Up bright and early for no good reason as the car hire man shows up an hour late…with the wrong car. Unapologetic and about as slippery as an leather coated eel could hope to be, we go a merry dance with my credit cards as he 
seems intent on getting cash as a deposit and imprinted copies of everything plastic in my wallet. I give him E700 noting down the serial number of the notes. My new mount, rather than a red V8 Cherokee is a black Toyota RAV 4 jeep. Armed with a SATNAV I streak past the suburbs of Bucharest within 20 minutes and head North West towards Pitesti. The road is perhaps all of a year old and the passing countryside could be northern France – autumnal shades of dirty brown. The only shapes out of place are those of the hay ricks. Resembling slender eggs they pepper the countryside often in clumps or propped up by stakes. By the colour of them some are several years old but they seem in reasonable condition.
Pitesti passes and swinging north the road slows heading to Arges –
the true home to the man who became known as Dracula. Vlad ‘The Impaler’ Teres. The road strings out villages with only the smallest gap between groups of houses. These announce one’s arrival or departure from place to place. Judging by cars, property and general appearance, these are not people in complete poverty as half the houses are either new or else substantially repaired. Children race along the verges; sheep, goats and geese rummage the gap between the ditch and roadside; locals perch on garden walls and watch whatever is going by go by. Very peaceful.
Arriving in Arges I find an old church (LP has it down for late 14th C) but large locked gates prevent further exploration. Signposts direct me further north so I re mount and 5 minutes later arrive at the highlight of the day. The Arges
Monastery comprises a 16th Century church which was sensitively restored by a French architect in the 18th Century and so has maintained the intimacy which architectural technology provided for in those times. The masonry work on the outside is exquisite. Passing inside, the cloistered columns, decorated in spirals of red, green and gold, are illuminated only by the small stained glass windows adding to the secretive fervor of the place. In the crypt a bearded priest 
administers advice and prayers to the trickle of believers. The remains of the famed fresco are barely visible as much of the original has been moved to a museum. The small graves mark the final resting place of an English-born queen and the famed Basarab who ruled the magically named ‘Wallachia’ way back when.
Despite the gloom I manage a few shots before the (I reckon self-appointed) warden appears and politely asks me not to photograph. I generally make a point of turning off flashes so as not to attract attention or damage surfaces, but on this occasion I have been unmasked as another tourist has been flashing incessantly….
Leaving the cocoon of the church I head over to the main monastery building which is more recent. The vestry shop is doing a brisk trade as a swathe of New Year’s resolutions means candles, incense and prayers all round. Two small barbeque stands at the entrance to the monastery provide shelter for the prayer candles. They are marked ‘Vii’ and ‘Mort’. Judging by the tired post-festive expressions of some worshippers, there’s hope that a nearby ‘in-law’ would make the transition from one to the other sooner rather than later.
Back into the car for the silly part of the day.
The guide book said it’d be shut. The road signs said it’d be shut. In a country where a metre of snow on the lower slopes is the norm, even logic said it would be shut.
The Transfagarasan Highway is 60-odd kilometers of twisting, rutted, rock strewn and snow-blown driving hell. When it’s open during the summer it provides a spectacular mountain route through to the northern passes of the Carpathians. Ignoring the omens purely and solely on the basis that a steady flow of cars was heading the other way, I battle northwards climbing to a respectable 1850 metres before a massive snow drift brings my expedition to a close. The dam-top road (Romanians do love their dams) provides a spectacular view over the valley and the view from the near-top is obscured only by the gathering of night. I turn around and career back down so as to make the lowland before complete darkness descends as I have no wish to spend the night nursing a puncture within direct sight of Dracula’s real castle at the base of the valley… Yes it is actually rather eerie.
Embarrassed as I am to admit it, the opportunity to take another short cut was more than I could resist. The map showed a tempting thin red line which by my reckoning would save me a couple of hours and a good 150km.
The road started off with an invitingly smooth tarmac surface before the first serious potholes started. Within twenty minutes the potholes had pretty much taken over and ten minutes later the tarmac gave up the ghost completely. Pitch dark, driving up a progressively steeper hill in a now groaning jeep seemed an adventure for about another five minutes then consciousness returned. I checked the map – all ok there but I had traveled less than 10% of the route and quick speed time distance arithmetic settled the issue.
