As train stations in Europe go, Constanta and Bucharest are pretty servicable with reasonable places to eat or have coffee while waiting. The train journey to Bucharest, which takes two hours, goes through interesting countryside and crosses over two branches of the Danube before looping into Bucharest.
A short taxi ride got me to the graveyard I wished to visit.
It hosted the grave of a man called Fritz (Friedrich) Hahn, the grandfather of my mother in law. Fritz died in Bucharest of Tuberculosis on the 10th Aril 1917 aged 33 leaving a wife and 3 young children. He shares his grave with two others.
The graveyard was closed for the day so I had to make like spiderman and climb over the high walls.
Nobody from his family had been able to visit his grave until this day. I was not going to let a simple wall stop me after travelling so far. There were hundreds of graves. My mother in law had been in touch with the service in Germany which looks after the maintenance of these graveyards abroad. They had given her a reference which was not quite correct so it took quite some searching to find the grave.
Upon finding it I placed a pot of white flowers for peace on his grave.
The plan was to meet Norman at the Ibis by the old town of Constanta, do the photos by the sea and then take lunch before moving on ahead up the coast to Mamaia where my next bit of accommodation was waiting for me. Getting to the old town was another matter entirely. Although it was only 15km away, the wind was blowing very strongly from the north, right in my face again. I had to get over the Danube to Black sea canal and then through the old harbour. The canal was built to link the Black Sea port of Constanta with the Danube so that shipping could avoid navigating the shallow and sinuos mouths of the river at its Delta. Construction started in the early 1950s and served a secondary purpose of the repression of people considered hostile to the communist regime through forced labour. Most of the work was done simply with shovels and pickaxes. Thousand and thousands of people died in the dire conditions of the labour camps. Anne Applebaum in her book “Gulag” claimed that 200,000 people died during the construction of the canal through malnutrition and disease. The works were suspended in the mid 1950s and only restarted and completed in the 1970s under the monster known as Ceaucescu.
At the entrance to the port there was a sign which clearly meant no entry to unauthorised persons. The bored looking group 4 security guy simply waved his magnetic card to raise the barrier and waved me through. The port is huge and rather empty apart from the occasional truck. It felt rather wierd to be there as a cyclist – it was not designed with tiny cyclists in mind. The roads were pockmarked with huge potholes so I advanced rather gingerly through it. It was my last official day on the road and of course there would have to be some sort of excitement. Romania’s version of Cujo came running at me from a gate barking madly. He was easy to pass as I put the speed on. I thought I was home clear and free. His barking had alerted every feral mutt in the area and soon I was being chased by the Romanian Cerberus his cohort of Romanian Baskervilles. Squirting water did not get them fall back and I started to look desperately for a stick along the way. They were gaining on me with no stick in sight and I was beginning to think how ironic it would be to fail to make it to the end of the trip on the last day because a pack of rabid dogs. All of a sudden I seemed to have crossed some magic line and they slowed down and stopped chasing me. Perhaps I had exited their territory. Relieved I was very.
Very soon I had met up with Norman and some nice people on the beach took our photos:
A short lunch was followed by another short stretch up the coast to Mamaia. Along the beach there is a sort of boardwalk but I was not aware of it at the time and had to run the gauntlet of the 6 lane dual carriageway north out of town. This was along an isthmus of land flanked on each side by gaudy hotels and gaudier apartment blocks. It must have been beautiful once but the endemic corruption in the country has ended up destroying here. Everything is of course very cheap and if you are the type who likes beach holidays in Spain, you would get much better value here. In Mamaia I was billeted in a very new guesthouse double room with en suite bathroom with top notch finishing to all of the facilities for a very reasonable price.
That evening I had to get back into the old town to join the Young Team, Luca, Jozef and Norman for a dinner. We first tried a place in the main square but the staff did not seem at all interested to taking our order and it was rather noisy so we decamped to a more traditional place just off the square and were not dissappointed. Excellent food, service and ambience. The in house musicians even played “Bella Ciao” for the Italian crew, and indeed the rest of us.
