Istanbul by Rail 2014

Day 1: An Evening in Belleville

An interesting fact about my small East Yorkshire town: it used to have two railway stations. Then, in the middle of the last century, Dr Beeching came along and implemented massive cuts to the British rail network. Many rural towns (including the one I grew up in) lost their railway stations. In the town where I now live, there used to be a station very close to the town centre, and one 20 minutes walk into the countryside. In their infinite wisdom, they decided to close the town centre station. This means the townsfolk must walk 20 minutes through open countryside to get to the station. Oh, Dr Beeching!

That said, there is a wonderful pub next to it. Of course, this wasn’t open at 8.30am. What was open for business were the sun’s rays. Whether it was the lack of sleep, the early hour or the rucksacks on our backs, one thing’s for sure: we need to get used to the heat before eastern Europe.

Setting off on the direct train to London Kings Cross, everything was going to plan until Stevenage when the train was diverted via Hertford. It transpires that someone had been hit by a train further down the line. Apart from arriving a few minutes later and the obvious concern for the person, this didn’t affect us as the Eurostar terminal is across the road at St Pancras. Although you could have mistaken it for Grand Central Station given the high number of Americans there.

The second train of the day, the second delay. An electrical fault had led to an extra 20 minute wait in the terminal. Once on and – as a rare treat – installed in first class, we cantered through Kent and into the tunnel. On the French side, the train was permitted to make up for lost time. Rocketing through the open fields of northern France, beautiful and familiar sites whizzed by the window. London to Paris is a journey I have done a few times over the past 20 years and the grey tiled roofs of village churches, the free-flowing Autoroutes and – most pleasingly – the manmade mounds near Lille brought back countless memories. Especially the latter. When I first used the Eurostar as a teenager, these were nothing but raw slagheaps blotting the landscape. Now covered in flora, they add to rather than detract from the landscape.

And then came Paris. The French capital is everything I hate about a city: huge, full of tourists (irony noted!) and expensive. But, by God, I love the place.

Beautiful Montmartre with its place in art and celluloid history, and its tourist traps. The banks of the Seine with the Eiffel Tower, Champs Elysees and Louvre. The grand boulevards, hidden passages and cafe culture. It’s no wonder millions of tourist flock here each year. This year, however, I would take my other half to a place I heard about and visited the last time I came.

Walking from our hotel on Boulevard Richard Lenoir to Goncourt metro station and onwards to the Belleville stop, we saw the thriving street art scene had found a home on Rue Denoyez, with artists testing their abilities in various mediums. Round the corner, we walked into Chinatown and up the hill towards Pyrenees. It was on this street that Edith Piaf was born. Literally. Her mother reputedly gave birth in a doorway.

The view of Paris from Parc de Belleville.

A right turn onto Rue Piat gave us a stunning view of Paris, with the Eiffel and Montparnasse towers standing proud. Even the presence of people practicing Capoeira couldn’t ruin it. In the roasting heat, a few minutes were spent in the shade of Parc de Belleville before we headed towards Rue Sorbier and its proliferation of bistros. After a serviceable feed, Les Trois 8 was our last stop. This tiny bar on the bustling corner of rues Panoyaux and Victor Letalle is a must visit for any discerning beer lover. With six to eight exciting drafts and a reported thousand varieties of bottled beer, the choice was too much. Thankfully, due to the hubbub, the barman thought he heard my order and served up a delightful dark Belgian number.

With that readily imbibed, we set off for home, passing various middle eastern and north African stores near Menilmontant. Down the rue of the same name, towards Parmentier, we stumbled upon a thriving bar scene almost redolent of Beale Street in Memphis.

A quick trip to see the sun set at Place de la Republique and we were home at our hotel, ready for a good night’s sleep.

Day 2: A Short Time in Zurich

As with my love of Paris, my appreciation of a nationwide chain of patisserie goes against all my beliefs. ‘Support independent stores’, ‘they care less than local shops’, ‘ the food isn’t fresh’. All these thoughts regularly become vocal when entering Tesco or the likes.

But Paul… their pain au raisins are divine. This cake and sandwich shop is prevalent on many Parisian corners and in many towns and cities across France. Thankfully there was one close to our hotel, appropriately near St Paul. A short walk to take in the exquisite Place de Vosges took us to the perfect breakfast stop – and we snapped up the last few pain au raisins (or escargots as they call them, due to their snail shell-like shape).

Next on the agenda was a walk through the Tuilleries. The sun was hard at work again and a quick look at the Rodin statues saw us continuing our walk in the shade of the Champs Elysees. Normally I’d give this a miss. If you’ve never been, you should go, but I had been and it no longer offers much to me. But today was different.

A few weeks ago I had the pleasure of being at York racecourse when the Tour De France departed. Tomorrow, the cyclists who have survived the gruelling challenge will parade down this iconic street. Preparations were being finalised with seating set along the length of it and the media/official tents looking resplendent. There were also official traders flogging their wares. I couldn’t turn down a goody bag for €20, complete with hat, flag, buff, chapeau and – of course- cuddly toy.

A quick TdF-inspired photo at the Arc du Triomphe and we were on the Metro to the rive gauche (left bank of the river). Vavin was our destination, but works on the track meant our path was blocked at Trocadero. Three trains later we did arrive at Vavin, right in front of La Rotonde, the iconic Parisian cafe favoured by artists like Picasso in days gone by – and tourists today. One of the waiters was clearly having fun as he photobombed his table’s group photo.

Waiter at La Rotonde having a bit of fun

The other reason to visit this quarter is the Jardin du Luxembourg, a beautiful and relaxing park – even on a day like this – set in the grounds of the Palais du Luxembourg: a grand old house formerly owned by the Medicis. Indeed, it was this family that gave the park’s other attraction its name: the Medici fountain.

A galette (savoury crepe) on the Boulevard St Germain and a beer/coffee near our hotel concluded the Parisian leg of our trip. An afternoon train to Zurich was waiting.

At 4pm we arrived at the Gare de Lyon and, soon after, boarded the TGV Lyria for Switzerland. A smooth ride calmed my nerves about our tickets. As it was the first time we had used our Interrail pass, I was convinced I’d cocked something else up. But with the inspectors seeming content, we settled down for the four-hour trip.

Time, fields and buildings passed without incident, as did the first stop of Belfort-Montbeliard in the far east of France. But soon a kerfuffle kicked off, with the seating arrangements between Mulhouse and Basel faulty. A couple of chaps with camping gear suggested that the Americans near us were in the wrong seat. They appeared to be right. However, the American family were making such a slow effort of moving that the campers told them not to bother and went off in search of other seats – consciously unblocking the carriageway in the process.

The scenery from then on was somewhat surprising. Very little of it was mountains and rivers, but rather fields of hay and other arable products. However, as we approached Zurich, the luscious rivers came into view and the tunnels became longer.

With just under two hours in the famous centre of the banking industry, we weren’t sure what we’d see. A stroll towards the lake gave us an insight into the working heart of the city. Bahnhofstrasse is an exclusive and expensive shopping street. Even if you didn’t know that, the rows of Tiffany’s, Gucci, Christ watches and countless other high-end retailers would soon give you the correct impression.

The lake itself was a welcome sight, with the mountains already engulfed with the rain clouds that would soon be heading our way. But, despite the foreboding signs, it was a peaceful scene. Ducks and swans slept soundly on the surface, while small fish arced through the air. If we’d arrived just an hour later, the scene would have been perfect for a long-shutter photograph but, sadly, it was too light.

Munsterbrucke and Grossmunster in Zurich

Strolling back through the old town felt hundreds of miles and years away from Bahnhofstrasse, rather than a few hundred feet. With the delightful cobbled and hilly streets proudly displaying the Swiss flag, I could happily have spent more than a few hours here.

But the station was calling us and it used an unusual but effective alarm. Those aforementioned rainclouds had arrived in Zurich and were depositing their goods over the remarkably clean streets. There was no hanging about. We were back at Zurich Hauptbahnhof in very good time.

Our train and bed for the night rolled in. We boarded the Vienna sleeper carriage and made for our compartment. This was a new situation for both of us as it’s neither very common nor necessary in the UK, and the only night train I had previously been on (Paris-Toulouse), I had foolishly elected for a seat.

We were on the top bunks. Now, I’m neither tall nor very overweight but twisting myself into a comfortable position was quite the task. Once this had been achieved, a thought hit me. When I’ve been on top bunks on ferries, there’s always been a guard rail to protect you from falling off. There wasn’t one here. I’m aware that the train is a much smoother ride than a ferry, but I don’t trust myself not to roll over and fall the seven feet to the ground!

As our carriage’s conductor came for our tickets and choice of breakfast drink, I was hit by yet another thought: this wasn’t at all what I’d come to expect from the Paul Theroux books I’d read..!

But even more galling than that was the lack of view. Apparently we travelled through Liechtenstein, but without any access to a window, I was unable to see – even though it would have been night time anyway.

Despite all this, we settled down and dreamed of Vienna. Or, more specifically in my case, of wearing my Red Bull Salzburg football shirt and getting chased down the street by angry but united Rapid and Austria Vienna fans.

Day 3: Oh, Vienna

Sleep was hard to come by in our ceiling couchettes, but not as hard to come by as leg room. It was a relief when the conductor arrived to return our tickets and inform us our breakfast was imminent. So too was our arrival in Vienna.

Arriving in Westbahnhof just after 7.30am, we had one or two things to sort out. Finding the ticket office, the lady behind the counter supplied us with tickets from Salzburg to Venice (seats because the couchettes are sold out) and a return from Venice to Vienna (couchettes). The journey from Vienna to Salzburg can be decided on the day as there’s no need to reserve a seat. Thankfully, the assistant reminded us of this.

The prevalence of English-speakers across the world is something that I both appreciate and detest for the same reason: it makes it much less necessary for natural English speakers to learn a foreign language. While it can be a blessing in tricky situations, it also scuppers any reason to learn a more unusual foreign language. I’m currently trying to learn Romanian, but most Romanians in the service industry are already incredibly proficient in English. You can even go to a remote village anywhere in the world, and someone will know someone who speaks English. This has already happened unexpectedly in places like Uzbekistan, Mongolia and Hull.

But anyway, with our next few tickets sorted we bought a 48hr Vienna travelcard and went via the metro straight to St Stephanplatz, home to the hugely impressive church. Tired and with our rucksacks on our backs, we reluctantly looked at the check-in time for our hotel. Yep, it was 2pm. The time currently? 8.15am.

After sitting on a bench outside the church, watching the smartly dressed St John’s College Chapel Choir wander around and later enter the church, and then some odd behaviour from less fortunate members of society, it was still only 8.30am. A short walk around the area followed, but it was getting warmer. Eventually, 10am came and we made a bid for our Leopoldstadt hotel with the intention of asking to leave our bags. This was accomplished and suddenly we both felt more vibrant – still tired but definitely more vibrant.

A more extensive stroll into Vienna’s innere stadt saw us walk past the Palais Ferstel and through the Hofburg palace ground where we spotted the doorway of Harry Lime’s apartment (through the arch on Josefplatz) from the Orson Welles film The Third Man, followed by lunch at a cafe near Stephanplatz.

Josefplatz, the site of Harry Lime’s apartment in The Third Man

Our plan after Venice is to leave Vienna for Bratislava by boat, so we got the metro past our hotel to the bank of the Danube. Despite seeing a Slovakian boat, there was no information about booking, so we headed back to Praterstern to take our first look at the Prater wheel – a huge Ferris wheel which has become a Viennese icon. That’s when the clouds opened, revealing heavy downpours and lightning. Thankfully it was fast approaching 2pm and our hotel check-in time. Unsurprisingly we were in our room by 2.02pm where fresh clothes and body washing was the main priority after more than 24 showerless hours.

