Noni's always wanted a Transylvanian skirt.
I bought two of them in my student days in Budapest: both came from little old ladies selling beautiful hand-made garments in underground stations. One of them was a long wide linen skirt with a tiny bit of lace at the bottom. Twenty years later, it is still in a fine shape. The other one was black with loads of tiny red flowers -- it's now got too many holes for either of us to wear.
The quest for Noni's new Transylvanian skirts began a few years ago in Budapest. Friends gave some tips, and we followed them all up: we went to the markets at Ecseri and Petofi csarnok ... only to be disappointed.
So this last summer, having driven from London to Budapest, a decision was made to venture further east to Transylvania.
It was hot. A brand new motorway from Budapest to Debrecen gave us a good start. Then we made the unfortunate decision to stop for one night at the blatantly neo-communist Hajdu camping in Hajduszoboszlo.
Service was appalling. It was back to the 1970. Four fat ladies with no charm, no customer service or foreign language skills were fiercely demanding at least four documents from each traveller ... with an air of extreme self-importance, they were filling in monstrously long forms by hand to check people in. At the same time they were arrogantly turning down people on the phone. It was absolutely shocking -- the only time during this last stay in Hungary when I felt my blood pressure rising uncontrollably.
And the famous Hajduszoboszlo spa was also fairly disappointing. Crowded, bureaucratic, expensive. The slides were fun and the new pools looked good, but the old bits were depressingly run-down. And we had the worst langos ever!
On to Transylvania, it was a mixed experience. On the positive side, Vasskert camping is Sovata was fantastic. Beautiful, quiet setting, luxurious facilities. The echoing sound of cockerels and dogs in the morning is still in my ears. It was weird but brilliant.
The threat of bumping into a brown bear stopped me from running into the forest ... so my runs were restricted to the roadside.
Which brings me to the subject of roads: in the land of the Seklers, they are bad. It's not roads: it's potholes. And I mean it: potholes only.
We looked at the map and plotted a nice 50-mile day trip to the Red Lake and the Bicaz Gorge ... and we ended up spending five hours driving. I thought the car would break up every minute. But the views were fascinating, and there was an element of fun trying to overtake horse-drawn carts carrying logs or fantastic amounts of hay (plus at least three children on top of the haystack) on zigzag roads.
We loved the forest fruits bought from roadside vendors. The haggling over the price. The hundreds of shops selling Transylvanian skirts in Korond. The pizzeria in Sovata where Dani's favourite spaghetti has been incorporated into the menu. And the storks proudly surveying their villages from their nests.
And it was also a weird but great experience to find that 200 miles from the border, everybody spoke Hungarian.
It was a mix of new and old -- one moment you see a cart and have a time-has-stopped feeling. Then in the next you have the best cappuccino in the world in a funky bar in Sighisoara -- a 500 year-old cellar, tastefully converted, and equipped with WLAN. Then again, you step outside and there's absolutely nothing to stop you from falling into a wide open manhole right in the middle of the busiest tourist street -- a frequent sight in Transylvania.
So go and see it before it the carts disappear -- but mind your step.
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