoking the glut of vegetables at the end of autumn for 24 hours…
Although the temptation to cycle further was quite strong, in the end we decided to keep to our original plan of visiting old salt mines that had, over the years, been turned into salt lakes with very muddy bottoms. We drove there through very pretty countryside and to the sound of the BBC World Service. And what a random place it turned out to be! Visited by enthusiastic locals for the mud’s healing properties, it is now in the process of being redeveloped (by whom, who knows). But the redevelopment (and even the signs of “danger”) are still not a deterrent for locals who we found bathing in salt water – and covering themselves with mud – with glee. Always keen to fit in, Layla and I had to join them and dived in (ignoring the adjacent bulldozers). The salt water was fun (why does salt make it impossible to swim on your front?!) and the mud copious. Having daubed ourselves in mud appropriately, we baked along with locals until the mud was caked on – and then dived back in to the salt water to wash off the magical mud.
On the way home, Jez, having heard about the current ongoing manhunt in England, started asking about criminal sentences and how they are determined. In the circumstances, and given my job, I felt obliged to bore him and Layla with a lengthy explanation about how sentences are set (and how a sentence is served partly in jail and partly in the community). Fortunately before they’d both dozed off, we were back home. A fairly quick swim (for Layla) and a more languorous one for me, and then it was dinner time. Hurrah.
My only sorrow is that Layla is now waiting impatiently for me to finish my current book – Theodora, by Stella Duffy. This will teach me not to rave too much about anything until it’s read. This misguided book chat came about through the slightly odd atmosphere of dinner in the guesthouse – which is to say dinner a deux, in a tiny dining room, with not quite dim enough lighting to be appropriate and absolute silence. This leads to the need for un-holidayish intelligent conversation to fit the weird ambience: last night was public service and the pros and cons of commissioning and privatisation (aren’t you all, dear readers, glad you aren’t married to me?!) and tonight what is the definition of a historical novel – and particularly what makes a good historical novel.
Speaking of which, I must go: I have 40 pages of “Theodora: Actress. Empress. Whore.” to go and I can’t wait! And nor can I wait for tomorrow and the next bit of our Transylvanian fun….
Hills and fine dining
Days 8 and 9
By Layla
Roz having awoken (from what she would like to be noted was only a brief doze), cooked a delicious meal for our last night in our self catering house: tortilla, pasta, lots of melon, lots of wine. Nice. We watched the first half of Rear Window until I pleaded tiredness and went to bed.
The next day was a so-called ‘Free day’ – we had to entertain ourselves and had decided to do so by climbing up a large hill. Having had an extravagant last self-catered breakfast, we packed up our things and then set off. Rather fun to walk from our house straight into the forest. Armed with our little hand drawn map (‘turn left at the big log’) and a picnic courtesy of Roz, we had a really lovely walk along a track by a river with trees, past Frog Rock, and then up a steep slope… we’d vaguely been aiming for the top, but then the thought of having to get down in the event of rain was unappealing given the likely quick move to mushy mud, and we headed for a riverside picnic spot instead. Then fled the wasps to another spot where we read our books before sleepily wandering home to our new abode, a room in the 2-room guesthouse at the other end of the village.
We had been a little concerned that the move away from self-catering might be risky (more polenta, sour cream and cheese)… but in fact we were served up with a glorious three course meal and wine, home cooked and delicious. In fact after eating it we were so exceptionally full we could hardly breathe. We walked around the village, stuffed, before retiring to our bedroom to watch the rest of Rear Window. Our early night was due to my exhaustion. I turned on my phone and was shamed to read my parents had been out at a late night outdoor movie double bill til 2am… I should resolve to be more of a party girl. If only I wasn’t so exhausted.
By Layla
Roz having awoken (from what she would like to be noted was only a brief doze), cooked a delicious meal for our last night in our self catering house: tortilla, pasta, lots of melon, lots of wine. Nice. We watched the first half of Rear Window until I pleaded tiredness and went to bed.
The next day was a so-called ‘Free day’ – we had to entertain ourselves and had decided to do so by climbing up a large hill. Having had an extravagant last self-catered breakfast, we packed up our things and then set off. Rather fun to walk from our house straight into the forest. Armed with our little hand drawn map (‘turn left at the big log’) and a picnic courtesy of Roz, we had a really lovely walk along a track by a river with trees, past Frog Rock, and then up a steep slope… we’d vaguely been aiming for the top, but then the thought of having to get down in the event of rain was unappealing given the likely quick move to mushy mud, and we headed for a riverside picnic spot instead. Then fled the wasps to another spot where we read our books before sleepily wandering home to our new abode, a room in the 2-room guesthouse at the other end of the village.
