Dan, the world's best guide

Dan Marin, who with his wife Luminita (pictured with Dan) and son Bogdan are entirely responsible for my having a foothold in Transylania, has just won a hugely prestigious award which will shoot him into the super league of eco-guides around the world.

The Paul Morrison Guide Award 2007 was given to Dan at a fabulous evening at the Royal Geographical Society in London on 4th October.

Exodus, the tour operator which Dan does so much guiding for, ran this report on its site:

"Exodus guide Danut Marin has scooped the prestigious Wanderlust Paul Morrison Guide Award 2007 alongside fellow guide Selwyn Davidowitz. Danut was one of three guides from around the globe short listed by Wanderlust readers and was commended for his expertise on trips to his native Romania. Last night Danut and Selwyn were announced as the overall joint winners of the respected award by a panel of judges that included travel celebrities Bill Bryson, Michael Palin and members of the Wanderlust team.
The Wanderlust Paul Morrison Guide Award is regarded as the award for the often unsung heroes of travel and is highly regarded by the travel industry and consumers alike.
Danut Marin was nominated for his guiding of Exodus’ Romania: Carpathian Culture and Wildlife tour. Exodus clients voted for him because of the passion that he displays for his country and its wildlife and his ability to give a sensitive yet honest account of the somewhat tumultuous history of his native country. Voters also commented on his ability to recognise and take care of the needs of individuals on the trip.
Danut Marin comments: ‘I am extremely touched that so many Exodus clients chose to vote for me and got so much enjoyment from the trips. I hope that by jointly winning this award I can highlight the importance of less mainstream tour operators such as Exodus to the Romanian tourism industry and to the economy as a whole.’
The full results of The Paul Morrison Guide Award 2007 will appear in the November issue of Wanderlust on sale from 12 October."

Another of those who voted for Dan was none other than explorer Ranulph Fiennes – not a bad recommendation to the judges.

Equinox blues

It's been too long since I was in my mountain fastness. I was meant to be there now, but time and the in-tray have defeated me. Hallowe'en will happen without the customary batch of Dracula tat gathered up in armfuls from the gates of Bran Castle. It's the only time I show any interest in the toothsome Count and his doings – mugs, T-shirts, wine, trinkets and curios of reasonable quality (wine is actually terrific, even with the kitsch labels) and attractively priced, as the estate agent would say. Cheap, I'd say.

I stil have one packet of chemicals acquired in July and not yet given away. I will take it to darkest Wales next week as a naff contribution to the fabulous Samhain celebrations being planned by chums. The packet is called 'Lets dip Dracula' and is a vile concoction of unhealth* to be mixed in with sour cream for a pink pretence of something bloody, I presume.

*Ingredients: sugar, salt (16%), tomato juice, MSG, vegetable fat, chilli, seasoning, sweet pepper, onion, garlic, pepper, cumin, oregano, parsley, coriander. Oh, and 'amidon modificat' which translates as some kind of E number. There's lots of that - only slightly more than the vast amount of MSG. NB that the actual food (herbs, veg, spices) come at the bottom of the list, which means there are only trace elements of each.

It's disgusting - I tried a crispful of the stuff at someone else's party (my friends are so lucky) and it was sweet and salty with a light chemical tang. Ultra yum.

Liverpool to Sibiu

Sibiu (est 1190AD) is European Capital of Culture 2007 (along with Luxembourg), and 8 girls with 4 teachers came out to visit from Archbishop Blanch School in Liverpool (2008 Capital of Culture). Here they are, on the Gossips' Bridge, just before the huge thunderstorm hit and drenched us all. The following day they all came up to Magura for a night's stay and dinner outside on the terrace, overlooking two sets of mountains. Slightly different from the usual urban views in Liverpool.

Neigh-bours

The driver of the horse and cart is my neighbour, Rodica - her husband Aurel is there on the right. They are heading up to the shepherd camp to see how their sheep are doing and to get some cheese. You can't really see her, but the horse's foal is trailing along behind them. She was six weeks old when this was taken last Sunday.

Hands-on management

Milking sheep is a long process, and it happens three times a day. These guys live up in the shepherd camp all summer with the flocks, and the huge, aggressive shepherd dogs.

While the sun shines

On the road from Zarnesti to Bran, we found this trio turning hay in the roasting heat. They thought it was a seriously good joke that we wanted to take their photos, but between gusts of laughter two of them spoke to us in an efficient mix of Romanian, German and English. We left knowing that we had provided a good dose of entertainment.

