Day Twenty One - Munich

My final full day of the trip consists mainly of me languishing in front of the Olympics on Eurosport in the hostel.



Having no money in a foreign country is a slightly worrying prospect, especially when your phone is out of battery and the only way of communicating with the outside world is email, which itself costs one euro per twenty minutes.



Fortunately, the hostel lays on legitimately free tea and not so legitimate free bread and fruit (purloined from the open kitchen window) and so I wile away the best part of the day reading and scribbling some notes against a backdrop of basketball and weightlifting with German commentary. How Romantic.

i finally drag my sorry self out into the streets to be met by throngs of bustling tourists, clogging up the Marienplatz hoping to catch a glimpse of the Rathaus' clock striking the hour. The heretofore good weather was swiftly supplanted by a humid downpour and I am forced to take shelter in the colonnades of the Hofbrauhaus.

This was tantamount to Chinese water torture - listening to the grey rain spatter on to the cobblestones as I, dripping wet, stared through the window at at rotund Bavarian couple enjoying foaming litres of beer and a suspiciously large sausage.

Coming to the conclusion that I manage to get by without much money and with much temptation in London all the time, I wander back to the hostel and spend my last five euros on a couple of beers in front of Eurosport. That I've already watched Poland lose to China in the women's volleyball three times today does little to brighten my mood.

The final irony as I trudge to my night train is that tonight - the one night I can't be sociable and meet new people - appears to be the friendliest night so far. Three separate parties (several American men, two American women and an Australian couple) approach me offering to buy drinks and issuing invites for a night on the tile. There is, I hope, no discernible pity in their faces.

Where were all the nice young people yesterday, when I wandered the sedate Munich streets in the vain hope of meeting a drinking buddy, before giving up early and reading in bed?

My compartment is full, there is nowhere to put my feet owing to a large woman's even larger bag blocking the floor, and an eminently punchable Dutchman will not stop fidgeting.

Day Twenty - Munich

Or München, if we're concerned with semantics. München has far more echoism; as the Baverians certainly know how to eat. And drink.

The last time I came here the 2006 World Cup was in full flow. I went to the Allianz Arena to see Germany take on Sweeden and I am not ashamed to say that, at least for one gloriously treacherous day, I was an honorary Germany supporter.

I make no apologies for this. Speaking to an Irish ex-pat this evening confirmed by incling that German's outperform the English in almost every sphere. The one possible exception being humour.

"Nothing troublesome ever happens in this town," beams Morris, a graphic designer who followed a woman over here six years ago and sees no reason to go back to Ireland. "If there are a group of Germans following you, the most they're gonna get you with is shouts of "Bad example!". If they do want trouble, just cross the street on a red man sign and they'll wait until it turns green to chase you," he said.

They have better beer. This is non negotiable. I sat in the English Garden (more on that to come) with a stein (one litre of fresh Helles lager) and certainly didn't feel the need to fight my neighbour - the carry from the bar had worn out my biceps.

They have better culture, classically speaking of course. Think Kant, Nietzsche, Schoepenhauer, Marx and Engels etc. Then think Beethoven, Strauss, Wagner, Brahms, Bach and Handel. These are to name but a few. They have 100 nobel prize winners, second only to the US.

I shall relent, before my father cuts me clean out the will but you get the point. In England the beer garden and kiosk culture would be unsustainable. There would be fights, breakages and petty disputes galore. But not in die Motherland.

I arrive at Munich Hauptbahnhof insanely early and bang on time (thanks German efficiency) and after a badly needed shower at the hostel set off for a stroll, the streets still empty as the lemon sun begins to spread its light.

The cathedral, which I've been in before, never ceases to amaze me, particularly its 'devil footstep'. The story goes that when the church was completed, the devil wandered in for a nosy. Where he has standing, the sight of the footstep, was a unique position in the church as from there on windows at all are visible. The devil apparently muttered some jibe about there not being much use for a building with no windows before a no-doubt slightly embarrassed altar boy pointed out that, yes Your Evilness, there are in fact many windows and if you'd be so kind as to take one step forward, you'll see them.