We had been a little concerned that the move away from self-catering might be risky (more polenta, sour cream and cheese)… but in fact we were served up with a glorious three course meal and wine, home cooked and delicious. In fact after eating it we were so exceptionally full we could hardly breathe. We walked around the village, stuffed, before retiring to our bedroom to watch the rest of Rear Window. Our early night was due to my exhaustion. I turned on my phone and was shamed to read my parents had been out at a late night outdoor movie double bill til 2am… I should resolve to be more of a party girl. If only I wasn’t so exhausted.
Monday 5 July 2010
A birthday, some glass icons, and hydroelectric fun
Days 7 and 8
By Layla
After lunch, we ventured over to the main guesthouse and their swimming pool. It’s a bit of a random, elevated pool, and as there’s so little water in this village they had to have it delivered in a lorry. It seemed wrong not to take advantage. And it was lovely swimming in our own private pool, right next door to a very pretty orthodox church and directly opposite a Lutheran one. Church bells accompanied our splashes and the backdrop to the pool was steeples and hillside. We read books over beer afterwards before retiring home. Roz made us pasta which we ate on our patio in the sun before watching the last ever West Wing episodes. I sobbed like a girl and have since felt bereft – I can’t imagine life without the next series. We went to bed and I had to giggle when Roz told me she was too excited to sleep as the next day was her birthday…
Sure enough, the next day started with the excitement of Mimosas in bed (a la New York) and a huge pile of birthday presents for Roz. I always live in fear that I will have chosen unsatisfactory presents but she seemed happy. Despite her being the birthday girl, in view of my culinary incompetence she made breakfast, which we ate on our patio, and I was smug, though alarmed, to find that one of the most successful presents I gave her was a tiny heart-shaped pot of marmite which she smeared on toast with some glee… At 10:30 we were collected from our house and driven up a hill, where we were deposited, with Jez as our guide, at the edge of the forest. The forest looks just as I had imagined a Transylvanian forest might look, with tall dark trees. I hadn’t expected the open countryside though! We walked through the forest, past WW1 trenches, and over hills and meadows that would have looked appropriate in The Sound of Music, complete with haystacks and church spires glistening in the distance all around as the sun shone vehemently. I had arranged this walk for Roz’s birthday and it was mainly really lovely, walking through three different villages, including a tiny one that only just acquired a dirt track by which to access it last year. No tourists at all. It was fun walking past these wooden, pastel-coloured houses, and people driving past on horse and cart, and open countryside all around. It was only unpleasant at the end when, after 3 ½ hours of walking, we had to climb up a very, very steep hill.
However it was worth it. I had pre-planned with our hosts that they would set out a special romantic birthday picnic for Roz at the top of the hill, and they had done me proud. They had set up a picnic blanket under a canopy, bearing a ‘happy birthday’ banner. Our plates boasted party items, and a lovely array of homemade tomato tart, fresh bread, cheese and grapes and salad were laid out on the blanket. Not to mention the champagne. And the piece de resistance… a lesbian birthday cake! I couldn’t quite believe the glory. Di had asked me to buy icing in London and bring it with me to Transylvania, which I duly did. And she created an amazing cake featuring two female pandas (with matching pink bows) in a double bed with a pink blanket made of icing. There was even a pair of slippers at each side of the bed. It was quite spectacular. And possibly the only lesbian cake either of us has ever seen. Di was very smug when she returned after lunch to see Roz’s appreciative reaction. Then a shepherd passed by with his flock and brought a tiny lamb over for us to stroke. Very cute.
After our lunch the plan of us walking back home ourselves sounded remarkably untempting. We gazed at the sky: possible rain. We gazed at our feet: ouch. We gazed at each other: a plan was psychically formed. Rather than the walk, Roz asked Di to drive us home and, trying not to feel like wusses, we were transported back to our house just in time to feel smug about having escaped the rain that did indeed fall. We had planned to watch a film but both of us were shattered and ill and had to turn it off halfway through. I think we might have had mild sunstroke.