That is almost the end of the story but not quite. I have one last thing to take care of on this trip. Tune into the last episode of this blog shortly.
The news filtered through that the Young Team had to bow out – their new front wheel was not up to the task and thus they had to make the rest of the way east on motorised transport. Norman and I polished off the remains of various food ration sachets (including one which was mousse au chocolat at least in theory) as well as the remaining bread and cheese. Thus our bikes were markedly lighter than the day before. We headed eastwards and caught up with Luca and Jozef (or they caught up with us??) in Baneasa where we all had a good long coffee break. The road so far today was hilly and curvy with still a few fairly hefty climbs before we hit the plain leading out to the sea. There was some agricultural traffic including some huge combine harvesters that took virtually the full width of the road. The weather was calm, dry and overcast for the most part.
We stuck together and went onwards through Negruni and Ion Corvin (where there is in fact an actual guest house by the way in case anyone is looking for an alternative stepping stone place to stay en route to Constanta!). Onwards through Crangu, Urluia, Adamclisi, Deleni with a short lunch break at Pietreni.
As the land flattened out before us, the traffic grew and grew. The wind was in our faces too. Indeed on this entire trip it seems that there were only a couple of days when the wind was not against me. We were strung along in a line being passed frequently by large trucks. The noise was incessant and unpleasant. By the time we got to Cobadin we were all nearly done in but there was still a good 35km or so to go. I checked out my options for accommodation and could only come up with something in Eforie Nord which is a suburb to the south of Constanta. The boys were all aiming for the Ibis hotel in Constanta. The upshot of which was that we had to split up at Ciocarlia de Sus as I headed across country to Eforie. I was sorry to see the boys go but we had arranged to meet up for dinner the next day in Constanta. I was not sorry to leave the main road and the traffic behind. Norman told me later on the phone that the traffic just got worse and worse. A note to the @eurovelo people – it might be worth mapping the route away from the main road at Ciocarlia de Sus and across country via Eforie because there is practically zero traffic on the roads there and what there is can be spotted kilometres away across the flat plain. What villages there are, are small, compact and have good road surfaces:
My detour saw me drift through Lanurile, Baraganu, Potamichea, Movilita and Techirghiol before arriving at Eforie shortly after 19h00. A young man let me into the AirBnB appartment. He was all set to start university in the UK in October. He also thought Brexit was a good thing. I wonder if he still considers it a good thing now that he is in the UK as an EU national…….. The end of the trip is nigh. It seems to be a bit of an anti-climax. I still have about 35km to cover tomorrow to get to Constanta….
Setting off today after another hearty, protein laden breakfast was not as sombre and morose as the previous morning. Yes we were one day closer to the Black Sea. In fact the end looked to be less than 36 hours away from us now. The big difference was, that having been virtually the only foreigners on bicycles for days (with the exception of Peter the Trigamist) we now were part of a proper international troupe. Given that exactly half of our number were Italian we might have even called ourselves after a circus. Something like the “Wandering Galivanties and their Wonderful Wheelies (no animals are mistreated in this show)”. The was Norman doing the fireman’s equivalent of postman Pat on his Imperial Imperator, Luca filming as he cycled with no hands, Jozef and his technicoloured anorak and the “Young Team” of Stefano and Carlota. Of course Stefano was not exactly that young but Carlota being just 13 brought the average age of the pair of them way below the rest of us and they were after all on a tandem. Hence “Young Team”.
The Young Team had gotten into mechanical trouble the previous day and had to replace a wheel which had buckled. They had equally miserable experiences with the roads of Hungary. They were hopeful but not certain that their new wheel would get them all the way to the Black Sea.
