Waking at nine I glance out my window overlooking the delights of Oradea. As 
there seem too few to mention, I opt for another hour’s snooze. Head Toyota man rings at twelve to say that the car is ready and that somehow the pumps had been full of diesel rather than leaded petrol. Nonetheless everything is back in working order. After a rather pleasant thermal shower – all the hotel’s hot water (it’s also very soft) comes direct from a geyser, I take a quick coffee waiting for the cab to arrive. We cross town to pick up the car from the Toyota service centre where they charge me the princely sum of 150 lei – less than €50. The whole expedition has worked out less expensive than I thought – it is only later I realize that the true cost was the lost time. I would say that winter is not the time to make this trip – spring, late spring would be ideal giving more hours of light to make the long transits across country between spectacles.
Lady SATNAV escorts me briskly from Oradea and we set course through flat featureless countryside first north then north east shadowing the frontier
with Hungary. These are the Hungarian plains from whence (hereabouts) Attila the Hun. I read a biography recently – there is some Hungarian fellow who has re-invented the archery techniques (phenomenal rates of fire from horseback with the first composite bows) which allowed the Hun mounted cavalry to destroy everything in its path. I can imagine their short fast ponies slipping easily into the gentle folds of the landscape. ‘Good tank country’, I hear myself say. There’s not the fierce nationalism of the Szekely clan here (that comes later in the day around Targu Mures), the town names are closer to Hungarian than Romanian – lots of ‘Nagys’. For the first time I notice ‘Judenul’ on signposts. I need to check but where other towns simply show the name, certain towns have the prefix ‘Judenul’. Ceaucescu, obviously an acolyte of Jo Stalin, did a lot of dividing up, segregating peoples and prohibiting ethnic groups from mixing together. I am beginning to wish that I had read more on the history of the place in relation to these politics and relations with these northern neighbours – Hungary, Ukraine and the Molodova/Transdniestr enclaves.
My first stop for fuel (checking, sniffing, reading, re-reading the pump signs) is
in the semi industrial Satu Mare. Up to now, the only productivity has been horse carts, sudden bursts of agriculture (the soil is a rich dark brown and seems very fertile) and the occasional modern factory. Some produce clothing, judging by the articulated lorries waiting outside – from France and Germany. I noticed that a pair of natty ‘Scarpa’ walking boots in a Glasgow store were ‘Made in Romania’. Baia Mare is next and there is a sense that this is a less advantaged area – no fast roads and emergent EU neighbours here. Much more the backwater. Soviet apartment blocks line the streets; the locals seem grey; the shops offer bland 
assortments. A McDonalds catches my eye; a burst of bright light amidst the drab. I realize that aside from crisps and chocolate (petrol stations are the new cuisine), I haven’t actually eaten hot food for 3 days. Getting so focused on what’s going on around you, remembering to eat can slip the mind somewhat. Not leaving and then arriving on one and the same day has the effect of depleting the appetite and hours behind the wheel doesn’t need much energy after all. A ‘Big Mac’ and the dreadful invention that is the McNugget (fond memories of Glasgow) leaves me feeling frankly more sickly than rejuvenated.
Pressing on, the road starts to climb and twist into the folds of the hill
country above Baia Mare; this is the natural barrier which has kept the Mara Valley so isolated. This is known as the forgotten quarter of Romania and home to its medieval treasures. “Romania’s soul” gushes LP. I should have known better.
The road steepens dramatically. I hardly get beyond 2nd gear. Twisting becomes contorting, the jeep heels left and right. Abandoned coal mines and yet greyer people flash past. Villages give way to grand beech forests, a thick copper carpet of leaves is foreground to a dramatic panorama. What started as a sprinkling of snow thickens to a few feet. To the relief of a strained gearbox we breach the pass on snow packed roads. From the pass (1550 metres) the beauty of the Mara Valley is breathtaking. Capturing the scale of the scenery on film
is a struggle. To the east a rocky massif, papered in snow, enjoys the last light of the day framed by rusty autumnal trees. Exquisite. The road is rather gentler as it lowers me into the valley. Deciduous give way to coniferous and I could just as well be on the approaches to Glen Lyon. The first village appears and I realize that LP’s understanding of ‘medieval’ is somewhat exaggerated not least as my edition is two years out of date. Understandably, locals living in the ‘stone age’ are unlikely to stay that way just because UNESCO thinks it’s cute and has to be preserved. The rustic scene is broken by split new boxy constructions, garishly decorated and littered with concrete pedestals, columns and other ‘furniture’.
