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Poland.

It was immediately different; the tense atmosphere and cloud of concern that had accompanied us over the past two weeks had lifted. Probably this condition had been much of our own creation, but it was with a light-hearted attitude that we followed the bullock carts and horses and traps into Poland. Was it our imagination that the people now seemed more relaxed as they went about their work? Farmers were leisurely tilling the fields with simple ploughs and scattering seed by hand, and an old woman smiled at us as she gently led her cow along the dusty track beside the cobbled road.

There were hardly any lorries, and even fewer cars to be seen as we made our way to Terespol. Once there, we could not find our campsite, so we made inquiries from a group of farm workers. Their appearance, with large moustaches and old-fashioned clothing, took us back to our grandfathers’ age. We pointed to the name of the camp, which was marked on our leaflet. After some deliberation between themselves, they indicated with suitable signs and expressions that the camp was either closed or did not exist. We left them and drove on along the road until we came to a pine forest. It was an ideal place for us to stop, and as we wandered among the trees we reflected on how good it was to be free of the communal campsites.

We had enjoyed meeting people of different nationalities at these camps, but we had not satisfied our need to look at nature. I erected the tent, blew up our airbeds and prepared the sleeping bags, while Audrey opened a tin of stuffed green peppers and cooked a meal. We then slept undisturbed until morning, when we continued with our journey, passing through little towns and villages full of character, like Biala Podlaska.

Young schoolchildren, dressed in black satin tunics with white collars, played amongst the chickens. Huge yellow sunflowers faced the sun between thatched cottages. Small well cared for shrines and crosses were set up along the roadside, indicating a faithful Catholic following.

On arrival in Warsaw, we converted our camping vouchers obtained from Thomas Cook, in England, into Polish currency. This proved to be a little difficult, since the value was not printed on them, and wasn’t known by the cashier at the Orbis Hotel. A rate was finally arrived at which gave us eight hundred and five zlotis (about twelve pounds) for seven days’ camping, which seemed more than enough. I had also allowed seven pounds for petrol, seven pounds for food and one pound for odd expenses. However, we had another pleasant surprise, for when we cashed our fifteen pounds worth of travellers’ cheques, we were given extra zlotis to the value of nine pounds ten – a special tourist concession. Our grand total was now thirty-seven pounds for the week, all of which had to be spent in Poland. Audrey already had visions of some good meals in restaurants.

Our campsite in Warsaw adjoined a sports arena and a busy road, so we were awakened early by the traffic. In fact, we must have been up earlier than we had thought, as during the day we found ourselves trying to get a mid-day meal at about ten o’clock. We had forgotten to put our watches back two hours at the border.

The old town of Warsaw, (Stare Miasto) stands high on the left bank of the River Vistula. Renaissance and Baroque mansions surround its cobbled market square, approached by narrow streets. Originally the buildings housed noblemen and rich merchants, whose status could be gauged by the intricacy of the design and the number of windows on the front of the house. During the last war eighty-five per cent of the old town was destroyed, but it has been almost completely rebuilt. Wherever possible the original character has been preserved by constant reference to old photographs and remaining archives.

Today, houses numbered eighteen to twenty in the old town square form a museum dedicated to Adam Mickiewiez, the greatest Polish poet, who spent most of his adult life in exile. A few doors along, is the entrance to the three hundred year old Fukier wine cellar, which is still in existence. Madame Curie, the outstanding chemist and physicist, was born in Warsaw, and, when a child, had attended a school in this square. Leading from it, there are many other enchanting little streets and courtyards, each having their own individual decorations of wrought iron, or patterned bricks.

Wandering along one of these streets, we came to the Cathedral of St. John, now reconstructed since it was badly destroyed during the Warsaw Rising in 1944. As it was a Sunday, there were plenty of people gathering for the Roman Catholic service. We listened for a short time, before making our way to Castle Square, in the centre of which stands King Sigismund’s Column. While we were gazing up at this statue, one of the oldest and best-known memorials in Warsaw, a smartly dressed gentleman, carrying a briefcase, approached us. He asked if we had any English money and offered us two hundred zlotis for one-pound sterling. (The official rate was sixty-seven zlotis to the pound.) We declined his offer and turned to walk along Krakowskie Przedmiescie, the finest street in old Warsaw. It forms part of the ‘royal road’ and is one of the city’s main thoroughfares. Along both sides are many seventeenth and eighteenth century palaces, mansions and churches. In one palace, now the Academy of Fine Arts, Chopin, the greatest Polish composer lived and worked before his departure from Poland in l830. A little farther on we came upon a very colourful scene. Beside a monument to Nicolaus Copernicus, the outstanding astronomer was a group of children. They completely surrounded an old man, and were gazing up at an enormous bunch of coloured balloons that he had tied to the end of a long pole. Each child waited excitedly as he selected the colour that they wanted.

The following day we drove on to Cracow and made our way to the Orbis Hotel for a meal. This gave us fresh energy to search for our campsite. When we returned to the Land Rover, which was parked outside the hotel, we realised that our London badge was missing; no doubt it was now a souvenir for someone. By this time it was dark and raining and we very much hoped that our camp would be easy to find. We followed directions to a tram terminal and from there to a large well-lit site, which had rows of small two-bedded huts for hire. Ours turned out to be number twenty-five, the same number as the flat we had left a month or so ago.