We had discussed at length our goals for the day and there was an outline understanding that we would try to team up that night. However, given the lack of information around ferry times across the Danube and also the apparent scarcity of accommodation on the other side of the river, nobody was ready to commit to anything definite. We eased on along the road through Ulmeni, Gradistea, Spantov stopping at Stancea to avoid a brief thunderstorm and we had managed to more or less stick together until then. A break of coffee and biscuits was ended with Luca filming Norman and I doing our Galavanti departure act from unusual angles. Norman and I had, with very few words, reached a common goal of just getting to the ferry as early as possible in the day and then using any delay around and on the ferry as a break to take stock and plan for the evening. As a plan for that particular day it fitted fairly well in that we just kept the head down and I don’t think we missed too much in terms of scenery. From Dorobantu onwards through Ciocanesti, Rasa, Cunesti and Gradistea the traffic became heavier and heavier. As we approached Calarasi it became very unpleasant and dangerous. Thankfully a few kilometers outside of Calarasi we were able to slip southwards off the main road towards the ferry. From there on we were on a sort of raised dual carriageway. We were passed by the occasional heavy lorry and nodded to fisherman sitting by the canal every now and again. The landscape looked somewhat bleak in the greying skys – flat flood plain to the horizon on one side broken only by the odd stand of trees, sheep, cattle and round bales of straw. On the other side across the canal the post industrial skeleton of Calasari hulked in the distance. It did not look inviting at all and if Norman and I had any doubts about taking our chances on the other side, they were soon chased away by that vista.
The ferry, like previous ones upriver was a simple raft, pushed across the river by a powerful tugboat. We had to share it with a 16 wheeler, some Italian tourists and a Romanian fake map expert in a shiny new Alfa Romeo.
Our fake expert started conversing with us about the weather and then where we were all from. He had spent several years living in New Zealand and spoke excellent Kiwi. He was now working as a salesman for Claes farm machinery. He had a huge market to sell into as the tens of thousands of “Universal” tractors that survived from the communist era slowly stopped beating their overengineered hearts. He claimed to travel all over the country of Romania. He next asked us where we were headed. Upon learning that we were aiming for Constanta on the Black Sea he erupted. “You are going the wrong way, you should turn back on the next ferry, this ferry only goes to Bulgaria”. Now having come as far we did without getting lost, we took this in our stride and calmly showed him our map which clearly showed Romania widening along the south bank of the Danube away from Silistra. He quietly buttoned it and sat back in his car long before we arrived at the other shore.
We disembarked on the lookout for a place to eat. It seems that we would have had to cross the Bulgarian border to get into Silistra for that. We did not fancy wasting the time at the border and also changing money again. This meant we had a lonely lunch in a village called Ostrov down by the river sitting in a childrens playground watching to see if we would get rained on again. We didn’t and so we climbed steeply up on to the plateau above the river some rewarding views. If the Calasari side was crazy busy, here was peaceful paradise. We saw no body or traffic for hours.
We kept going past an impressive looking Monastery at Galita and hid out in a concrete bunker like out house on a what may have been a marshalling place for heavy farm machinery in times gone by. We had to wait an hour while about 5 centimeters of rain fell (Norman claims 2 inches but I don’t know what that means).
There was no sign of the Young Team, Luca or Jozef. When we got back on the road we were quite stiff and seriously considering pitching tents and camping. We passed a sign for a hotel on the side of the road. We investigated the hotel a few hundred metres up the road with mounting excitement. The last time a guest stayed there was probably 1989. The birds were flying through the paneless windows. A major let down for the weary circus clowns… but a few hundred meters further on down the road in an anotherwise buildingless stretch of road we stumble on what claimed to be business apartments. Stroll up to the front door. Try to dial the phone number on the sign. No answer. Stare down the barking dog that came racing out to chase us away. He was shortly followed by his owner, the manager of the building. In no time and for less money we had acquired very comfortable lodgings. Luca, Jozef and the Young Team held back at Calarasi at the hotel near the ferry port on the basis that it was certain accomodation. They planned to start out the next morning at 05h30. Best of luck to them.
