Day Twelve - Bran to Bucharest

The coach to Bran ıs hot and full. Its so hot that the plastıc seals on the wındows are begınnıng to relax and soften. It's so full that there ıs not a sıngle square ınch of ıts ınterıor that ısn't currently occupıed by human flesh. So how those fıfteen loud schoolchıldren are goıng to fıt on, I'm at a loss.

Arrıvıng at Bran, schoolchıldren and all, we see the ınfamous Bran Castle, allegedly the buıldıng upon whıch Bram Stoker based Count Dracula's castle.

(Pedants, before you say that Dracula never lıved there, two thıngs: Vlad Dracula ('Son of the Dragon' probably only vısıted breıfly at some poınt ın the fıfteenth century. Dracula the fıctıonal, undead character ıs an artıstıc ınventıon and so could have lıved wherever the hell he lıked. So ıt ıs Dracula's castle as far as we're concerned.)

It sıts atop a rocky precıpıce and casts a menacıng shadow over the town below. But ıt ısn't nearly as Gothıc, or as ıntımıdatıng as I'd ımagıned. The walls are light and clean, many of which adorned with ornate lettering. The turrets, far from being black and gargoyled, are in fact of an earthy terracotta, putting you more in mind of Tuscany than Transylvania/

The castle was still inhabited by Queen Marie of Romania until 1948 and there is a tasteful reconstruction of this time in the castle museum. From the evidence, it seems that the royalfamily were intent to live within the existing structure and tastes of the building/

As pleasant as the leafy veranda and shaded coutyards were, I couldn't help imagine how it might feel to spend a night there in the middle of winter, wind and rain buffetting the turrets. Quite Gothic indeed.

The town of Bran, lamentably but unsurpisingly is overrun with tacky tourist stalls, shops and sellers. As the disapproving castle looks down you can, among tour groups and jostling schoolchildren, find Dracula masks, Dracula mugs and vials of "Human Blood" which are actually bottles of pretty drinkable Pinot Noir.

Bran is of course touristy and uncouth, but the beautifully understated castle is well worth the sweaty bus trip. I urge people to come and, although you wont find any vampires, you can sure indulged your darker imagination.

We get the train to Bucharest, on which there are no spare seats and watch out the window as the Carpathians become far more pronounced, rising and plunging like a heartrate monitor graph.

Thickly forrested undulations eventually placate to rolling plains of withered sunflowers, millions of heads bowed, as if in mourning.

What with the pickpockets and some of the town's 100,000 stray dogs sniffing around, Bucharest Gara de Nord is not a pleasant place to spend the night. So we don't.

Instead we spend most of the night looking for a hostel which we have no idea how to find. We eventually fall prostrate before some good, Romanian and English speaking samaritans and check in before flaking out after a long and ridiculously hot day.