With a short journey of seventy miles planned, we need to find something to do. Create our very own collage. Paint some pretty memories.
Mrs S does a quick search. Taps up Google Maps. Comes up with Râpa Roșie. A protected area of national interest in Alba County. It’s on our way. Just like us.
We catch sight of it. In the far distance as we drop down off the motorway. A short loop back and we’re facing a dirt track. An old red Corsa pulls up alongside. Looks as if it’s just been through a dry Dakar Rally stage. It’s rusty dusty covering a giveaway. The young driver warns us not to proceed. Army firing range up ahead. Route restricted. He drives on. We ponder. For about ten seconds. “What’s the worse that could happen?” . . .
5K further on and Beastie’s done well. But then we take him no further. It looks like a bridge too far . . . gone. He has to sit this one out. As we step down we can see and hear the practice rounds. White targets against the green. The rat-a-tat-a-tat of automatic fire echoes off the rosy cliffs. Like chattering teeth on a frosty morning. Fortunately that’s all that bounces our way.
The troopers stop and clear up just as we reach the end of the track. Perfect timing. They ignore us. It’s now a question of negotiating the steep up and down tree covered gorge. Mrs S is left on look out. Not her bag. Happy to let me go play.
I slope back down. A little more tricky than the up. Mrs S kept in radio contact as I approach. Ready to shoot.
Romania’s cities impress with their westernism. Audi, Merc, BMW and VW’s gang up on any motorist unwilling to get a move on. Hustle and hassle. It’s their time. Yet out in the rural, time stand still. Herders in plenty. Take their time. They’ve lots of it. Happy with their lot. It’s all they know. All they want?
Our getaway gets delayed. We don’t mind one iota. Try to stay awake . . .
Our day’s picture is completed with an afternoon stop at Alba Iulia. The place of Romania’s Unification in 1918. The star shaped citadel quite a star.