We had no food but pre showering we were able to scoot downhill to Lipnita for some bread, cheese and a couple of tomatoes before struggling back to our palace. A fine feast we had then! We both had a small stock of emergency powdered meals and desserts that we milled into before getting a nice long kip before the last day on the road……
Breakfast in the breakfast chamber with the travelling salesmen, truck drivers, Luca and Jozef. Hello Luca, hello Jozef. I told them my plan for seeking out the nearest bike whisperer and that I was in a hurry. I would see them down the line perhaps. They were all set for another big long cycling day of 150km or more. Bye bye Luca. Bye bye Jozef.
I left all heavy gear in the hotel room and set off at 8am in the full hope and expectation to be sorted out in an hour or two at the most. Blessed is he who expects damn all for he shall not be disappointed. The first place was sort of an open street market and while there was plenty of bikery around, they did not have spare spokes or wheels to fit my spec. The next place was an actual bike shop and looked like it had everything I needed. However the bike whisperer was not in residence and would not be available until 14h00 at the earliest and even that was not sure. Perhaps he was sleeping something off.
Nothing for it but to head across the Friendship Bridge to Ruse, another city in another country. I had my passport and money with me and the bike was holding up.
The bridge was named the Friendship Bridge by the Soviets but is known on the Romanian side as the Giurgiu bridge and on the Bulgarian side as the Danube Bridge. It is one of only two bridges connecting the two countries so as luck would have I would shortly have crossed them both . The other connects Vidin to Calafat. The bridge is over 2km long and has fairly heavy traffic although thankfully the long queues of trucks I had seen the nigh before seemed to have already made their way across. What lines there were at passport control I easily skipped past on my breezy two wheeled wobbler. Passport in one hole of a kiosk, lobbed across the desk to Bulgaria and handed back to me through the next hole. Ruse is a large enough city where a good friend (a former chairman, treasurer and secretary of the Munster supporters club of Bulgaria (all posts were held at the same time)) spent his formative years. As I recall the way Dimitar describing it, he spent an inordinate amount of time after floods with his friends having competitions throwing rocks at bloated wild boar carcasses bobbing on the banks. First exploder winner. Some more of the time was spent trying not to get killed by traffic while playing football on the streets. The fact that he is alive and well in London is testament to his skill at that one. Skill that one still needs today. Luckily I was soon out of the traffic standing at my first Bikorium which was of great repute on the interweb. From the outside it looked just the ticket. I reckon it had all sorts of bikes here even the sort of one that you would use if you had to abseil on a bike down the side of a cruiseliner docked in Monaco before cycling across a rake of steps, over a few moving cars, through a casino, rob a necklace from around the narrow ivory neck of an heiress, escape through the fountain, back over more moving cars, along the very very narrow balcony of a restaurant where you snatch a glass of wine from yer man just as he was about to sip, and it is good wine too by the taste of it!, sideways down a metal bannister nearly breaking the chain, speed wobble on a tram track (happens to the best of us), wink at the child in the back of the tram, jump off the street over the wall down onto a well placed canopy over a cafe at the dock, up the mooring cable back on to the cruise ship and into the helicopter and away. They could well have had a bike just like that in this shop. I will never know though. Feckers were closed.
It was not looking good for the Jimser today. 3 bikerys and no bikewhisperer. What do you do? What can you do? Go to the next place. The place that wasn’t really a place because it barely existed on the interweb. Except it was a place. A great place and a bike whisperer! An unassuming man in a shop coat with moustache and glasses. He was able to assess the issue in less than 30 seconds of my demonstrating, hand waving and bad Serbian. Another 10 seconds to agree a price and 10 more to tell me to feck off for an hour for a coffee up the road and don’t be annoying him. Best coffee I had in a long time too! I also had time to buy a belt because I was wearing my regular walking around shorts (as opposed to the spandex ones) and they were falling off me as I had turned into such a skinny fecker. I had to hold them up with a least one hand in a pocket at all times. Belt duly bought (with several extra holes punched into it) I went back to the whisperer. The bike was ready and he was able to sell me a spare pedal (and kept the other one as well. All done for less than 10 euro including a tip that he was reluctant to take.
