The Carpathian Tour - 7000 km in Central & Eastern Europe
 

DAY 1: EDAM - WURZBURG: A pint of heaven

There's no better time to set off for a 7000 km trip to Romania than during a massive heatwave. Or so I must have led myself to believe at one point. There's no other reasonable explanation why I would be sitting here cooking away in 40 degrees Celsius, in a three-piece motorcycle suit, on a piping hot motorcycle swiveling over molten tarmac. Right? Right.

When I'd left home, the weather had still been reasonably mild. There were some thunderstorms predicted over southern Germany, but I had a cunning plan. I wouldn't take the usual route over Frankfurt, instead I would stay on my way east to Kassel, and then swiftly drop down south to Wurzburg. A few 100 extra kilometers, not worth making a fuzz about.

And here's me, somewhere south of Kassel, riding through the scenic hills of Hessen, burning my skin off. Well, somewhat. I'd forgotten that thunderstorms tend to push hot air out in front of them. Since Kassel I'd definitely remembered. I'd also remembered that it would have been useful to get my cooling vest out about a 100 km's ago, at the last stop. No use now. I decided to hold out for a few km's more. That thunderstorm would surely show up at one point

It took another 100 km's of sweating and swearing, and then it did. The rain came down like a waterfalll and I couldn't see a thing. No mind. The ice-cold raindrops running down my back were a blessing, at least this once. The thunder and lightning were a bit less comforting. But I managed to escape the worst of it, by hiding under the roof of an abandoned gas station. The roads smoked, as the rain turned to steam on the hot asphalt. When the rain lessened and I rode off again, the mist took a while to clear.

Final relief came in the form of a 400 year old inn called Gasthof Zum Schwan. Located in Franconia near the Bavarian border, in a small village near Wurzburg, the Swan has all the features that make the best German inns so fabulous: a cosy old room, a great menu (go for the impeccable Pfifferlingen steak) and last but not least, a freshly drawn pint of Weizenbier. Which is, for all matters, about as close to heaven as you can get after a day like this. Sitting out in front and sipping at another Weizen, I watched the next thunderstorm coming in. Let it roll.

Great start. Looking forward to this

You have a great turn of phrase - looking forward to more.

I got caught in a thunderstorm on the autobahn a few weeks ago - zero visibility, couldn't even see the side or the central reservation. Lunatic German cars going nearly as fast as me. But I was chasing a ferry so no Gasthof or beer for me.

Good start, liking your writing style
Weizen beer is great, especially the Hefe Weizen, enjoy

Wayne

My trip towards Hungary in June started in poor weather, which never really improved. Eventually I headed south to Croatia and France and back homewards to UK. Meanwhile at home they were enjoying an unseasonable heatwave, and since I've been home the poor weather has continued to keep me company. Completely agree about the Bavarian hospitality though, one of the few enjoyable parts of a rather disappointing tour ;)

DAY 2: WURZBURG - MELK: The solace of Habsburg
 

When I left for Austria this morning, I realised I had taken this particular route before. I was following the path of my own footsteps about 30 years ago. Well, the path of the wheels of the Euroline bus that regularly took me to Budapest in the early nineties, when I used to be living in Hungary. In fact, I crossed paths with that same Eurolines bus today, just before the border crossing in Passau. Waived to the bus driver, which he seemed to appreciate. Funny thing, I never actually layed eyes on that particular border crossing until now: we always used to pass it in the dead of night.

During my time in Hungary I got acquinted with what one of the English expats described as 'the solace of Habsburg'. He was referring to the cafe culture in the old Austro-Hungarian empire in general, and to its particular proponents in Szeged, where we were living. We partook of the solace of Habsburg everyday during lunchtime, meaning we bought ourselves the best possible lunches (dirt-cheap at the time) and enjoyed them on the balcony terrace of the Cafe Vienne. We thought ourselves to be very refined. Lucky bastards we were.

Well, crossing the Danube on my way to Lower Austria, I felt I was definitely in need of some Habsburgian solace again. The day was heating up to 36 degrees Celsius, the asphalt had already reached 55 degrees as the Austrian police sign next to the highway drily told me, and I had managed to put on my cooling vest backwards. The magnificent view towards the Alps on my right was somewhat lost on me. After a gruelling 200 km, I consoled myself with a molten icecream from the bottom of the freezer at the petrol station. No Habsburgian romance there, but it did the trick.

Arriving at my hotel for the night, I was a bit nonplussed to find the doors shut and no-one there. The hotel was closed for the season. During the summer holidays? A bit odd. A quick call assured me that there was indeed a room made available to me, but that I would have the place to myself. Somewhat like the hotel from The Shining, Alright, no problem, we go with the flow.

Imagine my surprise when, late in the evening, a few other guests turned up, Lithuanians who seemed to be lost in time, space and language. Confusion reigned. In the end, I decided to act as hotel manager myself and showed them a room. A few hours later I was awakened by some noise coming from the kitchen. When I went to take a look, there was nobody there, but spread out on the table lay some paperwork. Which turned out to be a hotel bill for me, with an 50% price hike! Somewhat irate, I sent a message to the ghostly hotel owner. Though seemingly very busy in his spiritual realm, he did manage to convey to me that it was all a misunderstanding. Which was the least he could do, considering it took him until 2 a.m. to come up with a reply.

After my delayed sleep being cut short by Lithuanians banging on pots and pans in the kitchen to achieve their breakfast, I decided now was the time to evoke the solace of Habsburg. I rode down to the town of Melk, put the bike on the town square and sat down at the first available table of the Cafe Madar. A Viennese breakfast please! And so it was promptly served up, by a waiter in a pinguin suit. The eggs benedicte were perfection, the coffee beyond compare. Solace indeed!

