Inter-Rail from Corfu.

Monday, August 27, 2001.
Manchester to Corfu. Boeing 757. 6.30pm takeoff. Plenty of room to breathe with three seats to myself . (Couldn't they sell any more of my 35 pound flights ?) Striking red-rimmed cloud tops at sunset. Food (enough) at 8 o'clock.........

Wednesday, August 29.
Rather a pleasant morning. Having set out just before the sun cleared the cold mist, and then walked over a hill and down a path through woods to the sea, I am now sitting on flat rocks in a miniature but delightful little cove with the sun gradually warming everything up.

The sea laps and flaps and gurgles as the little waves enter the recesses under the overhanging rocks. Sounds like a small blowhole come forth from the largest of these little caves. The rocks are layered sandstone of varying colours, providing convenient long benches for sitting on and writing this diary.

I am on Cape Drastis, the Northwest corner of Corfu. I am all alone. Soon, when I have warmed through, I will slip or dive into the water, and swim along on a blowhole inspection trip. The cove itself is a mere 20 yards wide and the water narrows to a six foot wide channel into the rocks, forming a pool deep enough for diving into. Swimming is the only way to penetrate right or left along the coast.

I was down here last night as well, at sunset, to counteract the overall hotness of the day. Too much hotness by far. This little haven at the right times of day brings a sense of sanity to an overheated world. There have been good moments of opportunity for cooling down during the last two days, particularly when on the move on my moped. One yesterday afternoon when I found the room I am now renting after almost giving up hope of finding anything in the small village of Peroulades. A chance request in the 'Taverna Giannis' led to Giannis himself offering me a 'Domatia' in a neighbour's house, complete with bathroom and kitchen. I had a good sleep for an hour before my evening walk.

This Cape Drastis ( 'Akrotirion Drastis') is a spectacular ridge of sparkling white and sandy cliffs. The evening finished in Giannis' Taverna with a pork chop meal with (too much) retsina thrown in, which started sending me to sleep almost before I had finished. Very pleasant.

Now it is the evening of the next day, and I am once again enjoying another local nearly deserted beach as the sun sinks. I was so pleased at having found my accommodation that I am staying a second night. But after my sunrise walk already mentioned, the day has not been the success that I had hoped for. I travelled South a short way, but minor difficulties frustrated me: 1. Moped doubts -- engine cutting out inexplicably, 2. Lack of petrol stations and the limited range of my transport, 3. Directions for finding Cape Arilas and its footpaths unclear in book, on map and on the ground and 4. Once again, the heat. So I came back for siesta time and cooled off once more, and am now enjoying the evening on this beach. An omelette to follow at Gianni's place -- with plain water, I think, tonight.

I suppose I ought to go back a bit now.
Arrival at Corfu airport on Monday was at 9.30 (it seemed to me), although 11.30 here in Greece. A hot evening. Masses of tour buses in the offing, but not for the likes of me. I had to accept the standard 6 pounds taxi fare to take me into the town. Right in the centre among the back streets is the Hotel Hermes. They were able to give me a room, although had no record of the booking I thought I had made. So I was thankful for this first cooling off opportunity, with a fan gently whirring overhead, and a bathroom provided too.

Breakfast also available next morning (extra, of course, as is the usual Greek way). Then a telephone call to find out how to arrange a ferry passage to Patra for Saturday, and a walk to the New Port to look for moped hire. I found one for three days. So I was soon heading North and over a mountain pass, non-stop to Sidari. This proved to be an unpleasant place packed with packaged holiday people, but I did manage to find space on a rather dull beach for lunch and a swim. Then only a short way on to Peroulades, as I have said, and the eventual discovery of this pleasant accommodation.

Thursday, Aug 30.
Eight o'clock start again, and glad that I had brought my coat back into use against the cold air of early morning mopedding. Over the mountains halfway back towards Corfu Town, and then West towards Pelekas, avoiding Paleokastritza. This was to find the 'most beautiful beach on Corfu' -- Myrtiotissa. I don't know about that, but I did find it, in spite of only one rather unnoticeable notice pointing the way down a long steep rough lane. Yes, very attractive, with rocks and a narrow strip of sand and , of course, a warm, green sea with small waves. In its almost completely natural condition -- just two small cafe stalls on the beach and a few parasols for hire. Its naturalness extended to the naturism of many of the population. Enough rocks to be able to sit in the shade as required for most of the day.

I walked up to visit the small 'moni' (monastery) on the cliff, but there was no one at home. "The Pope is not here -- only when his car is here", I was informed by a German couple, somewhat inappropriately. I had not really expected the Pope to be in residence. We had a little conversation, in English and German, in which I was able to substitute the word 'Monk' for Pope, which they accepted. But his car did not arrive.

Back on the beach, I sampled a 'Frappe' from the drinks stall: frothy, shaken, iced strong coffee sipped through a straw; like iced cappuccino. Very acceptable.