Suitably cleaned and rested we went back into town in search of food. The Leopold restaurant just north of Palais Ferstel supplied us with a tasty Weiner schnitzel and also afforded us the opportunity to earwig on a conversation between a young Australian traveller and a Swedish woman. The Australian had spent some time winding her way through Europe, visiting amongst others Scotland and Budapest. She had really enjoyed the latter, unsurprisingly as it is a delightful and varied city – truly the gem of central Europe.

But Vienna certainly isn’t without its charms. Having already spent a day here, it seems remarkably laid back. Even the signs are relaxed: the ‘house rules’ in the metro inform us that if we follow their suggestions we can ‘all just get along’. That bags to pick up dog waste are supplied on many lampposts indicates why the Austrian capital is often voted as being the best place to live in the world. While it’s not as cheap as its eastern counterparts, it’s not a rip-off either. Beers are an acceptable price for a Eurozone nation, and it is also hard to find fault with the food prices – a modestly sized schnitzel and potatoes costing €10 in a wonderful location.

After another successful search for a Third Man location (the doorway scene where Orson Welles’ character first appears – on the corner of Molker Steig and Schreyvogelgasse, very near our restaurant) a walk through town at dusk brought many photo opportunities as the ornate buildings and brutalist passages cast great shadows.

An early night was called for, with another full day of Viennese delights to look forward to. We’ve not even sampled the famous cakes yet!

Day 3: Viennese Highlife

As I recall, I finished yesterday’s blog by stating we hadn’t sampled the famous Viennese cakes. That didn’t last long. Setting off for Cafe Central, we arrived at Taborstrasse metro, where we saw a youngish lad with his skateboard and rather piercing earrings. Cafe Central, once favoured by Sigmund Freud and Leo Trotsky amongst others, occupies the front of the Palais Ferstel. With its vaulted ceilings and well-attired waiters, it was clearly both a tourist destination and a venue for Viennese high society to hang out.

Sitting in a booth near the entrance, diagonally opposite a model of the great Russian thinker, we ordered brunch items such as ham and egg and goulash soup, with a hot chocolate and a pot of coffee to drink. Our friendly waiter bought them over and we tucked in, noticing all of a sudden a familiarish face. It turns out one of the other waiters was the skater from this morning. To be fair to him, he looked the part in Cafe Central.

There was also an awkward moment when wondering about the Australian child at the next table. He was about nine and with what were either his parents or, hopefully, his grandparents. The child was restless and almost behaving like a toddler – curling up into a ball on his seat and pacing around their table. It was after a few minutes thought that it occurred to me that he may be autistic. Too often children with autism are castigated for their perceived ill behaviour when there is nothing they can do about it. The (grand)mother looked resigned to the child’s behaviour and his (grand)father looked slightly embarrassed.

But, on to the important issue at hand. The cakes! Three cabinets displayed a wide variety of delicious-looking confectionary, but we plumped for the famous sachertorte and a raspberry harmonie. The former was a chocolate sponge with a pleasant hint of apricot jam, all covered with chocolate. The harmonie had a brownie base topped with raspberry and chocolate mousse, hemmed in with thin planks of chocolate, covered with a raspberry jus and topped with a raspberry and a marshmallow. A truly delightful way to start the day, especially when the entire meal came to €30. Again, proof that Vienna doesn’t rip the tourists off.

From there, the metro took us to another iconic Viennese establishment, the Schönnbrunn palace. The former home of Hapsburg emperors, Marie Antoinette and Napoleon Bonaparte, this grand old home certainly opens eyes at first glance. There were various tours of the palace available ranging in price from €21 to €40. As we’re not the kind of people who enjoy guided tours, we opted to spend time in the vast gardens. We did miss out on the house itself, but we felt the pricing structure was a bit beyond what we were comfortable paying. We’d rather walk around by ourselves than as part of the tour so this is the downside of our choice. I’m sure if you’re one of the very many who enjoys tours then it would have been worth your while. The fact that we were able to walk around the extensive grounds, unencumbered, for free was much appreciated by us.

The Gloriette from the Schonnbrunn palace.

On passing through the house, you are first struck by the beauty of the gardens, then the incredible majesty of the structure at the top of the hill – the gloriette. Originally built in 1775, this mutant summerhouse was once used as a dining hall. As we made our way up the hill, I pondered how the waiters made their way up the same hill with the stacks of food for the royal parties. Turning away from the gloriette, you are met with a great vista of not only the palace and its ornate fountain, but of Vienna itself.

The weather had told us to prepare for rain and more thunder, but on this sun-drenched hillside there was no sign of the heat abating. As such, we made our way back down the hill via the wooded walkways to the side.

Perhaps due to the sun, or perhaps feeling cheeky at having not paid to get into the Schönnbrunn, we made an unusual decision: we would go to the zoo! We have never been to a zoo together before, and have only done so a few times in both our lifetimes, but it’s not often you walk past the world’s oldest zoo. Emperor Franz Josef’s baroque menagerie has expanded somewhat since his time and hours drifted by as we walked round various enclosures.

Now, I’m fully aware of the ethical questions raised about zoos and quite agree with the doubts cast but, as purely a tourist attraction, the €16 admission fee was money well spent. Elephants, penguins, lions, capybarra, reas, monkeys, meerkats, giraffes and rhino were all spotted. But there were some star attractions for us. It’s difficult to top the eccentric majesty of penguins for me, but the red (lesser) pandas were a wonder. Their young keeper must have one of the best jobs in Austria as she tried to feed these beautiful creatures. In the next enclosure, their more famous relatives the giant pandas relaxed with bamboo. In the excellent jungle room, exotic birds flew above our heads and giant flying foxes clung from the roof. In a darkened room bats flew past our faces, expertly using their sonar to avoid a collision – although I’m pretty sure one clipped my head.

However, the real highlight for me was seeing one of Franz Josef’s original baroque rooms being used to house sloths, who looked thoroughly uninterested by their grand residence.

With many restaurants, beer gardens and play zones for children, one could easily pass a day away at the zoo, indeed we spent a good two or three hours walking around this extensive zone.

Crossing back through town on a lengthy metro journey, I noticed that passengers acknowledge each other, even occasionally smiling. A strange trait of Viennese behaviour! Perhaps that’s what a high quality of life does to people. I’m sure it won’t catch on in London though.

Day 5: I, On a Hill

After a busy few days, a lie-in was needed. With the checkout time being noon, a lie-in was what we had. The leisurely pace continued as we made our way to Westbahnhof. Here we would reserve our Bratislava to Budapest seats, having confirmed our hotel reservation the night before.

With the interrail pass, you do not need to buy tickets for trains, only sleepers and – if you want – seat reservations. For a three hour trip on a possibly busy route, we decided this was the best course of action. And at €7 for the pair it seemed a very reasonable layout.

Our next intention was to store our rucksacks until we returned from Venice in 48hrs time. We were scuppered in this plan as the lockers are only available for 24hrs. Looking at the small print, it seems like we could have bent the rules as the only forfeit for a late return is you have to pay for the time used – something we were very prepared to do. But, being good honest citizens, we put the rucksacks back on our backs and boarded the next train to Salzburg.

I’ll let you into a secret: I’ve only ever seen snippets of The Sound of Music. I’m a 34-year-old heterosexual man who thinks the only good musicals are The Producers and Hair. Don’t judge me!

Thankfully Salzburg is a beautiful town despite its connection with the Julie Andrews film. In fact, you would have scarcely known of a link thanks to a lack of mentions plastered everywhere. I had expected everything to have been Von Trapp this… Maria that… Liesel Injections Tattoo Parlour etc… but it wasn’t. There were so few mentions I’m starting to doubt whether there is a connection or not. Must check this at some point!

One name which was big business in Salzburg was that of one Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart – he of 80s Austro-rockers Falco fame. And other things.

It turns out he was born in a house on the main street of the old town, Getreidegasse. It was hard to figure out if his birthplace was now a McDonald’s or a Claire’s Accessories. Or more likely, the Mozart’s Birthplace Cafe. Looking for somewhere to eat we avoided this place and found a lovely but bizarre pub/restaurant on an adjacent street. We both opted for the cordon bleu, which seems to be a Wiener SchnitzelPlus. It is a schnitzel but with added blue cheese and ham. Dangerously delicious, considering the kitchen seemed to be a cupboard under the stairs.

One thing that looms large over Salzburg is the Festung Hohensalzburg, the imposing fortress high on a hill. Stop singing at the back! With many hours until our night train to Venice, we thought we would have a look. Thankfully there was a furnicular railway to the fortress – sadly it was €11 each. The first sign of a tourist trap we’ve witnessed in Austria. On we walked. It was quite hard-going in sandals, but we made it. Admission to the fortress was €8 and, with even my other half saying she wasn’t that bothered about going in, we carried on along the ridge of the Monchsberg, for that is the name of the hill. A signpost directed us to a viewpoint 300m away, so we thought we’d visit that. The view of the mountains was worth the trip, but the vista wasn’t of the old town. Making our way back down a different route to the old town, we saw an elderly gentlemen using two walking poles to help his progress down this steep slope. It was clear he needed both poles as he was smoking a pipe that never left his mouth. What a man! As he departed down a different route, he bid us adieu with a toot. Sadly not from his tobacco pipe, but from his backside. And then he was gone.

Salzburg at night

It has become clear that, if you’re in a town for only a few hours, you can see most of the main sites in a much shorter space of time than you have been given. With four or five hours until we departed, we had wandered sufficiently. Wandering is something we have done a lot of already, and our feet are beginning to feel it. After an ice cream (lemon and honey melon for me) and a spot of shopping, we were ready to sit down.

Thankfully, a bar we had passed earlier in the day appeared in view. What a fortunate accident! It was located in a small courtyard that could have been the set for a play, or an Austrian ‘Allo ‘Allo. As the other day saw the 100th anniversary of Austria-Hungary declaring war on Serbia and, subsequently, staring World War One, it’s probably best not to mention any war: it certainly hadn’t been commemorated in Austria.

Anyway, passing a delightful hour in this courtyard, we noticed we were sat next to the window of a woodcarver’s shop. Many religious figurines occupied the space as well as carvings of animals and more surreal creations. But this could only occupy us so long and off we went.

As the sun was setting, it proved the perfect opportunity to take photos of the old town and the fortress from the other side of the Salzach river. But this didn’t take too long and we still had many hours to kill. Another drink at a station bar took us to 11pm – 2.5 hours before departure.

There was nothing for it, we had to break out the travel Scrabble in the waiting room. To rescue me from boredom and defeat, the game was declared a draw when the stewards came in to tell us the train had arrived.

We had reserved seats but were pleased to see they were in a compartment. Two young English girls occupied the window side of the compartment so we bedded down near the door. It wasn’t comfortable and was made less so by the arrival of two German girls at the next stop. Despite the cosy arrangements we all managed to get some sleep. Just about!

Day 6: A Day in Venice

Early on a rain-soaked morning we crossed the lagoon to Venezia Santa Lucia station. Tired, we disembarked and immediately regretted our decision to be law-abiding citizens in Vienna and not leave our rucksacks over the allotted time. Instead of a total of €8 for 48hours, we’d have to pay €14 each for 12 hours in Venice.

We had been warned of the city’s potential to be expensive and with the €18 lay out for a vaporetti ticket we’d paid an incredible €64 before leaving the station! Well €65 if you include the trip to the toilet.

