Day 30
Wednesday 26th November
Brasov, Romania

Grandpa Pete and the Child Bride wake to a carpet of snow and doubt the sagacity of taking Gordon from the car port down the hill and out of Brasov.   Hasty consultation of the guide books reveals that the castle at Bran may not have belonged to any vampires, but it was home to royalty and it does sound interesting.

Those readers who can, should now cast back their minds to 1970 or thereabouts.  Remember England as it then was and then step back to that time courtesy of the Romanian nation.  The Auto Gare stands in the shadow of the football stadium. It is drab; a steel shelter over a raised platform has the look of a fish market unloading dock. Coffee stands sell all manner of comestibles, and, two coffees later the bus arrives. At least 20 years old, probably 30, it is a majestic vehicle.  The sudden transport back through time boarding this bus is palpable.  The bus is cold now with engine off and door open.  The wait affords time for them to savour that evocative bus interior.  Worn and faded check pattern seat fabric, yellowed plastic surfaces. Luggage racks made of string and condensation - lots of condensation.

Bran castle proves to be a perfect day out.  Externally it is like a winter wonderland.  Pine forested approaches to the castle, all glistening with freshly fallen snow, gradually allow glimpses of the building, a majestic pile resting on the high ground and presenting classic gothic/Teutonic architecture with roots in the 14thC.  Its location commands the high ground above a mountain pass and, originally defending against the Turks, it has since had phases as a tax gathering facility and latterly as the royal summer palace, before assuming the role of museum.

They are rapidly offered the services of a guide.  Carla is excellent, her English impeccable.  The castle is fascinating.  As with all castles in Transylvania Vlad the impaler slept here.  But all of that, true or false is really rather less interesting than the recent (20thC) history.  The last King of Romania, Michael, married Maria, a granddaughter of Queen Victoria.  She was clearly a remarkable lady.  She fully adopted Romanian life, down to dressing as her subjects did.  From her pictures around the castle she was stunningly beautiful, and the impression is that the Romanians loved her.  It was she who shaped the castle into the cosy and inviting living quarters it still remains.

During one exchange the guide asks if GP would like a photograph with his daughter.  When he explains that the lady is in fact his fiancée, Carla is most embarrassed and tries to make amends by explaining that her husband is also really old.

The path back down from the castle is long, steep and treacherously icy.  Disconcertingly, it also has a fresh blood trail leading down.  Eventually this proves to have been left by a local stray dog, but it conjures visions from wolf attacks to Vlad's last stand.

A look round the market, postcards and then an excellent lunch round off Bran.  With some surprise they find the return bus arrives dead on the allotted time, and returns them to Brasov.   Here they dine in a dim-lit cavern on Mexican food and retire to the Panda Bar to for beers in the company of local students.  Here the barman promises that the ski season is in full swing in Romania so they plan their next move to a ski resort.

Day 31
Thursday 27th November
Brasov, Romania - Sinai, Romania

Grandpa Pete and the Child Bride wake fully smitten with the beauty of Transylvannia.  With a break in the snowfall they decide to move on further into the hills while they can.  Looking out over the balcony before breakfast into the blanket of snow, GP catches a glimpse of red flashing through the trees.  Desperate to catch the red squirrel on camera for the Squirrel Man of New Zealand he grabs his camera and rushes back out to the balcony.  This is before he has put his trousers on.  His devotion to the cause is unfailing and a shaky image of Eric the Red is captured.  After this, however, the hotel seems keen to pin down exactly their departure time.

With the promise of the waiter the night before fresh in their minds they head to Sinai to take advantage of the snow.  Gordon still has his slushy tick which GP has now linked to freezing temperatures affecting the speedometer drive cable. Once he has warmed up it disappears and they climb further into the hills.  Gordon has a diesel engine.  When diesel oil chills to below about -5 degrees it turns to wax.  The Nazi's advance through Russia was in part crippled by this.  Gordon is full of Alpine diesel which includes anti-waxing additives and their journey in the cold is more successful and generally less evil.