A sad loss on my return to the moped in the car park at the top of the long hot climb up the hill. My helmet had disappeared. How can one prevent this without carrying the great thing everywhere ? It was bad enough carrying all my luggage down and back up again. What do people do back in Britain these days ? When I had motorcycles, one left helmets and anything else lying around perfectly safely. An interesting point. It cost me 15 pounds next day when I returned the vehicle. At least I had little fear of being stopped by the police -- about half the motorcyclists ride illegally without helmets, with presumably no fear of interference.

Back to this evening. I found a reasonably comfortable room over a taverna at the edge of the village of Pelekas. Moussaka for supper -- a sort of cottage pie, deliciously crisp round the edges, one could almost pick it up by hand to eat it; and hot (despite the idea put about that all Greek food is cooled before serving). Elvira, the proprietress engaged me in conversation while eating, expressing interest in my travels and family, while politics was vehemently discussed on the television overhead.

Friday, Aug. 31.
Back into Corfu Town (less than an hour's ride) to dump the moped and book into the Ionion Hotel for the rest of the day and half the night. By 10 o'clock I had also got my boarding card for the Patra ferry next morning. So I had a day to explore the town, which included finding a supermarket for supplies for lunch in my room to be followed by afternoon siesta. Definitely a Mediterranean town with narrow streets and many churches and the sea halfway round it -- and tourists, like me. St. Spyridon's church (Corfu's patron saint) has an extraordinary old silver sarcophagus to house his remains, with numerous silver censers and other vessels hanging over it. An elaborately painted ceiling can only be viewed properly by lying on the floor, although I saw no one else doing this. This was the first time I had needed to try a flash photo; I had brought Marion's new camera specially for its flashability as well as its small size -- the batteries had failed. But I soon acquired new ones in this tourist hub, so I hope we will be seeing the sarcophagus again.

Saturday, September 1.
A significant point in my travels. The start of my 'Rail Tour', as, at 5am, I board the 'Egitto Express'. This may sound a suitable name for a train, but is, in fact, a large ship, now outward bound from Corfu to Patra and the mainland of Greece, on what will soon become, I hope, a sunrise cruise. Almost empty of passengers, I feel as though it has been laid on specially for me and the half dozen or so others who have boarded at Corfu. But no doubt there are many others still asleep in their cabins, as the 'Express' has travelled all night from Brindisi. Deliciously cool sitting in the sea breeze on this vast open deck, as we head into the darkness.

"Why do you call this the start of your rail tour ?", you may ask. It is merely that my Inter-Rail ticket is accepted by this Hellenic Mediterranean Line as part of the system. How often has a rail tour commenced on rail-free Corfu ?

The sun a bit reluctant to rise. At 7.30 there are clouds over the hills to the East. More people do emerge as time goes on, many from sleeping bags previously unnoticed in odd corners of the decks. Mostly Italians -- as is the ship. Later it is brilliant again, and Mediterranean, of course, and Ionian. I am fully equipped for a 10 o'clock lunch with bread , meat, tomatoes, honey, grapes, peaches and biscuits, and, most important, plenty of water.

We pass Lefkada and call at Kephallonia, a long seaside town backed by bare, wild mountains, and enter the Patra Channel, but the bright sun and hazy distances make it difficult to make out features of the landscape. I retire from the sun deck into the air-conditioned lounge.

Patra. 3pm. Rather later than I had expected, so I had missed my southbound train. So I would take the opportunity to go to Diakopto instead. But some things work out just right. Sitting at the rail of the ship waiting to disembark, I was thinking of the possible long hot walk to the station without a street map to help, when I looked down and saw railway lines just across the road from the side of the ship. And not only lines, but a station. Relief. Patra station. 'PATRA' plainly written up. Why is it called Patras in so many places ?

So -- my first Greek 'treno'. Just a short journey eastward. 45 minutes to Diakopto. A 3-car diesel set, very coolly air-conditioned; presumably this is what my extra supplement of nearly £2 was meant to pay for. It started dead on time, and then I was turned out of my first class coach into the unconditioned second class. So the supplement was worth nothing at all. The train rattled on along the coast. At Diakopto I found a small room in a small hotel near the station.

Sunday, Sept. 2.
I telephoned to Marion !! 7.30am (5.30 at home, so she was just up). This was an amazing event. The first successful call in Greece using my phone card. Repeated attempts had previously failed for no reason, and I had now given up trying to contact any 'Servas' hosts in Greece. What induced the system to find Marion now ? Anyway, all was well at home.

By rack railway to Zachlorou: the reason for coming to Diakopto. I was pleased to be able to incorporate this experience, following Bernard's strong advice to do so. This Kalavrita railway climbs into the mountains for 22km on its 3 foot gauge, through a spectacular gorge with several rack sections on the way (1 in 3.5 in places). Short tunnels, overhanging cliffs, an extremely narrow gorge and vertical drops down to a river far below make it quite a worthwhile outing. I went up only 13km to Zachlorou, a small village in the upper part of the gorge. This gave me nearly an hour to get a decent walk further up along the track, and then a coffee on a gorge-side restaurant terrace, and meet the train coming down again. I had no time for longer. My Inter-Rail ticket was accepted for this trip, an unexpected bonus.