By morning the rain had given way to a cloudless blue sky, so we decided to walk into Cracow. We set off across an open green space surrounded by plenty of trees and seats, and made our way towards the old town. Soon we were standing on the edge of the main Market Square, for centuries the city’s focal point. In the centre stands the Old Cloth Hall, which was built in the fourteenth century in Italian style and incorporated what has become known as the ‘Polish Attic’. This is an ornamented continuation of the front wall at a high level, in order to hide the steep slope of the roof. Here the Medieval merchants sold fabrics and other goods in booths behind the vaulted arches. Today, there are shops under these arcades that sell colourful Polish folk-art. Pigeons and flower-sellers that had set up stalls surrounded Mickiewiez’s bronze statue in the square and large brightly striped sunshades.

Before leaving England, we had visited a Polish friend, who had shown us a wonderfully illustrated book about the woodcarvings of Wit Stwosz. On no account, he had insisted, should we miss the opportunity of seeing his main piece of work, a triptych in the Church of St. Mary, Cracow. Looking across the Square, we realised that St. Mary’s Church was directly facing us, its two towers surprisingly of different height and design. When we first entered the church, the intricacies of the triptych at the altar were not immediately visible, as it was very dim, but, as we walked towards the huge screen, an attendant switched on some more lights. For design and skill of workmanship, few religious masterpieces could rival this great altarpiece, which was now fully revealed to us. Wit Stwosz took twelve years to complete it. The panels contain four hundred and forty-six wooden pieces representing the life of the Virgin, and are carved from lime trees five hundred years old. The principal figures are life size, and throughout the carving are fine to the smallest detail. The Germans seized the triptych in1939, but, fortunately for Poland, the Americans, who returned it to its rightful place, discovered it in Nuremberg.

Walking out to the brightness of the sunlit square, we heard the strain of a trumpet call, which suddenly stopped as if in the middle of a tune. It was not until later that we read the legend of the trumpeter who, while on sentry duty at the top of the church tower, saw the Mongols advancing to invade the city while the people were at prayer. He began to blow his trumpet, but an arrow shot by the enemy pierced his throat and abruptly ended the alarm that he was sounding. Saved by this warning, the people of Cracow remembered the event by an hourly ‘Heynal’ or trumpet call.

On our way to Wawel Castle, we visited the Ethnological Museum, which contained some wonderful woodcraft, cut paper work, embroidered costumes from various regions in Poland, and some amusing forms of beehives, as well as rooms completely furnished, as they would be in some of the mountain cottages.

On Wawel Hill, overlooking the Vistula, are the castle and a cathedral. In the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, Cracow had enjoyed a wealthy period that was mainly brought about by profitable trading. It was known in Polish history as ‘The Golden Age’. But a fire in the castle prompted Sigismund III to move his capital from Cracow to the present Warsaw. This was also at a time when Cracow was considered to be too isolated for the Polish Lithuanian union. Many kings have been crowned in the Cathedral, which is surrounded by eighteen chapels, one of which has a splendid gilded dome, and is known as the Sigismund Chapel. Down in the vaults among tombs of kings and heroes, we found the tomb of the poet and patriot, Adam Mickiewiez. Slender colonnades surmounted by arcaded loggias in three tiers enclose the castle courtyard, lending itself easily to the notable tournaments that must have been held in the sixteenth century.

Having done plenty of walking we were ready to enjoy a cool drink in an open-air cafe overlooking the river. We sat talking, and realised that we still had rather a lot of money, which we had better do something useful with whilst in Cracow. Faced with a situation like this, it is surprisingly difficult to decide how money should be spent. Souvenirs were the obvious choice; so back in the town we purchased a book about Cracow and a hand-carved wooden box. The book was well illustrated, but when we returned to England we discovered that the man had packed up the Polish edition, so we could not understand a word.

Becoming more practical, we bought a couple of feather pillows at four pounds each. This was a dreadful price, but as we hadn’t any, we thought the extra comfort would be well worth the money.

Let us now consider another aspect of Poland’s history before making our way to the holiday town of Zakopane, because, although this is as much part of the country as any other town, one cannot see there the effects of war, suffering and subsequent recovery that has been Poland’s lot through the ages.

Prussia, Austria and Russia had all exploited the weakness of the Polish State and partitioned it amongst themselves. Several uprisings in the 1800’s were all suppressed by occupying powers. In 1939, when Nazi Germany invaded, the country was not equipped or able to resist. The atrocities and massacres to which the Polish people were subjected whilst in concentration camps are well known. A museum exists at Oswiecim (Auschwitz) just outside Cracow, and this may be visited by anyone wishing to be thoroughly sickened by the sight of what happened to the four million people who never returned.

Zakopane is only seventy miles from Cracow, and it wasn’t long before we had our first view of the Tatra Mountains. Some of the peaks around the little town are over 8,000 feet high, and are snow-capped for most of the year, giving good skiing conditions until mid May. The houses, shops and little church were all made of wood, with shingle roofs and reminded us of an Austrian village. We stayed the night in a wooden chalet and were delighted that the view from our window was of the magnificent mountains rising up from green meadows.

Early in the morning we set off to walk into the town; it was already busy when we arrived, and there was definitely a holiday atmosphere prevailing. There were plenty of souvenirs for sale and shops selling hiking equipment and skis. Most people were walking towards a small open-air market so we followed them, noticing that some had small transistors slung over their shoulders, something that we could not remember seeing whilst in Russia. At the market there were herbs, spices and vegetables, and plenty of beautiful woollen cardigans and jumpers. What really captured our attention though was pile upon pile of brilliantly coloured, fluffy, woollen hats. These were popular with everyone else, too. It was quite easy to distinguish the highland shepherds and farmers, called Gorale. These men were dressed in tight, homespun, woollen trousers of cream colour, richly embroidered from waist to knee. Their loose, cream jackets were decorated, too, with a variety of colours and patterns. On their heads they wore small, black felt hats with a soft narrow brim.