Having said that, the vaporetti ticket is well worth the cost. With gondolas and water taxis costing exorbitant sums these days the vaporetti (water bus) is a fantastic way to get around this beautiful city. First stop for us was Accademia, and a photo of the Grand Canal from its bridge. From here we elected to walk to Salute, through the sheltered streets to the tip of the peninsula, where we had a beautiful view of Piazza San Marco and the Doge’s Palace. Catching the vaporetti over to these sites, we thought about who had stood in the same place as us in this famous square. For the Other Half, it was thoughts of artists, Casanova and royalty. For me, I cast my mind back to the great days of the Silk Road. Just twelve months ago, I was in Uzbekistan at the great crossroads of this once crucial trading route – now I found myself at its end.

As with Bukhara and Samarkand, the traders had now been replaced by tourists, who were enjoying the company of incredibly tame pigeons. The queue for the Doge’s Palace looked like it could have stretched the length of the Silk Road so the decision was made to get lost. I had read that great fun can be had by getting lost in Venice, and it’s true. During the day, we twice arrived in various places and gave ourselves the mission of finding the Rialto bridge. Twice we thankfully succeeded but via remarkably different routes. Along the way, dingy covered passages would open on to stunning squares; at each bridge we were treated to gorgeous views of canals, all essentially the same but all different in their own way.

The Rialto bridge itself is fascinating. Working largely like Bath’s Pulteney Bridge, it has shops over it, but such was the human traffic that you were catapulted back to the days of yore.

A canal. In Venice. Hard to say where as there are quite a few.

The tiredness was beginning to take hold, so after photos of the bridge and a wander around the adjacent market, we caught a vaporetti with the intention of taking the long way round to Murano, home of the glassmakers. After an extended wait at one stop we caught one of the water buses. This took us out of the smaller canals and into the wider waterways, where cruise ships were birthed – one in particular bringing home how big these floating hotels truly are. I’ve certainly never stayed in a hotel that big, with the possible exception of the Stratosphere in Las Vegas.

Passing the tip of Salute again, we headed for the Lido. The map seemed to suggest it would carry on round to Fondamente la Nuovo, where we could change for Murano. With the weird looks we got as all other passengers and crew disembarked, and a new crew boarded, it became apparent our luck was out. Returning the same way as we came, we opted to disembark at Piazza La Roma and get a direct boat to Murano. Neither of us is sure why we didn’t do this in the first place, but that lengthy ride certainly showed why Venice is called La Serenissima (the most serene one) as the Other Half had nodded off.

Murano was about a 20 minute ride and, as the sun had come out, the Serenissima moniker was proving more true. Even if Thomas Mann did call Venice “half fairy tale, half tourist trap”, even he can’t have left without being blown away with the fairy tale nature of this almost unique city. Arriving on the island of glass, the painted houses and smaller canals made us realise why California’s Venice Beach is so named. Murano wins out though and, with its glass sculptures dotted around the island, it was the perfect place to spend a sunny afternoon. Even if the Other Half did declare she thought she had a cold, while simultaneously saying the weather was too hot!

Travelling back to Venice proper, it was my turn to sleep and, as the vaporetti made its way to the Giardena, we decided to stop there and relax in the gardens. Even the pigeons were sunbathing – one fanning its tail as if it were a peacock. Too much time hiding from the sights seemed a waste, so we went wandering again, getting lost in the residential areas before finding our way to the Arsenale where one vessel was garnering much attention. A huge private yacht called High Powered III was being cleaned. It sparkled in the sun and offered us some more shade.

But again we went wandering, eventually finding ourselves back at the Rialto. This vaporetti ride would be our final one. Back to the station we sailed and, with more hours to kill, went in search of sustenance. This was found at a basic but serviceable eatery called Brek. Here, a chunky slice of lasagne and a Bitburger beer set me back €9. But more importantly, the restaurant supplied free WiFi and access to their toilets.

This last matter has been the biggest surprise of the trip. In England, only the most stuffy of establishments and most major railway stations charge for access to their facilities. In mainland western Europe, it seems everywhere does. Even the ones that don’t charge force you to purchase something before handing you a code. It first happened in a McDonald’s on Paris’ left bank, with the McDonald’s in Zurich not even having free WiFi. This caused great surprise as free WiFi and toilets are the top (only?) two reasons to venture into one of these – certainly abroad. But we’ll be heading into eastern Europe tomorrow, so this problem should be consigned to the past.

Back at the station, after another lovely Bitburger, we found our carriage and noticed that once again we’d have company. This time it was part of a family: father, son and either daughter, granddaughter or niece. We couldn’t decide. What else we couldn’t decide is where they were from. Father and the girl lived in LA, but Son lived in Austria where, we gathered, Father used to live. But there was an accent and, without wishing to seem narrow-minded, features that suggested Austria wasn’t their original home. Now, I should be careful here as I’m perilously close to throwing stones in my own greenhouse, for Father asked the Other Half where she was from, expecting – as many before him – an answer more exotic than Newcastle. She then explained that her family were from Hong Kong, but no further details were forthcoming in the other direction. Neither was there a reaction when we told him we were going to Turkey. If I was asked to guess, I’d say either Bosnia or maybe Iran.

Minor details put to one side, we found them to be good company. It was obvious that Father enjoyed his new life in the US, frequently asking us questions to compare his new country with ours.

Inevitably, he found the British weather most hilarious.

Day 7: Breclav Was a Gaffe

So, the original plan was to arrive in Vienna, cross town on the metro and get the boat down the Danube to Bratislava, where we would wander round, have some lunch and board the Budapest train in the late afternoon. During our first trip to Vienna, that plan had already gone by the wayside with us being unable to book the boat.

With our cabin partners awake rather early, the Portuguese attendant was bearing the brunt of their enthusiasm. She took it in good spirits though and made sure we were the first to be served breakfast. That may have been helped by the fact we were the only ones awake – Father helping the attendant by knocking on the doors of those sleeping in. While I was doing my morning ablutions, the Other Half deduced the relationship. It turns out it was father, daughter and uncle.

Eventually arriving at Westbahnhof, we bid the trio farewell and set off for Simmering, the end of the metro line that also serves as a mainline hub. As we weren’t sure how long it would take to get there, we had two plans. If we arrived quickly, we would add a bonus country to our trip and get the Prague-bound train to the Czech border town of Breclav. If, however, that was cutting it fine, we’d linger at Simmering for an hour or so and get the direct Bratislava train. The idea behind a visit to Breclav being that we may as well spend an hour sat on a train than one sat on a platform. Both routes would get us to Bratislava by about noon – affording us nearly four hours to explore the Slovakian capital’s old town.

We arrived at Simmering early, so hopped on the Graz-Prague train, found an empty compartment and called it home for the next hour until Breclav appeared. As unlikely as it may seem, I had been here before when myself and a friend drove to Budapest and back for a festival. The only incident of note on that visit was narrowly avoiding a nasty crash as a vehicle nearly broadsided us after appearing from a side street at great speed.

Hopefully this time Breclav would be better. It started off mixed and went downhill rapidly. A wander through the town centre brought few surprises: if there was a beautiful old town it was well hidden. This frustrated me a little as, just a few miles down the road, is Lednice-Valtice – a stunning Unesco site made up of a collection of chateaux, follies and ornate lakes laid out in thousands of acres of lush wine-growing countryside. Indeed, Valtice town itself is gorgeous without taking into account its surroundings. As with many Czech towns, the centre is picture-book perfect with its buildings, fountains and squares dating from the middle ages.

That Breclav didn’t fit this description can’t be helped. It did have a wide ranging free WiFi network and a peaceful park in which to pass the hour before our Bratislava train departed. With ten minutes to spare we made it back to the station and were reminded of this small town’s importance as a railway junction. Trains to and from Vienna, Prague, Hamburg, Budapest and Warsaw were all expected soon – although some were delayed. Ours was one of them, but only by five minutes. At that point…

Breclav: My reaction to finding out the train was delayed

Frequent checks brought frequent bad news. Twenty minutes late, oh 40 now. Wait it says an hour now, oh and more bad news. As the train was only coming from Prague we began to wonder if it had actually set off when the 90 minute delay was announced

It eventually arrived an hour and a half late due to a broken down engine. Another unavoidable occurrence, but one that certainly made us regret our decision to visit the Czech Republic on this occasion.

Arriving in Bratislava, we now only had two hours in which to sample what was on offer. Dumping our rucksacks at left luggage, we went a-wandering.

A number of Hull City shirts were seen, causing a momentary confusion until I realised that the Tigers were playing in Slovakia that night. We saw the last of them make their way to the station just before we found the presidential gardens. This open space looked like it had been designed by Monty Python, with statues seemingly honouring Michael Jackson’s gloved hand and the Ministry of Silly Walks. Around the front of the building, uniformed and armed men kept guard.

Bratislava and I have a history. On the same day I first visited Breclav, we drove through the Slovakian capital hoping to avoid paying the €10 tariff to use their motorways. We were searching for the road that ran adjacent to the motorway but, due to a lack of signs and a proliferation of roadworks, we found ourselves driving round in circles for a good hour at least.

The curse threatened to strike again as we temporarily proved unable to find the old town. A quick check of the map revealed that, somehow, we were heading in the wrong direction, despite having followed a straight road and having confidence in my map-reading skills.

But, not to worry, a 360 degree about-turn brought us to the old town. Due to its lack of an easy-to-reach international airport (most air travel is routed through Vienna), I hadn’t heard too many reports from visitors. Most descriptions of it had come from people who had seen the film Hostel, which is set in the city.

Thankfully, there was no eye-gouging and no horrific events. The old town is beautiful, with Michalska a particular delight. This street just off the main square is lined with restaurants and we rested at one serving traditional Slovakian cuisine. Opting for the veal stew with gnocchi and a cold Zlaty Bazant beer, I wasn’t expecting the huge plateful that arrived. Tasty and filling and, after the relative expense of other Eurozone countries, it was also the cheapest meal I’d had, costing about €8 for everything.

Good work Bratislava, the curse is lifting. It disappeared altogether when I found I could buy Mirinda at the station. It’s just orangeade, but there’s something extra refreshing about it. Perhaps it’s psychological as I associate it with countries in this part of the world.

With the train departing on time, I felt this visit to Bratislava had turned round my unreasonable opinion based on my first visit.

The train, as expected, was packed. After regrettably removing two Italian girls from our seats, we found ourselves in a compartment with a Frenchman, his English wife and their Yorkshire granddaughter, and an American who had moved to Mallorca in 1982. He remarked that he only spent about five months – from Christmas onwards – on the Spanish island. The rest of the time, he spent travelling. Having previously spent good chunks of time in Ecuador and South Africa, he wasn’t sure where he was heading this time. I deduced that he must be a freelance photographer, but the quiet traveller wasn’t one of those people who feel like their lives are more interesting than yours – even though it sounded as if it was.

The other passengers were pleasant company too, excited about their first visit to Hungary. Their guidebook had told them that palinka and Unicum are pleasant traditional Hungarian beverages. They’re definitely traditional, but pleasant may be stretching it! Unicum is the Hungarian version of that great central European mystery, the herbal liqueur. Germany has its Jagermeister, the Czechs have Becherovka and the Hungarians have Unicum. Even without its unpleasant name, it can only at best be described as ‘interesting’. Palinka on the other hand is fire water. It is often justified by being made from various appetising fruits, but usually still just tastes like swallowing a dripping, flaming sword. Please do try them if you get the chance though!

