The return to Bucharest

A good night’s sleep. Checking out I have a last wander around the centre of Brasov and notice just how much the last snow fall has damaged the trees. Whole trees have been uprooted while the luckier ones have lost a few branches under the weight of thick wet snow. In retrospect, my plan to traverse the northern Carpathians to the painted monasteries around Sucavea would probably have ended badly in some snow-bound lay-by.

The Pub ‘Rossignol’ (reflecting the local skiing obsession) provides an excellent breakfast of omelet toast, fresh orange and coffee. It gives me time to write up a bit and make some calls as reality dawns. I join the endless column of slow moving cars heading back to Bucharest over the mountain passes, cars shuffle and slither in deep snow. Carparks ebb as families squeeze tearful kids into gaps in the mounds of ski gear. Back to reality.

An hour passes and the Danude's flood plains roll out to meet the horizon. The long straight lines of the highway from Pitesti to the capital are mind numbingly dull to drive. The rush of oncoming lorries streamed by no more than the threat of a double white line disuades me from driving and snapping fotos at the same time.

With some time in hand I look to LP for local inspiration. There's the graveyard of Vlad Tepes at Snagov though there's talk of a lake and rowing to get there and all local water has frozen impressively. The other option is Mogosoaia - a 17th century Brancoveanu palace and Ceausescu retreat. Reading to the end, the words ‘Lenin’ and ‘statue’ catch my eye. It looks like it'll be a busy final few hours.

Finding Snagov is easy enough even though her ladyship has been retired for a siesta as minor excursions are evidently beneath her station. It’s a typical village which peters in then peters out again. Not much in the way of signs for anything so I chance it down one of the bigger tributary side roads. This ends in a muddy cul de sac some way from the lake edge. I try further along bearing the brunt of numerous strays who run fearlessly at the car from all sides barking their heads off. Having dispatched a fleeting cat on the outskirts of Sighisoara and fearful of karma retribution, I ease forward until they get bored, trotting back to the yard they call home.

My next choice brings me to a small jetty shrouded in bullrushes. From here the landing quay mentioned in LP is visible. In more clement weather a local oarswoman by name ‘Ana’ powers customers over to the all-but-deserted church. Today the lake is deserted aside from a busy coot and a thin coating of ice.

Back to the main road and twenty minutes brings me to the Bucharest orbital confusingly signposted as ‘Centura’. I merge into a flow of filthy trucks and once white vans. Holiday season over, it's business as usual for the truckers. A grubby sign for the palace spins me north and lines of carefully planted trees and a neat wall precede another small sign and I follow a rutted track to what must be the car park. No further road signs, ticket offices or indeed human life. I wander towards a distant archway which opens into a generous courtyard. This could be Tuscany with its broad red-brick buildings and graceful arched balconies. Roman statues of animals, intricately carved columns and a pair of cannon are arranged haphazardly around the main building overlooking a frosty topiary terrace and a lake. A local fisherman punts a small barque across the ice, dropping baited lines through holes he scrapes into the surface.

Time to find Vladimir Ilyich. LP says he's hanging with the former Romanian Communist PM (Petru Groza) in a small garden behind the palace kitchens. I can see the kitchens which are attached to a spectacular series of old greenhouses complete with aerial walkway. Skirting around these I come to a small white church with a few rather elegant stone headstones. Graveyards have varied widely during these travels. The traditional Romanian cross is blocky in appearance with a heavy square block placed at the top of the cross. Engravings are detailed and quite unfathomable. Other gravestones looked more like telephone junction boxes; each decorated with black or dark blue tiles and topped off with a small white cross.

Still no Lenin.

A small lodge on the other side of the courtyard draws my attention; its brickwork seems a closer match to that of the main building. Perhaps that's the kitchen? A large iron gate’s been left slightly ajar. Squeezing through, I find myself in a large grass field and there, on their backs, head to head, lie the boys. All in bronze, Vlad, the grander ‘Impaler’ is by far the bigger of the two, dominating a fussy effigy of the local lad. Their feet, easily a size 50, have sprouted awkward steel rods, lumps of reinforced concrete are all that remain from the pedestals from which they were so rudely torn. Quite aside from their scrap metal value - all that bronze - someone somewhere must be caring for them as their grassy lair is well kept. They seem peaceful enough. Bless.