Back in the town, I was lucky to find a good bakery open, a bit surprising for a Sunday, so I bought a large sausage roll and a cooling drink, served by a very Greek-looking Australian from Brighton (Melbourne). Odd. Lunch was eaten sitting in slightly breezy shade beside an old brightly painted rack railway steam locomotive, and under a bougainvillea tree. Halfway through, a girl came along demanding a dust pan and brush -- apparently this part of her station cleaning kit was stored in the corner just behind where I was ensconced. Odd again.

Now my next train, the one I had missed the day before in Patra. A far superior one, with locomotive at the head, and coaches with opening windows, and fresh air -- and no supplement to pay. Why ? (I think I had better stop writing about supplements now, a subject I am unsympathetic with.) A journey of over six hours ahead, back through Patra and down the western Peloponnese coast to Kalamata. Plenty of room. Listening to English conversation close by, I was soon joining in -- a boy and girl from Peterborough and Portsmouth, who had collected a German girl as well on their way across from Istanbul. Bound for Patra and ferry to Italy. They were working their way through three months of Inter-Rail tickets, so had plenty to talk about. But they were unaware of 'Servas', so I introduced them. A pleasant encounter that I wish could have been longer.

The journey then became a bit more boring in comparison -- some way from the coast until approaching Kiparissia, some four hours from Patra. Here everyone had to change to another waiting train, despite the original train being booked as a through one. But reversal is necessary here ; maybe it could not manage this. Then more dramatically, very slowly up a climb of some 800 feet over a mountain spur, including three impressive viaducts. Back at sea level, we arrived at Kalamata at 9 o'clock, more than an hour late. Straight to the nearest hotel to a comfortable room and shower.

Monday, Sept. 3. 3am.
No. I should not really be here at this time of year. I am sitting up in my hotel room at Kalamata, not yet having slept. Each night, I think at first that it is the stickiness of heat that makes me itch all over. Then I try covering myself with a sheet. This does improve the itchiness, but , of course, increases the heat But it does seem preferable. Then there is my pet mosquito. Every night there seems to be just one mosquito charging round all night, almost as if I transport it somehow myself from place to place. I try to bash it whenever it appears to land, but am always aware that I have to be ready for the next charge.

Three hours sleep, perhaps, by 7am. Maybe I can sleep on a train later. Time for a walk round before too much sun. Looked at the sea front and had a pleasant breakfast in the street: coffee and a toast sandwich of ham and hard boiled egg; in the company of a local English speaker keen to compare Greek and British ways.

But my next train did nothing to induce sleep -- across the bulk of the mountainous Peloponnese peninsula on a railway that followed the contours rather than trying to cut across with great engineering works. So an abundance of sharp curves into valleys and out on to rocky spurs all liberally bespeckled with olive trees, but nevertheless several outstanding viaducts could not be avoided. Apparently, the railway was built with an abundance of track at its disposal, so the shortest route was not important. This was only a two-car diesel unit, and took me in four hours over the hills and far away down to the sea again, for my first glimpse of the Aegean. I alighted at Arghos, where was waiting the little branch line train to take me on the last four miles to Navplion; a recently revived railway, entering the town along the waterside into a new station at the edge of the town centre, reminding me of the approach to Poole from the West -- with added heat ! A hot walk through the town led me to the Hotel King Othon. This I had seen recommended somewhere as being of good value. It was very expensive (£30), but with breakfast on the terrace ("a very good breakfast", I was promised), and a large air-conditioned room; lovely coldness, and a double bed with brass knobs on, so I accepted it all. I went first for a swim at a local pebble beach in good swirling waves, and later explored the back streets leading to terraces high up on the rocky headland on which the town is built. I can quite see how Rosalind and Bernard had found it an attractive place to stay.

Tuesday 3am.
I wake up and consider what I was writing 24 hours ago. Now, nestling under two sheets to keep warm; no itching, and no pet mosquito.

8am. A short photo walk above the town while still cool, followed by my "very good" breakfast on the terrace (yes), until the sun reached me. Walk back to the station, where there was only an 1890s style train waiting -- for ever. No train for me. Running late, I was told. I had to find the bus station, and pay 60p to be taken to Arghos. No transport integration on this occasion.

But I did catch my next train. Arghos to Athens. Chief attraction, the classic view along the length of the bright blue Corinth canal as the train passes over, and some good coastal scenery thereafter, seen from the railway's winding cliffside terrace. But many oil tanks on other coastal sections.

Athens. 2pm. A 200 yard walk to the 'big railway' station (the standard gauge line for linking to the rest of Europe). Lunch on the platform, and book reading. Conditions not conducive to sight seeing, and I was certainly not going to trudge up any mid-afternoon Acropolis. I didn't even see it.

