Inter Rail Diaries: Richard's Inter Rail Diary

Hi there. I've decided to spend a month Inter Railing around Central Europe. I'll be visiting the Czech Republic, Poland, Slovakia, Hungary and Romania. I'll also be stopping in Amsterdam, Berlin and Vienna.

Why did you choose these places to visit?

Part of the reason why I chose to visit Central Europe is because I am fascinated by the region's history. The last century was particularly interesting, when both fascism and communism were imposed on these nations. Today, these states are the newest members of the European Union. In years to come, I believe that Central Europe will be the future and driving force of the EU. Aside from all that, I am drawn by the region's wealth of natural spaces. Poland and Slovakia especially have some fine national parks that I hope to see.

What are you looking forward to most about your trip?

I am looking forward to all of it, but Romania the most. It seems like a strange country, full of folklore and superstition. Parts of it are relatively undeveloped too, which can make for some challenging travel. The mountains are populated with bears and wolves, which I'm hoping to see as well... from a safe distance, of course.

Are there any bits you're not looking forward to?

Some of the hiking trails in Poland and Slovakia involve scrabbling up cliff-faces and crossing ravines. I've never had a head for heights, so I'm not really looking forward to that!

Are you camping, hostelling or kipping on trains?

As I'm on a budget, I will be mostly camping... weather permitting.

Tell us about Inter Rail tickets... how do they work and what's so good about them?

Basically, an Inter Rail ticket allows you unlimited travel on Europe's rail network, which is undoubtedly the best way to get around the continent. You can make real savings with one of these, particularly as there's a whole range of tickets to suit your needs. The most comprehensive ticket covers 29 countries. Other tickets focus on a specific country or region, and for as long as you need. Its good to have an Inter Rail ticket because it gets your imagination working, knowing you can go wherever you want.

 

Are you a fan of train travel?

I am definitely a fan of train travel. Generally, it's a very relaxing and efficient way to get around. It can't be beaten for scenery either.

How do you like to pass the time on a long train journey?

I like to read or write or listen to music. Watching the scenery is very enjoyable too. Its kind of like a meditation, watching the world roll by.

Tell us a bit about your past travel experiences...

Most recently, I spent nine months in Mexico and Central America, which was very inspiring. Prior to that, I was living in Amsterdam. I moved out there out on a whim with only a few hundred pounds in my pocket. Miraculously, 18 months later, I left with over ten times that in savings. I had a fine time there, and I'll always have a special affection for the place. Before that, I used to work as a croupier. I wasn't very good at it, but I managed to land a couple of jobs on cruise-ships. I spent a summer in the Med, seeing a lot of different countries. My very first travel experiences were in America, when I crossed the country by Greyhound bus. That was an eye-opener, I can tell you. If you want to see the real U.S.A, get on a Greyhound...

How would you describe your travel style? Do you like to make plans or do things spontaneously? Do you prefer sight-seeing or aimless wandering? Partying or getting close to nature?

Planning is an important part of any trip, but only as a general guide. Ultimately, when you embark on a journey, you need to follow your instincts. That said, I do put in a lot of research on the places I visit. I like to know as much as I can. That way, travelling becomes a more intimate experience. As far as activities go, I like to take in atmospheres, and so wandering is a good way to get a feel for things. Lately, I've realised that natural places can be much more rewarding than cities. I also enjoy getting off the tourist routes and into hard-to-reach areas. For me, culture shock is one of the best parts of travel.

Finally, the train traveller's dilemma: you're on a crowded train, you had a heavy night last night: do you try to stay awake, or let yourself fall asleep and risk embarrassing snoring / drooling scenarios?

I think that public drooling is OK, provided you don't do it over the person sitting next you. Its not very dignified, but if you need your sleep, what can you do?

 

 

 

Pre-trip preparation

PRACTICAL DETAILS: COSTS, EQUIPMENT AND INFORMATION SOURCES

For anyone interested in how I planned and organised this trip, the following information might be useful.

COSTS AND BUDGET

The cost of a one-month Inter Rail pass covering twenty-nine countries is currently £405 (over 26 fare - it's £285 for under 26s)

A single flight with Ryan Air from London Stansted to Eindhoven was £15 including tax (on-line booking).

A single flight with Ryan Air from Salzburg to London Stansted was £25 including tax (on-line booking).

Transit to Stansted airport was £15 return with Terravision coaches (London Victoria Coach Station - London Stansted Airport, open return).

Travel insurance was £25 per person (on-line booking).

The major purchases for this trip were a light-weight backpacker tent (£40), a gas stove (£24), cooking pots (£20), torch (£15), compass (£7), universal sink plug (£3) and foam camping mats (£5) from Millets. A whole host of sundry supplies like tuppa-wear boxes, combination locks, cutlery, plastic plates and mugs were also acquired from pound shops and markets in the Deptford area.

The Thomas Cook European train-timetable, which gives details of all Europe's major rail services, was purchased from a Thomas Cook tour agents for £11.

We have a remaining budget of £35 per day between us.

Funds were raised through the sale of home-grown organic vegetables, various odd-jobs and the kind contributions of Terri Wright and Susie Burbridge.

EQUIPMENT

In addition to the items listed above, we are packing the following:

A digital camera, a 35mm camera, some blank CDs and disks, a backpack, hiking boots, ridiculous rain ponchos, whistles, a chopping board, oil, salt and pepper, an expandable folder filled with useful notes and print-outs, a portable CD-player, a deck of cards, a note-book, a first-aid kit, sleeping bags, Lonely Planet's Europe on a shoe-string, Lonely Planet's Eastern European phrasebook, some Jane's Addiction and Rolling Stones CDs, 'The Castle' - a novel by Franz Kafka and 'What am I doing here' by anthropologist Bruce Chatwin.

Katriona's art supplies include a sketchbook, graphite and coloured pencils, charcoal and a putty rubber.

INFORMATION SOURCES

I consulted the following resources while conducting research for this trip:

From East Sheen and Richmond libraries: Lonely Planet Guides to Romania, Hungary, Czech and Slovak Republics, Europe on a shoe-string. Rough Guides to Poland and Europe. Let's Go Europe. Insight Guide to Poland.

Particularly handy was Europe by Train, by Katie Wood.

'Microcosm - Portrait of a Central European City', by Norman Davies and Roger Moorhouse gave good background history but was dry reading in places.

I consulted several on-line resources including gapyear.com and wikipedia.com. Wikipedia is a very decent on-line encyclopaedia and I found articles on the history, economy and culture of all the countries I'm visiting. On-line tourist board sites were also useful, which detailed major attractions and tour operators.

Exit London

The journey begins at 2.30am when we make the journey to London Stansted Airport. The city is empty, a fine mist has descended. Traffic lights oversee motionless roads. They change randomly, spilling coloured light over the black, wet tarmac.

I look out of the window as my mother drives us to Victoria station. The doorways are heavily populated by homeless people. Past corridors of glass and steel, steel and stone, beneath dark and sleeping buildings.

We reach the bus station and Katriona and I stumble out with our backpacks. I say farewell to my mum and we head around the corner with our luggage. We board the bus to Stansted airport, 75 minutes away.

London is bleak and enormous in the dead of night. Everything empty but for the occassional drunk. We pass Parliament square and the Houses loom out of the fog, gothic and monstrous. Opposite on the grass, a protestor's flag is emblazoned with the word Peace....

Down the southbank we go, everything illuminated by coloured lights. Bridges of spider's silk reach over the water.

We continue on. The East End now. A depot for the docklands light railway, full of empty trains and carriages. Street lights blaze a halo, pierce open the fog, run-away down roads and over hills.

Advancing to the edge of the city in the dead of night, the roads become darker. Finally we emerge into open space. Black fields all around. London is away now.

Stansted finally arrives. A nowhere zone just before dawn, a twilight, transitory unreality. I try to imagine working in a place like this... how it might warp one's perceptions of time and space, perpetually active and bright with flourescent lighting.

We check in and drink a coffee and eat an overpriced sandwich. An amusement arcade whirs. The first light creeps through a window in the roof. Soon we board the plane in the gray morning drizzle, ascending wet metal stairs and needing sleep. Desperately needing sleep...

Arriving in the Netherlands

Its been a while since I've travelled. I'd forgotten that feeling of 15 kilos on my back, t-shirt drenched with sweat. That's what I think as we unload ourselves outside Eindhoven station, some distance south of our intended destination, Amsterdam. The sun is shining and 24 hours without sleep has rendered the world slightly hazy and dream-like.

I make a phone-call to John and Claire from a phone-box. John answers. I tell him we'll be in Amsterdam by 12.00. Great, he says. Can't wait to see you. Come on over.

I hang up the reciever and notice an angry criminal surveying the rows of bicycles parked nearby. He ignores us and continues checking for easy locks.

We go and wait on the platform in the sun. Our train arrives and its crowded so we take a pair of fold down seats in the corridor. The ride rolls on relentlessly flat landscapes. The fields are cut open by drainage ditches, canals and other waterways. Wild flowers have sprung up beside the tracks. The occassional windmill turns in the distance.

The final approach to Amsterdam takes us through one of the city's main business districts - The Bijlmer. Katriona and I worked there once. We used to make the journey out there every day. I remember they were continually throwing up buildings around there, near the factory where we used to work. Its strange to see the place... its been two years now.