Bouncing my way back down the hill I rejoined the road and sped south in a wide loop before turning north through steep gorges and along lakesides to arrive 2 hours later in Sibiu. From here, after quick consultation with the map I head for Cluj.
seems intent on getting cash as a deposit and imprinted copies of everything plastic in my wallet. I give him E700 noting down the serial number of the notes. My new mount, rather than a red V8 Cherokee is a black Toyota RAV 4 jeep. Armed with a SATNAV I streak past the suburbs of Bucharest within 20 minutes and head North West towards Pitesti. The road is perhaps all of a year old and the passing countryside could be northern France – autumnal shades of dirty brown. The only shapes out of place are those of the hay ricks. Resembling slender eggs they pepper the countryside often in clumps or propped up by stakes. By the colour of them some are several years old but they seem in reasonable condition.Pitesti passes and swinging north the road slows heading to Arges –
the true home to the man who became known as Dracula. Vlad ‘The Impaler’ Teres. The road strings out villages with only the smallest gap between groups of houses. These announce one’s arrival or departure from place to place. Judging by cars, property and general appearance, these are not people in complete poverty as half the houses are either new or else substantially repaired. Children race along the verges; sheep, goats and geese rummage the gap between the ditch and roadside; locals perch on garden walls and watch whatever is going by go by. Very peaceful.Arriving in Arges I find an old church (LP has it down for late 14th C) but large locked gates prevent further exploration. Signposts direct me further north so I re mount and 5 minutes later arrive at the highlight of the day. The Arges
Monastery comprises a 16th Century church which was sensitively restored by a French architect in the 18th Century and so has maintained the intimacy which architectural technology provided for in those times. The masonry work on the outside is exquisite. Passing inside, the cloistered columns, decorated in spirals of red, green and gold, are illuminated only by the small stained glass windows adding to the secretive fervor of the place. In the crypt a bearded priest 
administers advice and prayers to the trickle of believers. The remains of the famed fresco are barely visible as much of the original has been moved to a museum. The small graves mark the final resting place of an English-born queen and the famed Basarab who ruled the magically named ‘Wallachia’ way back when.Despite the gloom I manage a few shots before the (I reckon self-appointed) warden appears and politely asks me not to photograph. I generally make a point of turning off flashes so as not to attract attention or damage surfaces, but on this occasion I have been unmasked as another tourist has been flashing incessantly….
Leaving the cocoon of the church I head over to the main monastery building which is more recent. The vestry shop is doing a brisk trade as a swathe of New Year’s resolutions means candles, incense and prayers all round. Two small barbeque stands at the entrance to the monastery provide shelter for the prayer candles. They are marked ‘Vii’ and ‘Mort’. Judging by the tired post-festive expressions of some worshippers, there’s hope that a nearby ‘in-law’ would make the transition from one to the other sooner rather than later.
Back into the car for the silly part of the day.
The guide book said it’d be shut. The road signs said it’d be shut. In a country where a metre of snow on the lower slopes is the norm, even logic said it would be shut.The Transfagarasan Highway is 60-odd kilometers of twisting, rutted, rock strewn and snow-blown driving hell. When it’s open during the summer it provides a spectacular mountain route through to the northern passes of the Carpathians. Ignoring the omens purely and solely on the basis that a steady flow of cars was heading the other way, I battle northwards climbing to a respectable 1850 metres before a massive snow drift brings my expedition to a close. The dam-top road (Romanians do love their dams) provides a spectacular view over the valley and the view from the near-top is obscured only by the gathering of night. I turn around and career back down so as to make the lowland before complete darkness descends as I have no wish to spend the night nursing a puncture within direct sight of Dracula’s real castle at the base of the valley… Yes it is actually rather eerie.
Embarrassed as I am to admit it, the opportunity to take another short cut was more than I could resist. The map showed a tempting thin red line which by my reckoning would save me a couple of hours and a good 150km.
The road started off with an invitingly smooth tarmac surface before the first serious potholes started. Within twenty minutes the potholes had pretty much taken over and ten minutes later the tarmac gave up the ghost completely. Pitch dark, driving up a progressively steeper hill in a now groaning jeep seemed an adventure for about another five minutes then consciousness returned. I checked the map – all ok there but I had traveled less than 10% of the route and quick speed time distance arithmetic settled the issue.
Bouncing my way back down the hill I rejoined the road and sped south in a wide loop before turning north through steep gorges and along lakesides to arrive 2 hours later in Sibiu. From here, after quick consultation with the map I head for Cluj.
The first big hotel I can find is good enough – I check in and crash like a rag doll. What a day…
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