Luckily a quick nap and we were as good as new. We dressed up and someone came to give us a lift to Sibiu. Though we had only left two days ago, we were very nostalgic and delighted to be back. We started off with a mohito (or five) at the lovely outdoor Café Wien, to the sounds of live piano, while we people-watched. Then we sauntered across the square to El Turn, a rather lovely outdoor Italian restaurant with delicious food, on the main square. We had prosecco and bruschetta and pizzas and then chose ice cream for dessert at our favourite ice cream seller (who had put their ice cream price up from 50p two days ago to 60p: extortionate!). We walked through the square feeling romantic and, having considered having drinks in a rather pretentious and touristy piano bar, we decided instead to head back to the Orient Express where we had beer and played chess, culminating in the barman taking over Roz’s side of the game and thrashing me on her behalf – Roz’s smugness was massive as I was repeatedly checkmated. Well, it was her birthday… We decided that Orient Express is probably our favourite bar out of every bar we have ever been in. We ran through London, Glasgow, New York, and all the other fantastic places we’ve been, but nowhere beats it. Just before we left the music turned particularly cool and we jumped up to do our ‘wedding dance’, i.e. a Charleston, to the delighted bemusement of the chess-playing barman. As we were driven home we both revelled sleepily in what had been an excellent birthday.
We hadn’t arranged what time we were meeting Di and Jez the next day, but of the nine nights we’re staying in Cisnadioara we paid for five of them to be ‘all inclusive activity days’; Roz’s birthday was the first, and today was to be the second. However we hadn’t actually made plans with them, so poor Jez came knocking at the door at 9:30, only to meet a bleary-eyed Layla who had stumbled from bed (Roz refused to stumble and stayed put). He looked confused, as though he had never encountered the phenomenon of people sleeping in (even if they’d had champagne cocktails for breakfast, champagne for lunch, prosecco for dinner, multiple mohitos, and a few glasses of beer the day before, on top of a demanding hike…). We managed to send him away long enough to get hastily up and for Roz to whip up another tasty breakfast before it was time to embark on our second day of activity.
The sun shone as we sped through an array of picturesque hills, streams, and fairytale mountain villages. At one village we stopped to wander around a pretty church and walk through the village. At the next we went to see the Glass Icon Museum. We had both been rather unconvinced by the likely delights of this attraction. However it turned out to be rather lovely. It seems that in the old days, a glass painting of a religious scene was the proudest possession of many families in Romania. When Communism came, these paintings were banned, but apparently one monk risked his life collecting all the illegal icons and hiding them until after the Communist rule, at which point the museum was established. We were assured that this is the most important collection of glass icons in the world. And they were interesting to see: bright and colourful, almost cartoonish, and lovely to imagine them in family homes. Rather random to find them in this obscure Transylvanian village.
After this excitement, it was on to yet another village, which was having a festival. Apparently said festival had not been advertised, which goes to show the power of word of mouth, as every person from miles around was in attendance, many with fun Romanian folk outfits. You can imagine that if you lived around here, this would be the social event of your whole year! It was a strange combination of sweet little fete, and horrible commercial funfair. We were deposited on the road and walked down into the festival where we acquired lunch of an item that is apparently translated as ‘shepherds’ cheesy balls’. In fact this turns out to be our disguised vegetarian staple of polenta, cheese and sour cream sneakily rolled together into a rather large ball to trick you into thinking it’s something else. We were duly fooled but quickly realised the truth... We wandered around afterwards with sweetcorn and popcorn, had a glance at the stage where people in traditional Romanian garb were doing country dancing and emitting unpleasant folk songs to the delight of most of the festival attendees, and ended up going for a walk along a sunny path to the cascading sheets of water of a nearby hydroelectric water plant. Roz was highly amused at my nerdy excitement about this. I do like a nice hydroelectric water plant…
After the festival we drove back home and found ourselves utterly exhausted again. Di offered us the option of going ‘mushrooming’ to find wild mushrooms for dinner. We were too tired. We picked up some food from the shop and started out on the 10 minute walk to our house. As we set off, the heavens opened and we were absolutely saturated. We made it home, drenched, and are now curled up on the daybed in dry clothes eating birthday cake and reading and typing. Well, in fact I now notice Roz has fallen asleep. I am jealous. I don’t think either of us has ever been so exhausted on holiday. I blame the exhaustion of our pre-holiday lives. I wonder if we’ll manage the 5 hour hike up a mountain tomorrow… much less a return to work in a week’s time…
By Layla