Brasov faces

In the market at the bottom of Republici Street you will find all the regular stallholders, and irregular ones, too. Like Victoria, who has a glistening heap of wild blueberries that she and her three children have picked in the forest early that morning.
And on a step in the street, this lady was concentrating on the final touches to her wildflower posies. She only has a few to sell, and needs to sell them all. Despite being a fast-growing European city where property prices have rocketed in the last couple of years well beyond local people's ability to afford them, Brasov is still home to many people who live hand to mouth, quite literally, gathering wild food and flowers from the forests to give themselves a meagre income.

The Transfagarasan Highway

The Fagaras mountains contain Romania's highest peaks, up to 12,000 ft. Not huge by Andean or Himalayan standards, but tall enough to hang on to some snow the year round. The highway snakes up and over the mountains, at times supported by what look like twigs when seen from below, and occasionally covered by shelters to stop cars being crushed by falling rocks. On the south side of the summit we drove round the millionth tight bend to screech to a halt – confronted without warning by a huge dam – Vidraru. Then once beyond that and through another tunnel, we snaked down through tree-covered rock pinnacles, on top of one was Vlad the Impaler's ruined castle, Poenari. You can visit, but it involves 1,500 steps.

Cow parade

On the way down from the Fagaras mountains, en route to Curtea de Arges, we passed a very long procession of cows being led back from their pasture to their respective homes. In the mountains, the cows and sheep go up to the high pastures for the whole summer, but here they commute every day from barn to pasture in the morning, and back in the evening after a full day's grazing, between milkings.

Homorod's hidden treasure

Omitted from the Rough Guide, Homorod is another unspoilt Saxon village, with another delightful fortified church. Let in by the charming Ioan Tomi, we admired the painted wood panels, and were allowed to play the tiny, 17th century organ. He and I had a broken conversation in German and Romanian, while Nicola climbed the tower. 'Don't forget us', said Domnu Tomi as we dropped him back at his house. As if.

Leather and sweat at Dambraveni

We'd passed Sighisoara and were looking for the signs to Biertan; then round the corner we saw a horse fair in full swing. We dived in and soon became popular through the medium of Nikon. Transylvanian men, on the whole, love being photographed. This chap was very proud of his little blue roan, eight months old and ours for 250 Euros. But up the hill we found Stella and her owner Jonas, who was delighted to show off both her class and his driving skills. It was a hot day, and the smell of sweaty horses and saddlery was all-pervasive, along with the occasional scent of buffalo and panting piglets.

Saxon villages: Biertan

After Homorod and the horse fair at Dambraveni, we reached the haven of Biertan, a beautifully preserved Saxon village with one of the best fortified churches in Transylvania. We stayed in a delightful apartment restored by the Mihai Eminescu Trust, had dinner below the citadel, and watched the world trot by.

The spicy life, weatherwise (lots of variety)

The weather was pretty stunning most days, but in the mountains hot days are followed by cool – here the village is about to vanish beneath a bank of cloud. And the day we had in Sibiu was a hot morning followed by a fabulous thunderstorm right overhead.
It was fun to sit under a parasol in the Café del Sol watching the populace scurry through the downpour, although one particularly fearsome thunderbolt right overhead caught us unawares and gave us palpitations.

Thanks for the fence

Shepherd dogs are bred to ward livestock against large carnivores, and against a 6ft tall bear or a pack of wolves, something this size comes in handy. NB the girl is about 5'10" tall. She wouldn't be so brave if the fence fell down...

Countryfile in Transylvania

The BBC's rural programme Countryfile rocked off to Transylvania the other week to look at the farming and village life that takes the likes of us back 50, 100, even 500 years. The Mihai Eminescu Trust (supported by Prince Charles, amongst others) is doing its damnedest to keep the best of the traditional while giving the villagers something of modern European comforts. A very tricky balance to strike, which the quangocrats in Brussels won't do much to help. The Carpathian ecology is in severe danger of being destroyed by box-ticking admin police with no understanding of the enormous value of what Transylvania still has, that the sophisticated (aka ruined) economies of Europe, the USA and elsewhere have lost.
Come and see for yourself. Ecotourism is a lifeline for Transylvania now, and the best means of helping to preserve a European treasure.

Blossoming village

The village in blossom. The heathery pink on the mountains is actually beech trees in bud, about to burst into leaf. Further down the hillsides, the leaves are already out, but it takes time for the spring to reach the upper slopes.