Why did I go to the town of Melk? It's a gentle historic town that basically owes its existence to the huge Benedictine monastery that has been sitting there on a steep hill in its centre since 1089, in some form or other. Its current incarnation dates from the 18th century and is considered to be a prime example of Austrian Baroque. What mainly drew me there, was its library, which is said to contain more than 100.000 books, many from medieval times, or earlier.

It was definitely a magnificent place to visit. Though there were a lot of tourists groups (the busses from Vienna unload them in the morning), their number was made insignificant by the size and grandeur of the building complex. I made straight for the library and waited a while for the guided tours to pass by. And then, just for a minute, I had the place to myself. Thousands of historic books in elegantly designed cabinets, a painted ceiling to rival the Italian pallazo's and the sun shining through rounded windows. A glorious dream. And a moment I would wish to carry with me into eternity.

I had a situation like that in Finland last year, chasing the ferry to Germany. I arrived at ferry port completely soaked, only to be made waiting 2 hours in the rain. Glad I took some whiskey with me....

You're right, the weather has been pretty crazy. Never expected it to be such a dominant factor during the trip, especially at the end, when I revisited Bavaria. I'll write some more about it later on.

Szeged is a nice town, I was there in Nov 2015 during my Balkans trip when the winter market was on.
I thought the town was very picturesque

Wayne

Szeged is nice indeed, though a little bit less rough around the edges nowadays. In the 90s, during the Yugoslav war, it was a hub for smugglers and you could buy old Soviet machine guns at the market on the other side of the Tisza river. Never needed one luckily...

DAY 3/4: MELK - BANSKA BYSTRICA: From 61 to 52
 

Coming in from Lower Austria, the main highway brings you into Slovakia over the Danube river and into its floodplain. It's a flat expanse that almost feels unnatural when you come in from the Alps. The road either takes you to Budapest of Bratislava. I chose the latter.

It was sweltering. According to a digital sign next to the road, the temperature on the asphalt was now 61 degrees Celsius. I was worrying about my tires. I had put on some Anakee Wilds for the gravel roads ahead. The heat seemed to get to them. The back tire felt like chewing gum.

Then suddenly a panoramic view on Bratislava. It's a city that has developed like quicksilver in the last 20 years. The skyline is filled with gleaming skyscrapers, looming over the floodplain. Impressive, but also somewhat unsettling.

I had no business in Bratislava, having my sights set on the Tatra mountains. So I passed by the city and rode on into the countryside of central Slovakia. Now there was a sight for sore eyes. Rolling hills of green and gold, with a dash of red-roofed farms and villages here and there. The fields of wheat, stretching to the horizon, were close to harvest, but yet to be disturbed.

Slowly, in the west, the first mountains started appearing. Not like the dramatic peaks of the Alps, but lower and ostensibly older. The highway slowly took me in their direction. As I closed in on the town of Banska Bystrica, I entered the first forested valleys. The temperature finally dropped to an acceptable level. The back tire seemed to regain its strength somewhat. I certainly did.

I'd rented an apartment in the outskirts of Banska Bystrica from Ivan, whose girlfriend had turned the lower floor of their house into a wonderful little treasure cove. It was definitely comfortable and I decided to stay an extra day. A bit of rest would do me good. Ivan was happy that I liked the place and gave me a bottle of his own home-brewn slivovica, which was a tad on the strong side, "probably 52%". Well, that would do me good as well.

Having sufficiently recovered, the next day I decided to take on the High Tatra. Straight out of Banska Bystrica I rode up the first available mountain pass. Cue a few fabulous hours of unadulterated two-wheeled joy, swooping from one curve into the other, racing up to the peaks and sliding back down to the valleys like a hawk. Pure motorcycle heaven.

Then I took the road to Dolny Kubin, up in the north. I wanted to see Orava Hrad, a castle perched high on a pillar of rock. It turned out be as beautiful as reputed, but also swarming with tourists. With so much motorcycle fun to be had, I didn't see the need to line up for a crowded group tour, so I continued on my way through the mountains.

South of the mining town of Ruzomberok, I happened upon a small road leading into the mountain range. Could I, should I? I would. So up the road I went, and though it wasn't in a great condition (welcome in the land of Potholia), it turned out to lead to a very interesting destination. Up on the mountain lay the village of Vlkolinec.

Vlkolinec is famous because people end up spitting their teeth out as they try to pronounce its name. Sorry, bad joke. No, it's actually one of the last mountain villages with original Slovakian wooden houses, and it's a lovely little place, very rustic and welcoming. For a small fee I got to explore it. The village is still inhabited and I understand why, it has an indelible charm to it. The local inn serves up some great Harul'a brundzou, potato pancakes with sheep's cheese. Truly very enjoyable.

Yes, I could get used to this. The Tatra has a lot to offer to an unsuspecting visitor. I hardly met any other foreigners (except at Orava castle, where they;'d been shipped in by tour bus from Bratislava). But for me, it's the good life.

Now give me some more of that Tvrdsie Napoje, and a bit of Slovnaft for the bike, please! jeiger beer

DAY 5/6: BANSKA BYSTRICA - PRESOV - DUKLA: Andy Warhol is a Ruthenian
 

My itinerary would take me to eastern Slovakia today: "Day 5, east to the border", my notes said. That was all good and well, but I wasn't willing to let the mountains go just yet. So I jumped on the bike and took a detour to Brezno. I spent the morning racing up and down the unnamed roads in the mountains there. When that was out of my system, I made my way up to the top of the Vysna Boca pass, where I found myself a pleasant little nook at a mountain lodge with a nice view over the Tatra and a decent coffee to enjoy it with. That got things sorted.

Then it was time to finally leave the playground behind. There were some fairly nice places to visit further up the road. So I came down from the mountains, maybe somewhat despondent, but also eager to honor the spirit in which this journey was conceived (explore!). I pursued my way east, along the valley between the High and Low Tatra ranges.