Annoyed by his rashness and stupity, the devil stamped his foot and left in a huff. The diva.

As it was a glorious day I went for a walk in the English Garden, one of Europe's largest urban green spaces. It's beautiful, with shaded walkways of dappled light intersecting rolling green pastures dotted with, er, lots of naked people.

Apparently it's the rule rather than the exception to srip off entirely to sunbath in the Garden and this proved emphatically the case as I walked through, averting my gaze from leathery tanned men doing naked lunges next to piles of meticulously folded clothes.

I even saw a naked man riding a bike. This, I thought was brilliant because it must have been done for pure pleasure. You do not ride a bike in the nim to get from A to B, there is no reason for doing it, just sheer, unadulterated pleasure. If an alien landed on earth and asked my to explain the meaning of "leisure" I would point him in the direction of the tanned cowhide on wheels. Then advise him not to use the bike afterwards.

I trawl the area around the Hauptbahnhof in a vain search for the Charity shield match. Bloddy Setanta. Even places advertising the game didn't have a subscription. I watched the Olympics, but it wasn't the same, even if USA vs China basketball was probably a far better game.

I eat alone (boo hoo) at a small beerhall down a secluded alley and drink beer from a pewter-topped tankard under the shadows of a weepong willow. That should be something Göetherian to rouse the soul, but I find myself at a loss.

I always considered myself relatively at ease in my own company (God knows I spent enough days at home watching Diagnosis Murder reruns) but it's harder in a big city. I don't feelin inclined to communicate with the scores of drunken, high-fiving Americans ("Yo man, it's like Europe, we can do whatever we want?") so I climb into a stuffy bunkbed and listen to them through the paper-thin drywall instead as I try to sleep. The lesser of two evils, I think.

Day Nighteen - Belgrade to Zagreb

Belgrade train station must seem unforgiven at the best of times. Its concrete facades have the dinge of neglect and the pistachio green pillars bearing the 'Belgrade' sign can't have seen a lick of paint since the break up of Yugoslavia.



Today, however, it looks especially bleak, under siege as it is from a formless, slate grey sky and a steady streamy of arrow straight rain.



I run for the cover of the International ticket office (there are no apologies that our train was over three hours late arriving this morning) and soon wish I'd have stayed in the sopping wet.



The woman at the desk is simply not cut out for the service industry. I ask for the price for a couchette to Venice, and she simply shrugs moodily, as if I've asked her for advice on my premium bonds. I see a price guide closed on her desk and gesture to it. She snaps at me, claiming I should know. I'm tired and have nowhere to go in a hurry, so I decide to irritate her a little more.



It's like poking a starved pitbull as I stand there and continue to ask in different tones about the train to Bergamo (knowing full well there is no such route). She eventually relents, takes off her glasses and, with perfect straight face, confounds me with her heretofor unproven English grasp:

"Fuck off you."

She calmly draws the blind and there is to be no service whatsoever from the International ticket desk today, much to my amusement and fellow commuters' annoyance.

I wait for five hours with no money (as I've broken my card the smallest denomination of euros at my disposal is a 50 and I'm not about to change this all into Serbian. The rain continues to pour down and, just as I think the day can't get any more mundane and miserable, the announcement comes that there shall be no trains to Venice today. At all.

I board the night train to Munich which stops at Zagreb along the way and takes its sweet time doing. There are no sleeper carriages so I sit huffily as an unwashed Frenchman sits unceremoniously opposite. The Croatian lady next to him is cleary unimpressed and her impressions could hardly improved as said smelly Frenchman bites salaciously on an overripe tomato, sending pips and juice flying across her newly starched-white top. Sacre bleu.