CENTRAAL STATION AND DAMRAK

We reach Amsterdam and it hits us like a moving tram. The area around Centraal station is thick with human traffic - cars, trams, bicycles and people all whizzing past from every direction. The city's major through-fare, Damrak, extends south from Centraal Station and effectively divides the city into east and west. This north-south highway streams with tourists. It conceals such delights as the Sex Museum, Teaser's Beer Hall (complete with scantily-clad bar-maids), amusement arcades that call themselves Casinos, countless money-changers and souvenir shops. Damrak concludes in Dam Square - the most grandiose of Amsterdam's squares. There stands the Palace outside which street performers entertain tourists. There's also a large, phallic monument where people like to meet.

THE CANAL BELT

We avoid the sultry pleasures of Damrak and head west into the infinitely calmer canal belt - an area composed of four concentric canals which arch around the city. Amsterdam resembles a spider-web of roads and waterways, stretched beneath the banks of the Ij river to the north and the Amstel river to the East.

The canal belt is prettiest in the west, towards Jordaan district. We head through there with our backpacks, enjoying the sun, the easy, intimate atmosphere. The streets are narrow and cobbled, rising and falling with little bridges. Tall, narrow houses stoop over, boats cruise up and down the water. Flowers are everywhere, people drink coffee on terraces. Amsterdam lives outdoors. There is nowhere more relaxed, sociable and photogenic than here in the west, on the roads between Singel and Prinsengracht.

ON THE BALCONY

We make it John and Claire's and drink tea and chat and change our clothes. We haven't seen them for two years. When we left Amsterdam, Claire was heavily pregnant with their first child. Now 21 months old, their son Daniel is a fully fledged toddler with an inexhuastible supply of energy. He is a surreal re-introduction to our friends lives that have changed so dramatically since we last met.

We head out with John and Daniel and take a coffee on a terrace. Then we stop off at a playground where Daniel exhausts himself running around and opening and closing gates.

Back at the flat, me and John take out some empty bottles for returns and recycling. We pick up a crate of good lager for around six pounds. Then we sit on the balcony and drink them all, catching up.

He cooks us all a potato curry which we devour before smoking a few good joints. John is connisseur and has been exploring Amsterdam's coffeeshops for over four years. I can always be assured he'll get in the good stuff, knowing his sativa from his indica. He tells me about about exclusive hashish menus with indian varieties. He talks about secret bio-organic growing techniques....

It isn't long before I'm yabbering away about everything from the European Union to Knights Templar conspiracy theories. It grows dark. I'm wild with tiredness and beer. Daniel, Claire and Katriona have called it a night. John is flagging. We have one more beer together on the balcony before he quits.

Meanwhile, I'm full of crazy notions. I decide to take a drunken wander around the canals. I go out in search of something. The canals are lit up gloriously. The bridges are bright with little bulbs. As I continue towards the centre of town, the prettiness fades. Drunks stumble around me. I don't find anything out there...

AWAKENINGS

I awaken at 5.00am with Daniel screaming near my ear. My brain fires up, a cell at a time, some creaking ramshackle machine. Words form at my lips, dry and dehydrated, they spill out hoarsely... please, please, please... don't do that...

I've had four hours sleep over the past two days. Its useless now. The brain is awake... the stomach's churning a cement mixer. I'm sent clamoring for the first-aid kit. Painkillers! Decongestants! Water! Now!

I swallow a handful of pills and collapse on a fold-up chair on the balcony. Claire makes me a cup of tea before she goes to work. I gulp down a mug and smoke cigarettes. Its not a good day to get off nicotine.

WESTERPARK

John makes me a coffee, a double espresso he calls it. Its bitter and evil and strong enough to wake a coma patient. My heart flutters.

I take a shower and change my clothes. I'm not exactly a new man but I'm starting to feel more alive. We all decide to get some fresh air and visit the newly regenerated area around the gasworks at Westerpark.

Westerpark is an up-and-coming district on Amsterdam's west side. Formerly a large patch of industrial wasteland, the old gas factory is the final stages of renovation. This attractive parkland now provides such socially useful facilities as a children's creche, a bar, restaurant and venues for public events. Raves are often held in the old gas cylinder itself.

LUNCH AND WANDERINGS

Later we meet Maarten for lunch. He takes us to a cafe by the canals and its his shout, being the gent that he is. We talk about the good old days in Mexico, what we're doing now, where we're going. We drink gallons of coke and I chain-smoke cigarettes. Its good to see him. We haven't spoken since parting ways in Guatemala.

After lunch, Katriona and I decide to walk across the city. Last night I'd had ideas of biking it, just like the locals. But that was just booze talking. Foolish nonsense. When you're dealing with monster hang-overs the last thing you want to do is commandeer a vehicle. No, we'd have to do it by foot. That way, I'd be moving much more slowly when I hit the pavement...

We drift down the city's west side, zig-zagging toward the centre. Its all as beautiful as I remember it.

LEIDSEPLEIN

At the end of the hideously commercial stretch south from Dam square, we arrive at Leidseplein. Enormous terraces fill up the square. Tourists guzzle down buckets of lager. Between the pubs and pavement, a sea of multi-coloured umbrellas extends like a vast, suffocating blanket. Over the tram-lines, before the corporate coffee-shops, dancers and acrobats perform for the crowds. Leidseplein is Amsterdam's centre of entertainment, home to the city's most commercial pubs, clubs, coffee-shops, restaurants, cafes and theatres. It is also home to Amsterdam's only legally licensed casino, Holland casino (there are countless other illegal casinos around the city).

There are three other major squares in Amsterdam. Spuiplein, at the end of Spuistraat offers cafe culture in a slightly more high-brow atmosphere. Traditionally, this is the city's intellectual centre. It lays on a book fair once or twice a week. Rembrandtplein is Amsterdam's artistic centre. Musicians congregate here and perform before the terraces. Theres also a small art market every Sunday. Visitors in search of national history should head to Dam Square - the city's largest and most grandiose square.

All that said, more authentic experiences lie away from these squares which are to a great extent tourist draws, meeting points and orientation devices. Amsterdam is by its nature intellectual, artistic and entertaining - take the time to wander and you can't fail to find somewhere interesting.

AMSTEL AND DE PIJP

I cash in some old casino chips at the Holland casino and we continue down Singel towards the east side - our former stomping ground.

We turn off into the De Pijp (The Pipe), a lively immigrant district that occupies a space just west of the Amstel river. Amsterdam is a city of foreigners and has a registered immigrant population of around 40 per cent (perhaps as much as 60 per cent, when accounting for illegals). Many of these are drawn from former Dutch colonies like Suriname, the Antilles and Indonesia. There are also vast numbers of North and West Africans, British and Irish.

Amsterdam's internationalism is what gives it flavour, but racism is still widespread, particularly toward Morrocan communites. Recently, right-wing politicians have begun clamping down unregistered immigrants. It is also now illegal to walk around Amsterdam without a recognised form of identification. You'll be fined upward of 40 euros if you fail to produce one on request.....

We turn off into De Pijp and its alive with a market, spice shops and tropical fruit stalls. We continue through the activity and arrive at the Amstel - a grand river that runs down the city's east side. Its banks are beautifully calm. House-boats are moored the length, overflowing with flowers and potted plants. We cross a bridge and pause to watch the traffic moving up and down the river. Small motorboats, yachts and cruisers pass under us.

OOSTERPARK

We take a coffee on the banks of the Amstel and I try to keep my eyes open. How foolish to believe that Amsterdam would ever let me rest. I had ideas of sleeping in the park. Too late now, I might as well try to stay awake....

RED LIGHTS

Towards dusk we go to meet Maarten at Oosterpark. He's treating us to a picnic and take-away. Oosterpark, literally East Park, is my favourite of the city's parks. Amsterdam is a green city and offers a plethora of natural spaces. Vondelpark, the largest and most popular of them lies near Leidseplein. Quieter alternatives include Sarphatipark, Westerpark and Ooster of course. The island suburb to the north of the city is a particularly green area with woodlands and large stork populations.

We eat, drink and talk until its dark. Then we part ways with Maarten, desperately needing rest before our 6.00 am start tomorrow. We speak to John on the phone and we agree to meet him for one final drink. He's at a pool hall just beyond the red light district, which we pass through on our way to meet him, for better or worse.

The red light district, an area contained by two canals in the city centre, is Amsterdam's oldest district. Prostitution has always been rife here, especially since the advent of the Dutch East India company. After months at sea, ships would return to Amsterdam loaded with sex starved sailors. They'd go and blow their wages in the red light and find themselves broke again, forced to sign up for another stint at sea. That said, its not all whores and gin in the red light (or De Wallen, as the locals call it). Families live here and the housing is some of the most exclusive in the city.

And so we emerge into it, a river of people sweating under the lights, doused in sex and neon, slathering. Whores gyrate in windows, tapping the glass. Voices beseech through the shadows. Lights and colour ooze from the water's surface. The air swims. The churches chime and jangle through Amsterdam's old town. Groups of testosterone-fuelled males bark together with bestial vigour.... 'Blokes, blokes, blokes!'...

To Berlin

Berlin is a wonder of reconstruction. Devastated by the second world war, physical and spiritual reinvention has been a matter of survival for this city.

When allied forces occupied it, they divided it amongst themselves. British, French and American forces took the western districts. Russia took the east. This east-west divide became accentuated with the construction of the Berlin wall - a soviet attempt to prevent migration to the west. Berlin thus became a point of focus and tension between east and west, capitalism and communism. It became the front line in the cold-war, with American and Soviet tanks lined up and pointing canons at each other.

Since the wall came down in 1986, nothing has stopped this city asserting itself. They are now calling Berlin the capital of Europe. This enormous and eclectic city has a reputation for liberalism, diversity and gritty urban settings. It is reputed to have some of Europe's most outstanding night-life.