Calling a halt to assess the map, I decide to turn about, drop back to lower
ground and head east in a bid to make it to the painted monasteries far to the east. My route via the Mara would have allowed me to do this only via a route which is both circuitous and hilly and my gearbox is grumbling as is. Images gather of having yet another pump drama in one of the most remote areas of the country with no cute lady Police or Mr Toyota to bail me out.
I pick a town on the map which is big enough to have made it to the madam’s rather limited SATNAV database. Off we go, climbing back up and over the pass to catch a spectacular sunset through the frosted trees. I had noticed on the map that by following minor roads eastwards we could make good
time along the escarpment below the Mara hills and this seemed to be what the SATNAV was doing however the sense that something was wrong began to nag me. Despite all this technology, I don’t think that one can ever afford to switch off and go with the flow as the flow may be seriously flawed. And I’m afraid my good lady friend was having a really bad day as we started a snowy ascent into the darkness. I stopped, pulled out the map and, recalling the last town we had passed, realized that she had gone nuts. About turn.
First pastDej, then back through my favourite Cluj Napoca, the amusingly named Turda and on to Targu Mures. This is mindless driving and perhaps the most dangerous. It’s not the odd horse cart or the drunks lurching down the white line in the villages, but the ‘noveaus’ in their Audis. One in particular deliberately tried to run me off the road as first a VW Golf (driven by a woman in whose wake I had been happy to speed along for the last hour) passed him and I made to do the same. It could have been that the inflated male driver was infuriated that a female-piloted old Golf had torn past him, but his goat was up and I had to swerve violently to avoid piling into concrete things.
Arriving into Targu Mures, I consult LP, which in that very polite fashion, describes it as a hole famed for insurgency and for those pesky Hungarians, the Szekelys*. I had planned to overnight here and then strike south to Sighisoara in the morning but the 50 km to the famed citadel seemed easy enough. And what a pleasure it was. The moon was full, the stars were out in force and a light fall of snow conspired to create a magical illumination around me. Fast curves, long straights and not an Audi in sight. Perfect.
Sighisoara was deserted and I had to loop around a few times until I noticed a bright red Hotel sign. The Hotel Claudia is a sweet place squeezed into a narrow courtyard. A bed for €33 seemed a steal.
* Szekelys is the name of the largest estate agency in the Marbella area owned by Christina Szekely, a Hungarian who arrived in the area in the late 70’s / early 80’s and became the Queen Bee of Costa property. Judging by her reputation, I can imagine that the clan would have given the Romanians a run for their money.
there seem too few to mention, I opt for another hour’s snooze. Head Toyota man rings at twelve to say that the car is ready and that somehow the pumps had been full of diesel rather than leaded petrol. Nonetheless everything is back in working order. After a rather pleasant thermal shower – all the hotel’s hot water (it’s also very soft) comes direct from a geyser, I take a quick coffee waiting for the cab to arrive. We cross town to pick up the car from the Toyota service centre where they charge me the princely sum of 150 lei – less than €50. The whole expedition has worked out less expensive than I thought – it is only later I realize that the true cost was the lost time. I would say that winter is not the time to make this trip – spring, late spring would be ideal giving more hours of light to make the long transits across country between spectacles.Lady SATNAV escorts me briskly from Oradea and we set course through flat featureless countryside first north then north east shadowing the frontier
with Hungary. These are the Hungarian plains from whence (hereabouts) Attila the Hun. I read a biography recently – there is some Hungarian fellow who has re-invented the archery techniques (phenomenal rates of fire from horseback with the first composite bows) which allowed the Hun mounted cavalry to destroy everything in its path. I can imagine their short fast ponies slipping easily into the gentle folds of the landscape. ‘Good tank country’, I hear myself say. There’s not the fierce nationalism of the Szekely clan here (that comes later in the day around Targu Mures), the town names are closer to Hungarian than Romanian – lots of ‘Nagys’. For the first time I notice ‘Judenul’ on signposts. I need to check but where other towns simply show the name, certain towns have the prefix ‘Judenul’. Ceaucescu, obviously an acolyte of Jo Stalin, did a lot of dividing up, segregating peoples and prohibiting ethnic groups from mixing together. I am beginning to wish that I had read more on the history of the place in relation to these politics and relations with these northern neighbours – Hungary, Ukraine and the Molodova/Transdniestr enclaves.My first stop for fuel (checking, sniffing, reading, re-reading the pump signs) is