4pm train to Kalabaka. Heading North now. Air-conditioned and quiet train, but no opening windows for fresh breeze -- which is better ? Over two more mountain ranges, travelling at times on a narrow shelf on a cliff edge, looking down almost vertically on to a dead flat plain below stretching as far as the eye can see --the Plain of Thessaly. After dark arrival at Kalabaka on time at 8.40. Short walk to a hotel -- full; but the German owner took me in his car to his second-best hotel more out of the town, and I was soon installed. I was already impressed by the huge masses of smooth rock rising vertically out of the ground almost in the town centre. A geological vision for tomorrow.

Wednesday, Sept. 5.
A good hotel in many ways. Breakfast included again, and a good German 'fruhstuck' it proved to be. And less than half the price of Navplion. No air conditioning, but there is a welcome impression of more coolness here on the edge of the hills. Cool mornings and evenings, anyway. A balcony to myself looking over to the Pindus Mountains, and these fantastic great rocks close by. Yes, they are like single rocks, but hundreds of feet high, nevertheless. I allow myself two nights here.

METEORA. (Stress the second 'e' -- metEora).
What can I say ? Nothing of sufficient description of this amazing area, and its monasteries perched precariously but solidly on tops of apparently inaccessible pinnacles scattered through the landscape. I must leave it to Patrick Leigh Fermor to start me off (from his book 'Roumeli' (1966)) :

"...Only when we were nearly in the streets of Kalabaka did we gaze up at the tremendous spikes and cylinders of rock that soared for perpendicular hundreds of feet into the sky. There was nothing to halt the upward path of the eye, except, here and there, an irrelevant tuft of vegetation curling from the rock-face on a single stalk... One immense drum of stone ascended immediately overhead. Behind, separated by leaf-filled valleys, the pillars and stalagmites retreated in demented confusion, rising, curling and leaning, tapering to precarious isolated pedestals (on the summit of one of which the wall and the belfry of a monastery, minute and foreshortened, could just be discerned).....Half an hour later we were advancing westwards...The shadows in the astonishing rocks were broadening, and all, in the second village of Kastraki, was mellow and golden. Then the last houses fell behind, and as we rounded the vast central tympanum of conglomerate, a deep gorge opened before us, that dwindled and climbed along a chasm between the mountains. The white walls of the monastery of the Transfiguration appeared on a ledge far overhead and soon, the outline of St. Barlaam. My heart sank at the height and the distance. It seemed impossible that we should ever reach that eagle's nest......We were deeply engaged in this improbable geology."

I took a bus from the town centre up the usual tourist route to Mega Meteora, the largest and highest of all the monasteries. I joined the long line of people climbing the winding steps diagonally ascending the cliff face. A confusing conglomeration of buildings, passages and courtyards confronts one at the top. The church of the Transfiguration is the main feature, with walls and ceilings completely covered with frescoes, too much to be able to appreciate the details in the dark interior, not helped by the too bright sunshine outside. A lovely double-arched refectory with row of central columns, and tables laid for a meal. One rough table dates from the 16th century. The buildings mostly go back to the 16th century, all on different levels, and just make a fascinating place to wander round. I discovered a semantron, a hanging metal gong used to wake the whole area and echo from monastery to monastery, and a talanton, a similar device in wood.

I did, unfortunately, stumble down a very insignificant step in one of the courtyards, which made my ankle less efficient for the rest of the day, and longer. Nevertheless, having hoped to find a footpath from here to Varlaam, the next monastery, a little lower down, I explored the only possibility, completely devoid of any direction signs, which proved to be just what I was looking for. Descending steeply the gorge between the vertical pinnacles, one could not see how it could lead anywhere useful, but it did; down and then up among the chasms; in half an hour I was climbing on to the 'tourist' steps leading from the road into Varlaam.

Varlaam. After the initial 14th century climb by St. Varlaam, ascent for visitors was by scaffolding, then by hanging ladders or enclosed in a net on the end of a cable, and drawn up by a winch. The winch arrangements are still awesomely visible, dangling from a high projecting turret. It is still used for goods. (Vividly described in the book 'Roumeli'). Here is another over-frescoed two-domed church (All Saints), and in the 16th century store room a huge barrel five feet in diameter, held together by massive wooden straps. And more dramatic views looking out from the top of this pinnacle.

After Varlaam, I had a road walk of 2km or more to Ayia Triada, the monastery of the Holy Trinity. Even more steps up to this one, partly in a gallery in the cliff, and perhaps an even more dramatic position. Then another good find; a steeply wooded path which led in about an hour right down into the town, and completed my day's tour. A remarkably well and recently made path for most of the way -- large pebbles embedded in concrete. What a lot of hard work getting it all up the hill. Once again, completely devoid of any direction signs.