After lunch, we ventured over to the main guesthouse and their swimming pool. It’s a bit of a random, elevated pool, and as there’s so little water in this village they had to have it delivered in a lorry. It seemed wrong not to take advantage. And it was lovely swimming in our own private pool, right next door to a very pretty orthodox church and directly opposite a Lutheran one. Church bells accompanied our splashes and the backdrop to the pool was steeples and hillside. We read books over beer afterwards before retiring home. Roz made us pasta which we ate on our patio in the sun before watching the last ever West Wing episodes. I sobbed like a girl and have since felt bereft – I can’t imagine life without the next series. We went to bed and I had to giggle when Roz told me she was too excited to sleep as the next day was her birthday…
Sure enough, the next day started with the excitement of Mimosas in bed (a la New York) and a huge pile of birthday presents for Roz. I always live in fear that I will have chosen unsatisfactory presents but she seemed happy. Despite her being the birthday girl, in view of my culinary incompetence she made breakfast, which we ate on our patio, and I was smug, though alarmed, to find that one of the most successful presents I gave her was a tiny heart-shaped pot of marmite which she smeared on toast with some glee… At 10:30 we were collected from our house and driven up a hill, where we were deposited, with Jez as our guide, at the edge of the forest. The forest looks just as I had imagined a Transylvanian forest might look, with tall dark trees. I hadn’t expected the open countryside though! We walked through the forest, past WW1 trenches, and over hills and meadows that would have looked appropriate in The Sound of Music, complete with haystacks and church spires glistening in the distance all around as the sun shone vehemently. I had arranged this walk for Roz’s birthday and it was mainly really lovely, walking through three different villages, including a tiny one that only just acquired a dirt track by which to access it last year. No tourists at all. It was fun walking past these wooden, pastel-coloured houses, and people driving past on horse and cart, and open countryside all around. It was only unpleasant at the end when, after 3 ½ hours of walking, we had to climb up a very, very steep hill.
However it was worth it. I had pre-planned with our hosts that they would set out a special romantic birthday picnic for Roz at the top of the hill, and they had done me proud. They had set up a picnic blanket under a canopy, bearing a ‘happy birthday’ banner. Our plates boasted party items, and a lovely array of homemade tomato tart, fresh bread, cheese and grapes and salad were laid out on the blanket. Not to mention the champagne. And the piece de resistance… a lesbian birthday cake! I couldn’t quite believe the glory. Di had asked me to buy icing in London and bring it with me to Transylvania, which I duly did. And she created an amazing cake featuring two female pandas (with matching pink bows) in a double bed with a pink blanket made of icing. There was even a pair of slippers at each side of the bed. It was quite spectacular. And possibly the only lesbian cake either of us has ever seen. Di was very smug when she returned after lunch to see Roz’s appreciative reaction. Then a shepherd passed by with his flock and brought a tiny lamb over for us to stroke. Very cute.
After our lunch the plan of us walking back home ourselves sounded remarkably untempting. We gazed at the sky: possible rain. We gazed at our feet: ouch. We gazed at each other: a plan was psychically formed. Rather than the walk, Roz asked Di to drive us home and, trying not to feel like wusses, we were transported back to our house just in time to feel smug about having escaped the rain that did indeed fall. We had planned to watch a film but both of us were shattered and ill and had to turn it off halfway through. I think we might have had mild sunstroke.
Luckily a quick nap and we were as good as new. We dressed up and someone came to give us a lift to Sibiu. Though we had only left two days ago, we were very nostalgic and delighted to be back. We started off with a mohito (or five) at the lovely outdoor Café Wien, to the sounds of live piano, while we people-watched. Then we sauntered across the square to El Turn, a rather lovely outdoor Italian restaurant with delicious food, on the main square. We had prosecco and bruschetta and pizzas and then chose ice cream for dessert at our favourite ice cream seller (who had put their ice cream price up from 50p two days ago to 60p: extortionate!). We walked through the square feeling romantic and, having considered having drinks in a rather pretentious and touristy piano bar, we decided instead to head back to the Orient Express where we had beer and played chess, culminating in the barman taking over Roz’s side of the game and thrashing me on her behalf – Roz’s smugness was massive as I was repeatedly checkmated. Well, it was her birthday… We decided that Orient Express is probably our favourite bar out of every bar we have ever been in. We ran through London, Glasgow, New York, and all the other fantastic places we’ve been, but nowhere beats it. Just before we left the music turned particularly cool and we jumped up to do our ‘wedding dance’, i.e. a Charleston, to the delighted bemusement of the chess-playing barman. As we were driven home we both revelled sleepily in what had been an excellent birthday.