ON THE TRAIN

We wake at 6.00 am after 5 hours of sleep. I am eternally grateful for those five hours. I thank the gods. Perhaps my head will hold together now.

We get to Centraal Station through the morning rain. The train is full of stoned backpackers, pale and unconscious in their seats. We throw our luggage in the racks and ease into those soft, reclining chairs. Its quiet and cool and the train seems to glide. Peace.

ZOOLOGISCHER GARTEN

Trains coming in from the west arrive at Zoological Garden, home to Berlin zoo (one of the finest in the world). The area itself is not especially nice, saturated by fast-food joints, drowned with tourists and drunks. The odd rat isn't uncommon either. There are a few handy hostels if you arrive late at night or if you can't be arsed to find anything better. There's also an erotic museum, if you're up for it. One thing in the area definitely worth checking out is Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedachtniskirche. This bombed out church was left standing in its ruined condition, a permanent memorial to the second world war. Otherwise, use this area for its tourist offices, then leave.

TO THE WILD WEST

We get an address of a campsite from the tourist office. We jump on the U-Bahn, Berlin's underground network. Fares are cheap. A one-day pass for all zones (A, B, C) costs 6 euros. One-way fares within the city are 2.10 euros (zones A and B). The network itself is slightly complex, but anyone who has used the London Underground will have no trouble getting to grips with it.

We arrive in Hasselhorst in the suburban borough of Spandau, North-west Berlin. We head through town along Gartenfelderstrasse. The sun is out in force. We're sweating.

We follow this road for twenty minutes, weakening, counting the numbers down. We reach the end and there's no sign of a campsite, only a junction with a vast road adjoining it. Now what? We dump our packs under a bus shelter and accost two passersby.

Excuse me, do you speak English?

Little.

I'm looking for this camping, do you know it?

Ah yes, Gartenfelderstrasse. The camping is down there, 300m on the left.

Thank you.

Katriona and I decide its best if one of us goes on ahead to check it out. Just in case... no sense in lugging the packs another half kilometre. So Katriona disappears down the road and reappears twenty minutes later.

Did you find it?

No. I found some kind of abandoned wild west circus.

Really?

Yeah. It was full of wagons and saloons and it was all derelict and completely empty. So I started looking around for someone to ask when this man on a roof appears out of nowhere and starts waving his arms and shouting at me.

Did he know where the camping was?

No. He didn't speak English. All he could do was wave his arms and shout NEIN! NEIN! YOU CANNOT! YOU CANNOT!

Quite funny.

He was completely mad.

Quite possibly.....

SOFT WHITE PILLOWS

We eventually find the campsite 300m in the opposite direction. The area where it stands is leafy and green and idyllic. A slow, wide river lurches beside the way. Fisherman cast their lines.

We make it there and decide to splash out on a room. After the past 48 hours we don't relish the idea of sleeping on the ground outside. 25 euros gets us a double bed with a TV and sink. I can't resist lying down for a minute. I can't resist resting my head on those soft white pillows... just for a minute... just for a minute... just for a minute...

ALLES KLAR?

I wake up three hours later, numb. I really have to focus, really have to haul myself up. I feel like I've plunged into freezing water...

We throw together a day pack and hike to the nearest U-Bahn station. We catch the train to Charlottenburg before changing to the S-Bahn. The S-Bahn is Berlin's overland suburban service. We board a new train and it takes us a while to realise we're on the wrong one. About 15 minutes, in fact, by which time we've vacated the city and speeding towards who knows where. 10 minutes later it stops and we pile out onto the platform. Pine forested slopes dominate the landscape, devoid of housing. We wait there, devastated. This latest misfortune causes us to formulate a new catchphrase:

Alles klar?

NEIN! NICHTS KLAR!

ALEXANDERPLATZ

An homage to Soviet architecture of the 1960s, Alexanderplatz forms one of Berlin's principle squares. Here the space-age television tower rises 368 into the sky, closely resembling an alien craft, particularly at night, when it is illuminated by an infinitude of tiny lights. Modern architecture abounds, but construction is still underway in parts of the square itself. Trenches, piles of earth and half-finished buildings with exposed interiors are common sights. Much of Berlin is like this. Meanwhile, residential blocks surround the areas closeby, stark and uniform units with prison-cell windows.

Exhausted from our unexpected detour into the sticks, we immediately find a restaurant in the square. Katriona has a vegetable pizza. I have a bloody steak. I rarely eat red meat, perhaps once a year, but today I'm really hungry for it. I need substance and fuel. I want to devour an animal, like an animal. So they bring me a slab of flesh, drenched in pepper sauce. Its pretty good, as long as I don't think about it too much....

UNTER DEN LINDEN

We finish our dinner and take a stroll through the evening. People are outdoors, sitting on grass or pavements or chairs. They're drinking beer and talking. The evening is easy and relaxed. We reach the river and cross over a bridge, emerging onto unter den Linten.

Unter den Linden is a long, wide avenue that reaches through the heart of Berlin. Flanked by the city's surviving historical buildings, this road has all the dimensions of a grand Parisian boulevard. Neo-classical buildings abound, great domes and magnificent statues. This road is especially impressive at night, when people are fewer and the buildings are spectacularly illuminated. Eventually, Under den Linden strikes through the Brandenburg gate, the very symbol of Berlin. Beyond here stretches Tiergarten, a huge patch of parkland....

The House of Checkpoint Charlie

Following the defeat of Germany in the second world war, allied forces occupied Berlin and divided what little remained of the city betwen themselves. The United States, United Kingdom and France took the western boroughs. The Soviet Union took the East. It was their intention that Berlin should be governed by a power sharing council with rotating leadership.

However, as relations between the Soviet Union and the west deteriorated, the Soviets withdrew from this arrangement and began running their sector independently. East-West relations reached their most agitated state in 1961, when the Soviet Union erected the Berlin Wall.

Constructed of thick, reinforced concrete, the Berlin wall was intended to curb the migration of skilled labourers to the west. By the time of its dismantling in 1989, the wall had evolved considerably. It now supported over 65 km of metal fencing, 302 obseravation towers, 20 bunkers, over 105 km of motor vehicle trenches, over 127 km of electric contact or signal fencing, over 120 km of military roadway. 855 dogs had been used to patrol 71.5 km of fence, while illuminated fencing and self-triggering guns has also been installed.

During the wall's 38 year lifespan, there were 5,075 successful escape attempts and a total of 1,008 fatalities of the Soviet border regime. The House of Checkpoint Charlie is a fascinating tribute to all those involved with the wall - especially those who struggled against it.

Founded by Rainer Hildebrandt in 1962, the original exhibition occupied a small appartment in Bernauer Strasse. Encouraged by high numbers of visitors, they relocated the following year, to their present location at Checkpoint Charlie - an allied border checkpoint. Part of the original checkpoint still stands today.

From this ideal location, they could observe cross-border traffic and military movements. They were able to assist many escapees and their mision was to document 'the best border security system in the world'.

Consequently, the House of Checkpoint Charlie has been able to amass a range of intriguing escape related articles. These include hot air balloons, cars, submarines, modified suitcases and chairlifts. They also possess a section of the wall itself, iron gates intended to impede passage through the river and the orginal checkpoint sign that declares in English, Russian, French and German: 'You are leaving the American Sector'.

However, the vast majority of the museum's documentary artefacts are photographic. Powerful images relate key historical moments such as the Berlin Blockade and the 1953 uprising. There are also countless personal stories which relate successful and unsuccessful escape attempts. These include a man who smuggled his wife in a loudspeaker and a man who constructed a diving kit from pieces of scrap metal. Most amazing were the family who flew over the wall in a home-made hot air balloon.

There are also displays that document the wider collapse of the Eastern Block, and others that deal with human rights issues in general. This is a particularly moving museum, which calls itself the first museum of international non-violent protest. Inspiring, tragic and equally uplifting. It is a testament to human ingenuity and persistence, and gives hope that no regime can ever impose its will forever. Founder Rainer Hildebrandt quotes Mahatma Gandhi:

'The world is so well built against injustice, that there are stronger, vanquishing forces... From every injustice arises justice, from every untruth truth, from darkness light...'

BERLIN FILM MUSEUM

'We needed to make it as crazy as humanly possible...'

That was how German film director, Robert Wiene, talked about his pioneering film 'The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari' (1919). His efforts would spawn an entirely new genre of cinema - German Expressionism, where 'the film is a drawing that must come to life'....

Germany has always played a vital role in world cinema, and the Berlin film museum is a testament to its past achievements. Slickly presented, well-researched and throughly engaging, this museum is a must for film-lovers.

The first displays lead visitors through an interactive history of German cinema. From the vivid and delerious 'Dr Caligari' through to the violent efforts of Fritz Lang, who stated, 'film is always a reflection of its time.' His most famous work is 'Metropolis' (1927) - an equally Utopian and Apocalyptic vision which employs a design based on the architecture of new york city. While regarded as a classic today, the film flopped during Lang's time and severely harmed his career.

Later displays deal with the 'New Objectivity Movement' which obsessed over female sensuality and the New woman of the Weimar republic. A decade later, and Marlena Deitrich is thoroughly examined. Her play with gender roles caused both men and women to lust after her. The museum's displays on 'Olympia', a Nazi-sponsored production is particularly fascinating. It explains how Greek notions of perfect physique were fused with Nazi ideals of the Aryan race.

The museum's final displays deal with the more general theme of special effects. Glass cabinets contain models from classic films like Sinbad, Close Encounters of the Third Kind and Star Ship Troopers.

