The plains of Hungary — the dog days are over
Things did get better, faster…and err…harder? Maybe stronger…who knows…(I’ll stop with the pop song puns)
As awful as it is for you to hear about Iain and I suffering terribly (freezing our proverbial off, struggling into headwinds, fighting with tram tracks, inuring tendons, getting bitten by wild animals, attempted robberies et cetera), I know it makes for interesting reading.
So I feel obliged to inform you that we’ve had a pleasant few days of cycling, making this entry a little less dramatic.
The “mad train” to Timisoara
I’d left off with us taking the train to Timisoara from Drobeta-Turnu Severin (this is a mouthful, I’m going to call it Severin), because a quite visibly shaken Iain had been bitten on his shoe by a wild dog, and was refusing to cycle any more of Romania and the weather was making it difficult, if not quite-possibly impossible to proceed into the mountains ahead for the next few days.
I was sad to miss both the Iron Gates, where the mighty Danube is squeezed into a narrow gorge dividing Serbia and Romania, and Transylvania (I’ll assume most of you have heard of Transylvania and your imagination can fill in the details for the deep-dark fairy-tale forests, gothic castles and jagged snow-capped peaks).
We had a morning of waiting in the sleepy small town for one of the few trains that left heading north.
After getting breakfast we found our bikes had been cleaned in the night by the strange small janitor (without our asking, Iain was annoyed: “I’d earned that dirt” he said), who kept asking us probing questions about religion and monasteries, before asking to be paid for his bike-cleaning services.
We gave him a grudging small tip, packed up our bags very quickly to get away from his annoying questions about church designs and the Greek economy, and set out to explore Severin. But not before a mysterious air-raid siren whined haunting the town, as me and Iain tried work out if the apocalypse was happening (turns out it wasnt).
The town of Severin is slightly shabby small town sat on the banks of the Danube. The planners evidently fetishised the Roman Empire, as all the street names relate to Emperors both famous and obscure.
In fairness, this is likely due to the town once hosting the spectacular bridge commissioned by the emperor Trajan, who at the height of Rome’s imperial power decided to march across the river and slaughter the Dacians who had been troubling the empire’s frontier sometime in the first century AD.
But Romania in general seems to make much of its alleged Roman heritage (the clue is in the name…) despite the fact that most of the country lay on the fringes of, or outwith, the empire itself.
Severin has a medieval fortress which has been renovated to some degree and was hosting some variety of re-enactment just as Iain and wandered up to it. There was a slightly wonky brass band and what looked to be the town council playing at being a medieval guild with capes and swords, knighting someone before marching off into the keep.
After witnessing this spectacle we headed to the station and embarked upon of the more ropey train journeys I’ve ever been on.
Not long after the train started I left our compartment to check on the bikes only to discover the conductor had left the door wide open, so it was a miracle the bikes hadn’t already fallen out as the train rocked from side to side.
So I tried to close the the door, only discover that I couldn’t hold the bikes in place at the same time, and after a sudden jolt almost sent me and the bikes clattering out down onto the tracks I called out:
“Iain…I need your help! Urgently!”
Iain appeared, laughed a lot, and went back into our compartment and got his camera to take some pictures, whilst I rather nervously rocked about. Eventually he did help hold onto the bikes as I heaved the ancient train door closed turning various handles until I got a reassuring clunking noise.
As aged, unstable, rickety and bumpy as the train was, the views were beautiful. We had glimpses of the dark waters of the Danube with its quiet high walls carpeted in forests before seeing sunset over the edge of Transylvania with the hills and mountains painted white in the last of the April snows.
As the twilight turned into night the train seemed to pick up speed, as we were sat above the bogeys every bump on tracks seemed to throw us into the air, as we nervously laughed declaring this “a maaaad train!” One of the advantages of having compartments on train (above and beyond feeling like you’re in a Harry Potter/Agatha Christie novel) is you can be as strange as you like with your friends.
We arrived late to into our hostel in Timisoara, where we quietly tried packed our bags into our lockers. We were rather disconcertingly watched by our roommates who just stared as us emotionless, not waving back or even acknowledging our presence…
Raul, the proprietor of “Freeborn hostel” took us for a night out to show us a bit of the town’s nightlife. He took us to a pub and then onto a nightclub that had something of a vibe of a house party in a squat located in a derelict grand old building (which it may well have been, once upon a time).
The clientele were a collection of bohemian types and students, fashionably dressed to a tee and having hints of coiffured edginess. You know the kind nonchalant look that surely requires considerable effort. I’m sure the principle of the aesthetic has likely been true of cool youth subcultures since time immemorial, but has taken on a kind of retro-synthesised vibe in recent years, where a posturing 22-year-old could be from any era between 1894 or post-apocalyptic 2142.
Anyway, we stayed out late drinking, dancing, chatting bollocks. Fun was had by all.