The valley makes for a 100 km corridor between the Danube region and the plains of Upper Slovakia and Ukraine. As such it has a strategic significance for those who want to move from the Eurasian plains to central and western Europe, or the other way around. Unsurprisingly that has led to an endless amount of warfare, which has plagued this region for the last 2000 years or so. A major witness to this has been Spissky Hrad, a grey-white castle on top of a lonely hill in the middle of the valley. It's an imposing structure that has put up with about 1000 years of armed struggle. No wonder it's a ruin now. In Slovakia the castle has been perceived as a symbol for the country as a whole. I can attest that, at this point in time, Slovakia luckily is in better shape than Spissky Hrad, but let's not forget there's a major war going on just over the border...

Then again, you wouldn't know about anyting of that, if you had to go by the gentle nature of Presov, which was my next destination. Presov is a quiet little university town, tucked away in the Tatra foothills, with pretty pastel coloured houses, a neat square with flowers and a few cosy cafes and restaurants. Apparently that was exactly what I needed, because I decided to stick around for an extra day, dawdling around the square, listening to some local music and generally being very much non-productive. I think it's called a holiday.

At the Avenue 7 Penzion, I had found a place to park my bike safely and an hotel owner to listen to my travel stories in the worst possible German I could muster. Stefan, in turn, told me about the sights around Presov (in much better German). This gave me the necessary impetus to stop dawdling and start exploring again. Venture north, up to the Polish border, Stefan said; you will definitely move beyond pastels and flowers.

So next day I did venture north, in the direction of Bardejov. At first, things seemed fairly inconspicuous. Lovely hills, a winding road, quaint little villages. I stopped over in the village of Hervartov, which is home to the oldest wooden church in this region. This region, by the way, being Ruthenia, home to the Ruthenian people, somewhat related to the Ukranians but mainly in search of their own country. Which is basically everbody's passion in this part of the world, but more of that later. The wooden church was a true marvel. The local gatekeeper opened it up for me, and I was introduced into a quiet, intimate temple of dimmed light. The walls were painted in bright colours, depicting scenes from the Bible. Centerpiece was an imaginative painting of George and the Dragon, replete with the skulls of the dragon's other (would-be) slayers.

I continued on my way, being suitably impressed. But a dark undertone had been introduced, and more would come my way. As I said before, this region has been an anvil on which the powers of the east and west hammered out their differences of opinion. In the final stages of World War II, the Russians decided to take the fight to Nazi Germany by way of Ruthenia. A major tank battle ensued in the hills south of the Polish town of Dukla, on the border with Slovakia. The German panzers were duly destroyed by the sheer mass of the Red Army's tank divisions. The last vestiges of the Slovakian army were crushed in between. The area is strewn with the remains of destroyed tanks, and with monuments to commemorate the loss of so many lives. Though the flowers are blooming there again, it's a saddening sight, even more so if you consider that not so far away, similar battles are being fought today in similar hills, with similar outcomes no doubt.

I decided to ride around Ruthenia some more. A small road through the hills took me through bear country (none in sight though). I crossed the border with Poland. And then I rode on to the town of Dukla itself, where I made a small stop-over. There I was accosted by three Polish motorcyclists. Was I doing this all by myself, they inquired. Yes, I answered, just like I made a solo trip in Scandinavia last year. Well, they had been to Greece and former Yugoslavia together, they said, but they would never think of doing it alone. 'Then again, you are quite young', they added somewhat dismissively.

I took the route back to Slovakia and made my way through the green hills. It's a lush, quiet landscape and it seems largely unexplored, as I met no other riders, or any travellers for that matter. The hills are perfect for motorcycling though, and I made a mental note to maybe explore it further on a later occasion. That goes for the entirety of Slovakia by the way. It's really a great destination, if you take your time to visit the backroads.

My final stop in Ruthenia was the village of Medzilaborce, near the Ukraine border. Andy Warhol's parents grew up here, before they emigrated to America. Both his parents were of Ruthenian descent, like most of the original inhabitants. His mother was quite religious and a regular visitor of the Ostro-Catholic church in the village (yes, Ostro-Catholicism is an actual religious denomination, look it up on the Interweb if you're interested). After relocating to Pittsburgh, she continued to visit church regularly and took little Andy with her. Apparently it's where his fascination with icons came from.

Next to the original church that his mother frequented, now stands the 'Andy Warhol Museum'. Well, only for a few days more, or maybe hours even. It's literally being demolished right now. The museum hasn't been able to weather the Covid pandemic, and the village doesn't seem to have any ambition left to keep it going. Penzion Andy across the road is boarded up.

So what did I think of my little excursion to the north, Stefan asked when I returned to my own penzion. Very interesting, but also a bit intense, I replied. Stefan nodded knowingly.

DAY 7/8: PRESOV - BAIA MARE - SIGHETU MARMATIEI, Hot and Merry
 

As intense as the day before was (read all about in the last report about Presov), the next day I had to pucker up: I had 600 km's ahead of me. I would leave Slovakia, find my way through the northeast of Hungary and cross into Romania. I was hoping for a smooth ride.

It did start out that way. When I had passed the border south of Kosice, I ended up on the brand new highway to Debrecen. I was moving so fast that I got ahead of schedule, so I made a stop at the aptly named 'Angel Station'. After some coffee and a piece of one of those legendary Hungarian pies (if you've never experienced those, buy a ticket to Budapest now), I got on the road again with a big smile.

However, the pristine asphalt was soon replaced by something more closely resembling a newly formed lava field. Cracks the size of continental fault lines and potholes as big as craters on the moon slowed the traffic down to walking speed. Cars around me crept up the embankments to avoid the worst spots. I had to adjust my GSA settings to off-road. Didn't mind that, always in for a bit of fun.

