DE to NZ 5 - Bear Breath

 

Brașov - Fundățica (Romania)

Uber - 48.8 km (1 hour)

Cost €40

Total distance travelled - 2598 km

It was settled, we were going for a walk. Remus wanted to take us further up the valley to his property beyond the woods. We were keen for one more scope of the mountains which had enthralled us over the past week, so with a bread bag packed with Mama Țica’s village-renowned Golgos (deep fried doughnuts) we set off over the sodden paddocks. All seven dogs were accompanying us on this trip, which I took no small comfort in. The chill was still fresh in my bones from two days before when, ten minutes after my son and I came across fresh bear poo, he called excitedly “Look Papa, a baby bear!” In the end, it was only a tree stump, but the hairs didn't rest on my neck until the creak of the pine forest was well behind us.

I was pleased to see the dogs, a scruffy mountain rabble with names like Haiduc and Zamora, combing the countryside around us. I also knew that Remus, a retired police officer with a thick black moustache and a head of tight curls, had a pistol and cattle prod stowed alongside his plastic bottle of Palinka (homemade brandy). Striding forth with the confidence of a born and bred Carpathian, he led us to the opening on the woods edge from which the cattle emerged every afternoon. The dull clang of their bells and the throaty holler of the cow-herd had been one of the events which marked the passage of the day here on the farm.

Since arriving, we had quickly fallen into the rhythm of life in Fundățica, a tiny village in southern Transylvania. We were staying where the road trailed off into forest, in a renovated 150 year old farmhouse with a neck-achingly low ceiling and bright traditional blankets covering the walls. Our host was Mama Țica, a tireless woman with a spark in her eye and calloused hands who supplied most of our meals between tending the farm. A widow (she still wore the traditional headscarf of the married woman), she was aided in her toil by her daughter Carmen and son-in-law Remus. Though we didn't share a language, the warmth in Mama Țica's smile needed no translation. Our kids slipped comfortably into country life - our youngest happy to totter among the chooks and our two oldest each "adopting" a dog for our stay. It was a joy to watch them explore and thrive in this stripped back, slower setting.

As we clambered up the pugged and rocky trail, our youngest decided it was time for a feed, and there was no dissuading her. If the hounds and firearms didn't keep the bears at bay, this hollering, hangry human surely would. Eventually, we emerged into a clearing. Remus proudly swept his arm before him and then placed his open palm to his chest. This was his land. Of the house in which his mother grew up, only stubbled foundations remained. The ubiquitous wooden hay barn stood firm, however. In Transylvania, the grass is scythed by hand, raked into piles and lugged up wooden ladders into the loft to dry. An act which Mama Țica, a woman of 70, performed with an agility that put my clambering attempt to shame.

With energy to burn, my kids challenged me to a foot race. Knowing that my days of outpacing them were numbered, I thought I would chalk up another victory. Little did we know that as we ran, we awakened something in Remus. “No, no, no!” he marched forth, waving a finger in the air. He then measured out twenty metres, stood at the finish line and declared “Again!” The kids ran, Remus shook his head. A demonstration was in order. He crouched, rose up on fingers and toes, poised, then exploded forth. Chin set determinedly, forehead arteries bulging, legs and arms pumping like pistons, Remus stormed over his paddock, leaving stalks of grass swaying in his palinka-scented wake. As he honed my kids' sprinting skills (shaving a couple of seconds off both of their times, I should add), I had to laugh. This impromptu athletics training session, high in a Transylvanian meadow, conducted in a rickety combination of sign language, German, English, and Romanian, was one of those absurd yet magic moments of travel which at once justify all the stress and uncertainty of setting out into the unknown.

Later, as we crossed lush paddocks studded with clover and dandelion, the craggy Bucegi mountain range holding court before us, we encountered a local farmer. After a swig from Remus' spirits, he told of his close encounter with a mother bear and cub in that very field the previous day. He was just now checking the cows, which had been understandably spooked and had spent the night in the barn. Leaving with our canine convoy, I had to admire his gruff courage as he loped off by himself.

On returning to Mama Țica's, we had time to shed our damp socks and freshen up before the barbecue was lit. We were leaving the following day so this would be our last meal together. The succulent grilled meat was accompanied by cheese, wine and wild berry liquer all of which was home made. When Remus produced his accordion, his hearty renditions of Romanian folk songs were translated to us by his son (a mountain runner which, with his lineage, was practically inevitable).

It was the perfect end to the evening and to an unforgettable week. It had been an inspiring stay, a reminder of how fulfilling a simple life can be. The alpine atmosphere, fresh farm produce and respite from a frantic modern world had recharged our spirits. As awesome as the nature which surrounded us was, my greatest admiration was for the folk who live among it. I will always remember those hardy, happy souls of the Carpathians, who share the crisp mountain air with wolf and bear.

As sad as we were to leave, it was time to continue our journey. Although Fundățica felt a world away from Berlin, our destination in New Zealand was still a long way off. The next day we would be travelling to Bucharest, where we would be yearning for Mama Țica's home cooked meals sooner than expected.

Next Post: Back in the Fray