Back through passport contral, across the Friendhip/Danube/Giurgiu bridge, get lost in Giurgiu, find myself again and then the hotel. Pay, load up and finally after 1pm get on the road to Daia to catch up with Norman. It was supposed to be a short and easy 75km day and I had already clocked up about 55km. On the way out of Giurgiu on the 6 lane dual carriageway I spotted a fellow long distance cyclist taking photos of the sunflower fields on the other side. He waved at me and I waved back. He waved again so I stopped and waved back. He clearly wanted to talk and came right across the 6 lanes. A mad man from Gibraltar who was living in Holland and on his way from Holland to meet his daughter in Istanbul before continuing onwards to the south coast of Turkey for a holiday. He went by the name of Silver. Can’t be too many of them from Gibraltar so if anyone knows him say hi from me. I couldn’t hang around too long as Norman was waiting up the road and it was getting late even if there were only about 70km left to cover over relatively flat land. Just after Daia the road forked and thankfully we peeled away from the main road to Bucharest. The noise stress dropped off almost immediately and the going became pleasant again. We pulled in at Baneasa for refueling and were soon flying along the N41 westwards through Pietrele, Prundu with a stop again in Greaca. We were less than 50km south of Bucharest and the villages were indeed becoming more and more well kept and wealthier looking:
We were cycling up along a plateau that was about 100 metres above the flood plain of the Danube. At one place we passed what may have been a giant gravel quarry:
All along the roads in the balkans there have been “bornes” or stones marking the distances in Kilometers:
Norman and I both spoke English but for any conversation relating to, where we wanted to go and how far away it was and quickly we would make it there, we probably only understood 70% of each others coversation. Norman always firmly enunciated everything in imperial measurement whereas I had long ago moved across to the logical and familar meters and kilometers of metric. You can take the man out of empire but you can take the piss out of while you are at it 🙂
I found the red and white bornes of Romania to be quite comforting and familar along the route. They were for the most part well maintained and easily visible. However in some counties the paint had long ago flaked off such that they were illegible. Onwards we went through Cascioarele and past lake Catalui before our last break of the day in Chirnogi where some local farm workers had finished for the day. As they lounged outside a small shop with us they tried very hard to make conversation with us but we were not able to get past the basics. Even so they eager to share what fruits they had with them and waved us off as we hit for Oltenita. We had made an AirBnB booking that turned out to be completely different but altogether better than what we had hoped for. The road into Oltenita was quite busy with trucks bringing in the harvest but they eased off as we got off the main road in the town itself. We found the address of the AirBnB but it did not exist. We called the number to no answer and went back the way we came to pass what looked like a guest house. Lo and behold, Luca and Jozef were there along with a father and daughter tandem team from Italy. Luca and Jozef had given up on their idea of a big long day and had decided to enjoy themselves en route a little more. They were also looking for accommodation and the guesthouse had lots of free rooms but no manager/owner. After the young lady who had the keys gave us the number of the owner who was on holiday in Greece we were able to quickly sort things out. Quickly showered and with our things packed away we headed with our new best friends to the nearest eatery to feast while the mosquitoes feasted on us. This was the second worst mosquitoe night of the trip with the prize for the worst going to the campsite in Vannes, France on the second night. I suppose the mozzies in Vannes were keen to get stuck into fresh meat at the time. Said meat generally became tainted with various tinctures and potions along the way which made it unappealing to the suckers. Suitably sated I was soon in the land of Z.
Ionela and Daniel had prepared an excellent breakfast of an omelette with vegetables from their garden and plenty of coffee. Accommodation along this part of the Eurovelo 6 trail seems to be rather scarce. For anyone plotting their course through Turnu Margurele, I highly recommend staying here. You will not get a better welcome or insight into the town and locale. They plan to add a pool to their garden next year too. Contact details are as follows:
Ionela + Daniel PirlanTurnu Magurele, street OLTETULUI, nr 48 (not OLTULUI).
phone number 0040763793736, email address email@example.com
Thus it was that we left as the Sun began its glare at the floodplain. We were like turkeys that voted for Christmas. The end of the journey was upon us and we were glumly making our way direction Constanta and the Black Sea. It is telling of the mood that today was the only day that I took only two photos:
This mixed adulation to various architectural styles seemed to my untrained eye to have been gleaned by someone who travelled all over Europe and perhaps beyond. Several locals told me that this house belonged to Gypsies and was constructed over time with money they sent back regularly from wherever they were and that they would ultimately retire to it.
