When in Romania, do as the Romany do...
We headed up into the mountains this week and found a picture-postcard village called Rimetea. As well as being stupidly beautiful it is also an odd little Hungarian enclave where everyone speaks Hungarian, eats Hungarian etc – a hangover from when this area was actually a part of Hungary. The campsite we were looking 
for turned out to not be a campsite at all but rather half a dozen little huts for rent – and all were occupied. We met an American guy from San Francisco in the main square who was there with his Hungarian-American girlfriend, so they were able to help us communicate with the locals and work out that we couldn't free-camp and that most of the quaint little "pension" guest houses in the village were full. It was about 7pm by this time and I didn't fancy a drive back down the winding mountain roads, plus another bit had popped out of the front of the van when we'd hit a pothole on the way up. So I had a sulk and then patched up the van (using a Danish coin as a washer) while Claire went off and tried to find us some accommodation. She returned with the news that there was a guest house with
one room left but it was up a tiny, muddy track and we'd have to be quick before it went. We bounced and bumped and ground the Ebay van up this little lane and parked on a muddy grass verge while lots of elderly locals looked on in bemusement. A few of them were leaning on shovels next to a small pile of gravel which we thought was a bit odd. Maybe they were going to fill in some of the potholes that had done their best to wreck the van.
We had a lovely evening meal (I had pork stew and some kind of amazing dumpling), a lovely big room and a glorious cooked breakfast – all for less than £15 each. Fully refreshed and skipping with happiness, we went back to the van only to find that the little pile of gravel we'd seen the night before had since been joined by many more piles of gravel, all the way down the lane. We were trapped! Some of the elderly locals were brandishing shovels but to little effect – one old dear looked like she might keel over at any moment. So I rolled up my jeans (I didn't have sleeves) and, after
extricating a man in a wheelchair who had become stuck on the loose stones, grabbed a shovel and started digging to liberate the van.
Meanwhile we'd smelt gas in the van, so once the lane had been "resurfaced" we asked the guest house owner where we could get that looked at. He made a phone call and set us up with a bloke in a town just half an hour down the road called Aiud. We bade farewell to my fellow navvies, drove down to Aiud and found the gas man, his wife and English-speaking son (all with moustaches) and together they were able to locate and solve the problem (the cooker's pilot light) in about 20 minutes. Then, as if lightning fast service wasn't enough, they refused payment! They literally wouldn't accept cash or beers or anything else we offered them. Not even a hug!
Our next campsite was in a village called Blajel, just north of Medias, and again run by a Dutch couple (they're everywhere!). Hans and Wilma were very welcoming. As soon as we'd parked up, we were invited into their kitchen for a drink and a chat and Hans even put out a Union Jack in honour of our arrival!
The next day we decided to cycle into Medias up what we both decided must be the
mountain stage of the Tour De Romania. The arduous climb was made even harder by the unrelenting sun beating down from a cloudless sky. When we finally reached Medias, a couple of pounds lighter, we went to a local "flea market" – basically a Romanian car boot sale. Here you could buy anything you could think of and lots more that you'd never have considered. There were heaps of shoes, mountains of clothing, melons, chainsaws, car parts, glassware, mobile phones, you name it, all laid out on tarpaulin in the dusty, sun-baked field. It was great to see proper local
life unfold before us – we even saw two guys arguing over a headlamp. We bought a couple of random items (some cheap pasta and a CD of Romanian folk music) and then I decided I needed "a snack" so we headed to the food stalls. I went for the ever prevalent sausage-bread-mustard combo (that seems to be all that the locals eat) and that, with a beer, cost about £1. My kind of dining.
Later, sat in a café in the town square, we noticed a lot of German football fans roaming the streets. Then, at the next table to us, we heard a strange mixture of foreign accents but all speaking English. We got chatting to them and it turned out they were all UEFA officials (including the referee and linesmen) who were in town for the Europa League match between Medias and German side Mainz that was being played that night. They made a couple of phone calls for us and found out there were still tickets available so we decided we'd go. We made the exhausting ride back to camp – which was even harder after Romanian sausage and a few beers – but at least the downhill bit was fun. We'd met a German guy, Stefan, staying on our campsite with his twin daughters, so the five of us went back into town to see local side Gaz Metan Medias (which literally translates as Methane Gas Medias) take on Mainz in their second-leg match. The tickets we got were
for in the Romanian stand so Claire and I tactfully donned local scarves while Stefan and the twins cowered nervously behind the big German flag they'd decided to bring. Something I've never seen at a football match before was approximately 4998 of the 5000 people in the crowd eating sunflowers seeds. It was weird. Whenever the drums and chanting of the two sets of opposing fans died down, all you could hear was the eerie crunching and spitting of little sunflower seed shells. It sounded like a field full of mice eating Rice Krispies. It also left the floor of the stands resembling a budgie cage. The match ended as a 1-1 draw so it went to extra time and then to penalties. The atmosphere, noise and tension in the stadium was brilliant. And when Methane Gas Medias won, the whole place erupted in cheers, drums, singing and sunflower seeds. A great night.