We hadn’t arranged what time we were meeting Di and Jez the next day, but of the nine nights we’re staying in Cisnadioara we paid for five of them to be ‘all inclusive activity days’; Roz’s birthday was the first, and today was to be the second. However we hadn’t actually made plans with them, so poor Jez came knocking at the door at 9:30, only to meet a bleary-eyed Layla who had stumbled from bed (Roz refused to stumble and stayed put). He looked confused, as though he had never encountered the phenomenon of people sleeping in (even if they’d had champagne cocktails for breakfast, champagne for lunch, prosecco for dinner, multiple mohitos, and a few glasses of beer the day before, on top of a demanding hike…). We managed to send him away long enough to get hastily up and for Roz to whip up another tasty breakfast before it was time to embark on our second day of activity.
The sun shone as we sped through an array of picturesque hills, streams, and fairytale mountain villages. At one village we stopped to wander around a pretty church and walk through the village. At the next we went to see the Glass Icon Museum. We had both been rather unconvinced by the likely delights of this attraction. However it turned out to be rather lovely. It seems that in the old days, a glass painting of a religious scene was the proudest possession of many families in Romania. When Communism came, these paintings were banned, but apparently one monk risked his life collecting all the illegal icons and hiding them until after the Communist rule, at which point the museum was established. We were assured that this is the most important collection of glass icons in the world. And they were interesting to see: bright and colourful, almost cartoonish, and lovely to imagine them in family homes. Rather random to find them in this obscure Transylvanian village.
After this excitement, it was on to yet another village, which was having a festival. Apparently said festival had not been advertised, which goes to show the power of word of mouth, as every person from miles around was in attendance, many with fun Romanian folk outfits. You can imagine that if you lived around here, this would be the social event of your whole year! It was a strange combination of sweet little fete, and horrible commercial funfair. We were deposited on the road and walked down into the festival where we acquired lunch of an item that is apparently translated as ‘shepherds’ cheesy balls’. In fact this turns out to be our disguised vegetarian staple of polenta, cheese and sour cream sneakily rolled together into a rather large ball to trick you into thinking it’s something else. We were duly fooled but quickly realised the truth... We wandered around afterwards with sweetcorn and popcorn, had a glance at the stage where people in traditional Romanian garb were doing country dancing and emitting unpleasant folk songs to the delight of most of the festival attendees, and ended up going for a walk along a sunny path to the cascading sheets of water of a nearby hydroelectric water plant. Roz was highly amused at my nerdy excitement about this. I do like a nice hydroelectric water plant…
After the festival we drove back home and found ourselves utterly exhausted again. Di offered us the option of going ‘mushrooming’ to find wild mushrooms for dinner. We were too tired. We picked up some food from the shop and started out on the 10 minute walk to our house. As we set off, the heavens opened and we were absolutely saturated. We made it home, drenched, and are now curled up on the daybed in dry clothes eating birthday cake and reading and typing. Well, in fact I now notice Roz has fallen asleep. I am jealous. I don’t think either of us has ever been so exhausted on holiday. I blame the exhaustion of our pre-holiday lives. I wonder if we’ll manage the 5 hour hike up a mountain tomorrow… much less a return to work in a week’s time…
A train adventure and lots of ice cream
Days 5, 6 and 7
By Roz
We left you in Sibiu, with the promise of an imminent move to the Transylvanian countryside. It is probably best to draw a veil over the rest of that evening, and the vast quantities of very excellent pizza which we consumed and the two ice creams which Layla then ate as we wandered through the squares of Sibiu back to our flat (I only had one). Best, because otherwise you might think us (and particularly Layla) greedy…
Over coffee in the Orient Express café next morning we decided to head to Medias, an ancient village which we’d heard much about, as a good way to warm ourselves up to Transylvanian proper countryside. We headed to the train station and just as Layla was producing a suitably smug face at having procured us tickets to Medias (despite her lack of Romanian), we were told that the only train back from Medias was at 7 that night (and would take a couple of hours). Since this was rather later than we had planned to return – and horrified by the thought of having dinner late two nights in a row – we stood perplexed in the train station contemplating our options. “I know”, said Layla, “there’s a train leaving in three minutes – why don’t we just get on it and then get off at some point and see how that works out”. This seemed an excellent idea to me and I pointed out that, since we wouldn’t have the right tickets, if asked we could just look stupid and claim to have got on the wrong train. We dashed for the train, and sat there confidently as it set off, glad to have taken adventure into our own hands. Until Layla pointed out that just because the train leaving Sibiu had been at a convenient time, there was no clear guarantee that a returning train would be at a convenient time. We resolved to get off somewhere that looked popular (popularity, in our logic, equating to lots of trains back to Sibiu). Then, a ticket collector approached. My plan to just look stupid turned out to be slightly more challenging than I’d anticipated, since the time of the train we were booked on was written large and clear on the tickets. Fortunately looking very dim indeed comes naturally – and the ticket collector was very kind (or, perhaps more accurately, pitying). He told us to jump off at the next stop and get a train back. This rather dashed our plans of getting off somewhere popular…but we were by no means the only people to alight.