The road eased us eastwards, mostly straight through many villages lined with fruit trees. Mostly plum and cherry trees. Ciuperceni, Traian, Seaca, Navodari, Vanatori, veer north around Lake Suhaia through Lisa and turning south again through Piatra and a quick stop for a coffee in Viisoara. It looked to be the only place open in town. There was a speaker outside on a chair blaring very bad version of local folk music. We were the only customers. We tried to ask the two young men running the place if they could turn it down or off but they seemed to plead powerlessness to change anything. Another, older, man came out from the neighbouring garden where the speaker’s lead ran into. He noted our presence, disappeared back into his garden and the music was made louder. I can only surmise that the neighbour was engaged in some sort of war with the cafe. We stayed less than five minutes.
We continued south through Viisoara, Suhaia, Fantanele and took lunch from a supermarket in Zimnicea. There were no children coming out to give us high fives all through these villages. The villages however appeared to be somewhat more prosperous and well maintained than those we had flitted through further west. Perhaps proximity to the capital had a bearing on this. Traffic also built up as we went further east with many large trucks that seemed to be less considerate too than the ones we had experienced before. We crossed the Vedea, another tributary to the Danube and were regularly buzzed by the traffic. On one occasion I bopped the bike down the 5 cm drop off the asphalt onto the verge. Normally this would not be a problem but after the traffic had passed and things grew quiet our progress was marked by a tickledy tick coming from the rear wheel. Perhaps a stick or a we stone bouncing through the spokes? A pause to investigate. Lift bike, spin wheel, squint. No sticks. No stones. Spin and squint again. And again. Change angle. Wheel has a slight wobble. Check spokes. One had snapped and wheel had indeed a slight buckle. Nothing to impede progress directly but worriesome enough. Norman and his amazingly well packed bags had a spare spoke of the right size! Bike on its back. Off with the wheel. Off with the tire and tube. Not off with the damaged spoke. It did not want to move. Another problem was the bit that had snapped took the holding nut with it for a visit into the hollow chamber of the rim. No holding nut no holdy spoke in the righty placey……. My left pedal had also acquired a habit of ticking on the downside of each revolution in the later part of each day. Something I put down to a lack of grease in the spindle housing. I was going to have to find a bike whisperer that evening or the next day….
We gingerly continued our way through Bojoru, Pietrosani, Vedea, Slobozia and into Giurgiu. Giurgiu is a large town full of trucks in a long queue waiting to cross the Danube into Bulguria. A friend in Ireland had suggested that I might want to favour Ruse over Giurgiu for accommodation on the basis that Ruse was slightly better quality and value for money. Norman had a place booked just north of Giurgiu at Daia and I managed to book in the same place but had to cancel when it came apparent that I would have to check back into Giurgiu and possibly Ruse for bike repairs. I found a simple 2 star hotel and installed myself, leaving Norman with the arrangement that I would catch up with him at Daia the next day once I had sorted things out.
Things took a turn for the better as I was having my dinner at the hotel – two other Euroveloists – Luca from Italy and Jozef from German were having a vivid conversation via google translate at the next table. It turned out that they had just put in a huge day from the west – about 150km and they were planning the same the next day as they wanted to have to time to explore Constanta and Tulcea when they got there. I told them they were crazy but that we might see each other down the road and we exchanged contact details.
Our original plan was to have an easy day to Oltenita (about 75km) the next day. However I was going to need to get some repairs done and information online and via local intelligence as to where it might be possible, was very limited. An early night for an early start as many places around here open at 7 and 8am.