Ups and downs

Yes, it is as steep as it looks, if not steeper. You can see my house on the ridge in the middle distance - a terracotta tile roof straight back from the house in the foreground.

Four foot 9" of tough old womanhood

Who needs the gym?

People get exercise if they live in a Carpathian mountain village like this. the gradients are severe, and there is a huge amount of physical work to be done every day. So the traditional diet of sugar, salt, fat and beer is just right up here. The food is good, properly organic, full of nutrients, with spring water from the mountain, beer straight frm the brewery, clean air, and the natural daily and yearly cycle. Men live to ripe old age as well as women, working on the land into their 70s and even 80s.

The chap on the left, who lives in this house, is a top sportsman, having won the Balkan Cross-Country Skiing Championship in March this year, in Turkey. The enormous cup is in pride of place in his impressively full trophy cabinet. He's got more silver than Everton.

Hard work

On these slopes there's only so much a tractor can do; even if there were tractors. Safer with one horse power and human muscle.

Ridge... no ridge

I take loads of photos of this house and the ridge behind it, with the fickle weather providing dramatic backdrops. These two were taken within three hours of each other. A few minutes after the bottom pic was taken, the house was just visible against a solid bank of cloud - no mountain visible at all.
See?

Weather watching

The weather in the mountains is forever changing, but in spring there are more fluctuations in temperature and sky than normal. In 24 hours we went from warm air and blue skies to snow and icy temperatures, down to freezing overnight and frost first thing, back to a warm morning and a hot blue sky at noon. Thunder storms boil up in minutes, and you can through all the weather man's little magnetic symbols in rapid succession: hail, snow, fog, sun, scudding clouds, rain, thunder... Sometimes you get several at once, like this.

All baaaa one

These were the last few days before the flocks go up to the high pastures for the summer. As soon as the snows are over, everyone sends their few sheep to join the village herd, of sheep, goats and cows, who climb the slopes of Piatra Craiului in search of sweet new grass, wild herbs and springwater, trying to avoid being slaughtered by bears and wolves (75% of Europe's remaining large carnivores are in the Carpathians).

The bread man cometh

This is the bread van that comes up to the village every other day. Cars are becoming less of a rare sight, but for Transylvanian village locals, horse and caruta (pronounced caruzza) is the usual form of transport.

Green grow the beeches, oh!

This is the road down from the village. As you can see it is unmetalled, steep, narrow, and tortuous. Between Zarnesti, down in the valley, and the village are five miles (8km) of bad roads and 11 hairpins through a forest of beech, spruce and mixed woodland. It's seriously green all year, but in spring, the beech leaves are the ultimate in fresh verdant new life - not even the lime green car can compete.

Back, batless, from Transylvania

Well, I was whisked, and now I'm back. I had nine splendid days in the glorious Carpathians, in the full flush of spring, with cherry blossom everywhere, new lambs, calves, foals, ducklings, housemartins nesting, sparrows fighting, beech trees brilliant green, and snow still on the mountains.

huhhhhhhhhh

That's a sigh. In 2.5 hours a taxi should roll up at my door to whisk me off to Manchester Airport. While typing this I'm listening to Radio 7's Ladies of Letters Go Global, in which Pat Routledge's character Vera is crossing the Carpathians on a donkey with a Transylvanian villain called Roman. From the sound of it the writer hasn't been lucky enough to visit the region in person, or she'd write something a bit more credible. It's funny, though.
I'm not now going to meet the author as promised earlier. Grr. He read his readings on Saturday (ie this evening) in Sibiu, and is leaving (on a jet plane, don't know when I'll be back again) at sparrowfart on Monday. And my abode is a good 2 hours drive from his. So that's that, then. What a shame. I'd virtually written the piece for the Times Lit Supp.
The weather's been glorious, apparently, but it's due to change tomorrow, about the time I touch down. Hey ho. So I don't know whether to take weatherproofs, snow shoes or shorts. This time last year there was a big and very sudden freeze (down to about -20C overnight) which burst pipes and cut the village off again for another few days.
When I come back, I will have 10 days of Carpathian gossip to relate.
La revedere