I felt as though I had climbed several mountains by the end of the day. A 'souvlaki' ( eleven hunks of lamb skewered on a long skewer) plus chips made a sufficient evening meal, sitting outside a pavement restaurant; followed by ice cream on another pavement.

Thursday, Sept. 6.
Same bus up the hill today, and I was able to meet it conveniently outside the hotel. I got out only halfway up, at Roussanou. This is the only convent among all the monasteries, and in perhaps the most inspiring position of all; with its walls on the very edge of the vertical cliffs of its perch. More steps. Little to see inside, chiefly the church of St. Barbara, dark and heavily frescoed, of course. Two old nuns apparently in residence. A really cold wind was hurtling past; inducing thoughts of what winter residence must be like. But the structure has presumably been windproof for centuries.

I found another nice little path on the way down to avoid a long bend in the road, down to St. Nikolai, the lowest of the monasteries. Here I climbed the steps (just for one more of these vertical views), but forbore to pay yet another entrance fee. Then down the road, passing remains of hermits' caves in the cliffs, now with no access, through the village of Kastraki and back into the town.

At the end of these 'rocks in the sky' (meteors ?), I have come to the conclusion that I am better pleased at having experienced these, rather than visiting any ancient Greek remains, of which I have seen none. I can recommend them to any one, specially any one with a hankering for steps. I have been more charmed by them than I think I would be by that great Ayers thing in Australia that is so popular. An intriguing two days.

Now on my way to Thessaloniki. I am at Paleofarsalos, an island of five railway platforms set in the middle of the arid Thessalian Plain, with hardly a house in sight. I have an hour to get from one platform to the next. Not an inspiring place, and no catering facilities, but all very modern and clean. A pleasant light breeze. On through more mountain scenery and then between Mount Olympus and the sea; dark clouds over the tops.

Thessaloniki 7.30 (Has 'Salonika' been phased out?). No trouble about booking a couchette for the night. Then a ham and cheese pie meal with frappe, to finish up my Greek small notes and coins.

9.30. Into Bulgaria. That is to say, a Bulgarian coach on the 'Trans-Balkan' train, with a three-berth compartment to myself. Most of the train finds its way to Bucharest and Budapest, but this last coach stops at Sofia, so that I can have no fear of overshooting my destination. It is the only train of the day (or night) into Bulgaria by this route.

Friday, Sept. 7.
A new stage of my travels starts. Friendly welcomes in Eastern Europe from 'Servas' families.

Sofia station 7.30am., and very relieved to be met by Vesselin Tutundjiev, the only Servas host in Bulgaria to have replied to my enquiries. Not having been able to telephone from Greece, I thought he might have forgotten me. So this meeting was all the more welcome.

Definitely a cold morning for me. First call to a cash machine for a supply of Lev (only three to a pound; money must be more in control than in Romania).Then a tram to the town centre and a short walk to his apartment, in a large old house. Food was vaguely mentioned, but other things were discussed, and 'breakfast' was not got round to until about 11 o'clock., by which time Vesselin's mother had appeared to join us. A non English speaker, not surprisingly. I had no idea before what family he had, so I started learning here. There is also a sister living elsewhere in Sofia.

A sights of the town afternoon, with the weather getting even colder, and windy. The strangest 'sight' being perhaps the Centre of Culture (a good old Communist institution), where was being held a students' market; i.e. a series of stalls exclusively for students' use, selling everything they might want for the start of next term in a few days' time. We then went out to the Tutundjiev 'second home' , a cottage in the country, or rather in a village at the foot of the Witosha mountain just outside the town. This sounded to me an ideal arrangement. Tram and bus took us in only 20 minutes to the bottom station of a cable car, then a walk across open fields of cows, sheep and horses (and a few blackberries) to the house at the edge of the village. One of the many small villages on the slopes above the city. Mother was there too; I had thought she might be resident in the town apartment. So a good hot meal appeared later, a sort of hash of ham, cheese, runner beans and tomatoes. Just what I needed.

Then I was shown the garden, a curious mixture of fruit trees, vegetables, half built swimming pool, a water garden, a home made sculpture and a little tower for extending one's view over the hills. Not least; at the bottom of the garden, another house --unfinished -- in which lives Kiril, a friend who at the moment is working full time helping Vesselin with all his projects. He had just finished his evening Yoga exercises when I was introduced. Vesselin organises expeditions, as well as his winter job of ski instructor and guide. They use this house to meet and plan and for friends to stay in. But I had a bed in the older house, built, in fact, by his parents 40 years ago.

Saturday, Sept 8.
You won't believe this. I am sitting in front of a large open log fire trying to warm up in a mountain cafe after descending from a mountain walk. In particular, even after a cup of cappuccino, my fingers are only just beginning to thaw out enough for writing. Despite the fact that the sun is shining outside too. But it was not so higher up.. I ascended into cold cloud with no obvious prospect of clearing; a cold wind too, and no extra clothes (specially gloves) at my disposal. So I turned back after a climb of less than 1000 feet up Cherni Vrech (the Black Peak). At this fireside I am 5500 feet up, which I reached this morning by the cable car. This situation is so unexpected that I have persuaded another coffee drinker ( in a sort of Bulgarian sign language) to take a photo of me.