We discovered a small, but extremely well stocked museum, containing specimens of flora and fauna of the region, and thoroughly enjoyed our visit, though we wished that there had been an English guidebook.

After lunch we went to the funicular railway. It seemed a quick and easy way of reaching a good height in a short time, but I remembered how in the past I had a general reluctance to using such artificial means. However, walking takes time, so trying to convince myself that I was not really lazy, we jumped into the train and were lifted to about four thousand feet in seven minutes. From this vantage point we were able to view Zakopane, set quietly in the valley. For some time, we sat identifying peaks across the valley, and then watched three peasants who had come from a nearby cottage carrying scythes. They stood for a while looking at the golden corn, deciding where to begin their work then, with a steady but relaxed swinging of their arms, they cut row after row. The corn fell into neat piles and the sound of it swishing to the ground was pleasing to the ear. They stopped to survey their work, to talk, laugh and wipe their brows. Then, swiftly sharpening their scythes, they set to work once more. By the time they had finished, the sun was low in the sky, and the mountains were veiled by the soft pink glow of the evening.

Czechoslovakia.

The vast pine forests covering the slopes of the High Tatras down to the fertile valleys, and the wonderfully clear air, were good indeed as first impressions of the country. Unfortunately, we had only planned to stay for three days, visiting the eastern extremity. After a short stop at the customs point, we drove on up a steep, winding road until we came to a grassy bank. Here we sat and gorged ourselves on one of those enormous, green water melons. The size of the segments we had cut for ourselves was quite undignified, but the bright red flesh was succulent and refreshing.

We sped through small villages colourfully set in a patchwork of fields, mellow in the warm afternoon sunshine. The wooden houses looked clean and orderly, reminding us yet again that we were in what was once the Austro-Hungarian Empire.

Although the camp site at Tatra Lomnica had been closed at the end of the summer season, several tents were erected, so we put ours up intending to stay for a couple of nights. The view of the spiky, silhouetted outline of high peaks and pine trees was wonderful, and there were only a few wisps of fine cloud drifting across a clear sky. The magnetic pull of the mountains had got hold of us again, and, next morning we set off for a village eight kilometres away called Stara Smokovec. Here the mountain railway took us up to Hrebienok at four thousand one hundred and fifty-six feet. We then climbed another two thousand feet. It was splendid to be in such surroundings again, and we recalled that the last time we had been climbing was in the Cairngorm Mountains in Scotland. Now we were nearly two thousand feet above the highest peaks there and had perfect weather conditions. A panorama of green fields, villages and roads, spread itself below us for miles around, while, across a great valley, dominating the entire scene were the massive granite crags and buttresses of Lonmicky, a peak of 8,600 feet, on the summit of which we could just distinguish the silver dome of an observatory. Occasionally we took bearings of some of the other high peaks and checked our own altitude with the altimeter we had with us. So captivating was this view that we were reluctant to make our way downward and frequently we stopped to admire some rare mountain plants, or investigate more closely the various lichens clinging and maintaining an almost impossible existence on the rocks.

Stara Smokevec, Strebske Pleso, Ruzomberok; what fascinating names these villages had, but it was a Sunday and there was an air of desertion about them. Most of the villagers were in church, but those that we did see were dressed in their best black dresses and suits. The cold winter months were being prepared for, in the form of neatly stacked piles of logs at the side of each house, yet the fields were still covered with pale lavender crocuses, known as meadow saffron, contrasting beautifully with the gold and russet leaves of Autumn.

Having reached Banska Bystrica, we decided to stay at the hotel Narodny Dom. Although no English was spoken at the reception desk, French was. Audrey struggled to remember the words she had been taught at school, and this proved sufficient to establish that we required bed and breakfast. We followed the receptionist up red-carpeted stairs to our room. It was enormous and contained several pieces of old fashioned furniture.

I walked to a balcony that overlooked a back street. We wondered whether we should go out, but the weather was cold, drizzling with rain and generally not very inviting. Audrey enquired about a bathroom and was told that the plumbing was out of order but it could be arranged for us to use the facilities of another hotel just round the corner.

That evening we decided to have dinner at the hotel, and sat in a spacious dining hall decorated with ornate mirrors and glass chandeliers. A number of people sat at the tables waiting to be served but there seemed very little food about, only rows of bottled orangeade. Later we were asked to move to another table, and a waiter gave us a menu. Just as our meal arrived, a middle-aged man approached our table and asked in good English if he could join us. We welcomed him and very soon asked if he came from Czechoslovakia. This simple question set the subject for the evening’s conversation. We learnt that he preferred not to regard himself as a Czechoslovakian. He was from Bratislava, the old capital of Slovakia. As he talked we could see that he still felt bitter about the merging in 1948 of Slovakia together with Moravia, Bohemia and Silesia into the new country of Czechoslovakia. He gave the impression that the Czechs dominated the Slovakian people, and being the poorer relations, were powerless to resist. His studies to become a doctor had been cut short at a time when his political ideas and individuality had brought him imprisonment and mental suffering at the hand of Communism. We were of the opinion that his mind was seriously affected in some way, for during our conversation he alternately became either very serious and morose, or extremely agitated, trying with difficulty, at times, to force a cheerful smile. Apparently worried that someone might overhear his conversation, he suddenly jumped to his feet and wished us goodnight. We continued to sit at the table for a while, now aware that there were difficulties in this country, too, many of them hidden under the unstable surface created by an all-powerful State.