The night is long in coming and stubborn in passing. I feign sleep with my feet arcoss the narrow gap between seats - after two of the rudest, avaricious Austrian girls woke us up because they had nowhere to lay down, so, instead of two people not sleeping, all four of us could now lay distainfully awake. Come back aeroplanes, all is forgiven!

Day Eighteen - Sofia

I share a draughty compartment with two Dutch guys who, for reasons that remain thankfully unknown, are content to talk loudly about sex in English for most of the night.

At Bulgarian passport control I am handed a form by a tired looking officer, belly straining at his belt-buckle, with instructions for visa control. Clause 2.1. states that, "You must presnt this fork whenever prompted by the autharities."

Fortunately, Bulgaria's cutlery centric immigration policy must have been relaxed, for soon we were scudding through the foothills of the Balkan Mountains as a spectacular electrical storm raged on in the distance. Windows, usually rammed open as far as possible in these hot and dusty trains, have to be wedged shut to stop the torrential rain from soaking our papery matresses.

I awake in Sofia, which is fine. The Dutch guys alight and I wait for the train to crank painstakingly into motion on its continuing path the Belgrade. Only it doesn't. My carriage attendent, a new best freind owing to my modelling of Fenerbahce's new away kit, informs me solemnly that there is engineering work taking place on the way to Serbia. It seems nowhere, not even 500 miles from the Euston-Rugby mainline, is immune to the dreaded replacement bus service.

I decide to make the best of the now ten hour delay by seeing a bit of Sofia. Sofia struggles against its mightir northern neighbours of Budapest and Prague, but this little and unlikely fourth capital of Bulgaria (when made capital in 1879, the town had a population of less than 12,000) is engaging and pleasantly strollable.

I have a look at the mosque, the synagogue and a Russian Orthodox church before stumbling, almost literally, across the impressive Alexsander Neksi Cathedral. As I walk pack across a scruffy park, pavement cracks beneath my feet I spy a soviet memorabilia market with soem true gems for sale.

I can't help thinking my friend of Taras 'Not all of Stalin's ideas were bad' Goat as I wander between stalls selling anything from reclaimed cigarette cases to a 1:4 scale broze bust of Stalin. I briefly entertain buying Uncle Joe but my bag is feeling heavy enough without 20kg of dictator weighing it down.

I eat a late lunch in the Sofia Gardens, an attractively quaint strip of lush, landscaped grass ringed by playful fountains, which the locals are not shy about derobing for in order to cool off. Most of Sofia's young are here talking, laughing and comparing mobile phone ringtones as the old men of the town look on disapprovingly over a game or ten of chess.

I trudge back toward the train station actually thankful for a ten hour delay. If something like this had happened in England I would most likely be either apoplectic or incarcerated by now, but Sofia is a worthy entertainer for a day. It's creamy Baroque parliament buildings have a naturally calming hue (even when some protesters sit on the outside steps playing 'Ride of the Valkyries' over an improbably loud PA all afternoon) and its boulevards are thronged with a mixture of shopping women and cafes populated with soothed locals.

Definitely worth a longer visit in the future not least due to the ridiculously low price of food and drink (think 20p a beer).

Back on the train I share my compartment with a longhaired German with one of those really shit, wispy goatees who is, in all seriousness, called Herman. I try to make myself scarce and listen to music as another almighty storm cracks its cheeks, but Herman is clearly not known for his subtlety.

I try to read for a good half an hour as he insists on explaining the inner workings of MP3 files and it takes even longer after I have obviously stopped even grunting a reply, turned off my light and got under the sheets before he relents.

"Do you like any German authors?" he says, spying a book of mine. I answer that I don't know as much as I#d like in terms of fiction, but all the philosophers have their moments.

"Yes, I really like Schoepenhauer."
"I think we'll leave Schopenhauer for another time, Herman," I reply and turn out the lights.