The Danube came into view and looked its most majestic so far. Sweeping hillsides, often laden with vines, melted before the shores of Europe’s most treasured river. The temple at Esztergom on the facing bank shone in the early evening sun, the imposing Crusade-like castle at Visegrad caused the whole compartment to stop in reverence, and once again the excitement of arriving in Budapest mounted.

They say New York is the greatest city in the world, but the Big Apple cannot have that title. The crime and unfriendliness of some quarters lose it its claim. London? No chance! Paris? Too expensive and crowded. For me, it’s Budapest. It has everything. Tourist attractions, thriving nightlife, the weather, it’s cheap and not too big.

The first night there, I reacquainted myself with its nightlife. Holing up in a luxurious hotel in Erszebetvaros, I visited a growing number of ruin pubs. These are unique to Budapest and have breathed new life into what was a grotty part of the city centre. Based in what should be condemned buildings, the ruin bar is usually filled with clutter put together in a way that looks arty. They are party zones and art spaces, and the oxygen which brought about the regeneration of this quarter.

Szimpla Kert is the original and most popular, but even since my last visit in March, countless more have sprung up. Of course, some only open in summer, so there is a chance that most were just closed. That said, with the increasing influx of the dreaded British “Lads on Tour”, there is certainly the market for more.

An open-air bar on Dob Utca

Feeling ill at ease with the crowds of these lads (not all British, it must be said), I went off in search of a quieter spot and found myself once again in Fuvesz Bar. This was next to the hotel in which I stayed during my last trip. For some reason, it is always empty and at 330HUF (80p) for a large beer it can’t be the prices. With cheap drinks, free WiFi and quietness, I spent a relaxing hour here, before once again succumbing to the draw of the ruin bar – mainly for the open air nature of them.

It was a beautiful evening and I wished it could have gone on for longer, but it was I and not the city that was in need of sleep.

Day 8: Budapest

Following on from yesterday’s unequivocal praise of Budapest, it seems only fair to point out a few flaws.

Number one is “buying tickets”. I’m sure it’s easy in theory, but every time I’ve been there’s always been some sort of kerfuffle about getting public transport tickets. The first time, we arrived on Sunday and the shops weren’t open, plus the metro stations we found didn’t have machines or kiosks. The next time we needed tickets we had great trouble explaining what a 72hr travel card was.

This time, it was equally avoidable and baffling. At the bank machine, I made the error of selecting to withdraw 20000HUF (approx £50). This came out in one note. Never mind, I thought, I will use it to buy our two passes. Making the decision to queue up at a kiosk rather than chance a machine seemed logical. It took much longer to get served than the short queue warranted, but the main thing was we were being served. Now, travel passes come in a variety of lengths: 24hr, 72hr or seven day. Ideally we would have liked 48hrs but we selected the 24hr ones – the benefit being that they are valid for a whole 24hrs, not just a day. As it had passed noon already, this seemed the sensible option. Handing over a 20000 note for about 7000 didn’t seem much of an issue as the woman at the next kiosk had done just that. “Ah,” the guy serving us said. “I don’t have change as I’ve only just come on. Go to the next window”. We did and eventually got our passes.

Putting them to use for the first time, we returned to Keleti station to reserve couchettes for the Brasov train. Some years ago, a few friends of mine had tried to do the same thing. While at the ticket window, the woman serving them got flustered and told them to stand aside. They presumed she would come back to them in a minute. No such luck. They never did get to go to Brasov.

Having spotted the international ticket office on our arrival the night before we headed straight there, as fast as our hurting feet would carry us. It was heaving. Quite by luck we were pointed to a strange looking contraption in the corner where we were to pick up a ticket and wait to be served. The numbers coming up at the kiosk displays were random: 706, 645, 698, 723. We had 784. At this point, a man in a hi-vis jacket came in, looked at a few people’s tickets and ushered them away from the room. He repeated this soon after and our queue looked more than manageable. Things were looking up, but then he returned and asked for our ticket. We had been selected to go to this mysterious other place, along with an American lady and a girl who was having trouble walking on her injured ankle. Slowly making our way through the crowds on the platforms, the man would stand and chat to passers-by (surely doing his job, but it added to our sense of doom). Eventually he told us to get into a queue marked ‘internal tickets’. This didn’t fill us with confidence, especially as this queue seemed as big as the one we’d just left. Using sign language he explained that here it would take us 30mins to get served, as opposed to one hour where we had left. Fair enough, we just hoped he was right. And that we could book international tickets.

Now here’s where my two pet Pest hates merge. Behind us were two English girls, one quiet, one not. For the whole 30mins before we got served, we were subjected to her inane chatter about her time in Budapest, and what idiots her friends at home were. Her croaky voice and (don’t hate me for this) posh southern accent were welded together using a vocabulary that only seemed to consist of “sooo”, “like”, “really” and a noise best described as “urrrrrr”. More often than not used together as an entire sentence. She’d, like, really seen this, like, sooo urrrrrr fit guy who, like, sooo random, had got, like, really, like, sooo, urrrrrrr drunk with her, but her, like, friend at home was, like, sooo really “stu-pud” that, urrrrrr, like, she was really dumb or whatever. For thirty long, long minutes she whittered on in this way. It was like having Made in Chelsea on the TV and not being able to turn it off.

Any longer and a Hungarian prison was looking appealing. Thankfully though, the kiosk guy became free and we asked to reserve two couchettes on the 19:40 train to Brasov. With only mild befuddlement at how to work the tray between us, we had our reservations. One minor problem, the train was the 16:40 one. Was this right? “Is direct,” he told us, before mumbling something in Hungarian. He’d had a hard day!

So there we have it, my two pet hates: buying tickets in Budapest and annoying English people abroad.

But it’s impossible to stay angry (or mildly miffed) at Budapest for long. Like a cheeky scamp of a nephew or a football team’s bad first half, it doesn’t take much until you’re back on side. In my case, a ride on the long-awaited new M4 metro line to the market solved our differences. With the exception of Leicester’s, I never welcome a trip to the market at home, but in France and certainly in Budapest, it’s a joy. Packs of saffron for a fraction of the price at home, floods of paprika, enough sausage to keep [insert your own joke here] happy and a food court upstairs that serves beer!

Making our way through the ground floor, we heard a “ciao” from one side and were greeted by the sight of a stall holder waving around a sheep’s head on a stick. As you do. Once upstairs, we selected langos as our lunch of choice. It’s a Hungarian classic and is so simple. It’s like a flat doughnut – with a lighter texture than looks possible – topped with whatever you fancy. Staying traditional, we both went for sour cream and cheese. Somehow, this little circle of fried joy filled us both to the brim. Even in the market it was hot, so I went for a drink. Handing over 1000 for a 500 bottle, I got 500 in change. It was when I returned to our seat that I realised I had mistakenly given the woman 10000 (£25). In a panic I returned to her stall and told her what I’d done. “I know,” was her reply and then instantly gave me back the correct change. Crisis averted – although it didn’t look as if she was going to chase after me at any point.

Next on the itinerary was a walk over the river. This is where Budapest really comes to life for a tourist. With the chain bridge and Buda hill topping off a view of the sparkling Danube, you cannot help but raise a smile.

The thermometer at the Gellert spa told us the temperature was 32 degrees – seemingly too hot for the Other Half who was visibly wilting. A tram ride along the river bank offers more great views and, just as the mind-blowing Parliament building came into view, we hopped off the tram and into Adam Clark Square, named after the Scottish engineer who helped create the neighbouring chain bridge and tunnel. But it was neither of these we wanted.

We were heading to the furnicular railway and up to the Buda castle area. Even up here, the heat was relentless and, passing the president’s office, the fully uniformed guards were visibly sweating. Making our way towards the Fisherman’s Bastion for the ultimate views of Budapest, we were stunned by how many coach tours there were. They were everywhere and gargantuan, every member displaying an earpiece into which the guide would cast dispassionate words often going unheard by the tourist who looked around with disinterest. It honestly baffles me why people pay excessive amounts of money to follow people around, rather than exploring on your own. But if that’s the road for you, fair enough, at least you’re travelling and not sat at home complaining of having nothing to do!

There was work being done around Fisherman’s Bastion, but its striking white turrets still looked delightful. Wandering in and out of them also brought some respite from the sweltering heat. Our original plan had been to visit more of the city centre, but the weather brought about a change: we’d go back to our hotel, pick up our swimming gear and go to Szechenyi baths, the open-air baroque spa at the north end of Andrassy.

Talking a walk through the other side of Erszebetvaros, we arrived at Ferenc Liszt Square, home to countless restaurants – once of bargain price, but now a little more towards the exclusive. From there we caught the M1 at Oktogon. Being one of the oldest underground lines in the world, the wooden panels and pristine tiles make this a tourist attraction in itself.

The wonderful Szechenyi baths

The Szechenyi baths though, they should come free on the NHS. Three open-air pools (and many as-yet-unexplored indoor ones, plus countless spa treatments) await you. Each outdoor pool has its own speciality. The middle one is cold and for serious swimmers. On the right as we viewed it was the heated, thermal one. This is where you can see old men playing chess. To the left is the fun pool, as it switches between jets blasting bubbles to the surface, a Jacuzzi and – the piece de resistance – a whirlpool. I’ve seen grown men have to come out of there as they’re giggling too much. Of course, the downside is you always get some who act the fool and cause trouble for those enjoying its natural speed. Typically, this time it was English “lads on tour”, triple piggy-backs, diving in from the sides and causing pile-ups. Still, it’s great fun and worked wonders on our aching feet.

More of these English lads were spoiling matters at Szimpla Kert later that evening. It’s a huge, cavernous ruin bar with loads of different rooms in which to enjoy yourselves. We had gone upstairs and sat with other party people when we decided to try another venue. In the reasonably wide entrance, a group of English lads were gathered round in a circle, dancing and generally causing strife when there was no need. I realise I sound like a prudish person of a different nationality, but even as a drink-loving Englishman myself, I could seen their lack of respect for Hungary and others around them. When myself and a large group of friends came drinking to Budapest in March, we located ourselves in one of the upstairs room and had fun, safe in the knowledge that we weren’t getting in people’s way.

Thankfully though, on this occasion we found a few other places that didn’t have this atmosphere. It took a while though. Walking around the southern part of the district we saw rowdy (and unthreatening) gangs in the streets right next door to Jewish restaurants. It was as if someone had moved Magaluf to Jerusalem!

Our first haven was Alcatraz, very close to our hotel. Just a strip of land with a bar and tables hidden amongst trees, this proved a great find as the Balkan Grill van served up some stunning and cheap fare. We went for what was described as a veal burger. The proprietor gave us a little toot on his pink plastic trumpet (not a euphemism) when our food was ready. The bread seemed freshly made, whether it was or not is moot. The meat wasn’t in burger form but was a concoction of meat sticks arriving with a delicious salad. Considering it wasn’t what we expected nor wanted, we were very impressed.

Next up on our night out was the nearby Kavello Kert. This was a section of car park that had been turned into a craft beer pub, which also sold tasty looking burgers. Six previously unheard of Hungarian lagers were on tap: I selected Millet, while the other half went for an alcohol free acacia syrup. Both were appreciated, especially in the company of 90s “classics” like Scatman John. It’s what Friday nights are all about.

And, of course, it proves that if something in Budapest annoys you, there’ll be countless other things that delight.

Day 9: The Corona’s Rhythm of the Night

Today could be summed up simply as: get up, eat, catch train, sleep. But where’s the interest in that?

Waking up reasonably late, we had to finish drying the clothes we had washed on our arrival in Budapest. As we were in a bit of a rush, an ironing board and iron were procured from housekeeping to hasten along the drying process.