To Prague

Crowned by emerald green roof-tops, Prague is a truly magical city. Rising up on the banks of the Vltava river, this capital of the Czech republic possesses beauty, style and mystery in abundance. Labyrinthine lanes weave through the old town. Black spires spike open the sky. Elegant art nouveau facades stand with exquisite balance and flair. In places grandiose, in others intimate, Prague is a complex and endlessly surprising city, great for wandering around. Home to such names as Kafka and Mucha, this bohemian town is as artistic as it is intellectual.

OUI, SARGEANT....

We're asleep in the tent when the alarm wakes us at 7.00am. We crawl out of it, groggy and aching. At least the sun is shining.

We empty our backpacks of everything, roll the sleeping bags, fold the tent and then re-pack it all once again. Its like following a military procedure - automatic, methodical, practised. This entire tour feels like a military procedure. I imagine I'm in the French Foreign Legion:

Legionnaire! Empty your backpack! Now pack it again!

OUI SARGEANT! OUI SARGEANT!

No good Legionnaire! Do it again!

OUI SARGEANT!

Once we're together we march down to the U-Bahn and make our way to Zoologischer Garten in Central Berlin. The train to Prague comes at 9.00am. We file on and stash our packs on the racks. Then we settle into our seats. Its five hours to Prague and I really must get some writing done. I retrieve the journal and a pen and the CD player. I settle down to work with the words... oui, sargeant...

DRUNK GERMANS AND ROCK TOWNS

Prague has always attracted its share of drunks, myself included, on account of the fine, cheap beer on offer. My last visit, 5 years ago, was some shambling, booze drenched disgrace. I wasn't sober, not for a single moment. When I got home, people asked me what I'd seen. I couldn't tell them anything. I'd got lost on streets with unfathomable names. And I'd drunk beer. This time, I wouldn't make the same mistakes. I'd actually try to see the place.

Still, if you ever wanted to quench a thirst, Prague is the place to do it. A group of Germans at the end of our carriage have just that idea. They've come on board with crates, talking loudly. By the time we leave Berlin they're animated. By Dresden they're singing traditional German dittys, all with great feeling and pride. The other passengers look on with a mizture of amusement and concern. By the time we cross the border, they've quietened some. Most of them are taking naps... with wet, wide open mouths, gently snoring.

From the border to Prague we follow the Vltava river. This wide, elegant waterway sees somes of the most spectacular scenary in the Czech republic. A series of 'rock towns' occupy the region close to the border, most notably Teplice. Through the window, immense geological formations roll into view. Giant, grey rocks, smooth like bone. High, pine-forested plateaux. Rugged gorges. Endlessly pretty towns, lonely hill-top shrines, bridges. And all the way we're following the river, flowing steadily through this great corridor of stone, right into the heart of Prague.

AN APARTMENT

A middle-aged woman with a slightly nervous disposition approaches us at the train station in Prague. Janoslava is her name:

You are looking for somewhere to stay perhaps. I have apartment very cheap. Very good location. Centre of Prague. I do you very good price. Fifteen euros each. You come to see, yes?

She shows us a photograph and the place on the map and we really don't feel like pitching a tent and so we say, OK.

She takes us to the room in Nove Mesto and its in an apartment on the top floor of a big, dark building. The apparments fine. We share it with an Englishman who we never see. Our room has evidently belonged to a teenage girl at some point. There are magazine pages stuck all over the walls. Johnny Depp features heavily. There are also tons of books including one on the Elizabethan magician, John Dee. John Dee is an underrated historical figure who resided in my home town of Mortlake, south-west London. He came to Prague to practise alchemy and converse with angels. He certainly is a strange one, and he seems to pop up in the least expected places.

We pay Janoslava for one night and she gives us the keys and explains how to operate the decrepit lift. Then she leaves and we're alone, checking out the view from the window.

WANDERINGS AND A TASTE OF BUDVAR

We head off to Tesco for supplies. The equivalent of £4 buys us two blocks of cheese, a loaf of fresh bread, three bell peppers, a tin of tuna and four large beers. Why can't the Tesco in England be this cheap?

We take the groceries back to the appartment and eat sandwiches. Then we head out into the city.

We drift towards Starometske nam, Prague's principle square and touristic heart. The buildings are bright and colourful: cream and red, brown and green, yellow and orange. We spot an array of architecture: gothic, baroque, rennaissance. The art nouveau buildings are especially stunning. Tram-lines weaves under foot. Cables criss-cross overhead.

Its hard to believe that Prague was once a communist city. So many trendy shops occupy the buildings around the centre. Every outlet is commercial. Endless cafes, restaurants and bars.

We make it down to the Vltava river just as it starts to get dark. We reach the Charles Bridge. A river of tourists pours down its length. Cameras flash in the twilight.

We decide to take the evening off. Our legs, our feet are aching brutally. We head back to our room and crack open the Budvars. Budvar is undoubtedly the finest lager on the planet. No argument, no question. Strong, refreshing and full of flavour, it can't be beaten. Not too rich, not too sweet. Its damn-near perfect and I'd take it over religion any day. I gulp it down and my brain recoils in pleasure....

Kutna Hora

Pyramids of human skulls mark the corners of the sanctum. Bunting of hipbone and jawbone sweeps from the ceiling. A chandelier of darkest beauty forms the natural focus. White and polished and brilliant, this elegant structue is composed of every bone in the human body. Directly beneath it, tall pillars are adorned with toothless crania and flickering candles. Cherubs crown them.

'You are entering a pious space...' Declare our printed tickets. '... Please, respekt to the dead...'

The ossuary at Kutna Hora, Czech republic, is a fabulously spooky place. Constructed in the 14th century, there was at first nothing unusual about this gothic chapel. Then Henry, abbot of Sedlec, sanctified its burial ground. He sprinkled some earth he'd acquired in the Holy Land and suddenly Sedlec became a fashionable place to be buried.

The cemetary filled and with the advent of the Plague, found itself inundated with fresh corpses. In order to accomodate them, thousands of skeletons had to be dug up. This work was performed by a half-blind cistercian monk who stacked up the remains in the corners of the chapel....

Around 500 years later, in 1870, a czech wood-carver called Fraantisek Rint began using the bones to compose decorative and artistic works. Exquisitely macabre, his creations include large chalices, the Schwarzenburg coat of arms, iconic depictions and a chandelier. His work is one of huge imagination, and not merely the efforts of a lunatic mind. The remains of thousands and thousands of people are buried at Sedlec. By reflecting upon them, we are forced to contemplate our own transience on earth. The chapel is a meditation on human mortality.

TRANSIT TO KRAKOW

We've reserved a couchette on the night-train to Krakow. It leaves at 9.00 pm.

We dump our backpacks in the left luggage department and spend the day around Prague. We visit Kutna Hora and the Mucha museum.

At around 8.30 we make our way to the station. We pick up our packs and spend our final Koronas on Budvar... what else? Then we march up to the platform with only a minute to spare. It takes us a moment to find the right carriage. A conductor accosts us at the door. "RESERVATIONS ONLY!" He splutters, red-faced and with violence. We have reservations, I tell him, retrieving the piece of paper to prove it. Disappointed, he leads us to our compartment. Then he disappears off to deal with something else.

We share the compartment with two Irish girls. Both of them are teachers. We chat for a while, following the usual ritual: where are you from, where have you been, where are you going. I drink my Budvars, smoking the occassional cigarette in the corridor. A group of unruly Spaniards are parading up and down, shouting, singing, laughing. The conductor is powerless to stop them.

The night is not too uncomfortable, although I regret drinking all those beers. The Spaniards don't bother me too much, nor the noise of the train. Tinitus has taught me to ignore background noise. At 5.00 am, the conductor sticks his head through the door: "THIRTY MINUTES TO KRAKOW!"

We haul out of our bunks and go to freshen up.

Krakow

Historically rich and architecturally stunning, liveliness and beauty characterise the Polish city of Krakow.

The home of Poland's prestigious Jagiellonian University, Krakow has a young and intellectual air to it. As the seat of government for over 500 years, the city also has its share of regal monuments. Elegant rennaisance-style mansions occupy the old town, a UNESCO listed world heritage site, while Wawel Hill conceals national treasures in its Cathedral and castle. More than this, Krakow is an entertaining city. Kazimierz, the Jewish quarter is an exciting area filled with bars, clubs and restaurants.

KRAKOW BY DAWN

Most cities are irresistible at dawn, but Krakow seems especially magical. A soft, ethereal light permeates the streets, illuminating rows of elegant houses. Cobbled roads, rennaissance details, facades of pastel pink, yellow and blue. All seems richly defined, sharp with constrasts and shadow. Empty of people, there is a kind of intimate beauty about the city by dawn.

RYNEK GLOWNY

We arrive at Rynek Glowny, the city's vast main square. Measuring 200m down each side, this is the largest medieval square in Europe. At 5.30 am, the place is beautifully deserted. Orange light creeps over the mansions and townhouses. A flock of swifts dives in formation, then scatters wildly. We are alone in the haze of the morning. A bugle sounds from the church tower.

The geographical heart of Krakow's Stare Miasto (old town), Rynek Glowny offers several points of interest:

St. Mary's church in the north-east corner conceals a stunning and very unusual interior. The walls and ceiling are dazzling and colourful, while the altar and stained glass windows are world famous works of craftmanship.

The Cloth Hall, which runs through the centre of the square, is essentially an indoor souvenir market. You'll find traditional Polish craft items like wooden statues, wool jumpers, leather shoes and Catholic icons.