The closer I got to the border, the worse the road became. The route to Romania clearly does not have a warm place in the heart of the Hungarian ministry for infrastructure. After about 100 km's of this, the game was up: all traffic had definitively come to a halt, resulting in a long line of trucks and lorries all the way to the border post. Romania isn't part of the Schengen area, so border controls are still common. The line clearly hadn't moved for a while. Truck drivers were sitting by the side of the road, playing cards or enjoying a meal.

Waiting in line, I noticed the inside of my right leg started to .... well, burn! A quick look at the dashboard informed me the engine temperature had reached boiling point. Just at that moment, a border guard walked up, demanded my passport and instructed the engine to be cut off. I stalled as long as possible, to allow some time for the engine temperature to stabilize (oil-cooled, so engine has to run), but to no avail. Explaining was no use, as the border guard didn't seem to understand much of it. In the end, the guard checked my passport and gave it back to me with a VERY disdainful expression on his face. Then he told me to get out of there. I happily obliged.

Riding on to Baia Mare, I remembered that yesterday I had been a bit suspicious about the petrol that I had the GSA filled up with in some village in eastern Slovakia. It smelled off, and the bike had had problems starting up that morning. Could it have caused this as well? Don't know, but the engine has normalized after filling her up with some decent new petrol and the problem hasn't returned since.

Anyhow, I had safely arrived in Maramures. This region is where the Carpathian mountains first cross into Romania from Ukraine. And it's known for its staunchly rural character and traditions. So after a good night's sleep I jumped on my bike and headed off into the foothills of the Karpaty, to go looking for some of that authenticity.

It turned out to be a one of the highlights of this tour. I rode through the villages of Budesti, Breb and Calinesti, and they were incredibly scenic and sweet, with their many coloured wooden houses, finely carved gates, little orchards, horse carts and very gentle people in traditional dress. As I passed by, everybody waived and smiled, some people stuck up their thumb. I was pretty stunned and a little moved, to be honest. It was such a beautiful experience, that I repeated my ride the next day. With the same result.

It hasn't been uniformly like that though. In the bigger towns of Baia Mare and Sighetu, the atmosphere was markedly different. When I parked my bike and sat down for a cup of coffee at Sighetu, a very suspicious-looking guy sat down at the table in front of me, staring me straight in the face, evidently trying to work out how to get something from me. It didn't faze me and I calmly proceeded to drink my coffee, after which he shuffled off. On another occasion, while I was having a meal at the central square in Baia Mare, two young sporty looking types at the next table struck up a conversation with each other in Romanian about how 'huge' I was and if they would take me on. What they didn't expect, was that I turned around and said 'maybe eat a little first, eh?' They weren't interested after that anymore.

Generally though, people were kind and I'd been made to feel welcome here. So I explored some more. In the afternoon, I went to visit a place called the Merry Cemetery. It's indeed a cemetery, where all the graves are marked by beautifully painted crosses in blue. Each shows a portrait of the deceased in his or her former prime, busy with a favourite pastime. So you get Mihai with his fast car and Elena with her finest sowing machine. If I were to end up here, I would undoubtely be pictured with my GSA. The Merry Cemetery is a popular tourist attraction and a big market has sprung up around it. Interestingly, there is another cemetery a few kilometers down the road, where the victims of communist workcamps are buried. Though its presence is signposted all over Maramures, there was nobody there. Seems we prefer our cemeteries to be fun.

But to end this report on a 'merrier' note: all things considered, Maramures has impressed me with some of the most wonderful places I've seen so far on this tour. I would definitely visit again, if given the opportunity.

DAY 9/10: HIGH CARPATHIA - TRANSRARAU - BICAZ, Flight of the eagle
 

After a wonderful few days in central Maramures, I left the foothills of the Carpathians behind me, to journey onwards to the Rodna and Calimani mountain ranges. These sit on the border with Moldavia (the Romanian province, not the country beyond that).

I first took the opportunity to pay a visit to some of the more eastern villages in Maramures. It was Sunday morning, and everybody was out in their best Sunday dress. That meant the traditional colourful skirts and headdresses for the women and girls, and the farmers blouses and black hats for the men. When I came up to the village of Barsana, I was lucky enough to run into the celebration of Sunday mass at the local monastery. It took place outside, in the morning sun, in the lush and wonderfully decorated monastery grounds. Flowers everywhere. A large crowd of probably a 1000 of more, had gathered to hear the priests speak and the choir sing. Orthodox mass is not unlike Catholic mass, but even more beautifully presented. It was impossible not to be moved by its magnificence.

After this I travelled onward to Prislop pass (1400 m). I joined the road over the mountains at Moisei. Attempting to find a decent lunch there proved to be fruitless, so I rode on to the town of Borsa. The sweetness of Maramures was definitely behind me, being replaced by a more familiar Alpine vibe, with pine forests and skilifts. Borsa maybe wasn't as beautiful as the villages in the valleys below, but it was certainly more practical. After a satisfying lunch and a friendly chat at La Boddega, I had regained all the necessary energy to go up Prislop. It's not a difficult ascent, but the trucks and lorries made it complicated to keep the pace. After the highest point I was glad to have the road almost by myself. Swaying through the Rodna mountains, my 'mental jukebox' got to work again - read all about that in last year's travel report about my tour around the Arctic Circle in Scandinavia: https://new.horizonsunlimited.com/ts...-2022-10000-km. I was singing all the way to Carlibaba.

NB: If you want to know what was playing on the jukebox, I've made a new playlist on Spotify to give you an impression. Check it out at:
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3Q...urce=copy-link

When I arrived at my destination for the day, the spa town of Vatra Dornei, I was happy to park the GSA in the flower-filled garden of the Alexandra hotel and have a good lie-down. Slept like a rose.