With that done and our bags stored at reception, we wandered down Andrassy. Gucci and other high-end stores line this grand avenue but even these can’t compete with the grandeur of its opera house – another must-see. Having never been in, I’m assured that the inside doesn’t disappoint and the photographs I’ve seen corroborate this.

Ferenc Deak Square, home of the city centre’s main transport hub looked resplendent in the bright sunshine, with water features, seating areas and the Sziget wheel. This ferris is said to be the largest in Europe and helps promote Hungary and indeed mainland Europe’s best music festival. Sziget, meaning ‘island’ in Hungarian, is a week-long festival on the city’s northern Obudai island. It may be more diverse than the other European heavyweight Glastonbury, as big-name acts (Blur, Stone Roses, Queens of the Stone Age, Prodigy etc) line-up with rock, dance, techno and various European and eastern European bands (Ska-P, Rotfront, Goran Bregovic and many gypsy/Roma acts). For a festival the prices are reasonable and, unlike Glastonbury, it almost guarantees stunning weather, happening as it does in early-mid August. Another boon is you can either camp on site or stay in a hotel in Budapest. It’s thoroughly recommended.

But we were too early for this year’s event, so we had to content ourselves with a walk down Vaci Ut, the city centre’s main street. Once the main shopping street (and housing the ubiquitous-in-Europe-but-not-in-UK C&A), this seems to be catering more for tourists, with the Hard Rock Cafe and an ice bar now among its residents.

Hunger and the heat were beginning to take their toll, so we strolled up Kiraly Ut and into Trofea, an all-you-can-eat-and-drink buffet. As it was Saturday afternoon, the price of £15 each was higher than the usual £10 for a lunchtime, but we got our fill. That we didn’t eat for another 27 hours is testament to that. There’s a wide range of good quality starters, mains and desserts, plus as much beer, wine or soft drinks as you want. I’ve been twice now and am convinced something happens to you as soon as you walk through the door which decreases the desire to drink alcohol. Last time, eleven of us walked in and the manager tried to force alcohol on us: two shared a bottle of Hungarian champagne, one had a beer, and the rest of us opted for orange juice and water. This time I was determined to have beer – and I did…one. After that I was on water and Sprite. For shame! But with a 15-hour train ride ahead of us, food was the main reason we went.

Walking to the station with rucksacks on our backs and in 32 degree heat wore us down, but we were there in good time. As was our train to Brasov, the Corona, and we were soon sat in our compartment sweating our faces off. The heat was relentless and the stationary train offered no breeze. It was also 50 minutes late setting off. It’s reassuring to know it’s not just British trains that are delayed. By the time we did depart, a young Hungarian couple had joined us. Their knowledge of English was only marginally better than our grasp of their language, so conversation wasn’t free-flowing, relying instead on smiles and sign language. The latter proving comical but necessary when we had to explain to the recently sleeping couple that we had to get the middle bunks ready for us to sleep on.

A sunset on the Hungarian steppe

While they got themselves and their bunks prepared, we looked out of the corridor window at the passing scenery. The Hungarian plains are, needless to say, flat, but they offered great views of the sunset and wildlife: egrets/storks, birds of prey and deer were all spotted before we bedded down for a fitful night’s sleep.

At the Romanian border, we had to show our passports for the first time since St Pancras. In the bunks below, there was an almighty scramble as the Hungarian man searched frantically for his ID. After ten increasingly frantic minutes he checked his short pockets and breathed a sigh of relief. It turns out, we think, that he’d grabbed it at home last minute and dashed to the station.

Then came the Romanian railways. Having driven through this country last year, I was well aware that it impossible to go anywhere fast – unless you’re a taxi driver. The Corona seemed to slow down to half speed, probably because the train would shake itself off the rails if it went much faster. Even at this speed it gave the impression you were slowly falling down a cobbled hill.

And that’s what I dreamed all night: being in the Bronte town of Haworth and constantly rolling down the main street, while early 90s dance hit Rhythm of the Night by Corona played over and over again.

Day 10: Vampire Country

With the previous night’s music in my head and the forthcoming trip into vampire country, I awoke bleary-eyed, saying to myself: “Listen to the Rhythm of the Night, what music it makes”.

Overnight, the train had slowly wound its way deep into Transylvania and the Carpathian mountains gave us a stunning sunrise. The rest of the way to Brasov we wound through a mix of beautiful mountain scenery and open plains. More storks and possibly a fox (although more than likely a stray dog) were seen from the Corona. Small communes and larger towns came and went, with departing passengers being welcomed by loved ones. Due to the history of Transylvania, the stations gave their names in Romanian and Hungarian. Before the World Wars, Transylvania was part of the Austro-Hungarian empire and still has large Hungarian and German-speaking populations.

Brasov arrived and we left our bags with the hotel receptionist who tried her best not to look stunned at how early we had arrived. Then came the matter of finding the bus station (Autogara 2) from where we would reach Bran. It was a forty minute walk up a busless street, emptying us of confidence the further we walked. But there it was and we arrived at 10.10am to find that the buses left on the hour every hour. Ugh.

After much waiting and confusion over how to buy the tickets – you purchase them on the bus from the driver for 7lei each (£1.25) – we were on our way to “Dracula’s” castle. On the way we passed through Rasnov with its stunning mountain-top castle which looked like something out of the Crusades. A few tourists departed here, and with good reason. But we continued to the picturesque but heaving village of Bran.

After joining the hefty queue we were let into the castle (25lei, £5 each). Despite the marketing, it really has nothing to do with Bram Stoker’s Dracula. It was, however, home to various members of the Romanian royal family and is a beautiful fairy tale castle in its own right. Vlad Tepes (the Impaler), on whom people suspect Stoker based his character, also reportedly stayed here.

Picturesque Bran castle – lovely but nothing to do with Dracula

There was also a medieval fair happening across the road with jousting, music and much meat and beer, and the costumed performers graced Bran castle with their presence, providing a very welcome attraction.

In summary, Bran castle is thoroughly worth the trip as you get to wander round large portions of this delightful and bona fide historical property – just don’t think it has anything to do with Bram Stoker’s novel, it’s not even in the right area of Romania! The Borgo pass where Harker meets the Count’s horseman is a good few hundred miles to the north. There are of course many stalls from which to buy Dracula and Transylvania memorabilia.

Over the course of the day, whether from the train or selling fruit in Bran, we saw many Roma people. Travelling from India sometime in the middle ages, these stateless people are now castigated wherever they settle, even/especially in Romania. Though we saw no sign of it, apart from them being ignored, they are considered a nuisance. Once though, they were a welcome part of the Ottoman empire, being roundly acclaimed for their considerable musical gift. Even today, artists such as Esma Redzepova, Johny Iliev and countless others have been fortunate enough to find fame and wealth through this medium. Redzepova also helps other less fortunate Roma by adopting children and educating them. There are consequently hundreds of her “children” who are now leading better lives thanks to her and her husband. But she can’t help them all, and neither can I. If I give money to one, not giving money or food to another breaks my heart, as does not giving money to any of them.

Being in Romania, another thought occurred to me. After the fall of communism, when the awful orphan situation was revealed, it became de rigueur amongst middle class English people to either sponsor or adopt a Romanian child. Nowadays, most middle class (and other classes) would do as much as they could to avoid living anywhere near either a Romanian or a Roma. Both are unfairly castigated by the English (and French), but the Romanians still feel superior to the Roma who, like Ronnie Corbett in that famous That Was The Week That Was sketch about class, is deemed to be the lowest of the low.

Being forced to live outside society for so many years, the Roma have adapted to a way of survival that seems very alien to other people. When out of necessity they have to mix with others, their ways are mocked and seen as backwards. But it is us who have exacerbated this issue.

Back in Brasov, we couldn’t face that forty minute walk again and fortunately found a bus that would take us to the bottom of the long street. This would do. Boarding the bus, we asked the driver for two tickets to our stop. He looked puzzled, asked if we had tickets – to which we replied no – and signalled for us to just sit down. A free ride!

Showered and changed, we walked towards Brasov’s old town where throngs of people were heading down one street. Following them, we came across a pedestrian zone lined with restaurants and, in the main square at the top, a stage in front of the historic Black Church. Settling down at one of the street’s many restaurants, we had three drinks and large portions of food (pork, plus Europe’s answer to Middlesbrough’s parmesan – the chicken schnitzel) for £10.

After paying up, we strolled up towards the stage where we were amazed to find throbbing Romanian dubstep being performed as part of a festival sponsored by Bergenbier. It was a lively affair and added to the overriding feeling that Brasov was a surprisingly good place to spend an evening. Sadly though, we had an early start in the morning.

Day 11: Riding the Rails with the Roma

Relying on Romanian buses isn’t how you’d want to start your morning, but despite being late it got us to the station just in time for our early morning trip to Sighisoara. The platform attendant looked puzzled when we presented our Interrail passes and became confused so just kept saying “Sighisoara” to us over and over. We took this as an indication to board.

As previously mentioned, you get nowhere fast in Romania, but today’s travel was slower than wasps. Genuinely. Some actually overtook us. The scenery was a good distraction, but with the train constantly feeling like it was slowing down for an approaching station, the anticipation was crippling. It seems they are modernising the line between Alba Iulia and Brasov so speed limits are in place. I’m not convinced the trains would go much faster anyway.

Sighisoara’s old town is small but delightful. Reaching it via steps up a steep escarpment, you are greeted by a well preserved medieval town, and the birthplace of Vlad III Dracul (later known as Vlad Tepes) which, like Mozart’s first home, is now an eatery.

The birthplace of Vlad Tepes, Sighisoara

We combined strolling round this hilltop town with looking for a suitable place for lunch. We had pretty much dismissed Dracula’s birthplace as we’d read it was a tourist trap and the food wasn’t great. However, Sighisoara’s selection of restaurants wasn’t great either and, after much deliberation, we settled on Casa Wagner on the main square. A further ten minutes of deciding what to have was finished when a waiter approached and, saying he saw us looking at the food menu, informed us the kitchen wasn’t open as it was being cleaned after a busy weekend. Slightly disappointed but not deterred we settled for the Hotel Burg just down the road.

Goulash and paprika chicken were ordered with a beer and iced green tea. The drinks came, but no sign of the food. We weren’t in any rush so didn’t have a problem with this. About 30 minutes later our food arrived. It was fine, nothing more. Some bits had clearly been reheated as there was residual water in both dishes, but it served our purpose perfectly. We paid the 40 lei (£7.30) and left. As if we could complain about anything for that price!

Back at the station, an old man poked me. Through basic sign language it became clear he wanted me to look after his bags of bread while he went outside. I did the international sign for “looking”: two fingers to the eyes and then move them to the items in question. On his return, he nodded his thanks. This all happened again a few minutes later, before our train arrived.

What to say about the train ride? Well, it was the weirdest I’ve been on so far. It started immediately after the train had concluded its previous trip from Sibiu, arriving with the doors open and people sitting on the steps. We got on half expecting someone to clean the strewn bits of bread and empty food cans. Not so. Ah well, that’s not too unusual. Then, at the next stop – one of the countless halts the train stopped at – a Roma woman boarded with a few bags. About seven or eight huge ones. Oh, and two large grass strimmers strapped together. She bundled all her bags around the four-person table adjacent to us, with the strimmers being placed near the train doors, which had been open all the way, and would remain so. Her husband had helped her carry the items on, but he went back to the horse and cart parked at the station entrance. The next stop saw another Roma woman with bleached blonde hair sit a few seats down from me and stare at me with a manic grin until she got off at Medias. Then things settled down. The train was going as slow as ever, a few more Roma appeared and disappeared at halts that just looked like someone’s house. One of the stops was being updated so the passengers had to cross the actual tracks and climb up into the train – they came from both directions.

