Cluj and that diesel incident.

I leave the hotel to the spectacle of the war classic – ‘Battle of Britain’ with Spitfires and Messerschmits battling it out over the Channel. I settle a simpler score with the cashier, load the jeep and leave them to it. The hotel, stumbled upon in the dark, proves to be very central and the LP gives me an idea of what is worth looking at. Last night’s skyline taster lives up to my anticipation as there are some superb buildings.

The main event in town is the 14th century cathedral. The statues of (a former Hungarian) king dominate the square and suggest the grandeur of the interior. Considered the finest Gothic church in Romania I can’t help but be impressed by the soaring roofs and pillars. Now only faintly noticeable, there have obviously been some beautiful frescos of which little remains although the stained glass windows are quite something. I manage to snap discretely and slip away for a coffee.

Cluj is more Hungarian than Romanian it seems and is famed as being more ‘sassy’ (LP’s term) than other cities. What seems to be a relatively humble café is deceptive. It could’nt get much more chic than this. Zebra print sofas, dark wood floor, funky Perspex chairs and gold rococo. The clientele are all the local slicks with attendants. Well-dressed and well served I think LP has got it bang on.

A long and winding road. The valley sides close in as I drive deeper into the Arsceni mountains heading west towards Hungary. Mixed woods of fir, beech and something similar to ash fill the spaces between crags. On the wider bends of the river small hamlets have sheltered many a year. Ox carts wend their way with high loads of manure. Dwellings vary wildly from quaint ancient to gaudy toothpaste stripey. Hayricks hold council between roughly ploughed strips of land. Chickens weave between the slats of old fences. Cut timber, a throw back to good intention or ill gotten gains from the local mills, rot in heaps next to clapped out Dacias and Trabants.

An abandoned narrow gauge railway keeps me company: we cross paths from time to time, my tyres slippery on the concrete blocks much favoured over asphalt in these parts. Timber and river gravel once flowed east from the valley to support the construction of salt mines of Turda.

The river is a sludgy brown, its banks lined with neat beds of ice stacked plate-like as if awaiting the release of spring. Recent floods have scarred the banks removing sections of road, gouging and swallowing trees and roots as one. Landslides have cut ugly gashes in the scree of the upper slopes. A dusting of snow only highlights the wounds. The forest changes as I climb. Conifers take over. The monotony of their shape broken by stands of Scots pine.

Temperature dropping fast and the SATNAV shows 50km to the main road. Less than a half tank on the dial. Better be on the safe side. A small petrol station appears and I fill up from the Bleifrei hose. I have driven less than a mile when the first shudder ripples through the car. Thinking dirt in the carburetor, I gun the engine and it clears. By the time I reach the snow laden mountain pass I know that whatever I just put in the tank may have been ok for a Lada but the delicate computers of the Toyota are in full rebellion by now. Overtaking everything in the gloom, I push on to get off the mountain before the engine dies. The contortions of the road calm as the engine scrapes along. In the distance neon lights become a beacon. By now it's as though the crate is about to burst into flame. I limp into the forecourt the last gasp of the engine leaving me tantalisingly short of the pumps and the promise of fresh fuel. A shady figure emerges from the gloom more from curiosity than camradie. I explain as best I can and a passerby finds a length of piping. I try to siphon out the poison but the pipe won't quite reach. The police make an entrance after a few minutes in the form of a highly decorative, English-speaking policewoman. Bad news travels fast in a town where I am probably the event if the year (2nd January aside). An hour later, numerous frustrating calls to the oily Dennis back in Bucharest and we find a recovery company in Oradea some 100km from the garage. I sit and tap out notes on the computer before a recovery truck appears out of the night. The small cafe, entirely empty before is now awash with locals who cluster around neighbouring tables. I start feeling a bit conspicuous surrounded by chattering* SATNAVS, chargers for phones, two actual phones, a laptop and assorted electronica.

Two excruciating hours later we arrive in Oradea. The formerly Hungarian town has everything even if a Toyota dealership is tricky to find. Spotting a mobile number in the small print of a showroom flyer we call. No answer. Shrugging of shoulders. What next? My phone rings. It's the owner of the local dealership calling back. 30 minutes later we've dropped the jeep at his service centre and he drops me at a hotel. Now there's service. Somehow I suspect the bill to sort the problem will reflect it...