Day Seventeen - Istanbul

My last and Claire's penultimate day in this city and we still don't feel like we've scratched the surface of its vibrant cosmopolitanism and preserved heritage.

I'm not keen but Claire persuades me to take an unofficial tour down the Bosporus which, aside from costing more than the state-recognised trips, seems to take place in a vessel of far more dubious seafaring calibre.

The trip is a relaxed and effective way of seeing the parts of Istanbul that they won't bother showing you from land. As we drift toward the Black Sea we can see large, modern houses, men (never women) diving recklessly into the surly blue river from precipitous balconies and children playing boisterously in leafy parkland.

There are also Turkish flags everywhere you turn. There are more red flags than at the Indy 500 and they serve as an incandescent indicator of this country's fierce patriotism.

We eat fresh mackerel kebabs for just less than a pound and head back to the hotel for that most soul-destroying of tasks: packing.

As we sip our last Efes (the sweet taste of which, I recently found out, can be attributed to the amounts of sugar they add after fermentation) in a side-street bar, a news report comes on the TV.

There are hastily composed shots of wounded men and women and distressed men weeping into the arms of others in the street. The waiter says that four bombs have this morning exploded in the Asian part of town, place we drifted past no less than two hours previous. It's testament to Istanbul's vastness that we can be less than two miles away from an alleged terrorist attack and not have a clue.

I will miss Istanbul, especially as I wile away the uncomfortably warm nights on the trains. It truly is a place city of two worlds, not separate but intermingled to provide a unique atmosphere of extravagance, piety and (except, it seems for tonight) a celebratory tolerance.

Day Sixteen - Istanbul

Today we are in for a treat. The heralded Grand Bazaar, one of the world's leading trading centres since its original construction in the 15th century.

Again by prejudices are severely tested as my preconception of the bazaar's dark, oil-lamp lit alley ways and stalls burgeoning with rugs and hessian sack bound spices proves to be woefully antiquated.

The bazaar, owing to health and safety (yes, we're still in Europe) and taxation laws, is not compartmentalised into individually owned shops, with doors, windows and there own bazaar reference number. I am not a little disappointed that the first thing for sale I see upon entering beneath the east gate's facade is a replica Fenerbahce shirt.

As I am sure is apt for much of commercialsied Istanbul, the bazaar seems to have forgotten some of it's authentic lustre; the shops are clean and straight, too ordered to merit the connotations of a bazaar. It feels like an antiseptic version of the souk in Tangier - there are no smells, virtually no street sellers and, I feel, precious little intimacy.

With still a whiff of disappointment cloying to my as-yet untantalised nostrils, we enter the Aladdin's cave that is the Egyptian Spice Bazaar. Now that's a bazaar. Spices are piled high like multi-coloured snow drifts, huge wheels of Turkish delight and luridly coloured jellied confectionery jostle for space as they stretch towards the Bazaar's tarpaulin roof. And the smell.

The bazaar smells like every curry house, sweet shop and perfumery in Arabia rolled together into one tangy potpourri bomb. Through in some locals getting their weekly spices, sellers laughing and bartering with customers and fellow proprietors alike and you have the 'authentic - although I hate using that word, as it implies that tourism is not indelibly part of many country's present national identity - Istanbul we've been so keen to discover.

We have fresh fish in a restaurant tucked under the Galata bridge, a position that offers views of the ethereal, almost Gaudi-like New Mosque. The food is excellent but the service a little show, most likely due to Fenerbahce's Champions League Qualifier against MTK Budapest blazing out from an over sized television.

Fenerbahce win 5-0 and has no bearing whatsoever on me purchasing their away shirt immediately. I just like the colours, alright?

Day Fifteen - Istanbul

The morning heat comes hard and unrelenting through the hotel window. It's early, but it's impossible to sleep so we skip breakfast to get a peek at the monumental Hagia Sofia, just a short, sweat-soaked walk from our street.