It was our intention to drive from our hotel at Banska Bystrica to Sahy, where we could cross into Hungary. It wasn’t until we had almost arrived that we thought about reading the AA book, and discovered that this particular crossing point was only open from eight until ten in the morning. Fortunately not very many miles away to the east was another border crossing, so we asked a couple of boys our best route. We were quite unable to make them understand, but seeing our difficulty they introduced a friend, Ivan Stries, who could speak German. After some initial misunderstanding, we learned not only the way, but that he was a keen stamp collector. Taking his address, we promised to send him some stamps from England when we returned.

Pressing on, we arrived at a junction, where we made more inquiries. We were told to keep “straight on”. The journey seemed to be taking a lot longer than we had estimated, but asking a young girl the way were satisfied when she also told us to drive “straight on”. Gradually, however, the road deteriorated, and even with the Land Rover, we found it difficult to manoeuvre over the ruts and soft mud about a foot deep. By now the path was so narrow that we could not have turned even if we had wanted to. We had no option but to carry on to the end of the path, which led us to a pig farm. Attracting the attention of a young man some distance away we were told that we were going the wrong way. Back along the muddy cart track we jolted and bumped, wondering whether we should ever get across the border to Hungary. Determined not to make any more mistakes, we asked yet another man, but he turned out to be stone deaf. The situation now was quite amusing and I sat muffling my chuckles as Audrey tried desperately to make him hear. At least he didn’t worry about the language barrier; neither did he give us any false information. Finally, a young woman, with a basket of peaches strapped to her back, came to Audrey’s rescue. She told us the road to take, and then offered us her fruit. We took some, but she insisted that we should have more and piled the small ripe peaches into our hands. At least her directions were more reliable, but she had omitted to tell us that we would have to ford a river.

Although it was not very deep, it was quite narrow, and there was a very sharply inclined bank on either side. It was the sort of situation where we wouldn’t know if we were going to make it until it was too late. But make it we must, so we began to unload some of the weight, including the three jerry cans filled with petrol. This helped to increase the ground clearance, but it also attracted the attention of several young children who gathered round to watch. They and Audrey squatted on their haunches to look underneath the vehicle as it tipped at a perilous angle, first forward, then backward, to rise up the other bank without mishap. The children clapped with delight and when I got out of the Land Rover to repack, they all tried to help by wading across with various pieces of our equipment. We decided to reward their efforts with a few sweets, and this brought about an array of smiling faces, which were still beaming at us as we turned on to a good road, which allowed us to drive quickly to the border.

As is usual when moving between countries, we found that our small coins were not easily exchanged at the border. We had probably collected over a hundred from the countries that we had visited, and as these always had to be entered on the Customs Declaration form, we kept a checklist of the amounts. You can imagine our amazement when the Customs Officer ran his finger down this list and asked to see the one Swedish ore piece. As the coins were all jumbled together in a bag, it would be a difficult job to find. Like prospectors we emptied the coins into a heap on the table and told him it was somewhere amongst them. Looking quite worried he started to sort them through, but after a while gave up, not really knowing what he was looking for. Beckoning us outside he opened and smelt our water containers, presumably in case they contained alcohol.

Back one again in the office we collected our coins, he carefully stamped our passport and then signalled for the barrier to be raised.

Hungary.

We sat comfortably, sipping iced orange juice, in the best hotel in Budapest, ‘The Gellért’. The faint sound of violins playing Hungarian music drifted to our ears as we looked around us. Our room had most of the modern conveniences one could ask for - a radio, a telephone, and separate buzzers for the chambermaid, the chef and the waiter. The blue-tiled bathroom contained a shower, bidet, bath, toilet and washbasin. At the twist of a tap, water could spurt from anyone of a dozen sources. From the balcony, which overlooked the Danube, there was a wonderful view of the city.

Why, you may ask, were we living so luxuriously? Once again we had some surplus money, owing to the fact that we were only staying for three days, when the minimum booking was for seven. We were indeed a couple of capitalists. But, we were capitalists with dirty clothing. All this hot water must be put to good use. Soon we had a string of washing incongruously hanging across the palatial bathroom.

Buda and Pest, two medieval towns astride the Danube, were united in 1872. Buda on the right bank has more historical memories as an ancient city, while Pest, on the left bank, has grown to be associated with shops and commerce. We decided to tour Budapest by coach, which, although rather cramped and stuffy, made a change from travelling in the Land Rover. From Roosevelt Square, the coach took us across the Széchényi-Lánchid Suspension Bridge to Buda. We were told, by way of an introduction, the almost inevitable story about the sculptor of the lions, which stand at each end of the bridge. Realising that he had forgotten to give them tongues, in despair he threw himself into the river.

We followed our guide around the Mátyás Templon, or Coronation Church, where Franz Joseph and Charles IV of Hungary were crowned. During their reign the church was completely restored, and the roof covered with beautifully coloured, ceramic tiles that can be seen today. Inside, some vivid colours broke the dim light where the sunlight filtered through a small, circular, stained glass window, which had survived storage during the war and was still in a remarkably good condition.

We walked across the surrounding cobblestone square to the Fisherman’s Bastion, a reminder of the days when the task of defending the fortress rested with the fishermen of the Danube.