After yesterdays efforts we have a later start to breakfast than usual. Peter the trigamist has already been foddered and saddled his bicycle before we sit down. We cheerfully wave him away with a loose commitment to look out for him on the road when we perhaps catch up with him.
I have received confirmation that I can go to pick up cash sent by a friend via Moneygram. I learn that there is a Moneygram agent just 200 metres down the road. Today is looking good! Except the Moneygram agent has the sign but no money. Not to worry, there are plenty of Moneygram places in the next big town – Corabia. “Sounds like a grand place for lunch hey Norman? Only 40km”. “Sounds like a plan, James!”. So off we amble on the same 55A main road that we were on all day yesterday. Leaving Bechet seems to take forever but in fact it segues into one strip development after the other: Calarisi, Dabuleni, Potelu, Grojdibodu, Gura Padini, Orlea. Between the latter few the landscape opens up a little and the harvest is getting into full swing even though we are only in late June. There is a certain amount of traffic related to the harvest – pony and carts bringing people to and from fields, tractors and huge heavy goods vehicles. The HGVs are hauling the grain and other crops to the mills for processing, storage and onward freighting. In fairness to the drivers of all of these vehicles – they were well aware of our presence on the road and gave us plenty of room. White van man however is alive and well in Romania. This evil reincarnation of newspaper delivery boy on speed ensconced in 2500kg of metal is oblivious to anyone else on the road. Speed limit signs are mere guidelines to be bettered. Villages are irritants which require more concentration to get through at high speed without damaging the van. WVM has no regard for human life. We are wondering how many children in Romania have fallen victim to WVM in all the villages he plows through across the country. How many WVM languish in prison. Not enough is our guess.
Corabia, might have once been a thriving place and it has the feel of a place that will thrive again some time in the future. Right now, concrete buildings festooned with rusting air conditioning units and variegated sunshades, line the symetrically arranged streets. Block after block of weedgrown bockety footpaths draped with badly parked brand new cars. Three moneygram places 90 minutes later and still no money. One place wanted me to prove my home address as well as show my passport and the transfer number! I was resigning myself to potentially living off the land for the last few hundred km. I was so near to the end that this thought did not bother me too much. Anyway there was still money for lunch and we tried out for a place by the river. We found the Faleza Dunarii which looked very new, clean and with a decent menu at good prices. The river was several hundred metres distant but by the topography it looked like it came very close once there was any sort of heavy rainful. There was also a swimming pool that some local kids were making full use of. It looked quite appealing in the heat. On closer inspection, the greenish tinge to the water killed the appeal, dead.
Shortly after we made our order the young staff put on local folk music at full volume. Although we were the only customers they refused to turn it off or down. The staff must be entertained too I suppose. The interweb then gave up the knowledge that our lodgings for the night would be in Turnu Magurele at the house of a middle aged couple. The day’s rain came as we ate and finished as we finished. We had no other reason to hang around and that became one of the shortest lunchs of my entire trip.
Onwards, westwards through proper Romanian countryside. Huge fields full of wheat or sunflowers all the way to the edge of that world which is visible from a bike:
The bees have to work too! The traffic this side of Corabia (or perhaps this side of lunchtime) seemed to have died off and we had the road almost to ourselves the whole time. It was somewhat eery though to be in the middle of all that space with no human noise apart from the click and chittle of the chain on our bikes. The road was flat for the most part and took us over the river Olt before we had to pull left at Turnu to find our hosts Ionela and her husband Daniel. They were expecting us and Daniel offered to bring me into town to get some supplies and sort out the Moneygram problem. Amazingly, at the first Moneygram place with a few loud words of encouragement and my money issue was fixed. The power of local! Back at their house the served us up a delicious local dish of polenta with all the trimmings and we all ate together. After dinner Ionela and husband retired to “their” side of the house and left us on the veranda to watch the sun go down in the east while some silly world cup football match was on the telly and neither Norman nor I were really interested in it. It did not matter. Our bellies were full, the end of the journey was almost within walking distance at this stage. It looked like we were going to make it indeed and that left us thinking about what it would mean to get there…….