But my climb was not a great enjoyment, apart from temperature. My ankle and knees are not really working efficiently, and I took nearly twice as long to walk down as I did going up. This seems a pity. I am now beginning to roast from these glowing logs, and will emerge into the sun again, to look down 3000 feet on to the city of Sofia spread out below -- so near and so far -- and take a leisurely, more horizontal stroll along a shelf. The cloud did clear later in the afternoon, but by that time I was on my way down in the cable car again.

Vesselin disappeared towards evening, and I was taken down into the town by Kiril to his own small apartment. On the 5th floor of a rather dingy tower block (with no lift), another unexpected encounter. I was introduced to Sylvana, Kiril's niece, charmingly French and English speaking and a teacher of French in a language college. It was suggested that we all go to an Indian restaurant, so we duly did, about 10 minutes' walk away. To add to the unpredictable events, Kiril, on arrival, asked to see the owner of the restaurant, an Indian lady with whose family he had lived when studying Indian philosophy in India. So she came and talked with us while our meal was being prepared -- thus ensuring that we had perfect service.! And excellent it was ; a lovely sufficiently mild chicken curry for me, with rice and the best crispy chapattis that I have ever met. So a really oddly unexpected pleasant social evening.

Back at the apartment, yet another encounter -- Giorgi, Sylvana's 8 year old son. He had been behind closed doors before, but now introduced to me, sitting up in bed watching television. Another French speaker. A bed was made up for me in the sitting room, and a day of interesting variety came to a comfortable end.

"Do you have electricity all the time in your house ?", I was asked at one point. Perhaps this sums up the basic difference between here and at home. Nothing can be taken for granted. When asked about the differences, I tend to point to their obvious need for more people available to keep in repair the roads and pavements, and that they would probably like more paint to be available. Walking back from the restaurant, some sections of street lighting had failed.

Sunday, Sept. 9.
8am breakfast, designed with me in mind, I feel. Hard boiled eggs, toast and honey, and coffee with milk . Eggs and milk had to be specially purchased on our way home last night, despite my efforts at dissuasion. Anyway, they had obviously enjoyed my unplanned visit. I gave Giorgi a 'Red Dragon' flag, and accepted an embroidered handkerchief for Marion.

Kiril and I made our way back up the hill by bus to the 'country cottage' complex, where I spent the rest of the day relaxing. A lovely, sunny, much warmer day, with the mountain peaks clear all day. Would have been a much more auspicious one for a climb. I gave Kiril an intensive lesson in English grammar from a book he was working through. Vesselin showed me his extensive collection of dried herbs, and picked for me some lime flowers to make the lime tea that we have been drinking. Nearly colourless, but a subtle taste. (I thought the first cup I was given was water). I suggested that I would like a photo of him and his mother, but -- "next time", she said. He was so busy with various friends coming in, and then having to make a meal for one who was staying the night, that I did run out of things to do, and my hoped-for return to Sofia to see more was frustrated until 8pm. But then we did go back, and to the town flat for the night. So I had my third different bed in three nights. A sort of Bulgarian roundabout.

Monday, Sept. 10.
A day I might well have liked to forget has been transformed into a very happy experience -- by Angela. Thrown together while waiting doubtfully on Sofia station for a train, undergoing confusing shunting operations, that we hoped would take us from Sofia to Bucharest. This was after the shock of finding that my intended train of the day had been deleted from the time table. My fault really for not checking. So, this diversion to Bucharest was a change of plan for me, after the effort of getting to the station at 6.30., and then having to abandon hope of going via Vidin and a ferry across the Danube. Anyway, back to Angela, and the Bucharest train, which did eventually set off all in one piece. After realising that she was speaking English when we were both reserving seats at the booking office (a requirement of all trains in this part of the world), and, of course, having adjacent seats, we were more or less obliged to set about an international friendship; for she is not English, but Romanian; a nice surprise. (She was speaking English because she cannot speak Bulgarian). And not only is she Romanian, but lives in Timisoara, whither I was headed in a few days' time. She was on her way home from a sort of United Nations Llandysul type ecological work camp on the Bulgarian Black Sea coast, cleaning up the beaches in the interests of ecology and tourism. So, plenty of interesting conversation, and timely welcome company for us both. I have a photograph of her sitting in the train in her sleeping bag to keep warm at the start of the journey "looking like a mermaid on a rock" I told her. She showed great interest in my few family photos; a bit like Helen in some ways -- she is 21, and has no idea what she really wants to do after her ecological studies are completed next year; and she is vegetarian; but she does have seven cats. So a journey of eleven 'Trans-Balkan' hours together became a memorable enjoyment. I think that that morning on Sofia station, we were a bit like two lost souls hoping for rescue, and we both found what we needed. She had already spent the previous night in a crowded train and needed stimulation to keep smiling. Which she did.