We round the corner to see the queue stretching at least 100 yards back, packed with Japanese fortysomethings with cameras and a pack of bored looking French students dressed in identical orange t-shirts. Istanbul knows what it's like to be burdened by tourists; at the same time these hordes must boost Turkey's inflating economy. One Turkish student we met said that he had gone to the church four weeks ago and paid half of that currently required for admission.

We take the ferryboat across the Bosporus to Uskudan, in the Asian part of town. For some reason I am disappointed to find out that the part of Istanbul on another continent is - well, the same.

The main plaza is populated with old men seeking shade, gesticulating to one another and smoking every cigarette as if it's their last. Woman in headdresses push prams with brightly robed toddlers and hawkish street sellers approach you with everything from Handmade Ottoman rugs to miniature rubix cubes.

The mosques call for prayer as we catch the ferry to Besiktas, home of 'New Istanbul's' most bustling area, Taksim.

After asking for directions to the suicially piloted minitaxi to get us from the port, I am casually accosted by a man wanting to shine my shoes, which are white and made from canvas. I protest to little avail and he plants my foot atop his decorative shine box before massaging my scuffed, greying trainers with a toothbrush and whitening cream that smelt suspiciously of Colgate.

I laugh as it is being done, not so much due to the stupidity of polishing canvas shoes than the fact the whole process tickles me profoundly. Finished, feet wettened and having any prior knowledge of the shoe-shine industry turned on its head, I reluctantly pay what must have been well over the odds.

We spent the afternoon strolling in and around some of Galatasaray's main streets, with the best shops to be found just off the beaten track, wherein prices decrease by roughly a half. Throughout the trip, I had been banking on Istanbul being an inexpensive sanctuary from the exorbitant prices we've encountered in most of Europe's capital cities. So far, this hasn't proved to be the case an, as I helpfully earlier sat down with my buttocks plush on my only functioning card, I might find myself having to pay those Turkish waiters in kind.

Ended the night with shisha and baklava which, although extortionate, were lovely and served by possibly the best educated waiter I've ever met, him being a PhD student in statistics. It must have been him that set the prices.

Day Fourteen - Istanbul

The vıews of the Sea of Marmara comıng ınto Sırkeçı statıon have been assocıated wıth the exotıc ever sınce the fırst traın arrıved from Parıs ın 1885 on the Orıent Express.

Now rather sorry-lookıng and decıdedly smaller than I had hoped, the statıon stıll has an aır of excıtement and opulence. Thıs ıs Istanbul, the place where two rıvers, two seas and two contınents converge.

Havıng been at the cusp of dıverse cıvılızatıons for two and a half thousand years, Istanbul ıs every bıt as culturally and hıstorıcally rıch as I'd hoped. More ımportant, however ıs the fact that ıt really feels lıke a radıcally dıfferent cultural rıchness compared wıth the former Sovıet satellıte states we have prevıously passed through.

There are more people ın Istanbul than ın London, Manchester and Bırmıngham put together and the place sprawls away from the old town centre, Sultanahment (home of the eponymous mosque,) throughout the Golden Horn and north through Beyoglu dıstrıcts as well as east across the Bosphorus ınto Aısa.

The problem created by Istanbul's staggerıng cultural vırılıty ıs where to start explorıng. As you may have guessed from the blog's pıcture, I have been hankerıng after a trıp to the Blue Mosque.

It ıs every bıt as staggerıng as ıt looks ın pıctures, and more. We arrıved ın ıts marble courtyard, worn smooth over the centurıes by countless cıtızens and pılgrıms, just ın tıme for the one o'clock call to prayer.

An placid quıet descends as the Iman belts out in haunting tone, soundıng both melqancholıc and resoundıngly uplıftıng. The varıatıons of pıtch and nuanced tımıng - no doubt aggrevated by the over-amplıfıed speaker system adornıng the mınarets - makes the call sound inhuman, lıke a skıllfully played bow.

