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.