The Town Hall tower, on the southern side of the square, houses a very helpful tourist office.

COFFEE, A ROOM AND A MARKET

We linger a while in Planty, a narrow band of parkland that encircles the Stare Miasto. The occasional tramp wanders past.

At 7.00 am we find a corporate coffee house and quench our thirst for strong, highly caffeinated espresso. We talk a while, me and Katriona, then we drink some more. At 9.00 am, the tourist office opens. We ask about campsites but the girl at the desk persuades us to see a room.

We head on over to Matejki place in the north, just beyond Planty near the railway station. The room is on the third floor of another dark and drafty building. Its functional, nothing special. They charge us 100zl per night (Around 20 pounds).

We dump our backpacks and scout around for a food shop. We discover a very useful market in the next street. We buy a whole load of fruit, vegetables, cheese and bread. All for under 5 pounds. Then we get back to the apartment and stuff ourselves with sandwiches. We sleep.

THE ROYAL ROUTE

We wake in the early afternoon and decide to follow a walking tour supplied by the tourist office. The Royal route is the traditional path followed by regal envoys and processions. As a route, its fairly straight-forward. It strikes right through the Stare Miasto, north to south, from Matejki place to Wawel Hill.

And so we set out, soon arriving at the old city fortifications. Floriankska gate is all that remains of the eight original medieval entrances. We quickly dub it 'tourist gate', on account of the flow it accomodates. We step into the torrent and find ourselves carried under a narrow arch. We're spat out moments later, into a busy, crowded street.

KRAKOW BY DAY

The city is a different place by day. There's no room for delicate discourse. No chance of solitude or intimate wanderings. We make it to Rynek Glowny and horse-drawn carriages are making circuits at a canter. Tabled terraces consume the square's inner periphery. Gothic masterpieces escape from screaming accordions. Jugglers, break-dancers, peddlers. People, people, people. Golf carts weaving around it all. Everything teeming. If you want an authentic experience of the Stare Miasto, forget coming in the day. Try early morning or evening.

WAWEL HILL

The royal route concludes at Wawel Hill, the traditional seat of regal and religious power. The hill is believed to have originally accomodated as many as seven gothic churches. Today, the site is home to just two nationally vital strucures - The Royal Castle and Cathedral. Domes, towers, spires and courtyards occupy this historically significant space.

We follow the crowds into the Cathedral, noting the giant prehistoric bones near the gate. Legend holds that Krakow was founded on a dragon's lair. The bones, allegedly, belong to the dragon. They actually come from a whale and a mammoth, but its a nice touch anyway.

The Cathedral's interior is lavishly decorated with all the finery you'd expect of a Catholic stronghold. I always wonder what God does with all those gold plates and chalices. Its not like he needs to eat or anything.

We wander around, taking in the silver confession of St. Stanislaus, the intriguing black crucifix of Queen Jadwiga. We take in the royal tombs and chapels. The Cathedral is the final resting place of 40 out of 45 Polish monarchs. It is for this reason they call it 'The sanctuary of the Nation'. Throughout the church lie private chambers, enclaves and corners. Carved sarcophogi. Stone statues.

We're strolling around when a male choir erupts in song. It booms through the rafters, rejoicing. A wedding service has begun.

All the tourists clamour with cameras and camcorers. They're all crammed together, jostling, fighting for a view. Its mass hysteria. Fever! We must get photos, we must! I barge through and elbow a woman in the face. I knock an old man to his knees. I push and push and get a glimpse of the action. The bride and groom! Right before the altar! Crystal chandeliers burning overhead! I spot the priest in gold and white robes. I raise my camera and get him in my sights. He starts to talk and I shoot him. I shoot him again and again...

We leave the crowds and the choir and wedding. Its too much. We decide to ascend Sigismund tower, a tall bell tower directly joined to the Cathedral. We follow the wooden steps that spiral upward, passing under rafters, climbing over beams. We imagine a mad hunchback making the journey... grunting and scampering over obstacles, burning torch held aloft.

We reach the bell at the top. Its fairly impressive for a bell. It weighs 12.7 tonnes and needs twelve people to swing it. The views are also spectacular, encompassing Krakow's historic roof tops and university.

We're slightly unfulfilled by our excursions and decide to head back to the room. The Royal castle promises untold beauty - exquisite tapestries, decorations, ancient weapons and collections of silver. We don't do it, and follow the exit flow to the street.

A RAINY EVENING

We get to the room and it rains with fury and violence. We're glad we're not in a tent.

We spend the evening working. I write, Katriona draws. We flick through TV channels occassionally. The news keeps repeating a story about a new fleet of ambulances. A bishop is blessing it with prayers and Holy water. Blue lights flash in a show of strength. At the end of the ceremony they present the bishop with a memento - a little toy amblance. He likes that. He smiles broadly...

 

Nowa Huta: a Soviet suburb

In the aftermath of the second world war, backed by the Soviet Union, Poland's Communist Party assumed control of the country. In Moscow, the Politburo scratched its head over Krakow. As Poland's intellectual base, Krakow posed deep ideological threats to the totalitarian regime of communism. Bourgeoise suberversion, counter-revolution and outright dissent were very real possibilities.

To prevent this, Stalin presented the city with a gift - a giant steel works. His aim was to encourage the development of a large working class community, sympathetic to the ideals of communism. He was only partially successful. A large proletarian community did develop in connection with the steel works. However, this community soon became a bastion of the Polish Solidarity movement - a trade union movement that greatly contributed to the overthrow of Soviet dictated communism. The meticulously planned district borne out of the steel works is Nova Huta - literally 'New Steelworks'....

I jump on a number 4 tram and start talking to the man sitting behind me.

Where are you from? He asks.

London, I tell him.

Ah, I was planning to visit London this summer. But we went to Egypt instead.

Egypt is probably nicer than London.

Yes, but they bombed Egypt also.

That's true.

He asks me why I'm going to Nova Huta. I tell him I'm interested to see the architecture. I whip out some printouts from the Krakow tourist board website. They publish a variety of tours for several of the city's districts including the Old Town, Kazimierz and Nova Huta. He elabroates on it, adding a few more points of interest.

You're from Nova Huta? I ask him.

Yes, I am from Nova Huta.

Were you born there?

Yes I was.

Do you know if many people are still working at the steel works.

No, not many. Maybe five thousand. Before, maybe three hundred thousand people worked there. You must understand that Krakow and the steel works were joined together. Poland does not own it anymore. An Indian company owns it....

The man exits the tram and I stay on board until I reach the gates of what was formerly 'Lenin Steelworks'. The complex is enormous, covering 1,000 hectares. Two large administrative buildings flank the gates. Their design contain elements of Rennaissance and Social Realist architecture. Nova Huta was entirely constructed in this strange and slightly cumbersome style. This is because Soviet intellectuals declared that all art should be of a socialist content and national form - Social realism forms the socialist content, Rennaissance was declared Poland's national form.

I take pictures of the factory and begin walking. The sky is deeply overcast, grey and drizzling. Large trucks occupy the wet roads. They grind past, splashing through puddles.

I turn off a main road and into a strangely pleasant country lane. Its green and leafy and quite incongruent with the grey edifices of central Nova Huta. I pass fields and farm houses. A traditional Polish church. Wooden houses with characteristic triangular roofs. Eventually I emerge out on another main road. I follow tram lines through the rain until I reach the residential blocks which comprise Nova Huta in the main.

Strolling through this area is not unlike walking through a council estate - which is essentially what Nova Huta was designed as. Tall, uniform blocks overlook each other, spaced by square, green parks. There is an atmosphere of ordered municipality, slightly faded. Many facades are blackened from the polluting effects of the steel works. Public buildings like the Ludowy Theatre appear outdated. There is a movement of everyday people in everyday affairs. Shopping, talking, smoking and waiting for the tram. Nova Huta has all the architectural emptiness of a new town, but all the social vitality of a working class suburb. There is no sense of depression or violence which sometimes accompanies British projects of a similar design.

I reach the tourist office on Aleja Roz. They have a small collection of photographs which show Nova Huta as it was founded in the 1950s. The buildings are clean, the population is smartly dressed. Everyone has hope in their eyes. The girl at the desk talks me through it, then shows me a map of the district.

Nova Huta was designed to be the perfect city, she tells me. The district is divided into sectors which go anti-clockwise around the centre. They are called A, B, C, D and E. They planned the city carefully, installing trees and parks for children. People came to live in Nova Huta from all over Poland.

I ask her, What is Nova Huta's main industry, now the steel works have downsized? 'There is not much industry in Nova Huta anymore. Most of the population is old now.'

I leave the office and wait for a tram in the rain, reflecting. While Nova Huta seems like a historical oddity, there are many similar such suburbs all over central and Eastern Europe.

VODKA TASTING

Reputedly the best vodka in the world, Polish vodka is a much fabled elixir. Hundreds of different varieties exist, famous and obscure. They run the gamult from the mildly dangerous to the outright lethal. But vodka is more than a drink to the Poles. It is a key part of their national identity, a deep source of pride. If your previous experience of vodka involves sharing a bottle of 'Imperial' with your mates, bad coca-cola mixers, black-outs and evil hang-overs, then you need to broaden your horizons. Come to Poland and learn first-hand about this fascinating and complex liquor.

Our own explorations begin at the 5-star Sheraton hotel in Krakow. These things should be done in style. We're met by an expansive lobby, marbled floors and a revolving door. Across the lobby lies the Qube Bar - a specialist vodka bar and educational institution.