Then, at Baile Ocna Sibiu we were greeted by a heaving platform. From our carriage being half empty, including the table of bags, it went to standing room only as mainly older Roma and Romanians returned from a day out at the lake. While checking the new lot of tickets, the conductor was visibly sweating. It could have been the heat or perhaps he was feeling the pressure of being handed a bribe instead of the passenger paying for a ticket: an old guy opposite us slipped the conductor a few lei and no ticket was forthcoming, others paid for a ticket and got one.

With all the spare seats taken up with either passengers or bags, the old Roma woman came under pressure to free-up the last remaining seats. She nimbly carried the bags to the doorway – still open – and shoved the lengthy grass strimmers into the toilet…

Alighting in Sibiu, I tried to check to see if she had got all her stuff off, and who was waiting for her, but the view was blocked by the hordes. I did manage to see the most pleasing bit of graffiti yet as someone had daubed “pis of shet” on the underpass.

Our hotel was straight through Sibiu’s old town but we didn’t have time to soak up the view as the heat and our rucksacks were giving us the soaking.

We did of course venture out later, again combining sightseeing with a hunt for food. After walking from the main square all round the medieval centre, we passed the Liar’s Bridge and found ourselves once again in the main square. It’s puzzling how many restaurants in Romania serve just pizza and pasta. I know it’s an easy thing to do – and who doesn’t like one of them – but it is not different. I wanted to try more of the local fare and I can get pasta anywhere. Thankfully Casa Weidner on the edge of the main square does a fantastic line in traditional food. Even if it isn’t authentic – as an outsider I’m in no position to judge – it was different and delicious.

Ordering “Shepherd’s Bag” and a chicken and pork pie, we were very pleased with what turned up. The Shepherd’s Bag looked like a calzone or Cornish pasty in the shape of a bomb, with cheese acting as the fuse. The pie crust was what I believe is termed “rustic” and both parcels contained more than enough meat and vegetables. For these two meals and two drinks – a beer and a radler (a type of shandy), in a prime position in Romania’s culture capital, we paid just over 60lei (£12.50). Incredibly good value!

Sitting on slow moving trains had proved surprisingly tiring so there were no after dinner drinks, just a walk back to the hotel. Besides, we have another six hours on Romania’s regional trains tomorrow.

Day 12: Wild Mountain Time

I have a fear of Romanian taxi drivers, or should I say a dread of coming into contact with them. On my previous two visits to this country, I have either been ripped off or been involved in a collision with them.

So it was with a heavy heart we left our luxurious hotel and found a taxi. The 20 minute walk from the station last night wasn’t high on our list of things to try again either. Asking “how much to station?” the taxi driver enquired whether we meant train or airport. We told him we meant the train station and, instead of giving us a price, opened the boot. It was about to happen again wasn’t it?

The answer was a surprising “no” as he drove us swiftly and safely to Sibiu Gara for just over 7lei.

Boarding the smart-looking Brasov train, we were ready for a rest day – as restful as getting two trains in Romania can be. The Fagarasan range of the Carpathians framed our right-hand side as we made decent progress eastwards. Until the small station of Podul Olt, where the conductor fled the train, while the driver and his mate also left. The last two returned and we set off briefly, pulling into what appeared to be a siding for five minutes. Another line forked to the right, but we remained stationary. In this time, the driver and his mate had run to the back of the train as we were clearly setting off in that direction.

Eventually another train came down the other line and we slowly followed after it, coming to a bump when we connected. The conductor reappeared with a bottle of water and a large bottle of beer. I shall give him the benefit of the doubt and presume he had filled it with water. At various other stops, the driver would rush on and off the train. He seemed a jittery fellow.

The scenery remained much the same, flanked by the imposing Fagarasan range. Just over a year before, I had driven across these mountains via the infamous Transfagarasan road. The “Top Gear road” was Ceausescu’s great tarmac folly. While his people were starving, he decided to build an unnecessary but eye-catching road across the mountains.

Along our current route, myriad yellow flowers lined the route. Looking like tall, one-colour daisies, they gave a blast of colour virtually all the way to Brasov. As far as wildlife was concerned, storks provided the main attraction, with the occasional large bird of prey thrown in. I’m loathe to say what the birds of prey were as they were either buzzards or hopefully some sort of eagle.

At Brasov we lost the woman whose Sex and the City ringtone had gone off more than 20 times on the journey. I wasn’t sad about this farewell as my iPod isn’t being charged by Romanian sockets, thus I had nothing to block out the US drama’s theme. I’ve never been fond of the show, and I positively hate it after that!

A quick visit to the main station building revealed our Bucharest train was leaving from platform 3 in ten minutes. Twenty minutes later it actually departed from platform 4, with us fortunate to be aboard. It was a double-decker train which we don’t have in the UK, so had proved yet another novelty for us – we’re hoping we get to ride on another compartment train soon. There was nothing in the overhead luggage compartments and we soon figured why: neither our rucksacks nor other passengers’ small suitcases would fit. In fact, a laptop bag took up half the space.

View from the train outside Predeal

The scenery, once again, was stunning. But this time more so, as we wound our way through the alpine-like settlements of Predeal and Sinaia (but with no sighting of Peles castle). This was what I had expected to see on the way to Zurich: mist-shrouded mountains, alpine lodges and fast-flowing rivers fed by torrents. The wet ground was an indicator of why the streams flowing down the mountains had become torrents, it had clearly rained profusely recently and was continuing now but with less vigour. A bulldozer was doing its best to stem the flow of a burst brook, with little success as the excess water travelled on ferociously for a few hundred yards along what was once a track.

And then, the mountains were gone, as too was the rain. The Wallachian plain, fields of sunflowers and bright sunlight replaced it. As did the piercing cry of a child who had been told not to make so much noise. I’m not sure what was worse but I’m definitely cursing the lack of the iPod.

For some reason I thought the train reached Bucharest just after 5pm, but we were still in Ploesti at that time. There are few things worse than having more than an hour added on to a journey unexpectedly and suddenly things seemed to be intent on winding me up. First a baby started crying at the same time as three people were loudly using their mobile phones. I also became further aware that Romanian trains stop anywhere someone wishes. The sun was also blasting through the window. If you’ve seen French film Delicatessen, you may recall a scene where several distractions mount with rhythmic timing. This felt similar.

Every journey does end though and despite Bucharest’s suburbs stretching out for miles, and the train slowing down at a teasing rate, we did reach the terminus. In the build up to this, we were treated to the sight of passengers jumping off the slow moving train and crossing the tracks to a more suitable location for them.

On alighting we headed straight for the ticket booth to book our passage to Sofia. We have one top and one bottom bunk on a train that sounds like it’s coming from Russia. The ticket lady told us she didn’t have many to sell, so it looks like we’re in for a fun journey. We had half considered missing Bulgaria out, spending another night in Bucharest before flying to Istanbul for £74 each. But that would be cheating, right?

The other thing playing on my mind was the lack of email confirming tonight’s hotel booking. We’ve been cleverly extravagant on our hotel selection, staying in 4* accommodation all the way for less than £50 per night. Trivago, I love you. I also love Topcashback that gives you money when you book through them. Another thing I’ve appreciated is the Xe.com phone application which gives you real-time currency conversions.

Arriving reticently at the Novotel on Calea Victoriei, we chanced our arm. “Buna ziua, we have a reservation for tonight”. It worked! We also have access to the pool. Happy days.

But first, Lipscani. The old town of Bucharest was recently a derelict slum but, as in Budapest, bars moved in and regeneration has been happening at an astounding rate. I’ve been here every year for the past three years and it changes so much with each visit. Bars appear and disappear, buildings get a new lease of life, streets change beyond all recognition. This visit saw the encroachment of shops. Near Bastards bar is a very modern H&M store where even last year a rickety old building stood. Thankfully, not all renovation means knocking down a building that once led Bucharest to being called the Paris of the East.

This year, it was noticeable how far north of Lipscani the thriving bar scene had stretched. Strada Doamnei was once a dark boundary to the nightlife zone, with just Club A of any note. Now it has its own scene. But it is Strada Gabroveni that appears to be challenging Smardan and Lipscani as the happening place to be. Cool bars and strings of lights decorate the place, filling up what was once a void between Mojo and the centre.

The Lipscani area is a joy to behold and another success story that many places in the UK could look to for inspiration. You see, Mr Farage, Romania isn’t just horses and carts…

Day 13: A Sense of Impending Doom

With our Sofia train not arriving until close to midnight, we had the best part of a day to wander round Bucharest. Tempted by the hotel pool, but wary of the logistics of having soggy clothes in our rucksacks for the next two days, we strode out.

Just to the left of our hotel was Piata Revolutiei where, over the Christmas period in 1989, an uprising ousted the Ceausecsu regime and Romania became a free country at last. Even though I had not long since turned 10, the footage and news reports had a profound effect on me. Here was this wealthy and powerful guy who had created a cult of personality while letting his people starve and now they were standing up to him. With cameras trained on a window for what seemed like days, it became clear to the young me that people could decide their own destiny. Even if it looked like they had no chance, if they all pulled together something great could be achieved. Unlike British people, those Romanians knew when enough was enough.

The scenes weren’t pretty. There was rioting, burning of vehicles and violence from both sides but, on Christmas Day, Ceausescu and his Deputy PM – wife Elena – were tried and executed. It’s not how matters should be solved, but these were desperate people who had suffered years of neglect and abuse at the hands of one man and his cronies – he wasn’t going to cede power.

The square is much more peaceful now, with memorials and statues dotted around reminding people of those who gave their lives in the fight for freedom. The window from which Ceausescu famously gave his speech (the one which the cameras had been trained on) was still there but it was no longer part of the Central Committee building. After the fall of communism it became the Ministry of Internal Affairs.

At the top end of the piata is the Athenee Hilton hotel, once a notorious den of spies and intrigue, especially during the build up to World War Two. During the communist era, the regime bugged all the hotel’s phones as well as those within half a mile – and all the employees were informers. Today though, as with its neighbouring square, it’s more appealing to guests, as the British-registered Bentley outside suggested.

Leaving the square, we sheltered from the sun by walking down some of the back streets towards Lipscani. Although in the main these look drab, they are beginning to have facelifts to restore them to their obvious former grandeur. This time, Lipscani wasn’t to be our destination. We were heading to Unirii Boulevard and the Parliament Palace – Ceausescu’s most obvious and arguably destructive follies.

With just a single night’s notice, 40,000 residents of what was mainly the Jewish quarter were displaced. Synagogues, churches, an art deco stadium and many historic buildings like those in Lipscani were demolished to make way for the 3.5km long boulevard and the overbearing palace, formerly the House of the Republic. The boulevard’s design was inspired by the Champs Elysees (and is successful in its quest), but in true dictator style, Ceausescu wanted it to be a bit wider. The uniform apartments that line the street were built to a North Korean design, just in case you still weren’t sure how mad the dictator was.

At the eastern end and, after some walk from Piata Unirii, we came to the palace. Being the world’s largest civilian building, it hadn’t quite crept up on us, and despite its grim past is still one hell of a sight. Walking round a quarter of the perimeter took quite a while but we eventually came to the visitor’s entrance on the north side near Parcul Izvor.

Palace of the Parliament, a subtle little building

Note to anyone thinking of visiting: take your passport. It’s big, but it isn’t another country – you need this to be allowed in. Our passports were in our bag. At our hotel. Sigh.