The next morning I got myself some breakfast at Pico's mini-market (basically an old-style, overly stacked grocery store like you find all over Romania, and which I love dearly). Then it was onwards into Moldavia province, or more specifically the Bucovina area. Bucovina, as well as being a historically important region that straddles both Moldavia and parts of the Ukraine, is famous for its painted monasteries. I went to visit the Voronets monastery, which has richly detailed frescoes outside and in. Most impressive is the fresco on the western wall, about 7 meters high, which depicts the Final Judgment. It's been called the Sistine Chapel of the East, and though it doesn't possess the finesse of Michelangelo's work, it's certainly very evocative. While the blessed and holy are sent to heaven, the demons are waiting by the scales, to take care of the sinners that are not deemed worthy of ascension. The devil sits down below in hell to patiently receive his share of the deal. It's made very clear you don't want to end up there.

Though it's definitely worth exploring, I didn't venture further into Bucovina; that will have to wait for another trip in the (hopefully near) future. Instead I took the road south, through the Rarau mountains. This route, called the TransRarau, had been on my priority list for this tour. It's not as well known as the Transfagarasan, but that's all for the better, because it means having one of the best mountain roads of Europe all by yourself. It's still quite rough at places and definitely takes some effort and skill to navigate. So I came down the mountain feeling pretty exhausted. Nevertheless it was one of the highlights of this trip.

Then I followed the road to Bicaz. This ended up skirting the eastern shore of Lacul Bicaz, a wonderful green blue-ish, relatively big mountain lake, that would not look out of place in Switzerland. And it proved to be another thrilling ride. Man, how lucky I felt, shwooshing through curve after curve and enjoying the magnificent views. An eagle flew out over the lake and decided to join me for a while, following the same path. Glory.

I arrived pretty late at the Pensiunea Aurelia, probably looking a bit, let's say, over the hill. They asked me if I would like to enjoy a cold beer while getting some rest on the balcony overlooking the Bicaz valley. Well, if you insist...

DAY 11: BICAZ - CEAHLAU, Mac and dust
 

Having only caught a glimpse of the Bicaz area yesterday, I decided to stay on for an extra day. It certainly helped that Penziuna Aurelia turned out to be a very comfortable base of operations. Host Jenni and her family made sure that every time I appeared on the balcony or returned from a trip, there were all kinds of treats waiting for me. The coffee and cookies (cu mac, sweetened with poppy seed) alone were enough reason to never leave the house.

But I wasn't to be persuaded, as hard as they tried. I wanted to explore the surrounding mountains, specifically the Ceahlau Massif, which was right on our doorstep. So I headed out to find a cross-country route that would take me over the range.

First, I visited the Bicaz Gorge. This very narrow ravine through the granite rocks has a road running through it and is a popular tourist destination. Those places are usually not my cup of tea, but Bicaz Gorge is impressive all the same, the walls of the ravine running up to over 300 meters high. I almost bought the t-shirt.

Next stop down the road was the Lacul Rosu, or Red Lake. Apparently this mountain lake colours red because of the blood that was spilled when a picknick party was brutally disturbed by falling rocks somewhere in the 1700's. That tragic story may well be true (is it?), but the lake nevertheless turned out to be a somewhat underwhelming experience for me. It's a small lake. More of a pond. Which is green, not red*. You can row a small boat on it, if you want. Have some fun. And stuff.
I rode on.

* (A little bird told me that the lake usuallly IS red, but depending on the light and/or season it sometimes loses this quality. For the sake of it, I chose to believe this bird. Tweet tweet.)

'So you want to have fun', the mountain said to me while I was racing on. 'Well, I'll give you some'. And then it threw me down to the town of Georgheni. It was so hot and dusty there, I immediately started to cough. And then I almost flew over my steering bar. Georgheni, it turns out, is the official European Pothole Capital 2023. They have about 4000 of them, all proudly laid out on main street for every visitor to enjoy. It certainly makes for an entertaining ride, somewhat like an 80's video game, where you have to evade all the space invaders. Or their blast craters, more like. I coughed all my way through it.

'Is that the best you can do', I shouted to the mountain as I roared my way down the dusty foothills. 'Of course not', said the mountain. A small road to the right opened up. Temptation. Yes, please!

So I took the bait and made my way past sleepy villages and increasingly steep valleys and ravines. And then, the road stopped. Well, the asphalt did. The road serpentined on, over gravel and rock. I saw some jeeps disappearing in the distance, a trail of dust behind them. I can do that, I thought. The GSA's got the right tires for the job (I've been testing them for the Arctic trip next year). So away I went and had my fun, slipping and sliding all over the place. I jotted past the jeeps and took a run over the pass. Let the dust blow in the wind! :funmeteryes:

After that, I renewed my effort to find a way over the Ceahlau. After some searching I found a route at the side of the mountain on the western shore of lake Bicaz. The trees were densely packed, almost like a rain forest. I didn't encounter any bears, but I wouldn't have been surprised if I had, it's bear country here. In the end, all the effort was rewarded with a majestic view over the lake and a sip of that slivovica from Banska Bystrica.

An serpentine road down the mountain delivered me right back on the doorstep of Penziuna Aurelia. The day had heated up to 35 celsius, but a cold beer on the balcony solved that. Mission accomplished.

TARCAU - MIERCURIA CIUC - PREDEAL, Slippin' & Slidin'
 

After my dusty day in the Ceahlau I was in need of a good night's sleep. No such luck. Ten or so mosquitos decided to keep me awake all through the night. I valiantly tried to fight them off with the Georgheni tourist magazine (take a selfie with your favourite pothole!), but it was to no avail. I finally gave up and fell into a coma. It took a full pot of the Aurelia's best coffee to bring me back to a somewhat conscious state in the morning.