The Romans occupied at one time Budapest and we saw ruins of their buildings, dating back to the second Century. The Turks, too, had invaded in the sixteenth and seventeenth century and the remains of their baths can still be seen. The guide informed us that there were many, warm, sulphurous springs, which supplied the Buda district with two and a half million litres of water a day. These springs are highly recommended as a cure for rheumatic troubles. No wonder our hotel boasted an open-air pool and thermal baths on the premises.

On Gellért Hill, at eight hundred and twenty feet above the level of the Danube, stands the Liberation Memorial, which was erected in honour of the Soviet Armies who fell in the liberation of Budapest from the Nazis. It is a typically Russian statue, with a figure of a young woman holding aloft a branch of palm, the symbol of peace.

As we drove over a bridge, we noticed an island, which has been made into a public pleasure ground with parks, swimming baths, restaurants and other forms of entertainment. Once it was called the Island of Hares, and was used for Royal Hunting, but now it is known as Margaret Island, after the daughter of a certain King Béla IV. Margaret became a nun and her father built a Dominican convent for her on the island.

On the Pest side of the Danube, we were shown the Parliament building and the Opera House, before being taken to Heroes Square (Hősök tere). In the centre, is an immense monument, in stone and bronze, supporting a figure of the Archangel Gabriel. At the base of the column, a group of figures represent Árpád and the seven chieftains of the immigrant Magyar tribes from Asia, which became dominant in Hungary.

Having seen the usual run of museums and statues, we pulled up at the Peoples’ Stadium. An American tourist sitting in front of us and listening to the guide telling us that the stadium was built in 1953, held 100,000 people and had fifty entrances, muttered that she didn’t care how many god dam entrances it had, who wanted to see a stadium anyway?

After a tiring walk in the sultry afternoon heat, we arrived back at the hotel and had a good laugh at the sight of our dusty brute of a Land Rover taking its place in the parking area alongside sleek limousines, several bearing C.D. plates.

In the spacious dining room that evening violinists playing Hungarian gypsy dances serenaded us. At one table sat a young girl, who gazed starry-eyed at her middle-aged escort, as he gently kissed her hand. He had requested a special tune and one of the violinists went to their table to play for them alone. As the evening grew older, the tempo of the music became wilder and more exciting. We felt sure that the group would soon be too exhausted to play any more. Nevertheless, they played well into the night. Before we retired to bed, we went out onto the balcony and gazed down at the swirling Danube. The twinkling lights of the city set us reminiscing on the sights we had seen over the past few weeks. Slowly we turned and retired to bed, our heads touched the pillows and we were asleep.

The next day’s drive to Debrecen was across flat, agricultural land. On the approach to each village the tarmac road became cobbled. Houses were painted in pastel shades of orange, yellow and green, and were decorated with white stucco. Bullock carts, carrying maize or hay, took up the entire width of the road, and the driver was, often as not, fast asleep on top of his load. We often had to follow at walking pace for several minutes before the road widened sufficiently for us to pass. Another common sight was of a pole fixed across the back of a bicycle with baskets of shopping suspended from each end - rather as a coolie would carry water buckets.

At Ártánd we crossed the border, with only the minimum amount of time spent on the usual formalities.

Romania.

The pure sound of a prolonged and melancholy whistling introduced us to the Romanian village folk on our first night in this country. We were camping in a permanently erected tent on a site at Oradea and, as was usual at these sites, a kitchen area was provided for communal cooking. While Audrey was preparing the meal, I got out our tape recorder in the hope that the man who was whistling would do so for us. He was wandering about the camp in a long sheepskin coat that reached almost to his ankles. I do not think he knew what a tape recorder would do, but he soon realised what we wanted and continued with his impressive tune. When, after a few minutes, I stopped him and played the tape back, he was completely dumbfounded. Recovering from his amazement, he wanted to give us an encore, and began to whistle with even greater enthusiasm. He was tickled pink at hearing himself and each session became longer and longer; we became quite alarmed at the amount of tape we were using. Gradually a few other people gathered, including some women, and we invited them to sing, too, which they did willingly, without any sign of embarrassment.

We joined them at their table where they were drinking together, and they immediately filled a glass each for us. Two of the women who had particularly fine voices began quietly singing again. Others joined in and it was quite obvious that they had often sung amongst themselves in this way. They explained that their songs were called Doina, meaning songs of longing from the heart.

During the singing ‘Whistler’, as we had nicknamed him, became very childish, disappointed that he was no longer the centre of attraction. I think he regarded himself as the instigator of the party, and that only his fine whistling had brought us together, which indeed, it had. He was most reluctant that we should record the singing of others, and at the shortest interval between songs, he would commence whistling making signs to encourage us to record him again.

Amongst our companions was an older, bristly-chinned fellow, who kept coming over to me, saying, “Me Romani, you Englis” then he would whisper something confidentially into my ear and kiss me affectionately on the cheeks, much to Audrey’s amusement. Everyone was becoming quite merry as more drink flowed, but the evening drew to a close at ten o’clock, and after much hand shaking, we finally said goodbye and went off to bed.