in the semi industrial Satu Mare. Up to now, the only productivity has been horse carts, sudden bursts of agriculture (the soil is a rich dark brown and seems very fertile) and the occasional modern factory. Some produce clothing, judging by the articulated lorries waiting outside – from France and Germany. I noticed that a pair of natty ‘Scarpa’ walking boots in a Glasgow store were ‘Made in Romania’. Baia Mare is next and there is a sense that this is a less advantaged area – no fast roads and emergent EU neighbours here. Much more the backwater. Soviet apartment blocks line the streets; the locals seem grey; the shops offer bland 
assortments. A McDonalds catches my eye; a burst of bright light amidst the drab. I realize that aside from crisps and chocolate (petrol stations are the new cuisine), I haven’t actually eaten hot food for 3 days. Getting so focused on what’s going on around you, remembering to eat can slip the mind somewhat. Not leaving and then arriving on one and the same day has the effect of depleting the appetite and hours behind the wheel doesn’t need much energy after all. A ‘Big Mac’ and the dreadful invention that is the McNugget (fond memories of Glasgow) leaves me feeling frankly more sickly than rejuvenated.Pressing on, the road starts to climb and twist into the folds of the hill
country above Baia Mare; this is the natural barrier which has kept the Mara Valley so isolated. This is known as the forgotten quarter of Romania and home to its medieval treasures. “Romania’s soul” gushes LP. I should have known better.The road steepens dramatically. I hardly get beyond 2nd gear. Twisting becomes contorting, the jeep heels left and right. Abandoned coal mines and yet greyer people flash past. Villages give way to grand beech forests, a thick copper carpet of leaves is foreground to a dramatic panorama. What started as a sprinkling of snow thickens to a few feet. To the relief of a strained gearbox we breach the pass on snow packed roads. From the pass (1550 metres) the beauty of the Mara Valley is breathtaking. Capturing the scale of the scenery on film
is a struggle. To the east a rocky massif, papered in snow, enjoys the last light of the day framed by rusty autumnal trees. Exquisite. The road is rather gentler as it lowers me into the valley. Deciduous give way to coniferous and I could just as well be on the approaches to Glen Lyon. The first village appears and I realize that LP’s understanding of ‘medieval’ is somewhat exaggerated not least as my edition is two years out of date. Understandably, locals living in the ‘stone age’ are unlikely to stay that way just because UNESCO thinks it’s cute and has to be preserved. The rustic scene is broken by split new boxy constructions, garishly decorated and littered with concrete pedestals, columns and other ‘furniture’.Calling a halt to assess the map, I decide to turn about, drop back to lower
ground and head east in a bid to make it to the painted monasteries far to the east. My route via the Mara would have allowed me to do this only via a route which is both circuitous and hilly and my gearbox is grumbling as is. Images gather of having yet another pump drama in one of the most remote areas of the country with no cute lady Police or Mr Toyota to bail me out.I pick a town on the map which is big enough to have made it to the madam’s rather limited SATNAV database. Off we go, climbing back up and over the pass to catch a spectacular sunset through the frosted trees. I had noticed on the map that by following minor roads eastwards we could make good
time along the escarpment below the Mara hills and this seemed to be what the SATNAV was doing however the sense that something was wrong began to nag me. Despite all this technology, I don’t think that one can ever afford to switch off and go with the flow as the flow may be seriously flawed. And I’m afraid my good lady friend was having a really bad day as we started a snowy ascent into the darkness. I stopped, pulled out the map and, recalling the last town we had passed, realized that she had gone nuts. About turn.
First pastDej, then back through my favourite Cluj Napoca, the amusingly named Turda and on to Targu Mures. This is mindless driving and perhaps the most dangerous. It’s not the odd horse cart or the drunks lurching down the white line in the villages, but the ‘noveaus’ in their Audis. One in particular deliberately tried to run me off the road as first a VW Golf (driven by a woman in whose wake I had been happy to speed along for the last hour) passed him and I made to do the same. It could have been that the inflated male driver was infuriated that a female-piloted old Golf had torn past him, but his goat was up and I had to swerve violently to avoid piling into concrete things.Arriving into Targu Mures, I consult LP, which in that very polite fashion, describes it as a hole famed for insurgency and for those pesky Hungarians, the Szekelys*. I had planned to overnight here and then strike south to Sighisoara in the morning but the 50 km to the famed citadel seemed easy enough. And what a pleasure it was. The moon was full, the stars were out in force and a light fall of snow conspired to create a magical illumination around me. Fast curves, long straights and not an Audi in sight. Perfect.
Sighisoara was deserted and I had to loop around a few times until I noticed a bright red Hotel sign. The Hotel Claudia is a sweet place squeezed into a narrow courtyard. A bed for €33 seemed a steal.
* Szekelys is the name of the largest estate agency in the Marbella area owned by Christina Szekely, a Hungarian who arrived in the area in the late 70’s / early 80’s and became the Queen Bee of Costa property. Judging by her reputation, I can imagine that the clan would have given the Romanians a run for their money.
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