Bunks n’ brawls
The following day, after our eerily-quiet staring room-mates departed (or had been kicked out of bed by the cleaner), Iain and I asked about swapping from the top bunks to bottom on account of us being gigantic. We were refused as the cleaner explained that the two guests arriving that night had specifically requested bottom bunks.
“What is this madness?” remarked Iain “I shall fart through that mattress like I have never farted before”
I forget what it was he exactly said, but let’s say it was that.
But later we learned they were two minuscule 60 year old Malaysian ladies, and we decided it was fair enough they wanted the bottom bunk (I also think Iain at least tried to renege on his farting threats).
We took it easier that night (as were both losing our voice and suffering a bit of a hangover), going for a few drinks with the other hostel guests in a quirky bar located in the “museum of communist consumerism” which is one of those museums which is just a collection of mildly interesting junk without a lot of curation going into the arranging.
Iain spent some time getting harangued by a “forthright” (to put it politely) Belgian girl, even before I told her he had voted Brexit, leaving him in “the lion pit”. Arguments ensued. Meanwhile I was luckily sat next to her much more friendly boyfriend who told me stories of close encounters with large wildlife he’d had whilst on fieldwork in Africa.
Historic Timisoara
The town of Timisoara itself is a compact well-ordered town of baroque buildings still holding onto their 19th century dignity despite some crumbling plasterwork here and there.
It was once home to Hungarian Kings before being amalgamated into the Ottoman Empire for the better part of 300 years, it was then claimed by the Austro-Hungarian Empire and transformed into an impressive fortress and garrison town as well as the centre being remodelled into the old-town you see today.
But the most recent events of Timisoara’s history was its dramatic role in the revolution against Ceausescu in 1989, with bullet holes scarring many of the facades of the town’s buildings.
Our guide told the story of the uprising in vivid detail, painting pictures of brutal reprisals, massacres and shootings that paved the way for modern Romania with the blood of innocent Timisoarans. He said he was Syrian and studying in the university to become a doctor, so could understand the emotional weight that this turmoil left on the older generations of the city.
Escaping Romania
I convinced a still reluctant Iain we should cycle out of Romania, risking one day of dogs for the sake of what would be the most efficient route to head up to Hungary and Budapest.
In the event there were no wild dogs at all.
It would seem that northern Romania is much less wild than the south, or at least has a comprehensive stray dog control, and we managed 110 kilometres across into the great flat Hungarian plain without anything more than a strong headwind to bother us.
pon reaching the border with Hungary we encountered a long queue of traffic and were told fairly strictly (in Hungarian, but the intention was made clear with brusque gesticulations) that we weren’t allowed to cut the queue on a bike. So instead hid behind a van mid-way back and snuck in front of an obliging Frenchman.
I believe this strict and closed border is evidence of the “migrant crisis”, as I seem to recall reading last year that controls were re-introduced on the Hungarian border. But again there seemed to be no visible evidence of migrants at the border, at least nothing that resembled the dramatic pictures of desperate people lining up at barbed wire fences.
Hungary was instantly nice with cycling lanes everywhere and the roadsides clear of rubbish. We did not expect it to become “so suddenly German” to quote Iain.
We found an empty campsite near the border (it’s still the off season evidently), and we had to befriend some small yappy dogs to pitch up. I made friends with the larger of the two, who started fighting off the smaller ratty one every time it came to close to me, and also Iain, which I found funny, Iain did not (but we at least saw no need to piss around the tent to mark our territory).
And finally, things did get better. We blasted out a beautiful day of idyllic cycling on the vast flat of the Hungarian plain, where the horizon stretched off without end and mirages would appear in the distance. We had a strong wind behind us (one of the only tail winds we’ve ever had), and flew up quiet cycle lanes between rivers, fields and railway lines.
We pitched up finally in sandy field near a forest and narrowly avoided being soaked by a passing rain storm, only just finishing setting up before the heavens opened. I had to leap in through the door crying “make way! make way!” to Iain, as it went from a light dusting of rain to monsoon in a matter of seconds.
The following day we were hoping for a similar day cycling in Budapest, but we found it was much harder going as the cycle lanes disappeared and we were presented with either rural tracks, some of which were basically just sand (these would probably be a lot of fun on bikes with wider tires), pot-holed country lanes or busy A-roads which were not welcome on.
After a challenging 90-odd kilometres of cycling we reached the edge of Budapest, exhausted, and took the commuter rail into the centre to avoid getting lost in the industrial outskirts of the town.
We checked in to the hostel, showered, and promptly marched out to get some goulash and a big beer. Which, for me, at that moment seemed to solve everything that was wrong in the world.
We’re hoping to take in the sites of one of the great cultural capitals of the world before heading up the Danube to Bratislava. As we’re leaving on a Saturday morning, I’ll wager this will be with a hangover.