During the night, Audrey had to get out of the tent to go to the toilet. Hardly had she put a foot outside, when she heard a rustling from the bushes. She soon ran back and woke me up. Peering outside, we realised that it was ‘Whistler’. Obviously his job was to guard the camp, and he was doing it pretty thoroughly. Once we knew who it was, we both went down to the toilet block together. Later in the night we went out again and this time, to our surprise, we managed to leave the tent unnoticed. ‘Whistler’ must have nodded off to sleep. Pulling the chain must have woken him up, for we heard a scurry of feet and there he was outlined in the mist, still wearing his long coat. He seemed surprised to see us, half expecting an intruder. As he escorted us back to our tent he pulled his coat closely around himself. Throughout the night someone was on patrol and if it wasn’t ‘Whistler’, it was his companion who took over the watch in the early hours of the morning, and stayed with us until we were ready to leave.

In some ways the countryside was similar to that of Hungary. Huge bullocks, looking very hard worked, laboriously pulled their loaded carts from place to place. Even if the distances were not great, the speed at which these animals moved gave one the impression that any distance would take an age to travel. Women working in the fields wore large brimmed straw hats over bright red headscarves. Outside some of the houses tobacco leaves were hanging to dry on wooden racks and we noticed grape vines growing in courtyards.

Looking at our map, we could see that there was a very small road, just before a village called Fagaras that led towards the mountains. We found it without difficulty and drove along hoping that we would be able to find a suitable place for a camp of our own amongst the peasants, whom we had found so friendly during our various stops for lunch and tea over the last day or so. The road surface had deteriorated into a bumpy dusty track, and in the dry fields on either side, peasants were gathering root crops. On and on we went, the dusty conditions making us think that we were on safari in Africa, particularly when we saw huge, jet-black oxen wallowing in the muddy ditches. At last we came to a delightful spot beside a narrow stream, a short distance from the village of Sâmbata-de-Sus.

The impressive range of the Transylvanian Alps stretched before us, the peak of Moldoveanu, rising to over 8,000 feet, visible between the trees. We quickly found a level area and erected the tent. I filtered sufficient water for our needs direct from the stream, and Audrey strung up a washing line between the trees. It seemed a good time and place to begin a service on the Land Rover. The second one was now due, so after lunch I set to work. While I was busy a bent old man leaning on a twisted walking stick, came trudging towards us. It seemed as though he had come down from the mountains. Puffing and panting he sat down beside us. Declining an offer of a cigarette he gulped down a glass of water as though he hadn’t had a drink all day. After a short rest he slowly got to his feet, hobbled a few yards and then set off at a brisker pace towards the village.

Next morning, just as we were dishing up porridge, we had another visitor. This time a shepherd, preceded by half a dozen fawn-coloured cows and his dog that sniffed hungrily round the table. The old fellow took off his battered felt hat and scratched his head, gazing in wonder at the outside and then the inside of our vehicle, before joining us as we sat having breakfast. He told us of an old monastery about two kilometres away, and made us understand that he would like to take us there. Quickly cleaning up, we walked with him across the fields. Soon we came to the edge of a village and he led us to a small hunting lodge, where we met a party that had been hunting the previous day. Amongst them was a German from whom we learned that chamois existed on the slopes. He showed us the skulls of two that they had killed, and told us that an Englishman went regularly to Sâmbata-de-Sus each October.

Continuing along a stony track by the edge of a beech wood we came to a small monastery. In the porch way, which was colourfully painted with scenes of heaven and hell, stood several villagers. The cowherd would not come any further with us, possibly because he was dressed in his working clothes, but a friend of his beckoned to us to follow him. He persuaded us to go past the congregation, and after he had a word with one of the priests, I was invited to sit on one of the few wooden seats on the left side of the church, near the sanctuary. The priests sat on the right side. The small building was packed full, and the men all seemed to be in the most important position. The women, who Audrey had joined, were dressed in black headscarves, white blouses, embroidered skirts and leather waistcoats, stood together around the doorway. All the people were obviously wearing their best clothes, even if some were quite plain.

The complete service was sung, including all the prayers – some of the men having extremely good voices. Shortly, one of the priests escorted us outside to a separate building, the bell-tower. He indicated that we should climb a narrow, spiral staircase to a room at the top. Here the priest began hammering on a wooden sounding board with two wooden hammers, producing a strange, but rhythmic sound. The use of such a board was probably a survival from the days when the Turks banned the ringing of bells. However, there were some bells in the tower, and two men stepped forward to pull the ropes. One rope was offered for me to pull, but I declined, thinking that the villagers would make a better job of it than I could, and hoping that this would not cause any offence.

Leaving the bell-tower, we were surprised to be asked back into the congregation within the church where I took the same seat at the front again. The singing and chanting continued, giving us ample time to gaze around at the colourful frescoes covering the walls and ceiling of the church. The priests were dressed completely in black, with the exception of those I could see behind the iconostasis, who wore gold cloaks. All of them had long, bushy beards, and their hair was long, but twisted into a small knot at the back. Several times the priests brought out a silver censer on a chain, and swung it to and fro. The sweet-smelling odour of incense penetrated into the furthest corners of the church, and the congregation knelt and prayed. Sacred objects, such as a goblet, a cross, and the scriptures, were brought from the sanctuary and blessed before the people. Those villagers kneeling nearest to the priests would fervently clutch at and kiss the hem of their golden cloaks. Then these high priests returned to the sanctuary and in turn, kissed and embraced each other.

Surprisingly two wonderful hours had been spent in the church, and the service had not ended when we left. Our friend, the cowherd, had waited for us all this time, and now he accompanied us as we walked back to our tent. It became obvious that he was suffering from a very bad toothache and his face was swollen, but it seemed that he would not be able to have it attended to, so we offered him some codeine tablets. He took one, and put another in his leather pouch.