Sinai, named after Romanian nobleman's visit to Israel is an alpine resort town.  Small, centred around a kilometre-long high street of shops selling alpine sports gear and restaurants, it is full of large hotels dating from a golden era at the turn of the last century.  Since then the town has been visited by leaders from all over the world when Ceausescu hosted them at Peles Castle.  GP and the CB are turned away from one glittering hotel and take refuge from the snow in the plainer but astoundingly cheap Hotel Palace. 

They find their room in the eaves along long dark-panelled corridors of hundreds of rooms.  On turning on the TV the international news channels are not available but a strange mime is unfolding on Euronews.  There is no commentary and no meaningful explanation from the subtitles, but images of some disaster are flashed on the screen.  It creates a panicky puzzle which throws up images of casualties in Mumbai, militia and pigeons taking flight at gunshot mixed with those of people sitting on the floor in an airport in Thailand and an American tourist having a fit about missing his flight.  Unfathomable and impossible to gauge the nature or seriousness of the event it seems the most irresponsible type of reporting.  No internet access in the room so they go out to lunch disquieted.

They seek solace in a hearty lunch consumed in a restaurant festooned with stuffed mountain animals, the Child Bride overshadowed by a stuffed Hog's head.  They set off to explore Peles castle.  They pick their way through snowy icy woodland, pine trees glistening in the winter sun.  The fairy tale peaks of the magnificent castle are snow covered.  Built for King Carol 1, its 40 year construction ends just before his death in 1914.  Passing through the  hunting lodge, the Child Bride ends up on her backside sliding through the arch in awe at the castle awaiting them. 

An external view is all they will get.  The interior is closed but a helpful guard is kind enough to let them wander through the gardens for a small discretionary fee.  Here a statue of King Carel stands confidently overlooking the gardens but the rest of the statues have been covered in polythene.  Spooky.

Day 32
Friday 28th November
Sinai, Romania

Waking to more snowy sunshine, they find an internet connection to make contact with BBC news and to fathom the awful mysteries of Mumbai.  Breakfast is overstaffed and undernourishing.  Lots of servers and no service, the waiters are there it seems to monitor and to uphold standards of the era gone by. The lack of good coffee one of the bigger hardships that Grandpa Pete has had to bear so far and it is only to get worse. 

This morning they will head up the mountain in search of skis and clad in their snowsuits look for the Tourist Information Centre.  The lifts, they are told, are not yet open.  They start to feel a little uncomfortable in their Michelin man attire.  But so strong is their desire to ski, and so abundant the snow seems, they refuse to take the first 'no' at face value.  On the principle that if you ask enough people you will eventually get the answer you want, they go into another tourist information office. Rustling in downy ski gear, they ask when the lifts open -  "a couple of weeks".  Still not convinced that their aspirations won't be met they take the cable car up to the slopes.

They watch as the town stretches out before them and then disappears as they rise above the tops of the pine tress and then through the clouds, and into the bright sun and fresh cold of the mountain.  Sure enough, no lifts are moving, no pistes cleared.  At the top, snow ploughs are just warming up, an untouched snowy landscape stretches around.  A few families have come up to use a short sledge run.  The under 10's, the Child Bride and Grandpa Pete are the only ones in snow suits. 

Otherwise some hardened walkers are striking out into the white plateaus, back-packed they follow paths for what seems a thrilling winter walk.  GP and the CB are not equipped to follow far but are warm enough to frolic in the snowy slopes and hollows.  Skirting a heavily guarded communications station, they follow the hill round but where the sun is hidden by the peak it becomes bitterly cold and they turn back and sit in the sun to enjoy the complete silence and the serenity of the view above the colds to far off peaks.  

GP, "the tracker", identifies bear paw prints and spots a huge bear which as they approach morphs into a domestic dog. The mountain top chalet is open and feeding workmen who have been packing the cable car with building materials and setting up new restaurants atop.  In the warm chalet a huge tureen of soup boils away and they sustain themselves with soup and cheese toasties, mourning a little the lack of ski action.   

Back in town they find a laundry and a post office and dine again at the Hog's head restaurant, finishing with a wonderful creamy spongy number, a Sinai trifle.

