On Two Wheels Through the Land of Paprika
By Eddie Carter
 |
| By Eddie Carter |
HUNGARY
810
Kilometres – 19 Days
11
July – 30 July 2007
FLIP-BOOK
First Impressions: Budapest and the Art of Being Smitten
Our flight
touched down in Budapest early on 11 July, and within minutes, I was hopelessly
in love. The city unfurled itself in gracious old buildings, cobbled streets,
and sweeping views of the Danube—a river so majestic it seems to know exactly
how good it looks. Budapest didn’t so much charm me as sweep me off my feet.
Hungary, I
quickly learned, is a nation fuelled by paprika, cabbage, and sausage. If a
dish doesn’t contain paprika, it’s probably a dessert. Goulash, porkolt,
halaszlé—paprika is the national personality trait.
Ed and I spent
an extra day exploring the city’s architectural showpieces. We wandered across
the Chain Bridge, glided up the funicular to the Castle District, and admired
the Fisherman’s Bastion, which offers a panoramic view so spectacular it should
come with a warning label. Even then, I didn’t linger long enough. Back in
those days, I had bees in my bonnet and an urgent need to “make progress”—a
habit it took years to unlearn.
Following the
Danube: Sunflowers, Basilicas, and Medieval Hydration
We cycled out
of Budapest along the Danube, flanked by endless fields of sunflowers—cheerful,
golden, and far more photogenic than I was after an hour of sweating. Esztergom, mere 80km upriver, greeted us with its colossal basilica, the third-largest
church in Europe, perched above the river like a benevolent giant. Founded in
972 AD and once the capital of Hungary, the town radiates history from every
cobblestone.
The next day’s
ride followed the river through small settlements where we pumped water from
wells like medieval peasants in Lycra. Sunflowers stretched to the horizon,
glowing so brightly that the sky looked washed out by comparison. Ninety-five
kilometres further, we reached Györ, where we set up camp.
We stayed an
extra day because the campsite was comfortable and because my legs politely
suggested mutiny. We cycled through hamlets and farmland, accompanied—yet
again—by sunflowers. At this point, I suspected Hungary was composed of 40%
sunflower, 40% paprika, and 20% thermal baths.
Heat,
Hospitality, and the Road to Lake Balaton
Leaving the river,
we pedalled toward Lake Balaton in sweltering, humid heat. An elderly
gentleman, noticing our slow descent into heat-induced despair, ushered us into
his home and revived us with ice cream and smoked meat. His kindness was as
refreshing as the ice cream itself.
Papa, a
historic town with a beautifully preserved centre, is famous for its thermal
baths. Given the temperature, we opted for cold beer instead.
From Papa, the
ride to the lake was hilly, scorching, and full of moments where I questioned
every life choice that had led me to cycle in Hungary in mid-summer.
Balatonfüred, the oldest town on the lake and renowned for its spas, awaited
us. Naturally, we ignored the spas. Why pay to sweat when we were already doing
it for free?
Life at Lake
Balaton: Lukewarm Water and Cold Beer
Balatonfüred to
Badacsony (48 km)
We eagerly set
out from Balatonfured, but the heat was so oppressive that we managed only a
half-day of cycling before collapsing into Badacsony, a village of 2,000 people
and approximately 2,000 campsites. I dove into Lake Balaton immediately,
discovering the water was roughly the temperature of tea. Sunset was perfect
for sampling the region’s wine, which tasted even better after a day of slow
roasting.
By morning, we
packed up lazily because rushing would have required energy. The heat was
debilitating, the road followed the lake, and we stopped constantly for swims
and beer—hydration being a flexible concept. Fonyód welcomed us after 56 km of
lazy pedalling and with mineral water and more wine.
We woke to a
gentle breeze that made the heat just about bearable—until it didn’t. The
breeze turned into a headwind, and the headwind turned into a personal
vendetta. By the time we reached Balatonszemes, I was ready to lodge a formal
complaint with the Hungarian weather authorities.
The campsites
around the lake were impressively equipped: shops, bars, restaurants,
waterslides, cable skiing, paddle boats—essentially a lakeside amusement park
for overheated adults.
Lake Balaton
was paradise: blue skies, warm water, no wind, and enough tourists to populate
a small nation. The lake is shallow and perfect for floating, which I did with
the dedication of someone who had given up on land-based life.
Having cycled
the entire lake, we rewarded ourselves with two days of lounging. Siófok, with
its 20‑kilometre beach, is the lake’s largest town and the unofficial capital
of sunbathing.
Back to Budapest:
Bureaucracy and Cobblestones
We cycled the
110 km back to Budapest from Siofok to collect my Romanian visa. The ride was
easy; navigating Budapest traffic was not. We spent the rest of the day
wandering cobbled streets like seasoned flâneurs.
Southward to
Romania: Paprika, Thermal Baths, and a Visa Surprise
With passports
in hand, we headed toward Romania. Perfect cycling weather, flat roads, and 90
km later, Kecskemét’s enormous city hall was waiting—Hungary really knows how
to reward effort.
The next day's
ride from Kecskemet to Szeged was another pleasant 65 km on flat roads. Szeged,
home of paprika, proudly displays old buildings, including the Saint Nicolas
Serbian Church (1781), and offers thermal baths where we floated like blissful
dumplings for two days.
Crossing the
Border: Tailwinds, Crosswinds, and Mild Panic
We left Szeged
with a glorious tailwind that quickly turned into a crosswind strong enough to
shove us around like shopping trolleys. At the border, I discovered my
Hungarian visa was actually two 10-day visas—news to me—, and I had overstayed.
After much gesturing, shuffling between buildings, and bureaucratic theatre, I
was finally allowed to leave. Eish.
Romania
awaited, full of mystery, folklore, and place names like Transylvania that made
me feel like I was pedalling into a storybook.
Arad greeted
us after 80 kilometres, with rain, darkness, and a campsite that had ceased to
exist. We surrendered to a pension, soaked, tired, and thrilled to be in
Romania at last.
No comments:
Post a Comment