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
Prelude
Before Hungary, I still
believed travel was a task. A noble task, perhaps—full of maps, kilometres, and
the smug satisfaction of “making good time”—but a task nonetheless. I
approached the world like a slightly overcaffeinated project manager: schedule
tight, goals ambitious, rest optional. The idea of lingering felt suspiciously
like laziness.
Hungary, as it turned out,
had other plans.
I didn’t know yet that this
country would pry my fingers off the handlebars of efficiency and replace them
with sunflowers, paprika, and heat so intense it could melt the resolve of a
Spartan. I didn’t know that Budapest would charm me senseless, or that Lake Balaton
would teach me the fine art of floating instead of striving. All I knew,
stepping off the plane, was that I had kilometres to cover and a schedule to
keep.
Hungary smiled, handed me a
beer, and said, “Good luck with that.”
First
Impressions: Budapest and the Art of Being Smitten
Our flight from
London 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
a mere 80km up river 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.
Epilogue
By the time we reached the
Romanian border—sunburnt, wind-battered, and slightly traumatised by Hungarian
bureaucracy—I realised Hungary had quietly rearranged something in me.
It wasn’t dramatic. No
lightning bolt, no cinematic revelation. Just a slow, steady loosening. A
softening. A shift from urgency to presence. Somewhere between the sunflower
fields, the lukewarm lake swims, the thermal baths, and the unsolicited smoked
meat, I had stopped measuring the journey in kilometres and started measuring
it in moments.
ROMANIA
Pedalling Through
Romania’s Myths and Mountains
959 Kilometres – 19
Days
30 June – 17 August
2007
Prologue
Romania had lived in my imagination
long before I pedalled into it — a place of gipsies in swirling skirts,
Dracula’s castle perched on a cliff, and mysterious forests where garlic was
both seasoning and spiritual protection. So when Ed and I left Szeget with a
tailwind that morphed into a crosswind of biblical proportions, I clung to the
handlebars and the thought that I was finally heading toward the land of my
childhood fascinations.
Crosswinds,
Crossings, and a Visa That Should Not Exist
Ed and I departed Szeget powered by a stiff tailwind that
quickly escalated into a near-gale-force crosswind — the kind that makes you
question your life choices, your centre of gravity, and whether cycling is
really a hobby or a prolonged cry for help. Trucks thundered past in a steady
stream, and I spent most of the morning convinced I was about to become a hood
ornament.
At the border, I discovered that my Hungarian visa was
not the sensible, grown-up visa I thought I had, but a mysterious 2 × 10‑day
visa. Where it came from, nobody knows. Why it existed, nobody could explain.
What mattered was that I had overstayed it. After being shunted between
buildings like a lost parcel, I was finally allowed to leave. Phew indeed.
Romania felt thrillingly exotic — the land of real
gipsies (or so childhood-me believed), Dracula’s castle, and place names that
sounded like they belonged in a gothic novel. I was ready for cloaks, garlic,
and atmospheric fog.
The language, however, was a formidable opponent.
Everything was in Romanian, and English was about as common as unicorn
sightings.
We arrived in Arad late afternoon, only to discover that
the campsite on the map was actually an abandoned field. It was raining, it was
getting dark, and I was not in the mood to camp in a puddle. We retreated to a
nearby pension like sensible, soggy adults.
Concrete
Cities and the First Taste of Rural Romania
Arad was bustling, full of old buildings that had clearly
survived communism but not without emotional scarring. Apartment blocks loomed
everywhere — grey, tired, and in dire need of therapy.
Crossing borders always feels like switching dimensions.
Just when you’ve figured out how a country works, you enter a new one where
everything is different, including the rules, the food, and the plumbing.
Romania had very few campsites, but plenty of truck-stop accommodation offering
cheap food and rooms that were basic in the way a monk’s cell is basic.
Wells,
Horse Carts, and Childhood Myths Corrected
I finally fixed the slow puncture that had been
tormenting me. Then we headed toward Barzava through countryside dotted with
small communities. We saw real-life gipsies with horse carts and elderly ladies
dressed entirely in black — straight out of a forgotten century. The gipsies,
however, were not wearing the bright, jangly outfits of my childhood
imagination. No gold coins. No swirling skirts. Childhood-me felt mildly
betrayed.
Traffic was chaotic, and the main road was a conveyor
belt of trucks. But the rural villages were peaceful, and the locals stared at
us with the same curiosity we stared at them. Facilities were basic: water came
from communal wells, and farmers worked the fields by hand. Filling our bottles
required lowering a bucket into the well and hauling it up with a pulley — a
workout before the actual workout.
We stayed in Deva, dominated by the ruins of a citadel
perched dramatically on a hill, as if supervising the town’s daily business.
Potholes,
Roman Baths, and Backyard Camping
Leaving Deva meant braving the congested, pothole-riddled
main road — a nerve-wracking experience that shaved a few years off my life
expectancy. We escaped onto a smaller road at the first opportunity. A sign
pointed to a Roman thermal bath only 12 kilometres away, and that was all the
encouragement I needed.
Geoagiu Băi was small but lively. Camping was in
someone’s backyard among chickens and dogs, with a long-drop toilet that
redefined the word “rustic.”