But I had been unable in Sofia to contact Cristi and Magdalena, who would have been meeting me at midnight in Simeria, some 200 miles west of Bucharest. A Bulgarian phone card had failed to make contact. So when we finally reached Bucharest at 8pm I had to :-- 1: find a cash machine, 2: buy a Romanian phone card, 3: find out my eventual arrival time, and 4: get the message to Cristi. A big programme. But I had Angela. Now in Romania, she was so much better than I at finding things, but we, nevertheless, took a long time to find a cash machine hidden away in a dark corner. It refused to give me cash. (After last year's experience I was not really very surprised). We also found a money changing place; they didn't like my travellers' cheques which were a year out of date; I had never considered that this would be a problem. So -- what ? Angela, dear Angi, now become my guardian angel, offered to lend me thousands of Lei. I just had to accept, even if a little awkwardly. How lucky that we were both headed eventually for Timisoara, so we could arrange another meeting to settle up. No, this sounds a bit too mercenary; we had already decided to meet again; I had got her interested in 'Servas', and hoped she would be able to meet me and my next host when I got there.

So much for a memorable day. The night ,however, began deteriorating almost as soon as we had reluctantly parted. Left alone, I somehow managed to get on the wrong train. It was going to Arad, beyond where I wanted to go, but travelling by the wrong route for me; it would never get me to Simeria. My fault, of course. I had to eject myself at Craiova at midnight (in heavy rain), ring up Cristi again (in bed), spend three hours in the waiting room lying on the floor, and finally reach Simeria at 8.15 in the morning. Cristi and Magdalena were both there to meet me. More good friends in the right place at the right time; and with a car.

Now three nights' rest ahead to look forward to.

So it became Tuesday, Sept. 11,
and a hot shower, a canine welcome of recognition(?) from Anita, and a delicious sausage and cheese omelette created for me by Cristi soon relieved me of my fatigue, and made me ready for the day. (Magda had gone straight to work). This is the set-up of their present life in Simeria.: Magda is a research chemist at the Dendrological Research station, in a huge old mansion on the edge of the town, the one time home of a Hungarian Count. They have their own apartment close by, and I had my own too, just across the corridor. Being beside a 150 acre arboretum attached to the 'Station' , I had immediate access to this rather nice 'recreational facility' -- or perhaps 'paradise of woodland wandering' sounds better and more appropriate. They are also building their own house in another part of the town, now at the plumbing and plastering stage, so were very busy there too, but seemed pleased to find time to entertain me as well. Cristi is also looking for a new job in the area.

In Simeria, Cristi introduced me to a more sympathetic cash machine which actually gave me money, and then he took me to Deva, the nearest larger town. We climbed up to the 'city' (or citadel), the remains of the old fortress, on top of a 500 foot conical limestone knob on the edge of the town More of a climb than we expected, I think. Cristi decided to try to follow one of the marked routes, which led us scrambling up rocks interspersed with slippery earth made worse by the night's rain, and it was raining again by the time we reached the top. An interesting and typically Cristi approach, I thought. Large area of overgrown and crumbling walls, with no attempt at making it into the too well-kept tourist attraction that it would be in Britain. More attractive, in fact. We found a way down which enabled us to walk all the way, rather than slide. Then a visit to the Archaeological Museum, which Cristi was able to make interesting to me. It would have been a rather gloomy and informationless place without his inspiration. At five o'clock I was allowed to go to sleep for 3 hours before supper.

A significant evening: First pictures from New York of the World Trade Centre annihilation, pictures we will no doubt be seeing again for many years to come. English commentary on EuroNews for me to follow. What can we do about this ?

Wednesday, Sept. 12
Repercussions from New York: Someone in the research station opened an attachment to an e-mail from New York. Two of their four computers failed. Coincidence?

Cristi and I left Magdalena to help sort things out, and went off to visit the fantastic castle of Hunedoara. This is the large, complex one time home of the 15th century Hungarian Corvin family, with its 'fairy tale' range of towers and spires, on another limestone hill near Deva. Much added to and altered since the 15th century, it makes a fine place to see, and to explore the many-staired, balconied, courtyarded interior, with magnificent halls and gloomy dungeons. Liberally adorned with carvings of the Corvin family symbol -- a raven with a gold ring in its beak. A good view of a large steelworks nearby (as there has been since the 16th century -- an adjacent hill was a prolific source of ironstone). This was added to in Ceausescu's day to emphasise how much more magnificent is modern technology than any ancient castle.

After Hunedoara, I spent the afternoon exploring the arboretum on my own, a lovely green place to wander round in, bordered by the River Mures. Next morning a guided tour with Magdalena made it even more full of interest, with the extraordinarily world-wide variety of plants all being accurately named. But lack of funds for upkeep in the last few years is already apparent in the overgrowing of some of the paths and general air of neglect. Lovely at the moment -- Marion would approve the wildness -- but one needs to suppress visions of what it might look like in a few years time.