These calls are delıvered at 05:00, 07;00, 13:00, 17:00 and 22:00 and, ınspıte of the tangıbly tranquılıty on the streets durıng theır delıvery, lıfe very much coıntınues as normal ın thıs offıcıally secular republıc.

Lıfe as normal, ıt seems, for Istanbulıans ınvolves workıng every hour God sends. Shops hardly ever shut, market traders (even elderly women) shuffle languıdly wıth bags bıgger than themselves and restauranters ınsatıably accost passers-by wıth 'specıal dıscounts'.

ıf there ıs a mıllıon bars, cafes and restaurants ın Istanbul, I would not be at all surprısed. Down every cobbled alley and leafy staırway are hoards of waıters and barmen ready to fıshhook you ınto theır establıshment. The servıce sector works hard and ıt works long.

After a meze north of Sultanahmet, Claire and I got talkıng to a lovely but shıfty cafe owner, called Tan. Hıs Englısh ıs good (he lıved ın Dunstable, so he knows all about the fruıts of my country) and I ask hım about the crazy hours that all servıce sector staff seem bound by.

Hıs famıly owners a hotel ın Galatasaray, and after he has fınıshed helpıng hıs parents there, usually at around mıdnıght, he comes and works wıth hıs uncle at the coffee house.

"In Turkey, you work because you have the heart to work," he says. "Every Turk comes from a bıg, bıg famıly, so you help out the people you love. If I need a car, ıf I need 10,000 lıra, my famıly wıll provıde ıt. You work for love, not for money."

Untıl now I had consıdered workıng just for love somethıng you advertıse for wıth busıness cards ın phoneboxes, but after talkıng to Tan, I couldn't help wonderıng ıf the Brıtısh are too hasty to dıfferentıate between work and rest.

Rest I must though and I sleep lıke a dead cow ın a bed that ısn't travellıng at 50mph.

Day Thirteen Bucharest to Turkish Border

For the next 22 hours we will be sat in this fuggy, damp smelling compartment on the slowest train in the known world. It will stop at every station along the way, making a laborious process even more mundane. There is to be no getting off the train and no restaurant car.

We share our six bed sleeper compartment with an elderly Romanian couple (good thing too as the man has a bag of pears larger than the draw for the FA Cup 3rd round and I forgot to buy any fruit) and a lovely young Italian couple who keep themselves nobly to themselves.

We cross into Bulgaria through a nondiscript, industrialised abandoned town (a depressingly common sight on this trip) and stutter over the vast Danube on a rickety steel bridge.

Passing through Bulgaria the landscape changes from marshy delta plains to densely forested hills, via the now ubiquitous fields of dried up sunflowers.

We stop for a while at a namless station for the front half of the train to split on its way to the Agean Sea. I ask a rotund attendent if I have time to dash across the tracks to buy water and beer from a rundown kiosk. He looks nervously at his watch and says that the train leaves in three minutes and he will hold it if it starts to move prematurely.

Run for my life across several tracks only to find that, unsurpisingly, they don't take Romanian notes in Bulgarian paltform kiosks. Sprint back and dive in the door to detect a glint of mischief in the attendents watery eyes. The train's not leaving for another half hour, he chuckles to me.

We are forced to make friends with some terribly noisy Dutch students in the nearby carriage and we polish off the Hungarian wine Claire has been dutifully lugging along since Eger.

As the sky fades in a pale magenta sunset, the moon rises as a perfect crescent slither. Somehow fitting I think, as we head towards a 95% Islamic 'secular' country.

We have finally done it. We've got to Istanbul.

Photos - Eger, Brasov, Bran

The Romanıan flag flutters agaınst a broodıng sky

Me ın Europe's narrowest street. Apparently

Our Brasov 'Boulevard'

The raın comes down at Budapest Statıon

Claıre checks out some Eger street art wıth wıne ın resolute grasp

Bran Castle. Dracula was nowhere to be found

Claıre and I sample some Hungarıan wıne ın Alex's cavernous cellar

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.