Six month exile almost over

I'll soon be back on the spine, at the edifice officially named Orchard House, although the sum total of the trees on my plot are four mature cherries, another three cherry saplings, a leggy silver birch (no, I didn't back the Grand National winner yesterday, dammit), wild roses, a wind-pruned lilac bush, lots of hazel trees and the odd wild raspberry cane. But sooner or later there will be more cherries, at least one walnut (walnut trees grow like weeds on the top there), and lots of apples. I'm told bears will come and steal my apples, but I'm prepared to fight for them. I have saucepans to clash. (Of course it's well known that a 7ft brown bear is always brought to heel by an Englishwoman banging pans at 2am.)
Above is what I see from my back door. That's the corner of the stable, and beyond is the ridge of Piatra Craiului, the Gorges below, and the road to Pestera. 'Road' is a bit of a grand word for the track-cum-river bed that is fine for mountain bikes, hooves and walking boots, and fun for large 4x4 vehicles, but a bit dicey for anything in between. Worth the effort, though, as the long and winding route to the next village and on to the Bran-Rucar corridor below provides a succession of glorious views. Best to stop the car if you're driving, as gawping at the panorama whilst driving is likely to land you 1000 feet down the 60-degree slope.

This is the view up to my nearest neighbours. This was taken in June, when the dandelions had all gone to seed and the grass was a bit too long to see all the red clover, St Johns' wort, alchemilla, sorrel, wild mountain thyme, etc – but believe me, if you chew your way through my lawn one summer, you'll be so full of healthgiving phytochemicals that every ill and lurking inner menace will be banished.

Sensible plans

There's an author. I'm a publisher. He comes from Toxteth (1 mile from my house) although, to be fair, he now lives in Wales. We haven't met yet. We plan to meet soon. In Transylvania.
Huzzah!
He's going to be doing some readings in Sibiu, this year's Capital of Culture and the permanent capial of Transylvania (in Romania, for you geographically-challenged types).
I shall report back, with names.

A stake in the Carpathians

As I say, life has its twists.
Early in 2004 my sister died suddenly of cancer. Generously, she left me some money and we even talked about what I should do with it. Premium Bonds, we thought. But later that year, I realised that the amount she left would afford me a place in Transylvania. My brother in law was thrilled and said Ginny would have adored it. So I called Dan and asked him to find me some houses to look at. ‘In Magura?’ he asked, knowing how much I’d loved the village.
No, I said. Three feet of snow for five months of the year. Waste of time.
I went out in June, looked at a bunch of houses in Zarnesti where Dan and his wife Luminita live. They suggested we look at one in Magura. No, I said. No, no, no. No.
So we drove up, just for the hell of it. Because I wasn’t interested in a house up there. Absolutely not.
We parked the car and walked over the rise. The old woman who directed us pointed down the hill at a wooden house with a stable next to it. ‘That’s the one,’ she said. We were a good 100 yards away but that was it. I couldn’t walk away.
It wasn’t the house itself, which is nothing exceptional. It was the setting. Panoramic views of rounded velvet hills plunging into green baize ravines, with mountains front and back still topped with snow. The house was surrounded by a wildflower meadow, cherry trees and hazels, with a raven idling in the vast blue sky, amid the ringing of bells.
So we met the neighbours and the game began. Without Luminita, who should be head of the United Nations, I wouldn’t even have started.
Family politics on a grand scale and the fact that the house didn’t officially exist meant an email from Dan in July saying that it was no good. Impossible to sort out. I was desperately disappointed but kept a photo of the house on the wall by my desk and hoped.
Two months later, Dan emailed. ‘Luminita has done everything. You can come and get your house.’
Luminita had dragged the feuding families in front of lawyers, broken up fist fights between brothers-in-law, dragged other brothers down to the village hall to get the house on the official map, and set up the whole deal, interpreter, bank, lawyer and all.
I went out in November in a bit of a daze. Everything was ready, all was smiles from the women and the men kissed my hand with traditional Central European courtesy.
Apart from the Royal Bank of Scotland not sending the money (Oh, right, can you come into the branch and sort it out? No, I’m on top of a mountain in Transylvania) it all went fantastically smoothly. All the legals done in a day, all in cash, done and dusted. Wine and cakes all round, and I was on the plane back to Blighty wondering what on earth I had done.
Since then, there have been floods, collapsing walls, cars stuck in the mud, neighbours waving axes at my JCB driver, presents of milk and honey from the neighbouring wives competing to be No.1 friend, lots of thunderstorms, more rows with the neighbours over churned up grass, rumours of my setting up a cult and/or occult society, cows eating the wrong apples, dancing at the harvest festival, encounters with the local Romeo and other daily entertainments.
All is made possible by the great kindness and competency of my friends Dan and Luminita, and their son Bogdan, who has two degrees, bilingual English, a passion for Shakespeare and obscure classical music, is a builder with courteous, efficient and skilled friends, who are making short work of the rebuilding of the house.
Complex, beautiful, cultured, Romania has its problems and its drawbacks: post-Ceaucescu Transylvania has a dark side that has nothing to do with my undead neighbour just down in the valley. The contrast of the timeless rural idyll with the anguish of third-world Europe is fascinating. I love it. Winters in Liverpool, summers in the Carpathians: what a deal.