for turned out to not be a campsite at all but rather half a dozen little huts for rent – and all were occupied. We met an American guy from San Francisco in the main square who was there with his Hungarian-American girlfriend, so they were able to help us communicate with the locals and work out that we couldn't free-camp and that most of the quaint little "pension" guest houses in the village were full. It was about 7pm by this time and I didn't fancy a drive back down the winding mountain roads, plus another bit had popped out of the front of the van when we'd hit a pothole on the way up. So I had a sulk and then patched up the van (using a Danish coin as a washer) while Claire went off and tried to find us some accommodation. She returned with the news that there was a guest house with
one room left but it was up a tiny, muddy track and we'd have to be quick before it went. We bounced and bumped and ground the Ebay van up this little lane and parked on a muddy grass verge while lots of elderly locals looked on in bemusement. A few of them were leaning on shovels next to a small pile of gravel which we thought was a bit odd. Maybe they were going to fill in some of the potholes that had done their best to wreck the van.We had a lovely evening meal (I had pork stew and some kind of amazing dumpling), a lovely big room and a glorious cooked breakfast – all for less than £15 each. Fully refreshed and skipping with happiness, we went back to the van only to find that the little pile of gravel we'd seen the night before had since been joined by many more piles of gravel, all the way down the lane. We were trapped! Some of the elderly locals were brandishing shovels but to little effect – one old dear looked like she might keel over at any moment. So I rolled up my jeans (I didn't have sleeves) and, after
extricating a man in a wheelchair who had become stuck on the loose stones, grabbed a shovel and started digging to liberate the van. Meanwhile we'd smelt gas in the van, so once the lane had been "resurfaced" we asked the guest house owner where we could get that looked at. He made a phone call and set us up with a bloke in a town just half an hour down the road called Aiud. We bade farewell to my fellow navvies, drove down to Aiud and found the gas man, his wife and English-speaking son (all with moustaches) and together they were able to locate and solve the problem (the cooker's pilot light) in about 20 minutes. Then, as if lightning fast service wasn't enough, they refused payment! They literally wouldn't accept cash or beers or anything else we offered them. Not even a hug!
Our next campsite was in a village called Blajel, just north of Medias, and again run by a Dutch couple (they're everywhere!). Hans and Wilma were very welcoming. As soon as we'd parked up, we were invited into their kitchen for a drink and a chat and Hans even put out a Union Jack in honour of our arrival!
The next day we decided to cycle into Medias up what we both decided must be the
mountain stage of the Tour De Romania. The arduous climb was made even harder by the unrelenting sun beating down from a cloudless sky. When we finally reached Medias, a couple of pounds lighter, we went to a local "flea market" – basically a Romanian car boot sale. Here you could buy anything you could think of and lots more that you'd never have considered. There were heaps of shoes, mountains of clothing, melons, chainsaws, car parts, glassware, mobile phones, you name it, all laid out on tarpaulin in the dusty, sun-baked field. It was great to see proper local
life unfold before us – we even saw two guys arguing over a headlamp. We bought a couple of random items (some cheap pasta and a CD of Romanian folk music) and then I decided I needed "a snack" so we headed to the food stalls. I went for the ever prevalent sausage-bread-mustard combo (that seems to be all that the locals eat) and that, with a beer, cost about £1. My kind of dining. Later, sat in a café in the town square, we noticed a lot of German football fans roaming the streets. Then, at the next table to us, we heard a strange mixture of foreign accents but all speaking English. We got chatting to them and it turned out they were all UEFA officials (including the referee and linesmen) who were in town for the Europa League match between Medias and German side Mainz that was being played that night. They made a couple of phone calls for us and found out there were still tickets available so we decided we'd go. We made the exhausting ride back to camp – which was even harder after Romanian sausage and a few beers – but at least the downhill bit was fun. We'd met a German guy, Stefan, staying on our campsite with his twin daughters, so the five of us went back into town to see local side Gaz Metan Medias (which literally translates as Methane Gas Medias) take on Mainz in their second-leg match. The tickets we got were
for in the Romanian stand so Claire and I tactfully donned local scarves while Stefan and the twins cowered nervously behind the big German flag they'd decided to bring. Something I've never seen at a football match before was approximately 4998 of the 5000 people in the crowd eating sunflowers seeds. It was weird. Whenever the drums and chanting of the two sets of opposing fans died down, all you could hear was the eerie crunching and spitting of little sunflower seed shells. It sounded like a field full of mice eating Rice Krispies. It also left the floor of the stands resembling a budgie cage. The match ended as a 1-1 draw so it went to extra time and then to penalties. The atmosphere, noise and tension in the stadium was brilliant. And when Methane Gas Medias won, the whole place erupted in cheers, drums, singing and sunflower seeds. A great night.
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