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…