This was because, as it soon became clear, people were returning to their village with absolutely nothing in it, from their big trip to the city. To be fair the houses were quite pretty and pastel coloured and we even saw a church spire (though this may have been a mirage since the church itself was elusive). And there was an occasional dog. But nevertheless the excitements were soon over, and so we swooped upon the only shop which in the village and consoled ourselves with an ice cream on the return to the station. All of which would have been fine, had it not been the same train conductor on the train back…he could have at least let us ride to the end of the line with him…
After all this excitement, we retired to one of the squares for lunch, followed by a little light postcard writing and, naturally, another ice cream. We could postpone our departure for no longer, and hailed a cab to Cisnadioara, which is to be our base for the rest of the holiday. We met up with the owner, Di, who showed us to our home for the next 4 nights, a pretty two-bedroom house on a dirt street next to the river in the village: the last house in the village before the forest begins. No sooner had we dropped off our bags, they drove us up a big hill and deposited us at their pride and joy local restaurant, Apfelhouse. This is a 1980s chalet-style hotel with food and pseudo-luxury. It had already gone wrong when the wine we ordered turned out to be not only expensive but also rather sweet. Then our vegetarianism proved a major challenge for the menu. We cobbled together some salad, potato and cheese items and had a fairly pleasant dinner overlooking the mountains. Or if not pleasant, then scenic. On embarking on the descent back to the village, Di’s husband Jez randomly appeared and gave us a lift home. Pleasing.
An episode of the West Wing and a cup of tea and it was off to bed for what we’d hoped would be a nice relaxing night. It was not to be. I woke up in the middle of the night, had a glass of tap water, and ten minutes later was violently vomiting. Layla woke up and fed me tablets from her medicine collection as I clutched my stomach in agony. It is deeply unfair that the first time I succumb to a dodgy tummy is not in India or Eritrea but in the EU! I was bitter.
This morning I felt better, however – and in fact managed to prepare and consume a large and delicious breakfast from the items that had been left us (scrambled eggs on toast, pain au chocolat, melon, blood orange juice… I can recover fast with the right inducement!). With the sun blazing at last, we set out on a road through the mountains to a nearby town, Cisnadie. After our little village it felt bustling, with several shops. We walked to the market and stocked up on lovely fresh fruit and veg and cheese to assist in avoiding the offerings of the potentially dodgy Apfelhouse. And then, just as we stood baking in the midday sun eyeing the upwards hill homewards with little temptation, Jez and Di drove past and gave us a lift. Layla, who was by then exhausted (despite the fact that I was carrying all the shopping!), could have kissed them. I was also persuadable into a lift…
We have just had a lovely lunch in our house’s patio (having stolen some salad items from the vegetable garden), and are about to head out to the main house, which is 10 minutes’ walk away (and where we’ll be staying for the last five nights) for a swim. At last this feels like a summer holiday! Though rather a bizarre one in the mountains in the middle of nowhere…
By Roz
We left you in Sibiu, with the promise of an imminent move to the Transylvanian countryside. It is probably best to draw a veil over the rest of that evening, and the vast quantities of very excellent pizza which we consumed and the two ice creams which Layla then ate as we wandered through the squares of Sibiu back to our flat (I only had one). Best, because otherwise you might think us (and particularly Layla) greedy…
Over coffee in the Orient Express café next morning we decided to head to Medias, an ancient village which we’d heard much about, as a good way to warm ourselves up to Transylvanian proper countryside. We headed to the train station and just as Layla was producing a suitably smug face at having procured us tickets to Medias (despite her lack of Romanian), we were told that the only train back from Medias was at 7 that night (and would take a couple of hours). Since this was rather later than we had planned to return – and horrified by the thought of having dinner late two nights in a row – we stood perplexed in the train station contemplating our options. “I know”, said Layla, “there’s a train leaving in three minutes – why don’t we just get on it and then get off at some