Day 33
Saturday 29th November
Sinai, Romania - Bucharest, Romania

The Peugeot dealers' conference at the hotel is in full swing.  Gordon is upstaging so Grandpa Pete and the Child Bride pick up their laundry and pack Gordon at the bustling hotel entrance as the snow falls.  Town is busy and the snow is thick.  For once, the driving is sober and cautious and they creep out of town at a snail's pace.   A cluster of damaged cars reveals the debris of a slow-motion pile up.  Without panic, or seemingly much damage or injury, people stand around with an air of inevitability to the scene.

To reach Bucharest they must go up through the Bucegi mountains so they join a queue of traffic that climbs up a winding road, past snow ploughs heading in the opposite direction.  The road has been cleared already for them but the snow is still falling and they creep upwards past a war memorial; a cemetery clinging to the hill, sheltered by pines, white crosses disappearing in the falling whiteness.

As they reach the top the peak signals a divide in the weather and on the descent a dirty rain begins and the landscape is darkened with the industrial again.  As they reach the plains it is densely ugly.   Looking east near Ploiesti it is possible to follow a line of delicate bare trees like a long fence of tree skeletons along the fields.  Turn west and a barrage of factories occludes, with a huge power station and the skeletal forms are power lines.  At least the rain washes Gordon clean.  It is illegal in Romania to drive with a dirty car. 

Back down to the plains, the usual business of driving in Romania returns, plenty of hitchhikers, random and treacherous holes in the road, stray dogs, horses and carts and on the tarmac, acts of sheer mentalism.  Amongst the many they are glad to have passed safely is the lady who has parked up with her hazard lights flashing in the middle of a junction, ostensibly to smoke a fag.   

So it is an uninspiring journey they make to Bucharest and to Hotel Helios and the city does nothing to perk them up.  A layer of grime pervades, the populace look grim and eye you mistrustfully, buildings are run down or derelict, power lines hang flaccid, obscuring the potential in every view, shops are closed, restaurants look uninviting.  In a half hearted nod to the highly civilised cities of Germany there are cycle routes aplenty and no cycles.  Someone has given up on this city.  

They phone the opera house and are pleased to be told that there is a performance with plenty of availability that night and spirits surge.  When they turn up and told it is full, they plummet.  They find a performance at a stunning concert hall and are entertained with choral works but overall they are not ready to commit to this stop.  Bucharest they decide is a dump.  They too have finally given up on it.  It feels like it has given up on them and a fog draws in as they walk back to their hotel.

Day 34
Sunday 30th November
Bucharest, Romania - Russe, Bulgaria

Last night's fog has not lifted.  At the Russian church opposite the hotel there is much traffic.  Some of the swerving on the main road is caused by drivers taking hands from the wheel to cross themselves as they pass.  Exit from Bucharest would be quicker if the road tax hadn't expired.  Grandpa Pete and the Child Bride trawl around petrol stations to renew it for the scant few miles they will travel out of the country today. 

Finally at midday they head south and out of Romania.  The thick fog musters and is thickening all the way.  The border is quiet, save for a few HGVs and as they twist up on entry ramps to the border area they pay a bridge tax.  Peering through the fog to make their way they follow the lead of the lorries.  Whether the roads are single or dual carriageways is sheer guesswork.

On a deserted road, the fog parts briefly around a figure in the middle of the road.  A Romanian dog, with piercing eyes is staring right at them.  They are moving slowly but it will not avert its gaze nor budge.  Finally at the last minute it moves away, and from the fog another figure stares up at the car, the dog's companion is a man bundled in coats with a wooden staff.   They pull past, and the fog puts it all into slow motion as they creep into a queue for the bridge. 

The mighty span that crosses the Danube between Romania and Bulgaria is lost in the fog.  The first few metres of the bars holding the deck to the suspension cables are all you can see, below and above and all around is thick cotton wool.  Over the other side of the suspension bridge, the grimy town of Russe is somewhere in the mist.  Progress is at snail's pace, complicated by random and significant holes in the road.  