We saunter over into the gentle tinkle of piano music. Beaming smiles meet us at the bar. Yes sir? What can I do for you?... I examine the menu and select an apperatif for Katriona and I. 'Please,' motions the barman. 'We will bring them to you...'

We relax on the red sofas. The pianoman begins a new rendition: Somewhere over the rainbow. We gaze up at the high, high ceiling. Rain patters over the dark, glass roof.

Our vodkas arrive. The young waiter is especially deferent. He places our glasses with expert precision. He delivers silver dishes filled with bar snacks.

For our first tipple we take a healthy measure of Zoladkowa Gorzka, straight and on ice. This vodka has a light amber complexion and an interesting, herby aroma. We say cheers and clink, clink. It goes down smoothly with a strong, bitter-sweet flavour. The Qube bar describes this vodka as 'an original and traditional semi-sweet herb vodka...'

Our second glass contains Zubrowka. This intriguing vodka is infused with grass from bison grazing regions in East Poland. It actually smells and tastes of grass. It has a dry edge and a slightly yellow complexion.

Next we try Siwucha. This clear, dry vodka possesses the kind of flavour you'd expect of most mainstream vodkas. It is a very smooth, however, on account of its triple distillation. It also has a hint of oak, due to its storage in barrels.

Similarly clean is Wyborowa, often described as the Queen of Polish vodkas. This remarkably smooth variety is world-famous for its quality.

For our final glass we take one of the most expensive on the menu - Starka. This vodka has been in production for over 500 years. The Qube bar describes it as 'the most noble and mysterious of all Polish Vodkas'. It goes down like water. Delicious.

And so we head out into the night, feeling like royalty, impervious to the rain. We find ourselves a dim and cavern-like pub in the Kazimierz district. We eat and take a glass or two of Bechorovka - a Czech liquor with herbal ingredients. We grow warm under the glow of candlelights. Marlena Deitrich croons out through the darkness...

Harsh, dark and enchanting...

THE TATRA NATIONAL PARK

Harsh, dark and enchanting, the Tatra mountains form a dramatic Alpine-like range on the Polish-Slovak border. Occupying an area of 715 sq km, these excellently serviced mountains provide ample diversions for walkers, skiers, cyclists and mountaineers alike. All levels of experience and ability are catered to.

Characteristic features of the Tatras include striking geological features, forests, caves and water in abundance. A plethora of plant-life is supported by this habitat, mostly pine trees and wild flowers. Resident fauna includes wild bears, wolves, lynxes and marmots.

175 sq km of the range lie in Poland and are protected by the Tatra National Park. The town of Zakopane, which sees 2 million visitors a year, serves as the most convenient jumping off point for excursions. It is best reached by bus from Krakow, two hours north. Trains take at least an hour longer to get there.

While Zakopane itself is massively over-touristed, especially in the summer and at weekends, the surrounding landscapes more than make up for this. The Tatra's valleys, peaks and forests are truly memorable and inspiring. Nature-lovers should not miss this place.

However, visitors who really cannot stand Zakopane's commercialism can cross the border into Slovakia where costs are cheaper and crowds are thinner. Be warned though, the land around Stary Smokovec - Slovakia's main Tatra resort - has very recently been deforested. Get there soon before big business sinks its claws in...

DANCING PRIESTS

As we prepare to leave Krakow, a major Catholic procession is underway. We hear trumpets through the door - Flutes, drums, cymbals and other brightly tooting instruments. We fling it open. Two hundred school children are following a band of singing monks. They sing: When the Saints Come Marching in. Banners, icons and crucifixes are held aloft. At the front of the procession, two priests dance madly, whirling about in their robes.

As one company thins out, another follows on. Groups of priests, monks, nuns and children troop the streets in their thousands. Everyone carries backpacks and camping mats. The church is taking a road trip.

TO ZAKOPANE

Meanwhile, Katriona and I have our own road-trip to organise. We make it to the train station and reserve seats on the next train to Zakopane. A Polish lady helps us out with the operation. We must somewhere elicit maternal instincts. Perhaps we just look helpless. Its good karma anyhow.

The train takes an hour longer than the bus, lingering at obscure backwater stations, back-tracking over sections of the line. We're in no hurry. We share our compartment with a Polish family and two Polish-Canadian sisters. We talk to them briefly.

Have you been to Zakopane before? I ask them.

Oh yes, we have a grandmother there.

Is it as busy as people say?

Oh yes, its busy.

Ah well, we'll get away from the people if we go hiking.

Oh no, you can never get away from the people...

AN INHOSPITABLE WELCOME

It takes three hours to reach Zakopane. The train is near full when it arrives and it empties a crowd onto the platform.

The first thing I notice is the air. Its cool and clean and sharp. Its like breathing menthol.

We amble out of the station, past groups of people peddling rooms. We catch our first glimpses of the mountains. They loom up in the distance: green and grey and moody, shapeless and flat, great slabs of brooding shadow. Dark clouds obscure the summits, blackness creeps over at speed. Rain falls lightly from a cold, white sky.

We consult the guidebook for a map of the town. There isn't one. Its useless. I threaten to burn the thing for the hundreth time. Luckily, we spot a tourist office over the road. As I make it over there, some guy gets in my face, spitting something in Polish. I side-step, he side-steps with me. He just keeps frothing in Polish.

Look. I tell him. I don't understand Polish.

He gets right up close, nostrils flared, eyes wide and reddened.

Give me four hundred zloty! He barks, clenched fists ready. I look at him:

No.

And I move out of his way. I wonder if he seriously believed I would hand over the equivalent of eighty pounds, just like that. Had he really thought he could rob me in broad daylight, surrounded by hundreds of people. What a clown.

A GRIM CARNIVAL

The tourist office supplies us with a map. They advise us to look for houses marked with the word 'POKOJE'. Pokoje means rooms.

We follow the main roads to the centre of Zakopane. An unpleasant spectacle awaits. Flanked by countless souvenir stalls, the streets are densely packed with tourists. Peddlers of every persuasion maintain their attention: snake-charmers, living statues, beggars, buskers, salesmen. To the left a Macdonalds, to the right a Pizza Hut. The people press forward in slow, vacant droves. A handful of drunks watch from the lines, sipping beer and smoking.

Meanwhile, plastic helicopters whizz overhead. Children chase each other screaming, souvenir axes to hand. At an amusement arcade, teenage boys drive their fists into electronic punchbags. A roasted hog turns on a spit. There's noise: laughter, music, chatter. The grinding of teeth, the shuffling of feet, the rippling of banknotes.

A ROOM

Beyond the centre, Zakopane grows quieter, calmer and more attractive. Large wooden houses boast colourful gardens, carved fences, decorative details. There is an air of well-being and financial solvency. The mountains reveal themselves with unrestrained might. A small, powerful river charges past. Pine trees occupy the surrounding slopes. The aroma of burning wood lingers sweetly. Life here must confer a robust constitution.

It is in these outskirts that we locate a room. Its entirely self-contained with a bathroom, fridge, TV and kettle. Backdoors open onto a large balcony. We pay £14 per night.

An 'easy' hike in the Tatras

The Tatra National Park is served by numerous hiking trails. The most simple comprise wide, flat paths suitable for children, the infirm and wholly unfit. The most difficult trails, typically to mountain summits, should not be attempted without appropriate climbing equipment and experience. For those who want the thrill of high altitude without the pain of climbing to it, cable-cars and ski-lifts ascend the slopes frequently.

Absolutely vital to any hiking expedition is a map - 'The Tatra National Park' is widely available in English. This excellent publication details all the relevant trails, as well as any other natural or geological feature you're likely to encounter.

The trails themselves are all extremely well marked, with colour-coded stripes applied to trees and signs. You'd have to be extremely unfortunate to get lost out there. In any case, take all the usual precautions...

A 'WALKING' TRAIL

Being slightly out of shape, Katriona and I decide to ease ourselves into the hiking. We select a 'walking' trail, denoted by the symbol of a woman pushing a pram. The Koscielska Valley is a popular beauty spot, served by a comfortable trail roughly 6km long.

We enter the park from Kiry, a small settlement some kilometres southwest of Zakopane. Gates open directly onto the valley. There are good facilities at this end of the trail They include a restaurant and snack bars. We pay just under 1 pound each to enter the park.

The Koscielska Valley proves to be a particularly busy locale. In addition to walkers, families occupy the trail in the large numbers. There is a sociable air to the path which is wide and impossible to lose. Men stroll with a beer to hand, cigarettes burning. Children play. Mothers talk. Horse and carts taxi people up and down.

Initially, the valley is flanked by dense slopes of evergreen. Rugged peaks from a distant backdrop. An energetic stream tears close to the path. As we progress, the land appears increasingly untamed. Tall, rough rocks form enveloping walls. Water seems to burst from everywhere, gushing through openings, frothing over rocks.

We cross several bridges, dwarved by the surroundings. There is an undeniably wild quality to the Tatra National Park. It is as if its features were smashed out of the land with violent force. Mountains, valleys, rivers, rocks - all appear youthful and invigoured. All seems to course with energy, drama and strength.

The path continues through a pass, eventually opening onto a gentle glade. Tall grasses are enlivened by coloured flowers - yellow and white. Great swaythes of purple arc over the slopes. Butterflies linger abundantly. We stop here for lunch, eating sandwiches on the rocks near the stream. Then we continue.

The end of the trail is marked by a large lodge. People linger here, mostly drinking beer.

AN 'EASY' HIKE

We don't stay long at the lodge, instead marching to a different coloured trail that no one seems to want to go to. It leads over a ridge and into the next valley - Chocolowska Valley.