point and see how that works out”. This seemed an excellent idea to me and I pointed out that, since we wouldn’t have the right tickets, if asked we could just look stupid and claim to have got on the wrong train. We dashed for the train, and sat there confidently as it set off, glad to have taken adventure into our own hands. Until Layla pointed out that just because the train leaving Sibiu had been at a convenient time, there was no clear guarantee that a returning train would be at a convenient time. We resolved to get off somewhere that looked popular (popularity, in our logic, equating to lots of trains back to Sibiu). Then, a ticket collector approached. My plan to just look stupid turned out to be slightly more challenging than I’d anticipated, since the time of the train we were booked on was written large and clear on the tickets. Fortunately looking very dim indeed comes naturally – and the ticket collector was very kind (or, perhaps more accurately, pitying). He told us to jump off at the next stop and get a train back. This rather dashed our plans of getting off somewhere popular…but we were by no means the only people to alight.
This was because, as it soon became clear, people were returning to their village with absolutely nothing in it, from their big trip to the city. To be fair the houses were quite pretty and pastel coloured and we even saw a church spire (though this may have been a mirage since the church itself was elusive). And there was an occasional dog. But nevertheless the excitements were soon over, and so we swooped upon the only shop which in the village and consoled ourselves with an ice cream on the return to the station. All of which would have been fine, had it not been the same train conductor on the train back…he could have at least let us ride to the end of the line with him…
After all this excitement, we retired to one of the squares for lunch, followed by a little light postcard writing and, naturally, another ice cream. We could postpone our departure for no longer, and hailed a cab to Cisnadioara, which is to be our base for the rest of the holiday. We met up with the owner, Di, who showed us to our home for the next 4 nights, a pretty two-bedroom house on a dirt street next to the river in the village: the last house in the village before the forest begins. No sooner had we dropped off our bags, they drove us up a big hill and deposited us at their pride and joy local restaurant, Apfelhouse. This is a 1980s chalet-style hotel with food and pseudo-luxury. It had already gone wrong when the wine we ordered turned out to be not only expensive but also rather sweet. Then our vegetarianism proved a major challenge for the menu. We cobbled together some salad, potato and cheese items and had a fairly pleasant dinner overlooking the mountains. Or if not pleasant, then scenic. On embarking on the descent back to the village, Di’s husband Jez randomly appeared and gave us a lift home. Pleasing.
An episode of the West Wing and a cup of tea and it was off to bed for what we’d hoped would be a nice relaxing night. It was not to be. I woke up in the middle of the night, had a glass of tap water, and ten minutes later was violently vomiting. Layla woke up and fed me tablets from her medicine collection as I clutched my stomach in agony. It is deeply unfair that the first time I succumb to a dodgy tummy is not in India or Eritrea but in the EU! I was bitter.
This morning I felt better, however – and in fact managed to prepare and consume a large and delicious breakfast from the items that had been left us (scrambled eggs on toast, pain au chocolat, melon, blood orange juice… I can recover fast with the right inducement!). With the sun blazing at last, we set out on a road through the mountains to a nearby town, Cisnadie. After our little village it felt bustling, with several shops. We walked to the market and stocked up on lovely fresh fruit and veg and cheese to assist in avoiding the offerings of the potentially dodgy Apfelhouse. And then, just as we stood baking in the midday sun eyeing the upwards hill homewards with little temptation, Jez and Di drove past and gave us a lift. Layla, who was by then exhausted (despite the fact that I was carrying all the shopping!), could have kissed them. I was also persuadable into a lift…
We have just had a lovely lunch in our house’s patio (having stolen some salad items from the vegetable garden), and are about to head out to the main house, which is 10 minutes’ walk away (and where we’ll be staying for the last five nights) for a swim. At last this feels like a summer holiday! Though rather a bizarre one in the mountains in the middle of nowhere…
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