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...

First day on the roads...tracks...

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.

The first big hotel I can find is good enough – I check in and crash like a rag doll. What a day…

The party begins..

By early evening the first firecrackers are already shattering the peace. Leaving the hotel I walk briskly so as to reach the main square in time for the big event. A trickle of like minded people grows until I am being swept along in a tidal wave of families bearing EU and Romanian flags. Bucharest has come to life. Only a few hours ago there was hardly a soul on the street (I was beginning to wonder what had happened, now there must have been a few hundred thousand gathered around the stage erected next to the Intercontinental Hotel. The noise is deafening. The first fireworks trace the sky followed by the lazy beams of the spotlights. Speeches give way to music and then more speeches from some Italian EU dignitary – it’s all the same to the Romanians. They don’t much care who opens the door for them so his speech ends to rapturous shouts of “Danke!” Midnight stamps itself in and the world explodes around me as boxes of fireworks go off. Within minutes the first ambulance siren strikes up. Above our heads the balance of next years Romanian GDP lights the sky in starbursts of reds, whites and greens and then as quickly as it has happened it is all over. The crowds turn tail and return from whence they came.

A quick commentary on entertainment...

You can always get a feel for a country and what ‘makes it’ or ‘is making it’ tick, there being a subtle difference in these parts, by a little channel surfing. Romania is awash with musical entertainments aside from local versions of ‘Who wants to be a Millionaire’ (the Oppenheimer of TV – one big idea that causes cultural destruction wherever it’s deployed). There’s one channel called Etno which is back-to-back gypsy singing and is mesmerisingly bad.

Ever wondered what happened to your Granny’s frilly ‘doyle’ tea tablecloths? Well, I’ve found them. They’ve been chopped into dresses into which squeeze busty dusky women wailing and waving/flailing their arms all the while struggling to remember to smile. The genre requires that the backing singers smile/lip sync/flail too… and hold hands in the way new born Christians do it in the Mid West…and worry as if to say ‘are we still on camera?’ While the women do most of the singing part, the men do a sort of macho gangster thing with ivory topped canes and saxophones. Think of an aged, rheumatic Fred Astaire, irritable and unshaven. Combine that with a traumatized Nana Miskouri and then gyrate the mixture. I suspect the Turks are responsible.

Dawning of a new acquaintance.

The Hotel Residence enjoys a privileged neighborhood to the north of the city. the area has been smart residential at one time and pockets of order are stained by soviet style blocks of battleship grey laced with streaks of rust and spidering cracks. Walking about the flotsam of architectural fashions give the city a slightly abandoned feel. Rusting sheet metal roofs with their careful creased ridges, such a feature of russian rooftops, are brushed aside by fresh contemporay corrugates elbowing their way to dominance. The houses range from fresh painted Lombardian villas to those squat ‘blockhouses’ beloved of the Austrians – heavy pillars topped to the eaves by dark beams.

Leaving the civility of the hotel I head for the Arc d'Triumph – the heart of Francophile Romania. My snapping draws the attention of a cluster of plain clothes Police who take the opportunity to film me. Resisting the temptation to wave/perform I turn south towards the city centre. Fallen heroes sulk in courtyards and each building competes in grandeur the closer to the epicenter of the '89 revolution. On the eve of accession to the EU, preparations are well underway for public concerts where bullets once flew. Romania's skin may have changed but my first impression is that no particular identity has emerged or indeed ever existed. Chatting to a Roma ship's captain on the plane he explained that his country is a backwash of peoples - Turks, Gypsies and Slavs. The language seems rooted in latin with generous contributions from the Italians, Portuguese, Spanish, Russians and of course the French.

My route runs North to South with some loops to catch the odd church and museum building then a long detour to see the remarkable former abode of Mr Ceaucescau – the Parliament building. En route the streets are clean if in poor repair. That very soviet attention to futile detail abounds – steam ducts painted to look like mushrooms and hopelessly impractical plastic park kiosk-type devices. In the oldest part of the city narrow cobbled streets are pockmarked with gaping holes and ruined buildings. Guttering and wires dangle precariously. Turn a corner and its ‘tres Parisien’ with signposting, boutique shop facades, western banks and car showrooms. Eastern Orthodoxy stands alongside brand new glass and marble edifices, the former enjoying nothing of the popularity of the latter.

Huddles of gypsies selling cheap jumpers, bras and clumps of mistletoe punctuate my passage around the city. They are a very separate people to the other Romanians – men and women are very dark and swarthy. The younger generation are slender but seem to become heavy from their late twenties. Easily menacing eyes follow my passage and I can quite understand why Europeans fear their wider diaspora in Europe. They seem distrustful and one cant help but feel as though you are being priced up. A pretty feral bunch really.

Ample opportunity to study further over a very good lunch in a café in one of the large shopping centres. Having walked the best part of 12km across and around the city, just sitting watching the burble of life is fascinating. Youth is pretty much like youth everywhere. The boys here are modeled on Italians in every sense – more hair gel than sense and vary from the Lebanese to the Turk in appearence. The girls seem particularly subservient to their men and respondent to any whim. Their standard of dark eyes and olive complexions breaks occasionally with the passing flashes of green eyes and an almost Scandinavian complexion.

English is widely spoken – at least there’s the impression that it is well received in school as I have seen none of the usual language school flyers. Buying an SD card for my camera, both assistants strike up a coherent conversation. Looking around I can imagine that a language has to be the best investment for a Romanian. Their own language lends itself to an understanding of French or Italian so with the addition of some basic English, I’m sure they can get by just about anywhere. And from the 1st of January 2007, I’m sure they probably will; from holding a paltry 1 million passports 3 years ago, 6 million have been issued in the last year alone.