Which was necessary, because I had to make my way south. This was to be my last day in the mountains: tomorrow I'd make my way to Bucharest, to meet up with my wife and daughter. So after a last coffee injection I saddled up the iron horse and rode out. Jenni and family waived goodbye from the door. They have been so kind. When you travel, you always hope that you'll meet decent people like them. Thank you everybody at Penziuna Aurelia!

I'd decided on a route over the Tarcau mountains, as it would take me south quicker. It turned out to be another beautiful road through small villages with friendly, smily inhabitants. Those mountain villages may be far from the center of things, but they definitely have a strong and vital culture, evidenced by the well-kept houses and gardens. The roads are mostly paved now, but I was still the only foreign visitor, as far as I could see.

Mostly paved, I said. With one, pretty huge, exception. To get to the other side of the mountain range I had to take on a gravel road that soon turned out to be, well, without hardly any gravel left at all. Up to the mountain pass it was mostly sand, which the morning rain had turned into a soft mud. I like a challenge, but now the GSA was fully packed. This would take some effort and control.

So the GSA and I went for it, with that strange mix of caution and boldness that seems to be necessary for these kinds of things. We slowly progressed through the mud and then came up to some rocky sections, which were doable enough.
Of course it all got a bit hairy when the road became steeper towards the mountain pass. The hardest part came when I had to cross the steep muddy path on the rain side of the mountain. A tough game of keeping up the speed without losing traction on the loose wet surface. I managed to pull it off by focusing sharply on where the stony, least slippery parts were. But only just.

After that came the descent, a challenge in itself because the back was constantly on the verge of breaking out. The fact that we were now fully in bear country added to the ... uh ... excitement. I spontaneously broke out in song, something along the lines of a Beethoven opera (if such a thing exists). Bears don't like horrible noises, so I estimated that my vocal talents would guarantee to scare them off. And indeed, no bears were seen. We did meet a very startled farmer though; he's probaby still getting over it.

Then it was on to Miercuria Ciuc, a dusty town in the same vein as Georgheni, minus the potholes though (there can only be one champion!). Leaving the mountains behind, I'd entered the Transsylvanian plain. This is the region of the Szekely or Secui, an ethnic group related to the Hungarians, and possibly to Attila the Hun. I had lunch in Miercuria Ciuc, after working out the menu in both Romanian and Hungarian; luckily I know a bit of both.

In the meanwhile the sky had darkened and the temperature had risen dramatically. That could mean only one thing; a thunderstorm was coming. One look at the rain radar app (very useful while travelling!) confirmed this, so I rushed to the bike and sped out of town. If I was quick, I could make it to the town of Predeal before the storm would hit.

As I rode south, I could see the storm gathering to the right of me. The sky became black and strong winds started to push in from the west. Close to Brasov, I was almost blown off the road. But the storm itself didn't catch up with me just yet.

I made a short pitstop, and was accosted by a guy who came driving up in a battered Subaru. He was an engineer, he said, and very interested in boxer engines (which the GSA of course has, and the Subaru as well). We chatted for a while and exchanged some technical advice. Then he rode off, shouting out of the window that I would always have a friend in Romania.

I rushed on past Brasov (nice city, but no time) and into the Carpathian mountains once again, upwards to Predeal. And in the final 15 km's or so, I ran into roadworks. Dangerous roadworks, at least for a motorcycle. They had scraped off the top layer of the asphalt, leaving behind a grated, slick surface that motorcycle tires can hardly handle. Extremely difficult to ride up a steep mountain road in such a situation. So I took it very slowly, with a long line of honking, impatient cars behind me. After half an hour of this I arrived in Predeal as the impromptu leader of a very frustrated caravan. Well, safety first.
Moreover, I had managed to stay just ahead of the thunderstorm. It broke over the mountains when I arrived at the Brad hotel.

So here I am, in my hotel room, sitting by the window and looking at all the lightning and thunder going on. It's the same destructive storm that hit northern Italy the day before, they say. I'm relieved it didn't hit me.

Must have been stressed being the impromptu leader of a caravan!

How long did all the cars follow you?

bier

For about half an hour. I tried to let a few cars pass by, but the road was too narrow because of the roadworks. Yeah, it was a bit stressful, but mostly because of the slippery road surface and the uncoming storm. It may have been a bit too slow for the cars, but they were safe and sound, while I had to be verrrrrry careful. So safety first, comfort later :)

I hear you bud!

:scooter:

DAY 13/20, BUCURESTI, Spirit of Bucharest
 

I've just come in from an exhausting ride down the Walachian plain, to the town of Ramnicu Valcea, in the foothills of the southern Carpathians. I'd started out in the early afternoon from Bucharest Airport (Otopeni), where I had said goodbye to my wife and daughter after a week's stay in the Romanian capital. I'd picked up the GSA at ParkingBlue, where the manager had kindly offered to have the bike parked in his garden (!) for the week - great service and the bike was in pristine condition.

When I'd left the dusty outskirts of the city behind me, it was already 40 degrees Celsius. Then I'd spend an hour trying to find the exit to the northwest and some wind to cool me down. No such luck, traffic jams ruled the streets. It had taken me another hour to find my way around the roadworks which are endemic to the Bucharest ringroad. The temperature had reached 43 degrees Celsius. In the shade.

Racing through the plains, I'd found a groove dealing with the heat and the blowdrying breeze. Only to find new roadworks and a long line of trucks all the way to my destination. After 70 km of traffic jams, I was well and truly cooked. Marinated chicken on wheels, anyone?

Well, I've survived to tell the tale, obviously. I think I have Bucuresti/Bucharest to thank for that. Since I'd arrived in the city a week ago, it had been 35 degrees C and up. Mild summer weather, as the locals would call it. That continued all through the week, so I suppose I got used to it, being marinated an 'all.