Never mind, we had time to explore other areas, namely beyond Unirii’s shopping centre. This used to be the site of a communist style covered market but, typically, was now a building site, so we sheltered from the sun and enjoyed a cold drink by the tram station. Not exactly what we had planned for the day! A nearby pharmacy sign reported the temperature as 42 degrees, giving credence to my suspicions that these are never correct. The heat was stifling, but it was surely no hotter than mid 30s.

There was nothing for it, we’d have to return to Lipscani and its fans spraying cooling water; its drinks; its sheltered areas; and its downright awesomeness.

Over the course of the next few hours, we passed a late afternoon casually sipping refreshing drinks and people watching. One thing I’ve noticed about mainland Europe is the odd slogans people have on their t shirts. It’s clear that English words are de rigueur, but quite why “flight cancellation” and “you CAN’T sit with us” are chosen is beyond me.

Feeling peckish, we went in search of somewhere to eat. It was at this moment that the, until now, absent breeze started to pick up. This could mean only one thing. Bar staff were quick to get their parasols and seating covered or indoors, yet still the gusts knocked furniture flying. We ran for shelter in a nearby Romanian chain restaurant. By the time we were seated the heavens had opened and the eatery was seeing a sudden rush of custom. For a chain, the food was surprisingly decent. I finally had my sausage, of the spicy Maramures variety, and the bill was yet again thoroughly affordable.

The rain eased off so we set out for our hotel, using buildings’ overhangs for shelter whenever we could. After a long wait at the hotel spent watching Steaua Bucharest v Aktobe we ordered a taxi. The hotel chap assured us a trip to the station wouldn’t cost us more than seven lei and, again, it was correct. Surely we couldn’t have a holiday which didn’t involve a taxi incident?!

Another piece of advice: never feel the need to tell a Romanian taxi driver to “step on it”, there’s really no need. I’m sure even fire engines don’t take corners that quick. Needless to say, we arrived at Gara de Nord with time to spare.

Budapest Keleti seemed like eastern Europe had truly begun. We were mistaken. This is where it begins. At the entrance, a group of Roma women were singing, dancing and making merry; we sat down next to a man who was carrying a truncheon; and the station was heaving with all sorts of people – somewhere between delight and danger.

The train from Moscow arrived half an hour before midnight and we made our way to the allotted carriage. There, a Russian man in short shorts and a lime green t-shirt snatched our tickets off us and led us onto the train where he told another man in official uniform where we should be put. Having spent some wonderful days in Russia last year, I still couldn’t help but feel suspicious about this chap. Was it the shouting in his mother tongue? Perhaps it was because he had both our Interrail passes (standard procedure for overnighters) and our actual ticket (not standard procedure). Or was it the shouting at a woman in a nearby compartment that she must pay €60 (something that sounded similar to) baksheesh [a word most often meaning bribe]? The Romanian woman was clearly frightened and admitted she had made a mistake but didn’t see why she had to pay extra. Her fellow passengers – a German and a Bulgarian – soothed her by telling her they would sort something out. Then, as if by magic, the Russian chap returned to tell her she didn’t have to pay anything.

To our great relief, we set off. We were in a cabin to ourselves on an old Russian carriage and, despite the bites we suffered, it was the most comfortable night we spent on a train. The wooden panelling, the samovar at the end of the corridor and the dated, space-age toilet all called to mind the Trans Siberian railway. The Russian chap was still prowling and I dreamed of less than favourable Russian imagery: the road of bones, communist cartoons, Putin, oligarchs and gulags.

The moon tonight would be sickle shaped.

Day 14: Games with Frontiers

Our Russian overlord hammered on the locked door to our compartment.

“Passports,” he said, in an overly loud monotone. In his hands he carried a stack of them but we didn’t need to hand ours over as the Romanian customs officer had arrived and he, and he alone, would check them.

We had arrived in Giurgiu on the border with Bulgaria at about 2am, dogs howled outside, but the Romanian official eased our mind by quickly glancing at our documents before shutting our door again.

The Bulgarian border town of Ruse was just over the Danube, we would be there shortly after we had started moving, I thought. With the intention of staying awake so as not to be woken by the Russian again, I kept an eye out of the window. We passed through town after town and had been on the move again for more than 30 minutes when I decided I must have been mistaken. Perhaps we had already been through the Bulgarian customs. Both nations are now in the EU, so perhaps border checks aren’t as stringent. I locked the door and went to sleep again.

An hour later, there was another fierce pummeling of the door. The commandant once again declaring it was passport time. Who knows how far into Bulgaria we were to only just be showing our documents – at least the officer was friendly again and we could finally lock our door until morning.

When the dawn arrived, a glimpse outside revealed more mountain scenery. This time though, they were clearly Balkan: huge, fearsome and ragged.

Speaking of those adjectives, the commandant was prowling once again. Something had changed though – he had a smile on his face. Was it our turn to be his playthings? No! It turns out he was in charge of the compartment and, giving us our tickets back, asked if we had finished with our bedding and, if so, would we mind folding it and placing it on the top bunk. He was, dare I say it, quite cheery. Even when vacuuming he flashed us a warm smile. This would be a good day.

Outside, more looming mountains and fast-flowing rivers flashed by, punctuated by the occasional station. What struck me as odd was these bustling rural towns all had many people pottering around. According to certain sections of the British political and media spheres, Bulgaria and Romania are supposed to be empty by now. Were these throngs of people just a Stepford Wives style front? Why were these people still here? It’s almost as if the fears and rumours circulated had no basis in fact whatsoever.

Another surprise was Sofia itself. I’d heard from a few trusty sources that it wasn’t really worth a visit. From the scenes that greeted us at the station, I quite believed these reports. With one foot still in the train, people were asking us if we wanted tours or taxis. This carried on until we had exited the station. Not the best welcome, and these “con artists, thieves and human traffickers” all had the audacity to speak perfectly good English too. Again, why are they still here and not in beautiful Britain? Ok, I’ll turn off the sarcasm now.

After making our way out of the less than appealing station area we came to the first sight of note, the lion’s bridge. Sadly this was yet another building site as maintenance work had seen the whole area cordoned off. Thankfully the odd St Petka church wasn’t far beyond here.

St Petka in the surprisingly pleasant Sofia

Those who have travelled the M62 motorway between Rochdale and Huddersfield will know of the “farm in the freeway”, that the road splits to avoid. This Sofia church is a similar sight. The 11th century place of worship sits almost in the underpass slap bang in the middle of Bulgaria’s capital. Above and around it are grand hotels and government buildings, but this little oasis of spiritual calm adds a beautiful touch of serenity to the modern madness that passes it by.

At the end of Nezavisimost place, we took the underpass to the other side of the road. Usually these passages are places to dread, but this was an unexpected delight for waiting beneath the street were remnants of Serdica, a 4000 year old settlement. It’s not often you see tour guides leading parties down into subways but this certainly warranted a visit.

The reason we had taken this route was to avoid the sun on the way to Sofia’s prime attraction – the Nevsky cathedral. And what excellent viewing it offers. Built more recently than you may expect (1912), this orthodox place of worship was erected in the memory of the Russian soldiers killed during the liberation of Bulgaria in the Russo-Turkish war of the late 19th century. As with practically all holy sites, entrance was free but they did ask you to refrain from taking photos – a request which many people clearly didn’t understand.

With the main sights seen and many hours to kill, we strolled down Vitosha boulevard to the park of the National Palace of Culture where we rested in view of Sofia’s splendid mountainous borders. The pedestrianised Vitosha boulevard itself plays host to a wide array of restaurants and cafes, not quite on a par with Brasov, but it doesn’t look like it will stay that way for long.

Another oncoming thunderstorm signalled our time to move from the park and, on reaching St Petka, an almighty crash deafened us. The station area would have to be our home for the next few hours.

We were fine with this as it allowed us to stock up on supplies and take a photo of the oddest McDonald’s I’ve ever seen. Drinks were purchased, as were “milinka” for 1lev each.

The McDonalds in Sofia Central Station

We were dreading the final leg of the trip – and with good reason. Because of the work taking place to link Europe and Asia’s rail networks in Turkey, the train was only going as far as the border. By the time we reached Jabalkovo our milinka (huge round breads with bits of feta) had been consumed. The time was cracking on for 10pm, but we still had to get through the border, which was more than 90km away. Perhaps it was due to the rail works but I’m still unsure why the train didn’t go to Dmitrovgrad or Svilengrad.

Anyway, on the bus we set off from this sleepy town whose only sign of life came from the flashing crucifix on a hill. We stopped at Dmitrovgrad to let on yet more passengers. Much later we stopped again, presumably at Svilengrad, to show our passports, before eventually arriving at the border about 1am.

What can I say about this? It wasn’t the worst crossing I’ve ever endured (hello Uzbekistan) but it wasn’t far behind. Being on a coach exacerbated matters, especially when we found out five or six people didn’t have visas for Turkey. It took for ever and, for fear of reliving the horrible times again, I shall just say we left after 4am to leave one bus and join another, slightly more comfortable one. It must have been better as we were able to nod off until the Turkish sunrise awoke us on the edge of Istanbul at 7.30am.

Day 15: Daze of Sultanahmet

Unlike the Orient Express, our arrival at Istanbul Sirkeci wasn’t showered with glamour. There was no luxury dining car on our bus, nor were there any comfortable compartments. There were no porters scurrying around to transport our luggage to our final destination.

Instead, the lack of legroom on the bus had given us a mild case of DVT, as our feet or ankles had started to swell; we had scarcely slept; and we stank. This was not the glamorous arrival of bygone days, but it was an arrival.

Mercifully, our hotel was just a few streets away by Gulhane Park so, with aching feet and minds, we stumbled through Istanbul’s back streets at nearly 9am, hoping our hotel would store our bags until the 2pm check-in time. They did better than that. It felt like all Istanbul’s gods were shining on us when the guys at the reception told us our room was ready.

“Breakfast is from 6.30am until 10.30am, but that starts from tomorrow for you”. As if we cared! We toddled up the stairs and fell on to our bed, waking up at gone 2pm. A quick shower and we felt better than we had since Bucharest. Realising that the time we had just spent sleeping could have been spent tiredly walking Istanbul’s streets also acted as a boon.

As it was just round the corner, Sultanahmet square was our first stop. Even feeling fresher than we expected, it’s hard to describe how surreal this place is. I thought Samarkand’s Registan or the centre of Bukhara were magical – and they were – but this complex, on the very edge of Europe, seemed as far removed from Europeanness than anything we could imagine. Perhaps it’s because Samarkand and Bukhara are in the central Asian desert that the sight of them didn’t seem so surprising. Of course, I’ve seen lots of mosques and beautiful historic buildings in Europe, so maybe it was more to do with the scale of these buildings and their location on the tip of Europe that made them seem so special.

To our left stood Aya Sofia, the former church and mosque with a history dating back to the fifth century. To our right stood the imperious blue mosque with its six minarets. All around we were faced with the history of Christianity, Islam, the middle east and Europe. An Egyptian monument here, the serpent obelisk there. It really is a world city, once the centre of the known planet – as demonstrated by the Milion stone, erected in the centre of old Istanbul, the centre of the world.

Taking a walk south of Sultanahmet, the old Istanbul streets slipped away down hills to reveal glimpses of the Sea of Marmaris, part of the Mediterranean. There were sightings of the Bosphorus too, linking the Black Sea to the Med. Having just finished reading famous Istanbul author Orhan Pamuk’s ode to the city Istanbul: Memories and the City, I couldn’t help but imagine the young Orhan in the faces of the children scurrying around: what must it be like for a child to grow up surrounded by the views and history Istanbul offers them? Are they even aware of it? Do they just shrug it off? Have they been struck by the hüzün (melancholy) of which Pamuk writes?