Doing the Timewarp

Transylvania may be rocky, but not a horror show

Transylvania is one of the world’s strongest brands. Everyone recognises the name, and can tell you the other name that goes with it. Even children who look blank at the mention of Ghormenghast or Ruritania know all about it.
So when I mention that I have a house in Transylvania, the first response is usually: ‘What, Dracula country?’
The next is usually: ‘But it’s not real, is it?’ Or at least it was until the holiday home industry discovered it. Transylvania – the largest region of Romania – is now the next best thing for the bargain hunter. Luckily for me, most people want a holiday home on a sunny coast, and are happy with an apartment in a hideous white block amongst a hundred other hideous white blocks, as long as they can see blue water and have easy access to beer and pizza.
In my village, the bread is delivered every other day in a horse-drawn cart; milk comes from next door’s cow, and if you want to eat out that night, you have to drop into the cabana and let Adriana’s mother know by noon what you’d like to eat and when. Even if there were a menu, pizza wouldn’t be on it. I’m the first and still the only foreigner to buy a house in the village, and the prime source of gossip and entertainment.
The village, the name of which translates as Hill, is in one of Romania’s three national parks, and is on the road to nowhere except the next village, Cave. For me, born in a Sussex hamlet called River, this is just fine.
The place is, in fact, Sussex up a mountain, with added wolves and funny hats. And it’s a Sussex of 50 years ago - this is my time machine, where at first glance the 20th century has made little mark.
It’s a long way from my terraced house in Liverpool.
How I got there was a matter of things falling on me out of the blue. I suppose I had something to do with it, but it seems as if I just stood there and said yes.
In 2003 I wanted a holiday, and turned up a website that offered a week in Transylvania. How could I resist, having been brought up on Dracula movies? What I could see of the area on the web looked great - medieval towns, unspoilt landscapes, cheap prices. Bargain.
My first night – this was August – there was a thunderstorm. My room looked out onto a range of pointy green hills, and I sat on the balcony and watched the lightning stab through them as the thunder did its thing. The howling from a hundred canine throats was probably just dogs but this was Transylvania, and the children of the night – what music they made.
That week was a revelation. I was half-expecting Gothic pine forests, darkness and suspicious locals. What I got was light, warmth, colour and an irresistible welcome. Yes, we got taken to Bran Castle, alias Dracula’s Castle, but apart from a mention of 14th century ruler Vlad Tepes (the Impaler), it was all fairytale romance. Not a long tooth in sight.
Dan Marin, our guide, took us by horse and cart up to Magura – now ‘my’ village. The road, a stony, rutted track, winds up from the valley floor through beechwoods full of hazels, dog roses, sloes and the odd spruce. After the twelfth hairpin came the view across to velvety green meadows scattered with wooden houses. We all duly caught our breath. The road winds round the side of the hill and then along a narrow ridge lined with houses and populated by dogs, chickens and small children. Stunning, unspoilt, magical. We ate lunch on a terrace looking over fields full of marigolds framed against the pale mass of a mountain ridge. I got stung by a wasp which had crawled up my trouser leg, which made the afternoon’s entertainment, but I was relieved to learn that although wasps and bees were OK at this altitude, mosquitoes weren’t.
I went home knowing I’d be back, but not even dreaming of buying property. But life is twisted.
(more later...)

Buna ziua!

A place of unearthly beauty, this part of Europe. Transylvania is NOT a fictional setting dreamed up by Bram Stoker, but a province of Romania, full of mountains, unspoilt forests, lakes and wildflower meadows.

This picture was taken as the sun set, looking back down the pass to the nearest town, Zarnesti. My village, Magura, is 1,200 metres above sea level (about the height of Ben Nevis), and that altitude, and being about the same latitude as the south of France, the climate is rather like West Sussex of the 1960s when we had proper weather and defined seasons. Magura, at the moment, is under a metre of snow; spring happens fast, and summers are like the best English summers, hot but not sticky, and the village is too high for mosquitoes (huzzah!!).

Lots more photos to come, and tall tales.