They head out of town, their destination is south east towards Srebrena nature reserve for the night.   Inconceivably the fog thickens further, the country road is single carriageway and traffic still impatient.  A slow painful progress is followed for an hour and still the fog thickens.  Then it turns dark.  The fog lights are reflected back to the driver by the fog blanket, visibility is a metre, if that.  They are about half way between Russe and their destination, but they play safe and turn back.

They phone the guesthouse to cancel their booking and will take their chances in Russe.  The CB trawls Gordon back to town at a crawl, her own private tailback played out along the road behind her, a string of fog lights like a string of pearls.  In Russe, the Hotel Family "Welcome to the Family" is the first place they can fling themselves at.  They are relieved to find somewhere open, even if the reception explains weekly that "Restaurant is closed.  Last night, guests drank all the beer.  No sound on CNN". 

They are a mile out of town, don't want to take to the wheel again, don't really want to go out in the fog again but need to eat.  So, they find a restaurant in the guidebook and direct a cab there.  On arrival they are taken to another world, towards a countryside villa they sweep up a lamp-lit entrance drive. The Levanta is built on the site of an 18thC fort, a vineyard and restaurant reopened in 2005 after closure in 1989 (in 1989, "the dynamics of the new time didn't comply with its rhythm") .  The cool arches of the fort have been developed into a roman villa-style restaurant for fine wining and dining. The staff look surprised to see the couple - they are the only guests all evening, apart from a ginger cat who takes advantage of the door opened for them to sneak in but apparently does not dine.  Welcome to Bulgaria, country of the cat. 

Day 35
Monday 1st December
Russe, Bulgaria - Srebrena, Bulgaria

The fog still hangs but with daylight is workable so Grandpa Pete and the Child Bride revert to plan A and make for the Srebrena nature reserve.  The guesthouse owner tells them that they did right to turn back, that their friends visiting the night before had ended up in a ditch.  Heading east along the course of the Danube little is revealed beyond the hedgerows. 

Soon they are pulling into the small village of Srebrena.  Life is slow but active here.  They pass a number of houses being built and every time they pass work will stop for the entire crew to stare and wave.  Old ladies sit on stools outside their houses or gather in packs in the two local shops to giggle at clueless Land Rover drivers.

Here Mike and Jerry Black, originally from the UK, have settled from their travels in a small blue bungalow with a fantastic view of - well, for now, cotton wool, but normally of the reserve.  The guest accommodation at the Pelican Lake Guesthouse is made up of two rooms with a kitchenette.  Small and perfectly formed it is a home from home and GP and the CB soon settle in, pleased to be able to eat home cooked food and conscious that this will be a place to linger, fog or no fog.

They drive into Silestra to find supplies and scour the meagre corner shops to assemble something for supper.  Finding a café that can serve them lunch without their speaking Bulgarian is a challenge until the trusty pizza parlour is found and pointing can resume.  Though the Bulgarian custom of shaking your head to indicate 'Yes' has them fooled for a while.

As they leave the town their faces pall a little as they pass the reason that the corner shops were so sparse - a big shiny supermarket, bursting with fresh produce.  Nevertheless they are glad to prepare roast potatoes for supper.  The first of many knocks at the door brings Jerry with the homemade wine.  There is an English paperback selection and they curl up for an evening of pulp fiction escapism and home made apricot brandy (second knock at the door - after this there may have been more but neither was conscious).

Day 36
Tuesday 2nd December
Srebrena, Bulgaria

The fog lifts and the nature reserve is shown without its veil.  The Blacks have invested much time in rejuvenating the reserve and Mike Black thinks that Pelicans might be on view.  They walk round the edge of the lake and rising above, see herons and ducks.  Cutting down along the edge of the lake and they are now following the Danube which runs clear and fast on its way to the estuary in the east.

Another trip to Silestra takes them to the shiny supermarket where, giddy with choice, they buy in abundance for that night's supper.  The Blacks have recommended a local restaurant but home cooking in the little apartment is too much to resist.  They dine overlooking sunset on the marshes as the village gradually slows down for the night.  With the flat light and tiny bungalows, the village could have been lifted out of Essex. Tonight's knock at the door will be to summon them to the telescope.  Here they can see the moon in all its cratered detail.