Danny Beer - Danny Beer. Tourist on Wheels. A European Adventure

After lunch you spot a couple wooden bell towers. Apparently there are three dozen such towers throughout the region. You try to take some photos but the towers are sillowetted against the sky.

Fehergyarmat is today’s destination. The last twenty km or so finds a nice riverside bike path. It also finds rain which is less than welcome.

You spot some venison running along. Thoughts return to your empty stomach. You also see one bloke, pushing his bike laden with firewood. “And I thought my load was overbearing.” You think.

You make it into town but accommodation is difficult to find. Making enquiries two km out sends you back into town but never mind as success is at hand.

This is the second and last night in Hungary. Tomorrow Romania beckons. Perhaps it is the quiet roads or maybe the lack of hills but Hungary has been a great improvement cycling-wise over Slovakia. The beer, however, is much more expensive for much less quality.

It is a nice ride to the border. You decide against a detour to a 14th century Gothic church. It may have been nice but there are other nice things to find.

The Romanian border guard is quite interested in your story. Or maybe she is just doing her job. Either way she lets you through without trouble.

A dog is the first to greet you as you head into Satu Mare. It is of no great bother and soon gives up chase. A bank and restaurant are the first and second orders of business. After that you have difficulty trying to leave town. After a while of traversing the town’s pot-hole rieen roads you head in the general direction out on what may or may not be the road. But you find your way.

A strong side wind makes life difficult along the busy highway. Drivers here are not as friendly as in Hungary and the previously two mentioned conditions make for some dangerous cycling. Of particular danger is when a large truck would pass or overtake sending a strong gust of wind your way.

Off the highway the road deteriorates badly. After a particularly scary moment when a car and a truck try to pass you at the same time you decide enough is enough and ride in the middle of your lane. The creates a myriad of angry toots from over anxious drivers forced to slow down and wait a second or two to overtake.

“Why should I wait when I can just easily run you off the road’ and “This is a road. It’s built for cars. Cyclists are of secondary importance to cars.” You can almost hear them say, in Romanian of course. You just wave ‘hello’. This usually works better than any rude hand gestures as it helps settle your anger and, if they bother to look, intensifies the driver’s anger.

“What is he doing? Waving? What does that mean? I want to make him angry so I can stop my car and maim him.” Well it is better than the old road-rage one-up-man-ship salute anyway.

Ninety-seven km later you roll into town and find a hotel. But alas, no hot water so you decide to remain smelly. You go for a walk down the street. Someone taps you on the shoulder. It’s a policeman. He wants to see your passport but it’s at the hotel. He just wants to know what you are up to. As a foreigner you must stand out a mile away. Or maybe he could smell your sweaty stink.

Romania certainly has a different feel to it than Hungary. You see evidence of great poverty and hovels of buildings. People also get around in traditional garb, women in flowery dresses and men in wide brimmed hats. It is definitely car country though and drivers have no intention of giving up this fact. A shame really as it distracts from the otherwise beauty of this country.

A dry and calm day awaits the day’s cycling. A long incline followed by mediocre-to-bad road conditions hampers speed. At the top of the summit the frontier police wave you down. You have a friendly chat as they flip through your passport. They do inform you however that you are legally required to wear a fluorescent vest, of which you buy when next convenient.

You find a small restaurant in Sapanta and try to order something from the menu. You sit down and soon bread then soup arrives. You await the main course but it never comes. A visit to the Merry Cemetery and then to a near complete monastery sees a lot of your camera film.

The Ukraine is ever present a mere swim across the Tisa on your left. The next stop is Sighetu Marmatei. At first glance this is a dusty chaotic town. After a couple brief queries about accommodation it appears to be an expensive dusty chaotic town.

A guy drives up beside you and starts a conversation. You both stop and he recommends heading out of town for a place to stay. He’s a cyclist too and wants to help out a fellow cyclist. He shows you his calves.

So you head out of town. A car vents its frustration at not being able to overtake for a precious few seconds. As opportunity presents itself it goes around only to slowly and deliberately cut you off and force you off the road. You veer off the tarmac but stay on the bike as you brake to a halt. He really wanted to cause some harm. You decide to wait for a few moments as it leaves your sight. You don’t want any more vengeance from the psycho driver. Your knees are still shaking as you find a pension nearby. That last incident was enough for today. Hopefully tomorrow no blue vans will cross your pass. Cyclists beware of blue vans in northern Romania.

The pension is nice. You are fed soup and some kind of rice-meat things which are apparently traditionally Romanian. You chat to two pretty Romanian women who are friends of the host. Perhaps. You wonder. But nah, it could never work. A hot shower and a cold beer or three and it is just about time for some sweet dreams.

A sunny and clear, albeit cold sky greets your day. You are treated to breakfast and soon make your way back towards town to wander about the open air peasant village museum. You invite your host’s friend Lilly to join you but she makes her excuses. She would like to come but she has to tend to her pigs.

Upon seeing your bike you notice someone had gone through your bags during the night. Due mainly to laziness you are in habit of leaving some front bags on your bike. Nothing much of value is left in there anyway. Never-the-less some cheap but useful camping bowls are taken. It is more of an annoyance than inconvenience but something to be weary about.

You spot a blue van heading into town and thoughts return to the previous evening. You get to the peasant village museum but nobody is at the ticket office. So you wander about. It is alright but there isn’t that much to see. In comparison the 1850’s Sovereign Hill in Ballarat, Australia, is much larger and indepth. The baaing of sheep adds to the atmosphere. You meet some people there. The museum is closed. But you’ve had enough anyway. You offer to pay for your ticket none-the-less but the guy shrugs it off.

Back on the bike you head eastwards. A blue van passes sending your heart pounding. Then another and another. But all without incident and you soon relax to the traffic. It soon heats up and you shed some layers, replacing the beanie for the baseball cap.

The villages here are quite beautiful. Elaborate wooden arches adorn each yard entrance. There are quite a few old wooden churches. The oldest, a 14th century church is to be found at Leud, down a very bumpy, very muddy road. But worth seeing though.