When we arrived back to our ‘home by the stream’, we all sat on the grass and enjoyed a cool drink. We asked the cowherd about his work, and what he thought of ‘collective farms’. He was not at all enthusiastic, and explained that before being collective; the farms produced six times the amount that they do now. The Romanians opposed for a long time the trend towards collective farming, preferring to work as family groups. Collectivisation has driven many farmers to the cities, but the shepherd still remains independent.

Climbing a tree, he shook some apples down for us, while his dog contentedly rooted amongst our rubbish patch.Then, walking over to another tree, he waved to us to come and look at the scratch marks on the trunk. These were made by a bear in its attempt to reach either fruit or honey. This, as you can imagine, was somewhat disturbing, and especially with our tent pitched just a few feet away.

I completed the service on the Land Rover and walked over to the stream for a wash. The water bubbled over small stones and gently moved some tall grasses, which sprouted from the muddy banks. As I looked back to our camp, set compactly beneath sheltering trees, and beyond to where the severity of high mountains was softened to a golden hue. I realised that we were thoroughly enjoying life as true gypsies. We were going to bed as the sun went down and rising as the first light played on the mountains. The simplicity of our life, and of these country folk around us, made a lasting impression. Their assets were almost non-existent, and yet their needs were not great. They were happy, healthy and contented.

A short way from our camp several men were busily engaged making bricks. They were mixing earth with straw and water, packing it into wooden formers, and then baking the bricks in three large kilns, heated from underneath by wood fires. The two other men were lost in sleep, comfortably curled up in a great pile of straw.

Travelling on our way again we noticed that autumn leaves were falling and, for the first time, we caught sight of a stork’s nest high up on top of a chimney pot. It was a large, round, straggling mass of twisted twigs, almost delicately supported by the comparatively small pot beneath. However, an elegant stork did not seem to have any doubts about its security as, with gangling red legs, he landed on top.

Whilst looking for a campsite in the Băneasa forest, on the outskirts of Bucharest, we met a young Australian couple, Jim and Marie. They joined us as they were also looking for a place to pitch their tent and had been unsuccessful in finding the official camp. After an extensive search, a young lad led us to a farm. There were a number of children living there and they were all interested in the spectacle of two tents being put up in their back yard. When this job was finished, Jim and I went to the well in the courtyard and, by turning an enormous wooden wheel; we got our supply of water for the evening meal. The last shadows of inquisitive children had disappeared into the house and all was quiet in the farmyard. We sat chatting with Jim and Marie in their tent until late in the evening, enjoying several mugs of coffee. They were on their way back to England, where Jim had a job waiting for him, and after a few months they would be returning to Australia.

At the Carpaţi Tourist Office in Bucharest the following morning, we were informed that the camp site we’d been searching for had closed on the lst October, and that there were no guided tours of the city. So we spent our day rather aimlessly wandering about until we came to the former Royal Palace. A young boy came up to us, and offered us a handful of Russian stamps. He wanted to exchange them for a biro, but as ours was in the Land Rover, we traded a few coins instead.

Two parked Commer vans, covered with paintings of kiwis and kangaroos, attracted our attention. We walked over to them and, finding a passenger inside, discovered that the group of seventeen friends had left England only a week before and were on their way to India and then to Australia. We were told how they hoped to cover their journey to India in five weeks. It made our progress seem very slow, but we decided they wouldn’t see much of the countries that they were to pass through.

As it so happened, we ourselves were not seeing much of Bucharest. We were not very anxious to visit important buildings, so went to a good restaurant for a meal before getting a fresh stock of tinned goods at a well laid out modern supermarket. We also found hairdressers, where we both got our hair cut very cheaply, for about one and sixpence each.

The next day we all had a quick breakfast and were soon on the road. A short while after clearing Bucharest, Jim and Marie were waved down at a roadside checkpoint. We were not required to stop, so we drove on. As it so happened, we did get another momentary glimpse of them waving to us as they pulled in to a petrol station, but we realised that we would probably never see them again.

Travelling was like that. Joining with companions who shared the same interests, enthusiasms and difficulties as ourselves, and building for a short while on that natural and indefinable quality which makes for a lasting friendship. No matter if we only spoke in passing, or whether we were camping next door to each other for several days, there was always a strange feeling of oneness between all travellers. This affinity was real and valuable, yet for people like us, and many others who were travelling for long periods, it was not allowed to mature during the course of the journey. Each party needed to be a confident, efficient, independent and self-contained unit. It had to be, this was not a weekend outing, and it was often a sizeable part of people’s lives. Anyone lonely or in need of a helpful acquaintance to join with them, had either travelled too far from home or had already given up.

Before long we arrived at the Bridge of Friendship, a two-storey steel construction nearly nine hundred yards long, which takes both road and rail traffic across the River Danube from Giurgu on the Romanian side to Rus in Bulgaria.

Bulgaria.

A man, with a large cylinder strapped to his back, walked slowly round the Land Rover carrying a long probe-like tube. He stopped at each corner of the vehicle for a few moments, while we sat inside not able to see exactly what he was doing. Another fellow approached us and asked for our passport and other particulars. At least this was more normal at customs, but what was the chap with the cylinder up to? As I got out to go into the Customs Office, I cast a surreptitious glance in his direction and discovered the answer. He had merely been spraying each wheel with a liquid, presumably to obviate any contamination from the neighbouring country.