Having sone decent summer vibes was okay anyway, because I was there to meet up with my wife Monica and my daughter Ava, so we could have some time to relax. Bucharest certainly provides for that, with all the wonderful (outdoor) restaurants and cafe's. Our friends Adi and Vlad and their parents had generously provided a great place to stay, for which they have our eternal thanks. As we slided into a rhythm of spending warm evenings in the old city and meeting up with old friends, I was glad to finally have made it all this way after 4000 km's - those mountain roads sure do sure make you work for it.

I've been coming to Bucharest regularly for 9 years now, mainly because it's Monica's hometown but also because I love its spirit. Newcomers might find the place to be a bit disorderly and 'intense', but if you stick around, you'll soon find out that there is a warm heart beating under it all. Humanity shines through the cracks. Moreover, it has the energy of a city in transformation. In those 9 years I've seen a steady renewal of the city's face, first in separate buildings, now in streets and avenues. Formerly know as the Paris of the East, now the old lady is slowly revealing a new look, mostly in evidence on the Calea Victioriei. It's lively, chic and exciting. I love it.

On that particular avenue, we revisited Capsa, the legendary bistro pattissier. Founded in the second half of the 19th century and staunch survivor of two world wars and the communist era, it still provides the best cakes in town and the genteel ambiance to best munch on them. We were glad to see it has survived the covid pandemic as well, though they don't serve dinner anymore.

One other thing that had changed, to our surprise, was the name of Bucharest's most famous hotel. The Intercontinental has now been turned into - The Grand. That may sound, well, grand, but I feel it hardly does justice to the importance of the place. It was here that the news of the people's revolution of 1989 really found its way to the rest of the world. While outside demonstrators were fighting the Ceausescu regime, the international journalists who were cooped up in the Intercontinental, witnessed it all and duly reported it all over the globe. We spent some time in the old hotel bar, all green marble and late modernist suave. The name change apparently has been a result of (what else?) the covid pandemic; the mother company has reorganised because of financial trouble. Hmm. It doesn't seem like the best of ideas. I don't know of a place that more truly lived up to its original name.

There's so much more to say about Bucharest and I don't want to dwell on the old tropes. For something new and energetic, visit the revitalized bar district of Lipscani. Or enjoy a summer's evening at one of the new sidewalk cafe's behind the Atheneum. Go find out for yourself, dammit!

For now, I've left the hustle and bustle of Bucuresti behind me again. Sitting here at sundown in the garden of my hotel in Ramnicu Valcea, I'm sipping my beer while gazing at the purple and orange peaks of the Cozia mountain range. I'm planning to spend a few more days in the Carpathian mountains. It will be the final leg of my Carpathian Tour, and I'm going to enjoy it!

DAY 21/22: RAMNICU VALCEA - DEVA, Call of the Crickets
 

It has been good to be back in the mountains, even though it was for a short while. Not only because it brings the heat down for a bit, but also because of the rhythm. The rhythm of searching my way through the valleys, climbing up to the passes, swaying down through the curves and repeating it all again, if so desired. Riding through seldomly visited villages, being waved and smiled at by the elderly who sit by their house, being ran after and cajoled by the village youth and being given a stern stare by the local police officer. Seeing grandma with her pink headscarf leading the cow out the gate for a walk, swerving around horse carts that carry whole families or entire seasons of hay, greeting the village priest who is cleaning the porch of his modest church.

I spent a few more days like this in and around the Candrel mountains, between Valachia and Transylvania. I could tell you about the Olt Valley, where the green river Olt meanders through high cliffs between the mountain giants of the southern Carparthians. Or I could tell you about the Transalpina, the highest paved mountain road in Romania which snakes through the narrow valley carved out by the Sebes river in 1001 curves. I won't though. Look it up on the Interweb or, better, just go visit. I'm definitely happy to have been there, and I don't rule out returning there if I can.

I knew these were to be my final km's in the Carpathian mountains. So I took my time exploring the valleys. No particular place to go. I was already where I wanted to be, and I was not in a hurry to leave.

When my wild wanderings were done, I wanted to close the day in style, admiring the views with a cold beer. But when I came down from the Transalpina to the plain of lower Transylvania, the heat returned. No use hanging around in 42 degrees C, so I took the newly built highway to the town of Deva, where I would be staying for the night. I didn't factor in that the highway was in fact so newly built, that they hadn't gotten around to making an exit to Deva yet. So my rush turned into a trawl though the foothills, while being slowly cooked. Yet again.

When I reached Deva, I was pleasantly surprised to find, between the cracks and the rubble of the old town, a small palace of a penziuna. The Casa Mora turned out to be a luxury accomodation, where I could rest my weary bones on a heavily cushioned bed and enjoy the view towards the castle on the hill opposite the old town. After having managed to bring myself to an acceptable temperature again, I spent the evening on the balcony, cold beer in hand and feet resting firmly on the marble tiles.

It was a warm night. The crickets from the neighbouring gardens were chirping like it was their last day on earth. In the distance dogs were barking away without sense. Bugs were dancing around the balcony lights. The cargo trains were sounding their horns while passing through the valley.

The crickets asked me: what's it all good for?
What good is asking a question like that, I replied.

DAY 23/25: DEVA - SZEGED - WIEN - FRANKFURT - EDAM, The final run
 

I left Deva safe in the knowledge that I had done what I had originally set out to do. My tour of the Carpathians was complete and It had been a riveting and satisfying journey. It was time to go home. That would take me about 4 days, 2400 km's in total.