This is where it really begins, I declare, without thinking about what I'm saying.

The map has the trail marked at level 2 - 'Easy'. And it starts out like that. We follow a narrow, rocky trail that undulates slightly. We cross streams by stepping stones. All very basic and easy.

Then the trail does something entirely unprecedented. It starts to climb, sharply. We ascend... ten, twenty, thirty minutes. We reach a level, the path arcs around, climbs again. Its a continual tease, a never-ending clamour.

My thighs are numb, my feet are bruised. I'm sweating, sweating, panting for air. I pause and take in the view. The mountains hit me with force. Blood rushes through my skull. Nothing in me but the perpetual ringing in my head. The bang, bang, bang of the heart. The sky, the rocks, the trees move through me. In and out on a breath. The smell of earth and pine and ozone. I'm scattered, broken apart, sent tumbling through the atmosphere...

It takes an hour and a half to reach the summit of the ridge. People are flopped out everywhere. Some smoke, some drink beer. Me and Katriona scrabble for the chocolate. We swallow a mars bar in a single gulp. We empty a litre of water down our throats. Then we wait and wait for the palpitations to subside.

The descent into Chocolowska is quicker and easier. By the time we've reached the bottom, we're already broken. Pain shoots through the limbs, ravaging muscles we never knew we had. The toes, the ankles, the carves, the thighs, the buttocks, the knees - all scream inwardly. After a time, they barely seem to function at all. The knees won't bend. We shuffle forward, open-mouthed, dribbling and numb, arms extended for balance. We can't speak, can't think. There's only agony. Agony and disbelief.

When we finally make it back to the gates, six hours since our initial departure, we take a mini-bus back to town. We purchase a couple of beers and an entire roasted chicken. We stuff ourselves. Slowly, slowly, our aches subside...

24 HOURS OF RAIN

We lose the next 24 hours to rain. Its a good excuse not to punish ourselves with any further hikes. We're aching through and through. Stiff as cardboard. Time to rest.

We pick up some supplies from the supermaket: Bread, cheese, soup, noodles, tomatoes, peppers, onions. Its bitter out there. The crowds are out in bright plastic ponchos. A sea of elven hoods. The rain pelts and pelts. Its unforgiving. Fog shrouds the mountains.

I cook up a modest masterpiece on the camping stove. Cooking with those things is a real art. I scrape the last of the meat from last night's carcass, then I chop and fry some onions, some peppers. I add the chicken, boil up some noodles and mix it all together. I add a dash of the monosodium. Hey presto! Chicken noodle soup. Its lousy... really soggy and wet. Still, it beats a cup-a-soup.

I spend the day catching up on my notes. I feel like I'm chasing a moving car. As soon as I think I'm nearing it, the moment I'm almost up-to-date, it races off out of sight.

When I want a break I go and wash some socks in the sink. We hang everything around the room to dry. We've given the place a bedsitter chic. It smells like a chinese laundry shop.

Our television boasts all of two channels, both in Polish. When we're bored we surf them, back and forth, looking out for weather reports, catching poorly dubbed movies. Perhaps the BBC isn't so bad after all. Terrestrial television is dire the world over.

The news is forecasting more rain. They keep running a feature on the mountains. There's snow up there. Incredible. Children are running around in it, hurling snowballs. Now and then the images cut to scenes of folk dance and reverie. The highlands around Zakopane are home to a vibrant folk culture. The villagers still wear traditional costumes, in Zakopane at least. The men wear white, embroidered leggings, black wide-rimmed hats and waistcoats. They run the tourists up and down in horse and carts. Somewhere in the mountains, in the snow, in a dark, warm cabin, they're having a party. They're kicking their legs, singing, clapping, knocking back beer. The fiddles are playing madly.

A MINOR HIKE

The next morning, its clear and cold and clean. The mountains are white now. They're gloriously defined in the morning light. You can make out all the details. Ridges and lines and cracks and crannies and edges. Sharp and vivid and violently etched.

We embark on a minor hike through the valleys, stopping for coffee and cake enroute. Europeans really have the edge there. A mug of PG and a chocolate digestive just doesn't compare.

Our hike takes us through a pine forest, then up a steep, steep ridge. Spring water bursts through the rocks. The air is wet and earthy. When we reach the top, we descend to the next valley. We reach a dramatic glade, gigantic peaks around us. Clouds are moving in, swirling and threatening.

We follow a river out of the park, then follow the roads back into town. Zakopane is expanding. The outskirts are filled with half-built houses and other construction projects. Who knows what this place will turn into. A city, no doubt.

WANDERINGS AT A MARKET

Back in town, we take a stroll around a market. There's some really fine things on offer. Fresh honey and breads and pastries. Endless leather jackets. Thick, lush, sheep hides. Carved wooden statues. Hats and gloves and shoes and sandles. Dolls and axes and religious icons...

Slovak Paradise

Slovakia is fast becoming a prime destination for outdoor enthusiasts. Pure, untouristed and inexpensive, this beautiful country boasts acres and acres of unadulterated wilderness. Explorers willing to get off the beaten track will definitely not be disappointed by an excursion to Slovakia.

The Slovaks themselves are keen outdoor folk, and consequently their national parks are very well maintained. Slovensky Raj, which means Slovak Paradise, is one such sparkling national park. Located in the east of the country, just south of the Tatra mountain range, this gorgeous locale conceals pine forests, gorges, waterfalls, streams, valleys and slopes. Wild-life is abundant and includes brown bears, wolves and chamois goats.

The real attractions of Slovak Paradise are the many kilometres of hiking trails that snake through the forest. These trails are fun, challenging and beautifully constructed. Wooden bridges, ladders, chains and walkways make them exciting obstacle courses that place demands on your whole body. They also ensure you're continually alert.

Slovak Paradise is very much a national retreat. Few foreigners go there. Sparse hotels and pensions are available in nearby villages, however, most people stay at one of the campsites near the gates.

TRANSIT TO SLOVAK PARADISE

No trains run through the Tatra mountains, which occupy the Polish-Slovak border on an east-west axis. Instead, a bus carries us through the range, opening up jagged and daunting vistas.

We reach Slovakia to find vast areas of forest freshly decimated. Bare stumps extend for miles. Large trucks grind up and down the roads, ladden with pine logs. One day soon, this entire area will be filled by hotels, restaurants and houses. This is called 'progress' by some, 'development' by others.

Poprad-Tatry is the nearest transportation hub. It still feels like the middle of nowhere. The bus station is a basic affair, poorly signposted, facilitated by a few grubby food counters. No one speaks English. I whip out the phrasebook and ham it up with the double consenants. I feel like I've got a mouth full of jam. A combination of gestures and grunts lets us know which bus to catch.

The 30 minute ride to Slovak Paradise takes us into gentle, green and pleasant landscapes. A horse and cart trots by, stacked with hay. We pass impoverished villages. Tykes in tattered clothes are running through fields. Young, dark-skinned women work the village water pump. We continue on, passing a small castle. Then we're ushered out onto the roadside. Its sunny and warm and quiet.

AN INTERESTING CABIN

We walk for fifteen minutes and reach the gates of the park. A few different campsites lie there. They're pleasant and quiet. A balanced mix of families, groups and couples.

We rent a cabin, ever-mistrustful of the weather. Its a slightly dingy construction, having seen its share of strange guests. On the side of the bunk, someone has etched the words, 'SATAN FOREVER'. A second writer has crossed out each word with a black crucifix, then scrawled 'NEVER!' Close to that we find the slogan, 'WHITE POWER' and then, 'CZECH SKINHEADS'. The ceiling is covered with a healthy mix of variously shaped genitalia. Satanists, Christians, Neo-Nazis and a fair few sexually frustrated teenagers have been here before us. It might explain the strange dreams we have.

A MINOR HIKE AND DINNER

Hoping to conserve our strength for the next day, we take a minor hike through the forest. The land is calmer than in the Tatras, though still rugged.

We follow the path, shaded by pine trees. A river rushes past, at times swirling madly. Sharp, tall cliffs rise on either side. Moss creeps over the rocks and trees. Delicate plants extend thimble-like flowers. As we walk, sunshine casts patterns over the earth.

A couple of hours later and we're back at the campsite. The restaurant serves us some hearty, filling grub. We pay around 2 pounds per head. Back at the cabin, we brew up a coffee. Then we settle down to some work. As it grows dark, small fires burn around the campsite.

During the night, it rains mercilessly. Water thunders over the tin roof. We both have strange, strange dreams.

TO THE CANYON

A night of almost unbroken rainfall has conferred a treacherous new obstacle to the trails at Slovak Paradise: Mud. Thick, bog-like and slippery, the paths are clogged and drowned by brown puddles. Traversing them requires tenacity and focus. Put a foot wrong and you're in it. More than once we're sent into a Russian dance routine, feet kicking madly, lower and lower, higher and higher, mud flying everywhere as we fight for balance.

The first kilometers are a scrabble up and down slippery plateaux. We clamber over rocks, leap across puddles, charge our way through cold, wet foliage. We reach a bridge where several trails intersect. We opt for the long, blue trail which follows the length of a canyon.

The canyon is some gaping passage, carved vividly from the earth. The walls are steep and vertical. These tall, grey precipices are coloured by patches of green moss, algae and sprouting grass. Here and there, the fine trickle of a spring breaks out. Droplets are sent scattering from above. Minerals colour the rocks with copper and white and black deposits. Along the canyon floor, a wide river courses. Toffee-coloured. Sometimes gentle, sometimes violent.

