You know you’ve had a good New Year’s Eve when you wake up to three empty bottles of prosecco, three of wine, and the scent of leftover Chinese takeaway, and all for under €20.00 a head. However, you also have on your mind the fact that you are meeting a driver/guide at 13.00, you’re meant to be out of the apartment by 12.00 (though who’s going to come knocking?), and you have a flight at 21.15. You also have some vague memories and turn to your phone’s gallery to see how things panned out last night.

I am surprisingly alert that morning, yet the brief videos show us laughing and cheering, counting down, yelling ‘Xronia Polla!’ from the window in very non-Greek accents, generally being silly and having a good time. Outside, at the appointed hour, fireworks light the sky, bangers explode, there’s a party outside some kind of club or bar at the end of the street, car horns, lots of noise and revelry, and the whole city, it seems, is having a good time. The police were called to the bar at the end of the street, then an ambulance. There was some breaking of glass, and in the morning, just outside the door, we discovered someone had tried to use the gutter for an explosion of their digestive system, but had missed, and instead, decorated the pavement with the outflow. A good time was, clearly, had by all but one.

There are also photos of Neil fully fledged in a dazzling piece of Temu’s finest polyester, and Harry trying to escape to his room.

On to New Year’s Day, and, as stated, there is a timetable. The issue was: What do we do between get-out time and check-in time? We have untold pieces of luggage now, several bags for life, additional clothing, and nine hours to kill with no guarantee of being able to leave our luggage anywhere. The solution? Daniel and his comfortable car. (Again, see Harry for make, model and production specs.) Marco in Brasov had suggested him, should we need a driver, and he came at a reasonable cost – very reasonable when you read what we saw with him between 13.00 when he collected us, and 18.00 when he dropped us at the airport.

Luggage packed, and the apartment tidied, we left our little corner of Old Town Bucharest, avoided the evidence of the good time had by the city the night before, and loaded up the car.

The first stop with our incredibly knowledgeable guide was the National Cathedral of Romania. The cathedral is dedicated to the Ascension of Christ, which in Romania is celebrated as Heroes’ Day, and to Saint Andrew the Apostle, the protector of Romania.

It’s huge.

A few details from the web: Name: People’s Salvation Cathedral. Construction Period: Foundation in 2010; consecration ceremonies in October 2025 after 15 years of work. Length (building): 126 m. Width: 67.7 m. Height: Up to the base of the main dome cross: 120 m – 127 m, depending on measurement reference. With main cross: overall crown reaches approx. 127 m (some records cite up to 134 m including elements), making it one of the tallest Orthodox domed churches in the world.

Yes, it’s big. So big that photos don’t give you the scale of the building. From one angle, it dwarfs the parliament building behind. Once inside, it’s pretty unbelievable. Not only are the (what do we call them?) artworks massive, but they are also mosaic. I can’t remember how many people you can fit inside the building, thousands. If you look through the gallery in a minute, you might get a scale of the place by looking at the people standing before the altar. I’ll let you explore that on your own.

And move on to the old cathedral, where we went afterwards for a quick look, and where it was much warmer, more welcoming and friendlier than what we’d just seen. Here, outside the home of the Archbishop, they dispense holy water from an industrial bucket.

Sadly, many attractions in the city were closed on New Year’s Day, but that didn’t deter Daniel, who took us to Mogoșoaia Palace (Palatul Mogoșoaia). The most prominent palace just outside Bucharest. This is a stunning example of Romanian Brâncovenesc style architecture, blending Eastern and Western influences, and it’s known for its picturesque setting on a lake with beautiful gardens.

Cold, but interesting, and followed by a futile look for an open coffee shop. We still had several hours to play with, but Daniel was not perturbed. In fact, he had a surprise up his sleeve. ‘A friend was there yesterday,’ he said. ‘So, I know it will be open today.’

It was a drive through the countryside beyond the city, back along roughly the same route as the train had taken yesterday, to Snagov Monastery, which stands on an island in a lake about 40 km north of Bucharest. We parked, crossed a bridge over the water, parts of which were ice, and came across a small farmyard complete with goats and a random ostrich. O…kay. Beyond lay the entrance to the church dedicated to the Annunciation of the Virgin Mary. However, the monastery itself is linked to Vlad the Impaler. Apparently, he was killed there, and his remains lie inside the church under a slab. Well, most of them do, because his head had been chopped off and sent to Constantinople, so it’s not a long grave.

This unexpected visit completed something of a circle. On my 50th birthday, I woke in Sighisoara, in Transylvania, and that morning, we had coffee in the house where Vlad Tepes was more than likely born. Now, here we were at his resting place, and we had no idea we were going to be there.

That, the view of the lake, seeing such sights in one day, the sunset on the way to the airport afterwards, even the airport itself provided special moments, but there was another one to come later that night.

Having checked in, been able to get rid of our luggage, and fed the teen, we set up camp in a coffee shop beside our gate, there to wait for boarding. Here’s a thing about Aegean Airlines. Very often, if you’re only carrying cabin luggage, as we were, they will ask if you want it put in the hold for free. Sometimes, they do this at the boarding gate, and when you see the bags, cases, trunks and furniture some people like to take on board an aircraft, you can see why. In our case, our bags would go all the way to Rhodes for free, even though we had a stopover that night, but it saved carrying them around. It also saved hauling them through the gate where our plane had boarded early and where we were just about the last people to take our seats.

Here’s another thing about Aegean. Every New Year’s Day they hold a lottery aboard every one of their flights, and that’s got to be a fair few on such a big day. We heard the announcement, and I thought, ‘Oh, that’s nice, someone’s in for a surprise.’ A little later, I vaguely heard another announcement in Greek, with the number twenty involved, and thought nothing of it. Until, the teen, behind, taps on Neil’s shoulder and says, ‘That’s you.’
‘What is?’
‘Seat 28 b. That’s you.’

Because we’d swapped places, I had the boarding card, but Neil was in the winning seat, and sure enough, was given a voucher for two free return tickets to anywhere Aegean flies to. We got some looks from those nearby, especially the young man from 28 c, but what can you do?

What a way to end the day, I say, but, as we’ll find out in the final instalment tomorrow, the day was not over yet.

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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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