The trip homeward started off easy enough. I took a swerving road out of the Carpathian foothillls. I waived a final goodbye to the mountains and took the turnpike towards the highway to Timisoara. I made ready for a good few hundred kilometers of touring and then rode off on my way to ... well, nowhere. The highway turned out to be broken. As in: not there. Somewhere halfway the asphalt literally ran into a hillside and we (me, some other travellers and plenty of big cargo rigs) were all directed unto a small, banged-up B-road through some seemingly abandoned villages. Everything soon came to a grinding halt. For 20 km's or so we were crawling centimeter-by-centimeter. Which gave me plenty of time to fully appreciate the increasing heat. Hello 40 degrees C, here you are again. Welcome back, burning sun. The back of my neck surely missed you.

After what seemed like ages, we were unceremoniously dumped back on another highway. Well, it actually turned out to be the same highway, that simply continued on the other side of the hills. Apparently those hills are so difficult to overcome for the road-builders that they left a 500 km highway broken up right in the middle because of it. Or maybe the money wasn't available yet to finish it. In any case, the highway on either side is pristine, so the time seems right to 'heal the highway', with a nice tunnel or something. I'm certain it would be much appreciated by many in multiple ways anytime.

I pursued my way unto the border with Hungary. The Carpathian mountains were now well behind me and the puszta was opening up in front of me, the great Pannonian plain. It's a wide, dry landscape, a precursor to the Asian steppe that stretches all the way into Asia. Its golden waves of dry grass and yellow earth brought me in a meditative state. Visions of riding to the Stans and Mongolia. Unlimited horizons ;)

My meditation was suddenly broken up by a generous amount of honking and tooting. About 15 km's before the border, a massive traffic jam had formed. Clearly nothing had moved much in the last few hours. People had started to put up camp next to the road, tradesmen were hawking bottles of water and cheap souvenirs. I was able to make my way to the front through the narrow line of cars and trucks. A lot of people were kind enough to make room for me. Though they must have been waiting in line for hours, I didn't discern any jealousy or ill will.

The line was a truly international phenomenon. License plates were ranging from Mongolia and the Stans of Central Asia to Finland and the Baltic states, through to Saudi Arabia and even Ethiopia. When coming from Asia or the Middle East, this route is arguably the main entry point to Western Europe. And clearly there are a lot of people trying to get through. This endlessly replenished caravan from east to west and back again must be one of the great modern migrations. The ancient silk road was a marvel, but pales in comparison when you think about the numbers of people and goods that travel this route nowadays.

The Hungarian border police are well aware of the significance of their position. They do not choose to be especially welcoming. Dozens of holding cells, with steel bars on the windows, were lined up next to the border post. When I was called up for inspection, the border patrol agent looked me over and shook his head in disapprovement. Then he checked my (EU) passport, sighed and waived me on with a very stern 'Go! Move!'. Fine by me.

The highway to Budapest turned out to be a well-maintained but nevertheless somewhat grim affair. There was hardly any place to stop over. The few places that were available carried the same unwelcoming atmosphere that I had experienced at the border. Overcrowded and dirty, the petrol stations looked like they were barely coping with the pressure. The personnel behaved rude and unpleasant. There were few facilities and what was there, seemed to have broken down long ago.When I'll come over this way again, I'll be sure to take another route. Then again, that probably was the point.

After Budapest, the weather changed dramatically. Out went the heat, in came rain and cold. In a few hours the temperature dropped from 40 C to 12 C. Crossing the border with Austria (which you would hardly notice except for the rusting customs cabins), the situation became worse, with strong gales, rain and hail. I hurried to my hotel near Vienna and was glad to quickly get myself a (very) hot shower. I thought of all the people I met earlier on the border post in the south and wondered how they had gotten on.

The next day I tried to make my way through Austria and then Germany, 700 km's all the way to Frankfurt. It turned out to be one particularly tough ride. First a long line at the German border near Passau. No incoming travellers from the Orient this time, but tourists from Western Europe. It was Black Saturday, the busiest day of the year on the European roads. Chaotic scenes near the border control and at the petrol stations. But with a lot of ill will this time. People blocking each other, shouting and cursing. I was barely able to get out.

After this, the weather turned downright ugly. Rain, cold and hail pestered me all the way to Frankfurt. At one point, near Wurzburg, it started to snow. In high summer! Luckily that cleared soon, but I couldn't go on much longer. In the pouring rain, I searched for a petrol station. I had to urgently top up the petrol, and the engine oil as well. A look on the dashboard told me that I had 15 km's of petrol left. Damn!

I found a petrol station allright, but it turned out the bad weather had cut off all electricity, so no petrol. I quickly put in the necessary oil (in the pouring rain off course) and then rode off into the countryside, searching desperately for petrol. Salvation came in the form of a hamburger restaurant with additional pump. When I had somewhat dried up and recovered, I set off again. Another 100 km's through sleet and rain, slow progress, hands shivering on the grips. It was getting dark when I finally reached the hotel.

I slept it all off in a good night's sleep. And when I woke up, there it was, my final day on the road. The weather still wasn't what it should be (where's that bloody summer gone off to?). But I figured out a way to get around some of the worst of it. A hearty breakfast and then it was off to the Netherlands, where I live.

As I write this, the Dutch border is not too far away. It's time to go home, to my lovely Monica and Ava.

I've got to say, this trip has been a wonderful experience. Through all the dust, sleet and mountain roads, it's been good to be out there again. Oh, I'm missing those mountain roads already! And Slovakia and Romania have shown me so much beauty, friendship and hospitality. I wholeheartedly recommend.

Now it's time to say goodbye. It's been a long looooong road. I can honestly say that I enjoyed it to the full. I hope I was able to share a bit of that with you.

La revedere, Zbohom, Tot ziens, Goodbye!

I enjoyed it
Thanks for sharing

Wayne

Hi people,

Hope you enjoyed my travels in Carpathia. Thanks for all the support!

I'd you like to know more about my other travels, check out my tour in Scandinavia: https://new.horizonsunlimited.com/ts...-2022-10000-km

See you around, hereabouts or out on the road! :mchappy: