Part 14: Transylvania (Days 33, 34, 35 and 36)

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Whenever I went to a Hallowe'en party as a kid I always went as Dracula. And not just because my widow's peak and pasty complexion meant I barely had to do any preparation. The legendary tale of the bloodsucking vamp from Transylvania was one of my favourite books, so I jumped at the chance to visit the spooky territory where the story was based.

Of course, Bram Stoker's work of fiction was at least loosely based on the very real Vlad Tepes, who lived in the 15th Century and had a penchant for impaling his Turkish enemies on stakes. He was, apparently, a complete Count.

Our base for our three nights in Transylvania was to be Brasov, dramatically set at the foot of the Carpathian mountains. Our train left Bucharest an hour and a half late. We later discovered from the news that there had been someone attacked on it, causing the delay. Amongst the still-gloomy Romanian weather, we knew we were in town thanks to the huge Hollywood-style "BRASOV" lettering which had been erected a few years ago high on the side of Mount Tampa, which rises sharply to the east above the Saxon town.

The setting was undeniably beautiful but the train station is on the outskirts set amongst dilapidated housing blocks and grotty disused buildings. Once our taxi took us to our hostel on the other side of town though, it became clear that this was an attractive city a world away from Bucharest.

Once inside the homely Rolling Stone Hostel, a wild-eyed energetic woman sat us down and explained frantically the sights that the town had to offer and some of the tours we could go on via the hostel should we so desire.

Darkness had descended on the town by the time we got out, and we enjoyed a traditional Romanian meal at an atmospheric, if slightly touristy, restaurant nearby. Afterwards, we strolled through the Schei gate into the walled city centre and had a few ridiculously cheap beers in a near-deserted bar while watching football on the big screen.

The gloomy, rainy weather had not let up the following morning, where again we split up to do our own sightseeing. I had a quick look at the outside of the Black Church, a gothic structure that dominates the south of the main town. However, I've seen enough churches on this trip to last me a lifetime so I opted against a nose around inside. A short stroll away is the attractive Piata Sfatului, the central square. Here the supposedly-haunted 15th Century Council House faces bars that line the street down to the pedestrianised Str. Republicii, the main shopping boulevard. After an amble down, I walked back up the parallel Str. Porta Schei, pausing in a bookshop to buy Bram Stoker's famed work before exiting the city walls and embarking on the steep climb up the hill to the west. On this are the two towers that look over the town. The Black Tower, which is about as black as me, and the White Tower. They are about 300m apart and unfortunately for my aching quads you need to climb up to them seperately.

Despite the disappointing weather (the temperature was about 12 degrees celcius) I spent half an hour sitting at the White Tower taking in the spectacular views across the town up to the mountains. I did this only partly because I was absolutely knackered.

Later I bumped into Si and Carmel, who had successfully purchased a new pair of shoes after here mysteriously went missing from the hostel. We had a drink in the unusually-themed Rasta Bar as Bob Marley looked down at us from the walls, and then headed to the Auld Scottish pub where we enjoyed some brief Anglo-Scottish banter with the Celtic-supporting landlord before leaving because they had bugger all on tap and weren't serving food because of a "problem with the chef". We didn't ask.

Things had to be sorted out the next day, namely train tickets for our onward journey to Bulgaria and then a bus trip to Bran Castle. Rising at 7am, things didn't start well when I got halfway to the train ticket office before realising I had left my passport at the hostel. I trudged back through the incessant rain to get it, and assuming I could buy a ticket on board, hopped on a passing bus to get back to the centre sharpish. Little did I know that tickets had to be bought from a kiosk in advance, and some irksome jobsworth of a conductor with serious short-man-syndrome took great delight in fining me 45RON (about a tenner). Not enjoying being laughed at by a man whose haircut went out of fashion in 1997, I enquired whether he had seen his mother that morning, and wondered aloud whether I had released her from the handcuffs. He didn't understand.

This incident did not put me in a good frame of mind but we did at least manage to buy train tickets for Bulgaria with minimal fuss and get to the bus station for our hour-long trip to Bran.

Rising ominously above the rocky Carpathians, it's no wonder Bran Castle is associated with Dracula. But in reality, it had little to do with Vlad Tepes and inside was a little disappointing, with lots of furniture being showcased and the odd bearskin rug. An anti-climax, to tell the truth.

The weather being what it was, and having seen most of Brasov, we bought massive 2litre bottles of beer for about a pound a pop and proceeded to flout the hostel's anti-drinking rule by guzzling them in Si and Carmel's private room (I had a dorm bed on the floor below in the same room of some irksome posh Brits). I had put my name down for a trip into the woods to watch bears, but sadly nobody else fancied being David Attenborough for the night so it was cancelled due to lack of numbers. Little did I know I'd have a close encounter with an animal of a different kind later that night.

On our way back into town to get some dinner, we walked about 20m behind an old woman carrying a bag in her left hand. Two men strode purposefully out of a bar to our left. I didn't notice them at the time but Si reckoned they were acting suspiciously and was concerned that we would be a target. They only registered in my consciousness when one, wearing a baseball cap, sidled up to the old woman and took her purse out of her hand. She shouted out as he sprinted off, and with what had happened becoming fairly obvious, I went after him. He had 30m on me but I chased him through the grounds of the Black Church and out through the backstreets. I yelled after him and urged a couple of passers by to step in to no avail.

Gaining on him, I followed as he weaved through the narrow roads east of the centre. As I turned sharply into another alley, I tripped on a typically badly-laid Eastern European paving stone, cutting my hands and knee as I fell. As I got up hastily, he had disappeared. Slowing, I combed the street but realising the possibility of an ambush, I retreated to the main street. He must have got himself into a safe house, I reckoned, so I headed back to the others. Si had tried to cut him off in case he went back through the church and Carmel had tried to comfort the old lady, but it seemed she was in shock and didn't want help. We don't know if she reported it, and it dawned on me later that she could have mistaken me for a suspect as I sprinted past her in pursuit of the mugger. Message to the council: Badly-laid paving aids crime.

We had dinner in the Rasta Bar, where a young waitress spotted my bleeding hand and kindly patched me up. We had a few more beers and lamented the escape of the lowest form of criminal. Si reasoned that I might have been better off not catching him as he could have been armed, but my response was that anyone who mugs a pensioner is a coward, and he wouldn't have put up much of a fight if I had caught him (The three litres of beer I had consumed previously didn't help my speed but certainly fuelled my bravado).

Romania had been nothing if not eventful. The following day we set off for Varna, Bulgaria. The journey would take 20 hours, but we didn't know that at the time. The surprises certainly hadn't finished yet, but that's another story.

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