Stopping off at a rather grand bookshop I get caught by a table strewn with sepia copies of photos of the old days – astrakhan toting dignitaries in their carriages, fierce looking (Kazakis?) on horseback and clusters of awkward village girls in traditional dress. Black and white oilfield scenes remind of a time when oil made its first big boom in these parts in the early years of the 20th century. Today LUKOIL declares flashing neon dominance from every other rooftop. I buy a couple of road maps and would happily head out of Bucharest right now. Browsing through coffee table format tourist books about Romania, one could be forgiven for thinking that their pages were drawn from several countries such is the variety of not only buildings (churches, monasteries, castles and keeps) but landscapes. From the reedy mud flats of the Danube estuary to the snow clad cliffs of the Carpathians to the almost Swiss pastoral views of haystacks and herds. So much to see and Bucharest lacks magnetism. Actually it lacks soul more than anything.

By now it’s dark on the street and I follow my steps back north towards the hotel. Preparations for tommorrow’s big party have lost none of their tempo. Earlier in the day the city’s narrow streets were echoing to sound checks, break dancers polishing their routines, lighting engineers talking excitedly into their walky-talkies and dangling climbers trying to get huge EU flags to stay stuck to the wall of yet another government building. As night fell the city returned to some semblance of calm only to have the sky slashed by lasers and enormous searchlights. The blue and yellow of an electronic Brussels flash across the heavens. Whole buildings are painted in light and the stage lights blind passersby as the now half frozen and grumpy light engineers add the finishing adjustments to their earlier efforts.

And later on…

Red skies at night no doubt keep shepherd’s delighted making a dramatic backdrop. St Petersburg’s skies provide a memorable canvas pretty much year round. Summer blues of eggshell to Monet give way to cinnamons and lurid purples. Purpose undefined this ensemble is typically obscure consequence of that very Russian impulse to blot any open spaces with something big and useless. This one provides a baffling focal point to Pulkovo's domestic terminal and after careful consultation has ended up smack in the middle of taxiing aircraft....way to go chaps.

Did you ever notice glimpses of some other consciousness? By this I mean a sense of familiarity or importance which stands out in the flow of observations and information that surround us. A momentary suspicion if you will that this detail will come to have greater significance later in time whether on this day or in the near future. Such moments tend to disguise their relevance beyond subtly drawing attention to themselves. There has to be a trick to divining further to signpost the hours and days ahead.

I mention it as the short transfer time between arrival into Warsaw and onwards to the yet ethereal Bucharest caught both my eye and some subconscious tripwire. Snow, drunken Russians, petulant baggage handlers and cleaners conspired to land our LOT a healthy hour after the other LOT should have roared off for Transylvanian skies. Not a LOT of luck …... I’ll leave it there being as its late and the ridiculous is but a key stroke away.

Arriving in Warsaw delight spreads on learning that LOT have turned the tide and have held the plane for us. Such good news and 2 hours later I slip into a sleeping Bucharest. I join the snooze.

German efficiency evidently extends to telling fibs or at least in getting away with ‘let’s-land-an-hour-late-and­-hope-that-none-notices’. And they did. Land an hour late. They may have mentioned that we were late to everyone else, but as I was in La La Dire Straits Land (no visa required) I kinda missed it… if indeed it happened. Sneaker buggers.

An hour of baggage handling fun, a zoom across a bleak snow swept St Petersburg and I arrived at the apartment – scene of much drama in recent times and still something of a quandary. What a mess. Exiting interest seemed to have packed up everything – her stuff, my stuff and the landlord’s stuff – then decided what was worth nicking if it’ll fit in the car. Weird un-boxing your own stuff without having moved anywhere. Aside from boxes the joint was a mess and not a drop of water in sight. A quick twist of the stop cock rewarded me with a jet of scalding water scything past my right ear to splat the wall behind in a gentle rusty beige. How to scrub up? Open stopcock. Run to bathroom. Fill bucket. Run back. Mop wall. Easy.

Forever exhausted but tirelessly enthusiastic on matters of family, Viktor the Accountant processes tricky accounting situations for grateful clients while dreaming of his own hotel on the shores of Old Ladoga*, Viktor has been a friend for many years. As one of only two Russians that I trust he is a must see whenever I come to St Petersburg. We exchange champagne, whisky and news and plan (as we do every time we meet) to start doing some work together.

From Viktor’s office it’s a sprint home where flu and fatigue lure me into a quick nap. 2 hours later and Oleg the landlord appears to fix leaking pipes and change locks. In some otherworldly trance I head to Nevsky Prospekt resplendent with New Year decorations and traffic far heavier than the city’s founders could have forseen. The formality of passing muster to earn a Russian multiple entry visa is an annual chore. My application has trundled its way around the various ministries who decide such things in Putin’s new post Soviet Russia. A thumbs up from the KGB, natty certificate gets issued and the last stop is the only decent travel ticket agency on town. Dressed like a Bond girl, Natasha hands over the goods in exchange for a scribble on the visa roll and a bottle of FG. Such a pleasure.

By now my flat is hosting a swarm of neighbours, drills, pipes and a haze of expletives from the plumber who’s rampant binge drinking has been so rudely interrupted for the sake of labour.

*(A lake to the east of St Petersburg and the largest in Europe)