Sibiu was followed by Brasov, the southern point of the triangle of cities that border Transylvania. Another lovely town, made more special by chance meetings with two marvelous folks who’ve also greatly enhanced (and extended) my last few days in Bucharest. But I’m once again jumping ahead. Having seen most of the best of Brasov proper on the first time around, I was determined to get out of the town to the obligatory tourist stops of Bran Castle and Rasnov fortress. The hostel offered a tour, of course, but for a fraction of the price we could have the added fun of taking local busses. Confident that the cheaper path is always more interesting, I headed out with Jamie, a friendly Australian who was also keen to not shell out for anything organized. The bus proved nearly effortless, and, after some waiting about at the depot, we were presently deposited in the heart of the mini tourist mecca that is Bran. It actually manages to be charming, partly despite and partly because of the racks and racks of Dracula masks (there are some tenuous connections between Bran and Vlad Dracula, which the locals are keen to emphasize). They even have a large haunted house, which plays disturbingly realistic screaming noises on loop on exterior speakers. Anyway, we made it through the gauntlet of stalls and up the stairs, wandered around the castle (which was rather plush for a castle. Poker table, private stage, big library. Fans of the finer things in life, it seems), and then off we headed to Rasnov. Oh, and on the way, stopped at one of the aforementioned stalls and procured a half-wheel of smoked cheese for next to nothing. It would prove fantastic.

Finding the town was no problem, and buoyed by our navigational prowess we tromped down the road in search of the path to the hilltop fortress. Somehow, between it being snowy off season and the distractions of conversation, we managed to take a wrong turn, and proceeded to spend several hours wandering various paths in the woods, guided by vague remembrances of a map which clearly showed our path leading to something marked by a shield symbol, accompanied by a fellow with a cannon. This seemed promising, but as ridge led to valley led to ridge with no sign of town or fortress, certainty faded. The trip was enlivened by precipitous sliding descents down rather steep hills of mostly ice, and a couple of noteworthy sights; a shepherd and his flock among the trees down the hill, a horse drawn sleigh hauled up the hill to harvest wood, and two men carrying bundles of sticks from atop a ridge. Alex and I had a similar experience in Sighisoara – you step just outside these modernized, touristy cities and you go from 40 years ago to 140. These sights were part of the fuel for my previous rambles, but even without any of that, a herd of sheep ambling along among the poplars on a hillside is simply beautiful.

And then we came to a road (covered in snow, to Jamie’s great delight), which led eventually to what was probably a small staircase, underneath the snow (the rail seemed a strong indication, though this theory would be thoroughly debunked shortly), bordered by the same sign that had led us this far… a map, a shield, and a long description of a ‘Schleif’. Now, this didn’t particularly sound like ‘fortress’, but my Romanian is sufficiently poor that I was willing to trust my gut that staircases with signs by them lead someplace interesting. After cajoling Jamie up the ice, we headed back into the hills, and came without much trouble to the Shcleif.

Which apparently means ‘empty pointless field,’ or something very similar. There were some benches, and another big sign, but nothing that I would say deserves a name. In desperation, we climbed a small path heading further upward, and, cresting the final ridge, spotted the fortress about 1000 meters away, on the other side of a discouragingly large valley. A nice view, really, and as close as we cared to come to accomplishing this particular mission. We proceeded back to town via a different path, which is a very loose use of the term. It seems that some folks decided that the side of this particularly steep hill was a good place for a path, and so nailed several logs to a series of trees, thus forming a sturdy single rail, and by association, a path. Despite the mountaineering challenge, we made it safely back to town, and then home to a dinner focussed primarily on smoked cheese.

The next day would take me to Peles palace with Masato, who’s photos will hopefully do it more justice than my own. Pictures weren’t allowed inside, sadly, as I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere more decadent. Every single room was a riot of luxury and fine detail, beautiful in dozens of different ways. Every piece of wood carved in overwhelming detail, every surface gilded by something precious. I managed to be classy despite the sheer opulence, which is quite the feat.

And that wraps up Bran and with it Transylvania. Someday I’ll throw together some thoughts on Sibiu, perhaps, which it certainly deserves, but the immediate goal is a few words on the surprisingly captivating Bucharest.