Days 70 & 71 – Planning goes to pot . . .

Sadism springs to mind. Interviewees for the role of Highways Maintenance Manager, worldwide, must surely possess this characteristic. Along with a preponderance for the inane – that’s a gimme.

These Eastern Orthodox countries celebrate Easter a week later than us. As a consequence, the whole of Romania is on the move. Three motoring madness days. AKA Bank Holiday week-end.

The last 5K of our journey from Bucharest takes 105 minutes. We’re just about ready to blow our brains out. Or those of whoever authorised a series of unfinished roadworks on the final approach into Bran.

Back home I refuse to budge on any Bank Holiday. Here we’re unable to budge.

We’re currently pitched up a blood curdling scream away from Count Dracula’s supposed hideaway in Bran, at the aptly named Vampire Camping. A very pretty Dutch-run set up.

Plans for a one-nighter get doubled. Decide not to move on, on Bank Holiday Monday. Hope to make a clean getaway on Tuesday.

The late Bank Holiday opening time of mid-day enables foreigners and homegrowns alike to swell the hordes. We bite the bullet. Don’t let the busy-ness bother. Accept it for what it is. Romania’s biggest tourist attraction.

Bran Castle is set within small picturesque grounds.
Photo taken courtesy of a local Geordie . . .

Give the new owners their due. They don’t make a huge play of the Dracula theme. It’s serious stuff. Focus on its real history and Royal Connections. Romania’s last Queen being the grand-daughter of Queen Victoria. This and other interesting tid-bits help us ignore the International throng.

A single ray. Keeping someone in their place?

The house tour is followed by a short interlude. But not before yours truly had nipped back to Beastie to close up all roof windows. And take in the washing!

Twenty minutes later and normal service is resumed
Mrs S and her favourite tipple – fredo cappocino

On the walk back to camp we pass an old gent. Standing kerbside. He’s waving. Mouthing at the on-coming traffic. Looks very doddery. Unsure. We decide he must need help crossing. I nip back. Gesticulate. Hold my arm out. He hooks onto me. Very tentatively we cross the road. I’m feeling chuffed. Good deed done. Scout’s Honour and all that. He cups my face with his large hand. His way of saying thanks – I presume. I skip the fifty yards back down to Mary-Ann, like a satisfied six year old whose just been given a gold star. She’s cracking up. I turn around. He’s back on our side!

Daft bugger . . .