Pedalling Through Romania's Myths and Mountains
5 ROMANIA
959 Km – 19 Days
30 June – 17 August 2007
MAP
PHOTOS
FLIP-BOOK
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. This kind 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 the 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, which was now 18 days overstay. 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.