The countryside was changing, not abruptly, but gradually. Almost imperceptibly we noticed that the soil was tending towards dryness, and the grass was burnt rather than green. On some trees the yellow leaves were turning to browns and reds. It seemed that we had been following autumn for quite a time.

Men frequently waved to us, something that even children had not been doing in the other Communist countries. As we pulled off the road for our mid-day meal a lorry, packed high with black grapes, stopped a few yards ahead of us, and the driver came running back with several bunches for us. An hour or so later we drew up alongside a group of women sitting at the roadside.Behind them stretched row upon row of grape vines, and their job was to pick, trim and pack the grapes into wooden boxes. Their happy, laughing faces made a good picture, and they kept plying us with bunches of grapes and asking for more photographs to be taken. A man, who was obviously in charge, asked us to come further along the road, where the same procedure was repeated. I reached the stage where I had to pretend that I was taking photographs, as so many women wanted to be included. Everyone, without exception, was as happy as a child. Their generosity was overwhelming, and we left loaded with so many grapes, that we felt sure we would never be able to eat them all. For the rest of the day we did not chatter so much as we were continuously eating grapes. The drone of the engine was punctuated by us spitting the pips out of the windows.

In one village we saw a crowd of people walking towards us, being led by a richly robed priest. It was a funeral procession. A wooden cart through the entire length of the village was transporting the body of an old man, with his face uncovered, before being carried to his last resting place. The priest swung an incense burner to and fro, allowing a pungent smell to waft over the heads of the mourning villagers. Some of the women carried baskets of food partly covered with freshly washed napkins. A low chanting and intoning of prayers came to our ears, as the procession filed slowly past.

The next town, Turnovo, was founded in the 9th century and was the medieval capital of Bulgaria. The old houses, built on the steep sloping banks of the River Yantra, have fascinating red roofs. A guidebook made the sweeping claim that this town was the most interesting in Europe. We stopped to talk with a group of Bulgarians, who recommended that we should not travel the road from Turnovo to Gabrovo as it was very poor. One man mentioned that he had only covered fifteen miles in three hours. This settled it. We decided to take their advice and follow the road via Sevlievo, even though the way was longer.

By the evening we had arrived at Mount Stoletov, where we proposed to stop for two nights. Arriving at the campsite we found it closed, presumably the season had ended, so we went on to the Balkan Tourist Hotel. Explaining the situation, we presented our vouchers, and the manager offered us a room in the hotel as an alternative. It was simple accommodation, but very clean with natural wood furniture. Quickly we unpacked our belongings and went out for an evening walk. There was crispness in the air and the trees were showing the flaming colours of an autumn scene.

Later, as we sat having a meal in the dining room, we became interested in watching the other people around us. They were mostly middle-aged and it seemed that they had come from the fields; perhaps they had also been picking grapes. The women, who were wearing white headscarves, were all chattering away amongst themselves whilst eating a simple meal.

At about five-thirty the following morning, we were awakened by a great deal of loud conversation and we assumed that it was from the same group of people that we had met the previous evening. If this noise had occurred in an equivalent English hotel, people would have gone crazy with complaints to the management, but it all seemed to be accepted here.

Just beyond the hotel, stone steps led up to a monument at the top of Mt. Stoletov. As we climbed them, loud, stirring, patriotic music bellowed from loudspeakers suspended in the trees. It was not surprising to see loudspeakers such as these, for they had been evident in many of the villages we had passed through in Communist countries, but this was the first time we had heard them relaying anything. At the top of the hill, beside an enormous bronze lion, we stood talking with two young actors who were with a group of people making a documentary film about life in Bulgaria. They told us that the Russians were particularly popular in Bulgaria, due to the liberation of their country from both the Turks and the Germans. Of course, they also wanted to know more about England. The rest of the day we spent happily walking beneath the trees and over the grassy slopes of this mountainous region. We stayed out until the orange glow of the setting sun indicated that the temperature would soon be falling and that we should make our way back to the hotel.

On our drive from Mt. Stoletov to the Turkish frontier, we saw two golden cupolas, glinting in the sun, and half hidden like some fairy tale palace behind tall green trees. We followed a narrow footpath until we were standing immediately in front of a monastery, designed in the traditional Russian Orthodox style. It was painted a shade of terra cotta, and decorated with gold, blue and white designs. Inside, it was clean, and, bright and there were many paintings on the walls. Some village people were bringing in food and fruit to the priest, probably as some kind of offering, and several tall candles were alight.

Continuing along the road again, we came to Kazanluk, which is situated in the Valley of Roses. In this vicinity there was plenty of colour in the fields with red pepper plants, tobacco, maize and extensive areas of cotton, where the bolls were just splitting open to show pure white fluffy cotton inside. Some of it was collecting, like snow, along the verges of the fields, having drifted down from the lorries as they drove fully loaded to the towns.

A plump woman sat on a small wooden stool outside the front wall of her house, spinning wool in the manner handed down from time immemorial. The wooden distaff, which was tucked under her left arm, supported a bundle of pure white sheep’s wool. Through her fingers passed the finely spun thread, twisted in perpetual motion by the gyrations of a small bobbin. Sitting cross-legged on the ground beside her was a younger, dark-skinned girl of about fifteen, who was staring dreamily into space, almost unaware of our presence. Theirs was a simple life, yet where there existed simplicity we always found there was contentment.

As we approached the border, we remembered, only too well, our rather stormy entry into Russia. Over five weeks had been spent travelling in the Communist countries, yet here we were, once again passing through the Iron Curtain, this time almost as if it had been made of lace.