Friday, Sept. 14.
Simeria to Timisoara, less than four hours by train. 8 to 11.45am. Met easily by George Marinca (73), who then walked me home (by which I mean, held my arm most of the way, particularly at crossings -- very useful). Twenty minutes walk. At midday, 12o'clock struck with bells tolling. Apparently, world memorial time for the New York disaster of three days ago. But we just kept on walking, as did everyone else we could see.

The Marinca apartment entered through a huge old forbidding battered wooden door in a grim looking block, and up dark steps into large, high , dark rooms. I was given a bedroom to myself; large window, but somehow managed to remain dark, with an excess of blinds and curtains. However, a complicated, but welcoming family was there to greet me at various times during the day. George's wife, Elena, daughter Christina, with Teodora (12) and Denis (3 months), who all live in the house; another daughter, Ottilia, with Elisa (4) and Bogdan (2) who were visiting for the day, and a third daughter, Monica, who also lives in Timisoara.

George took me for a walk to see the town. Down their street, the Bulevard 16 Dec 1989, the scene of the start of the Romanian revolution of that date. His vivid descriptions were all the more interesting, coming from someone who actually lived in this street at the time. He showed me the Reformist church whose 'turbulent' priest the police tried to remove, thus sparking off the whole chain of events. On to the huge Cathedral and the square where tens of thousands of people were so recently gathered, many being killed and 'disappeared' (i.e. bodies were burnt and ashes thrown down the drains in the streets in an attempt to deny the deaths). All very calm, happy and innocent in the bright warm sunshine of today. In fact Timisoara is a pleasant town of many parks with flowers, all well kept. One up on Deva, I think. In the Orthodox Cathedral we came upon a remembrance service in progress. This could have been 3 weeks, 6 weeks, or perhaps 6 months after a death; mourners bring food (cakes, fruit) to be distributed to all present after the service. We were home for lunch at 3pm.

Saturday, Sept. 15.
Two eggs boiled for me for breakfast ('English breakfast'), tomatoes, peppers, lots of honey and jam., and a herb tea.

With George again into the town centre for a date with Angela; very important; good to see her again, and a relief to be able pay back my borrowings. A pleasant half hour with coffee and cakes in her favourite patisserie, and a three way conversation in Romanian and English. George had tea; never coffee, and, in fact, there is none in his house. Followed by more 'sights' for me to see, enlivened by local history and information from my two companions, a photo session beside the colourful floral clock, a visit to the large open air market, where Angi failed to find mushrooms, until our ways parted, there among the fruit and veg, with a final fond farewell -- but not, I hope, for ever. Once again, lunch at 3pm was a very suitable time.

Sunday, Sept. 16.
Another little expedition on foot for me, visiting a local market, and purchasing fruit for my journey, flowers for Elena, and batteries for Teodora's Walkman. Also into the cathedral again to view Sunday service with people entering and leaving continuously the crowded nave (seats only round the edges). Choir singing in the gallery and priest chanting continuously too, and long queues for the communion table for the tiny morsels of bread dispensed by the priests. An active and popular place.

Lunch -- more vegetable soup, another hotpot, and doughnut-type cakes, delicious with added cherry jam. I must certainly come again when in need of soup and jam.

George has been on the 'Servas' trail since 1978, and tells of the frustrations of finding contacts in other countries in the face of the bureaucratic difficulties, and the inability of the Communist mind to understand the benefits of international cooperation. The non-existence of an honest postal system meant years of delay, before being allowed to receive correspondence from Britain and elsewhere. Even today, photos posted to Romania meet 'interference' and non-delivery; post cards are more likely to be delivered than letters. The surest and almost essential link is by e-mail. I am now duly armed with many Romanian and Bulgarian e-mail addresses.

It's amazing how Romanian trains manage to keep to the time tables so punctiliously, among the apparent confusion on the stations, with almost complete lack of information signs, people wandering about across the tracks and a lack of obvious officials until the very last minute. Anyway, 17.35 at Gara Timisoara Nord saw me off once again, destined for Austria. But first back to Deva, so that I could get into my couchette at 11.30, rather than take the shorter route to Arad where my couchette would not arrive until 1.30.

At Deva, a call to Marion to use the end of my Romanian phone card, and a 'Chicken McNuggets' at you know where (the only eating establishment I could find near the station). But such are Romanian prices that I failed to use all my cash, which is now useless (till next time).

11.30, and my train to 'Arad - Curtici - Budapest - Wien' (the 'Dacia Express'), containing my night's accommodation. Not a luxury journey -- five people in a 6-berth cupboard, but a good lie-down. Customs interference at 2 and 7am, and Vienna arrival at 9.

La revedere, Romania.

More travels or return to Family page or back to Home page.