In a daze, we continued wandering without any clue as to where we were going or why. Divan Yolu Cadessi, once the main thoroughfare of the city, still exerts its power; trams, guys pulling carts, and throngs of visitors keep it breathing. We crossed the street and wandered again to the north. By fate or luck, but definitely not design, we stumbled into the Grand Bazaar. This covered labyrinth stretches for ages in all directions, packed with hawkers and stalls selling everything you could imagine – but mainly pashminas, jewellery and spices.

Fishermen on the Galata bridge

Emerging blinking from this delightful madness, we strolled without any purpose or direction until we found ourselves by the Yeni mosque next to Galata bridge. With the sun again taking its toll on our energy levels, we headed straight for the shore of the Golden Horn, hoping for a brief respite from the city’s crowds. Unfortunately, with a population of 15 million, there are unlikely to be many spaces which afford such luxury.

We emerged from the underpass in the midst of the ferry terminals, with people buzzing around on their way home from work or days out. A short tranquil moment was spent observing the fishermen casting their rods from Galata bridge before the smell of their successful catches overcame us. We strolled some more, through the eerily quiet Sirkeci station and on to the peaceful, pedestrianised Taya Hatun Cadessi, where one shopkeeper was praying towards Mecca.

The good news was we were near the hotel, the bad news was we were now hungry and had to face the hordes of waiters vying for our custom. It’s tricky to look at a menu when someone’s telling you he has a perfect seat for you, so we glanced quickly at many places but only stopped when no one was pestering us.

Inadvertently we found not just the ideal place, but the now traditional taxi issue in one fell swoop. A commotion involving a taxi driver and his customers who felt cheated by the charge threatened to boil over. Restaurant staff and bystanders intervened, allowing us to study a menu. It seemed good. So involved were the staff that they barely noticed us slipping into the restaurant, sharing a laugh with us when they realised. Again, we were fed heartily for less than £15. Britain really is going to surprise us on our return.

Taxi! Finally we had the incident I’d expected for the past few days

Walking off the dinner, we once again arrived at Sultanahmet. This time it was dusk, and the square was alive with music, colourful fountains, hawkers and cats. So many cats. Romania is famous for its stray dogs, but it’s as if cats have used their extra cunning and found their way right to the tip of Europe, while dogs are still puzzling at how to cross the Danube.

Day 16: Tourists in a World City

With such a rich, varied and important history, it felt right that we ditch our travelling personas and become tourists for the day.

From the breakfast terrace of our hotel we could see Aya Sofia and, behind the thick stone wall, the trees of Gulhane Park. The latter would be our first destination – mainly to test how foolish our choice of footwear was in the wake of the heavy downpour that had just passed. We had chosen…poorly. Slipping our way into the verdant Gulhane Park, the mighty walls of Topkapi Palace became visible. After taking in the various sculptures, we would try to get into the former Ottoman stronghold. Towards the end of the park, we strolled up a steep hill hoping this was the entrance – plenty of tourists were visible on the ramparts so it seemed likely. It wasn’t.

This area did give us a glimpse of the confluence of the Bosphorus and the Golden Horn though, looking like a gem in the now glimmering sunlight.

Returning through the park we realised where we had messed up in our quest to find the palace gates – they were at the park entrance, where I had slipped. Another steep – and treacherous due to the footwear – climb greeted us as we passed the architecture museum before spotting the queue for the palace. It was huge and growing ever longer as hordes of tourists made their way in from the easily-accessible Sultanahmet entrance.

The fee was 30 lira, plus 15 more to visit the harem. We opted for the museum card at 85 lira as it was valid for the other big sights (although not Dolmabahce Palace we later found out). It also negated the need to queue to buy tickets for the other sights. Well worth it.

Inside, apart from the beauty of what was once the centre of the Ottoman empire, I was struck by just how full it was. My nemesis – tour groups – were out in force. In many of the rooms it was impossible to either move or view the objects due to these groups shuffling around en masse. They were everywhere, like packs of zombies but without the collective brainpower.

My original interest in the calligraphy, collections of korans, jewel-encrusted weapons and everyday objects was ruined by this passive mass. Items just became “shiny sh*t” obscured by a barely interested gloop of human matter. The ones that had become separated from their main body seemed unable to cope, quite often stopping dead in front of – or walking into – me. It was as if, as one big mass, they had just enough brain cells to act as a moving, living organism but, when separate, they became a gammy limb destined to lose all use and flop to the floor. What was worse was the scant regard they gave to these precious objects was fawning in comparison to their appreciation of the buildings.

Each exhibition was housed in a part of the palace and, had the zombies bothered to move their necks upwards, the would have seen stunning stained glass windows. But, of course, they didn’t.

And the photographs, Jesus! Of course, everyone wants to snap the sights and views – myself included – but show some respect to your fellow tourists. One of the beautiful views of the Asian side of Istanbul is from the Topkapi Palace and everyone wanted to photograph the view or their partner (ditto), but the lengths people went to were quite extraordinary. From barging into other people and their photographs, to taking up half the space, and also insisting on standing as far back as you could and not allowing anyone to pass through – all the horrible aspects of tourist photographers were seen.

If we had gone on a quieter day, the palace would have been an amazing site. Some of the exhibits were of true historical importance. Eighteenth century covers of Mohammad’s (pbuh) tomb mixed with 17th century jade and Faberge ornaments; jewel encrusted candlesticks weighing 48kg were sat among gold thrones which appeared to resemble horse brasses and almighty kaftans and trousers which seemed fitted for giants.

But my mood was darkening, suddenly every thought involved a swear word and I needed to get out. For some reason though we went to the harem instead.

And what a good choice. It seems the extra 15 lira had put most people off and the walk down the Sultan’s sultry “golden road” was a rare treat, as we strolled deep into the quarters of concubines and eunuchs. More delightful views presented themselves, this time of Galata.

Leaving the palace as yet more tour groups piled through the gates, squeezing those with half a brain to one side in the pursuit of vaguely seeing something that they won’t remember five minutes later.

The Aya Sofia, Istanbul

We had survived and, in celebratory mood, thought we’d push our luck at Aya Sofia. The museum pass played what is termed a “blinder” here as we strolled past the snaking queue of mindless tour groups gathering round their umbrella-toting guides.

It’s safe to say that the Aya Sofia is one of those places you must visit. What was originally a Christian place of worship wound up as a Muslim holy site during those complicated times when the religions swapped precedence in this city. And what a sight it is.

This behemoth temple has roots back to the fourth century AD, and remnants still remain. However it is the middle ages that give the tourists their fix here. Huge Islamic murals sit side by side with Christian frescos and give the place a wonderful air that seems to pervade all round Istanbul. We saw women in burkas mixing with Christians in a peaceful manner, leading the outsider to question why more places cannot follow the Istanbul level of tolerance. These women in burkas also showed their Western side by sporting Adidas trainers and iPhone accessories. It was a beautiful and peaceable mix of eastern tradition and western modernism.

Our dinner that night was spent in a fantastic restaurant on the edge of Gulhane Park, where veal and lamb were on the menu but beer wasn’t. Sometimes it’s pleasurable to roll with the prevailing culture – and the fresh orange juice proved a pleasant alternative to Efes.

Day 17: In Pamuk’s Footsteps

Once in a while you read a book which has a profound effect on you. Sometimes it’s an instant reaction, but with others it’s only after you’ve finished reading it that you realise just how deep into your psyche it has wormed itself.

Istanbul: Memories of the City by Orhan Pamuk falls into the latter category. Having originally been bought as an offbeat guidebook, it proved itself nothing of the sort. It was much, much more than that. Guidebooks are all well and good, but the passion in Pamuk’s words offered an insight into what it meant to be an Istanbullu and the deep melancholy (hüzün) the city’s residents feel about the gradual fall of this once great city. For what it’s worth, Istanbul now appears to be a city on the up. The Turkish economy has experienced a boom in recent years (gradually slowing now, though) and Istanbul – the nation’s capital in all but name – has benefitted from this and its geographical position. No doubt the hüzün of the Istanbullus will emerge again if the economy regresses – but they should celebrate their fortune at being born in such a great city.

Guidebooks may deliver a history of buildings, but rarely do they delve so deep into their social history. Pamuk’s love of his city comes not from the world-renowned tourist attractions we saw yesterday, but from the old wooden houses and glimpses of ships on the Bosphorus. This would be our day today: leaving the old city to explore the Bosphorus and neighbourhoods around Galata.  We would stroll up Sogukcesme street behind the Aya Sofia; get the Sehir Hatlari vapur (ferry) from Eminonu to Kadikoy; wander round the deserted Haydarpasa station on the Asian side of the Bosphorus; take the ferry to Besiktas; walk to the Dolmabahce Palace and Kabatas; take the underground funicular to Taksim Square; stroll down the bustling Istiklal Caddesi; and return to our hotel on the tram over Galata Bridge.

Glimpses of the Bosphorus from Galata

We were tantalisingly close to Pamuk’s old neighbourhoods of Nisantasi and Cihangir, but I still saw him and little Orhan everywhere I went. I saw them in the faces of the passengers travelling home to Asia on the ferry; in the face of the bewildered toilet attendant at Haydarpasa who was stunned at being called into action; in the faces of our fellow Besiktas-bound travellers running to catch the soon-to-depart vapur; in the faces of the Dolmabahce guards in their perspex boxes; in the faces of sunglasses and water hawkers near Kabatas; in the faces of the orange juice sellers on Istiklal Caddesi; in the faces of thousands of shoppers on the busy thoroughfare; in the faces of older men sat on the doorsteps to shops; in the faces of the children playing near Galata Tower; in the panicked faces of scooter riders making their way down the perilously steep Galip Dede Caddesi; and in the faces of the content commuters making their way back home on tram number one.

But most of all, I saw Orhan Pamuk in Istanbul. The snatched glimpses of a large cruise ship from near the Galata Tower; the nondescript side streets which have a surprising appeal in the wake of the book; the myriad signs that litter the space above your head; the wooden houses on the peaceful Sogukcesme street; the evening fireworks that illuminated the skies above Beyoglu and Fatih; the laid-back charm of the Istanbullus; the paradoxical feeling of inner peace while wandering through the heaving throngs; and the love one can establish in such a short time for this most enchanting of cities.

The thousands of tourists added to a frightening population can seem a little daunting. There are times when you want Istanbul and its sights to yourself, but that defeats the purpose of being here. It’s not just a collection of fabulous buildings – Istanbul is fighting your way through the crowds at the Grand Bazaar; realising the pavements are woefully ill-equipped to cope with such foot traffic; feeling your heels straining due to the constant stop-start nature of walking in the city; seeking a quiet side street to catch your breath and coming across a Bosphorus view or a silent mosque; finding pleasure in a peaceful park or eerily deserted railway station; wondering how the muezzin attracts so many worshippers yet the streets are still crowded; and rejoicing in how this divided city (geographically and religiously) remains together.

On the rooftop bar of the Pasazade restaurant in Sirkeci, we were given a lasting memory of a great trip. Four huge cruise ships were moored at Karakoy, their lights twinkling in time with those from the buildings behind them. To the right, the light show from the Bosphorus bridge provided a perfect backdrop to the nearby fireworks.

It’s a memory of the city that I shall be able to call upon for years to come; and a city which will enchant me for longer.

The Blue Mosque at night