Dirt
Roads and the Transylvanian Starter Pack
We continued along a dirt track past villages, farmlands,
cornfields, and vineyards. The countryside was gorgeous — twisting roads,
wooded mountains, scenic rivers — the whole Transylvanian starter pack.
Into
Garlic Country
We were now deep in Transylvania, a place that conjured
images of creepy villagers, wooden crosses, and wolves howling at the moon.
Shockingly, this wasn’t far off. We passed askew graves, wooden crosses, and
bunches of garlic hanging from gates. Childhood-me was thrilled.
The riding was spectacular: dense forests, medieval
towns, and fortresses steeped in legends. Făgăraș, at the foot of the
mountains, came complete with its own fortress — Romania really knows how to
commit to a theme.
Beer
for Breakfast and the Road to Dracula
We attempted to find breakfast, but at 9:30 a.m. it was
apparently far too early for food — though not too early for beer. Locals were happily
drinking at pavement cafés, but when we asked about food, the response was a
baffled “Don’t know at this hour.”
The ride to Bran was beautiful: wooded mountains, raging
rivers, and the promise of Dracula lore. Instead of fangs and fog, we found a campsite
called “Vampire Camping,” which felt like a tourist trap and a warning
simultaneously.
The
Castle, the Count, and the Truth Behind the Myth
We visited Bran Castle and learned its real history.
Built in 1388, it served as a customs office and fortress, perched dramatically
on a cliff. It was used to stop the Ottoman Empire’s expansion and was owned by
many, including Vlad the Impaler — the inspiration for Dracula. Bram Stoker
would have loved the marketing potential.
The
Carpathians and the Great Grocery Fiasco
We cycled over the Carpathians via Bran Pass — a stunning
ride marking the divide between Transylvania and Wallachia. The language
barrier, however, remained undefeated. I bought yeast instead of butter, a
fountain pen without ink instead of a ballpoint, and cream instead of yoghurt.
My shopping record was abysmal.
We stayed in Câmpulung, a historic town full of beautiful
13th‑century buildings.
Glorious
Descents and Royalty by Name Only
The ride to Târgoviște came with a glorious descent. The
town is home to the Chindia Tower, built by Vlad Tepes. We arrived early but
decided to stay rather than push on to Bucharest.
“Pension King” became home for the night. Despite its
regal name, it was located next to a scrapyard and had all the charm one would
expect from such a location.
Surviving
the Capital on Two Wheels
Cycling into Bucharest was hair-raising — a chaotic,
honking, swerving ordeal. A kind taxi driver gave us directions to a campsite
on the opposite side of the city. We couldn’t find it, so we hunted down an
internet café, located the campsite, and then had to cycle all the way back.
Character-building, I suppose.
The campsite was lovely but mosquito-infested. On the
bright side, it had trees.
A closer look at my passport revealed that my Romanian
visa was valid for only 2 days, not 3 months. Who issues a two-day visa? I
decided to deal with it at the border and hope for the best.
Parliament
Palaces, Laundry Day, and Stray Dogs
Casa Alba Campsite was convenient. We did laundry,
shopping, and sightseeing. We visited the massive communist-era Parliament
building with its 1,100 rooms — the world’s second-largest building. Far more
terrifying was learning that over 10,000 people are bitten by stray dogs in
Bucharest each year.
The city was a fascinating mix of communist blocks,
neo-classical buildings, and Art Deco structures with oyster-shell canopies.
The grey high-rise flats were especially striking in their uniform drabness.
Waiting,
Watching, and Wondering If We’ll Ever Leave
I applied for Bulgarian and Turkish visas. Returning to
the campsite, I found it invaded by hundreds of little tents — the Baltic Cycle
group on tour. They mostly spoke Polish, except for one Brit and one New
Zealander.
The Turkish Embassy informed me that I had to apply in my
home country. After phoning my sister Amanda in South Africa, she worked her
magic, and the next day I returned to the embassy. By 5 p.m., I had my visa.
Hallelujah. The Bulgarian visa was also approved.
So
Close to Leaving
At the Hungarian Embassy, a crowd milled about in a
system that defied logic. An official eventually pointed at me, whisked me to
the front, and handed me my visa. Fifteen days granted — good enough.
We cycled to Oltenița, only to discover that the
immigration office on our map did not exist. Romania was determined not to let
us leave.
We met Peter, a Romanian man who invited us to stay in
his tiny wooden shack — two rooms, no bathroom, no kitchen. One could pee in
the garden among the chickens. As for bowel movements… I decided not to think
too hard about it.
The
Ferry, the Passport, and Sweet, Sweet Relief
After breakfast — fresh tomatoes and paprika from Peter’s
garden — we hurried to the border before the vegetables staged a digestive
rebellion. A ferry crossed the Danube to Silistra.
I was nervous about my two-day Romanian visa, now
overstayed by eighteen days. I handed over my passport, they disappeared behind
a screen, reappeared, and returned it without a word. I nearly wept with
relief.
Bulgaria immediately presented a new challenge: Cyrillic
script. Also, Bulgarians nod for “no” and shake their heads for “yes.” I braced
myself for a spectacular series of misunderstandings.
Epilogue: Leaving
the Land of Legends
Romania had been everything at once — chaotic, beautiful, baffling, mythic, exhausting, and unforgettable. I arrived chasing childhood fantasies and left with a far richer, stranger, more human story. And garlic. Always garlic.