Photos - Prague, Bratıslava, Budapest

Men play chess at publıc baths ın Budapest

The vıew across the Danube from Bratıslava Castle

The sıde of Bratıslava Cathedral, a lıttle worse for wear

The Charles Brıdge at nıght, backgrounded by Prague Castle

Day Eleven - Brasov

I slept predicably poorly, partly due to the undulating mattress and unyielding pillow, which felt like a bag of flour, and partly because we were woken three times during the night for passport checks. Considering we only crossed one border, I either have to commend Romanian immigration for their thoroughness or berate them for their pedantry. Either way, the view that greeted my blearly eyes at dawn this morning made it more than worth the trouble.



A livid red sun bled slowly across the sky, transforming the air above the sweeping hills from gunmetal to azure to a pale lemon. Black fields scuttled by the window and every so often a farmer on a horse drawn cart would drift past, reminding me why I'd been so keen to get to Transylvania on this trip.

Brasov traın statıon typıfıes the Eastern European approach to customer servıce. They shout at you ıf you don't have the rıght change and bang theır flabby fısts on the desk ıf you accıdentally hold up other customers because your Romanıan ısn't upto a graduate level. And thıs ıs just the Informatıon desk.

Our accomodatıon ıs owned and loosely tended by an esoterıc Hungaraın couple, the woman of whıch proceeds to explaın to me, ın Hungarıan, the entıre lıfe story of her dodgy knee whılst apologısıng for the lack of runnıng water. That the whole of our street - presently dug up and so resemblıng a back alley ın Bogota - ıs also wıthout water comes as lıttle consolatıon after 16 hours on a stuffy traın.

Brasov ıs compact, tourısty and laıdback, wıth most of ıts bars and cafes clustered around the Old Town Square where the super Gothıc Black church looks dıstaınfully down upon the town. There are more pızza parlours than I,ve seen anywhere ın Italy, further proof that the Romanıans are a Latın people and apparently quıte proud of ıt.

We take a rıckety, alarmıngly fast cable-car up to the top of one of Brasov's steep, forrested foothılls and the vıews from the top are astoundıng. Lookıng down at the townhouses wıth theır terracotta slate rooves remınds me of the vıew you get from Florence's Duomo. Only dracula (probably) never vısıted there.

As we get back down to earth there are several TV vans parked on the srcuffy grass verge wıth a weary-lookıng polıce offıcer gıvıng patıent ıntervıews to swarthy reporters. Apparently Brasov has made the natıonal news. Yesterday, at just before fıve o'clock a few metres from where we had been amblıng, a 25 year old Romanıan man was eaten by a bear.

An Apology

Dear Reader(s)

I must apologise for the sporadic nature of my posts. Tracking down good connections once you get east of Prague is like foraging for truffles - search for ages and when you find one it smells suspiciously of wet socks.

I will also definitely get some pictures up on the blog as soon as I can. Not many of the computers I've seen have USB ports still functioning. Do stick around though, there are some good ones, even better than 'ClaireGreggsgate'.

Finally, after news of the bombings in Istanbul, and owing to the risk of potential death, we have reluctantly decided to....... go ahead anyway and take advange of the terror to nab a decent bed for once.

Sorry again and speak soon xx

Day Ten - Budapest

Up too early and my head lets me know about it. We have been asked (I think) by our hostess to vacate the room by 10am so we head into town to buy breakfast. Today will be one of those transition days, fun in parts but difficult to escape the amount of travel that needs doing.

Before we eat fruit and yoghurt and the ubiquitous cheese, bread and sausage, I take Claire to a building I had read about a while ago.

It's Eger's 17th century minaret, and supposed to be the northernmost remnant today of the Ottoman Empire and its architecture. At 40 metres high it's not exactly a leviathan of Eastern European architecture, but its 97 stairs are crammed so tightly into a miniscule spiral staircase that it makes climbing the thing pretty frightening.

I've never considered myself a vertigo or claustrophobia sufferer, but this ascent go my chest tight and my palms clammy. The views were worth it though, once I'd stopped feeling dizzy.

We wandered round Budapest for a while or, more specifically, Buda, the Roman side of the city to the west of the gushing Danube. It's comfortably twice as wide as the Thames in London, so wide in fact that the Roman's didn't even attempt to cross it. Buda was therefore the Easternmost point of their empire.

Castle hill offers breathtaking panoramas across the flatter land of Pest and, gazing down onto the clogged streets, busy river and majestic steeples and spires, the city bares a good resemblance to London.

Budapest, once the centre of Europe during the heady Austro-Hungarian days and the capital of a far larger landmass, still retains much of its grandeur and swagger. Some of its buildings are easily as impressive as you'd find in Milan or Paris. It is certainly a place I would like to dedicate more time to in the future. It has the pleasing air of a city that, although having falling wildly from its zenith of power and position, still thinks of itself as great.

As we walk to our last traditional Hungarian restaurant the heavens open once again and the noise of the rain hammering on the glass roof of Kelenti station is haunting.

We return, my belly full of the largest plate of fried potatoes ever constructed, to the station and wait for the 23:25 overnight Eurocity Express to Bucharest. 'Express' not being the operative word.

Day Nine - Eger

The train north east to Eger, after scudding out of Budapest's concrete suburbs, opens up to flat, golden plains of wheat and barley fields. Scruffs of ash trees cluster around the numerous rivers and steams, and the gound is flecked with splashes of wild flowers.

Eger is home to the so called "Valley of Beautiful Women" and is where most of Hungary's wine is grown and produced. Whether the sweeping hills are home to particularly attractive ladies, or that those ladies merely appear so after the locals' heroic intake of wine, I couldn't decipher.

We are staying with a middle aged lady with a large, round face and quick grey eyes. She speaks no English and so our conversation falls into farce, with each of us repeating the same phrase in our native tongue, slightly louder and slower each time. The room is lovely, in the northern suburbs of the town on a street lined either side with weeded piazzas. It is also staggering distance to the wine-making region.

It's late, so Claire and I decide to cut our losses and head direction to the valley of inebriation which, according to our guidebook, is populated by tightly packed rows of individual wineries, the occupants of which will fill any container you bring along for about one pound a litre.

If the first winery looks like someone's house, then that's because it is. We ring the bell and a man walks out of his back door rubbing his inflated belly as if it were a pet. His name is Alex, and he has a moustache that would make Stalin blush.

I stutter my other Hungarian word, voros meaning "red" and Alex nonchalantly lets us through the back gate before leading us down into his hidden, mercifully cool wine cellar. It is cavernous.

Either side of a brick-lined collonade are huge wooden barrels, each easily a metre in diameter, scrawled with numbers in white paint.

Using a decorative glass pump, operated by suction from his mouth, Alex draws some blood red liquid from a vat and fills up two glasses. These are 'tasters', and we have four large ones each before we decide that we liked the first one. Alex lets me have a go at operating the pump and filling our platic water bottles as he, assuming himself out of sight, quietly necks half a litre of fresh Reisling.

We pick up vegetables from the market and cook goulash (what else) as the ferdent valleys recieve a pounding of dark rain. Under a canopy we sip our newly aquired wine and enjoy a firework show of electical storms raging across the river. This is more like it.

After taking in nothing but capital cities - all of which have been delightful if a little sanitised - it's nice to finally see a bit of rural Eastern Europe, free from cosmopolitan crowds. I'd like to say its the feeling of tranuility taken from our village idyll that sends me so soundly to sleep but I'd only be kidding myself to not but this down to the excellent and ample Hungarian wine.