The trail is brilliantly designed. A variety of constructions serve to carry us its length. We reach a cliff and drag ourselves up by a chain. We go tottering down walkways. We rise and fall with the river, sometimes climbing ladders, sometimes crossing bridges. Other times we ascend precarious metal steps, bolted into the canyon walls.

SPIRIT OF CHAMOIS

All that hiking in the Tatras must have paid off. Our pace is phenomenal. We're roaring over the track, knocking families and hikers into the water. We're bouncing, leaping, hurling over obstacles. On and on, nothing seems to tire us. And so there I am, cavorting over some walkway, invoking the spirit of Chamois (Chamois - the ancient goat god of the forest), when suddenly it happens. My right foot slips between the slats. I'm sent plunging. My left leg bends, smashing my shin and wedging me in the hole. I'm just jammed in there, dangling over the river, completely unable to move. I howl with guttural force. My left leg goes numb. That will teach me. I have to work myself out, a bit at a time. There's harsh, lumpy bruises all over me. I hobble off red-faced. I'm glad no one saw it.

TO THE MONASTERY

We opt for a savage red trail that climbs up a small mountain. Near the top we reach a young waterfall. Clear water spills aimlessly out of rocks, flowing in a wide stream over the trail. Through the pine trees, we catch glimpses of the villages below. Further off in the distance, the Tatras form an icy backdrop. We climb and climb until we reach the summit. There's a ruined monastery up there, a restaurant and some signposts. People arrive and leave by steady streams.

THE LONG AND WEARY DESCENT

After a brief rest, the long and winding descent begins. I fear we have been overambitious again. That familiar agony begins creeping through the calves. White hot pain shoots through my soles. The knees lock, the jaw drops. What drives us on this endlessly meandering track? What sustains us? Like people imprisoned, we dream of simple worldly pleasures - cooked chicken and Budvar. Easy numbness on the grass, in the sun. We salivate after it.

The question remains, however, of why we do it at all. Only a diehard masochist would derive pleasure from such pain. It's a mystery.

BEER AND CHICKEN AND BLACKOUTS

We get back to base-camp and then straight to the bar. The first beer washes amber goodness through our souls. Our aches, our pounding sores subside into mellow throbs. One beer feels like six. We're swooning in the evening sun, blissful and merry.

We drink another, then another, then another. Soon we're ranting with vigour. Well, I'm ranting, Katriona's listening politely. One more beer, a few dozen cigarettes and we're ready for dinner. The waiters bring us chicken wrapped in ham, fried in breadcrumbs. We devour a small mountain of vegetables on the side. I wash it all down with more of the glug, glug.

Its late when we stumble out, but I persuade Katriona we need a nightcap. Becherovka: What hallowed poison the Czechs have concocted. Smooth, soothing and spicey, that stuff is too easy to swallow. One each turns to four each. We knock them back on the wooden terrace. Glowing, smiling. Then nothing. Blackness. I remember nothing else.

We come round simultaneously, crammed together on a single bunk. Its pitch black. We're momentarily thrown.

Where are we? I whisper.

I don't know. Whispers Katriona.

I try to think but something nasty has settled on my brain. I squint and make out people through the darkness. The beds around us are occupied. Katriona sees them too. We whisper briefly, then lie silent. I think: We're in a dorm. But where? Which hostel? Which city? Which country? I think and think, or try to. The gears still won't shift. I hear a noise. A long, persistent buzzing. The electrics! I remember now. The cabin. I tear up out of bed, smashing into the table, stumbling briefly. I fling the light switch. The room is illuminated. Empty. Completely as we left it. I'm deeply suspicious. I'm convinced there's ghosts in this cabin. I hope they're not us....

Encounters on the road to Hungary

A WEAK BREAKFAST

Breakfast is a weak affair. We're the only patrons in the restaurant. I'm rattling with sickness, coated in a film, trembling visibly. I drop an aspirin, in lieu of something stronger. I drink a coffee miserably.

That waiter is making it hard for me. He's got this music blaring out of the stereo. Lunatic folk music. Hideous. Whirling violins and synthesisers. At top volume. Gruesome elves are spinning through my brain. They're dancing and leering and clapping and laughing. My stomach's turning somersaults. My eyes are burning. Everythings turning and flashing. I can't take it. I rush to the toilets and let it out in the sink. Wave after wave. A little aspirin pops out with a belch. Ah, the dignified world of the binge drinker.

WAITING BY JESUS

Its not a good day to travel. I have to do it anyway. I've had to do worse. We pack our things and haul them down the road. We wait at the bus stop. We wait and wait by the road. A large crucifix marks the stop. Its laden with flowers and offerings. I lie underneath it, pondering. Passing pedestrians make the sign of the cross.

We wait. An hour passes. Then two. No bus arrives. We watch the passing traffic: an occasional cyclist, car, truck full of pine logs. The birds whistle in the trees. Cloud pours in from the mountains. Finally the bus comes. It takes a really winding route, stopping and starting, grinding its gears. The thing is packed full of people. Burning hot. I feel like death. The world is conspiring against me. This is what I get for my sins.

We spill out at Poprad and march to the train station. This communist era structure is confusing, served by what appears to be a single platform with several lines. Decrepid old trains are packed all over the place. Masses of overhead cables lend it an industrial air. I pester a guard till we find the right train.

SLOVAKIA TO HUNGARY

We secure a compartment for ourselves. Some peace and quiet is just what I need. I could lie down on the seats and sleep.

The first train ride of the day carries us from Poprad to Kosice in Eastern Slovakia. The scenary is something pure. Unbroken forests. Lakes, valleys, rivers. Fields of sunflowers, wildflowers, maize. Angular church spires rise out of villages. No main roads for miles.

As we near Kosice, the character changes. Grim, stinking steelworks fill the land with pipes and chimneys and crumbling, grey buildings. Electricity cables spill in from every direction. White smoke belches out. Thats what we see for several miles before the city.

We hop out at Kosice and make our connection with seconds to spare. This next train takes us to Miskolc in Eastern Hungary. We stop at a border and passport control saunters on. They check us out and we roll slowly on our way.

A BENT TICKET INSPECTOR

We arrive in Miskolc a few hours later. Its a modern, busy station with electronic boards and cappuccino stalls. We jump on the Budapest-bound Intercity with a view to exiting at Fuzesabony, 30 minutes down the track. Its a plush, smooth, air-conditioned machine. Its bliss. We think we're home.

Then the ticket inspector arrives. He's a large, brutal man with a shaved head and guard-dog demeanour.

TICKETS... he barks.

We whip out our Inter Rail passes and he examines them front-to-back, back-to-front.

RESERVATIONS... he slathers.

We don't have reservations. The train is empty. Why would we need reservations.

THIS TRAIN IS RESERVATIONS.

He pulls out a book, leafs through it and points to the word, RESERVATION.

We don't have reservations, I tell him.

He purses his lips, he sets down his bag. Out comes the calculator. He punches in a number. It amounts to around 15 pounds. 15 pounds for a thirty minute journey. Extortion. Even by English standards.

I want a receipt, I tell him.

EH? He growls, eyeing me viciously.

A receipt.

EH?

A receipt. Reckening. A bill.

The inspector shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders. He starts breathing heavily and glaring. So I get the phrasebook and search for the word 'receipt'. You'd think it was vital, but apparently Lonely Planet deems phrases like 'I want an anaesthetic' as more socially useful. So I get the Thomas Cook Timetable and look up the train we're on. Its there alright. Reservations compulsory. He has us. Its only a matter of how much for...

All this fussing buys us some time. The inspector disappears down the train for ten minutes. When he returns, he signals me to follow him to a private place. The calculator comes out again. He punches in a new figure. Around six pounds, for both of us. He makes it seem like he's doing me a favour. I'm bored, I'm tired, I pay him the money. He folds it up and puts it in his pocket. And then, for some stupid reason, I don't know why, I say:

Now you'll give me a receipt.

He laughs: No, no, no. A receipt for this? No, no, no.

EGER, FINALLY

From Fuzesabony we catch one final train to Eger - a 20 minute ride north. We step out and the twilight is just starting. My hang-over has gone, in its place has come nervous exhaustion. We need to eat and wash and sleep. Its getting desperate. As we exit we see the sign: Tourist Hotel. It occupies the old station building. We peek in. It looks dim and creepy. We decide to give it a miss.

A main road leads into the town centre. Its lined with large and important-looking houses. The Hungarian flag hangs from their windows. We reach a large, baroque structure that backs onto a park. We stop there and search the guidebooks for hotels in our price range. Once again, it proves useless. And so I leave Katriona and the packs at the park. I set out alone in search of accommodation.

I enter the main pedestrian drag. I scout up and down and get a feel for it. I know right away, Eger is a beautiful city. People sit on terraces in the fading warmth of the day. Brightly coloured houses line the roads. Two young hippies play guitar and sing. There is an easy, happy atmosphere to the city. I love it immediately.

I fail to find any accommodation. We head to the only vaguely affordable place listed in the book. They have no room. Its dark now. We sit in an internet cafe and drink a coffee. We search for hostels. In the end we traipse all the way back to the creepy hotel at the station. The doors are locked. I ring the bell. We wait and wait. Eventually a man saunters down. He opens up slowly, eyeing us with a strange and distant gaze.

Do you speak English? I ask.

Little. He says.

Do you have a room? I ask.

He pauses, thoughtfully:

We have no room. Yes, it says tourist hotel. But we have no room.

Do you know anywhere cheap in the city?

Cheap? No. There is nowhere cheap.

We wait there a moment. We're shattered. Finally the man pipes up.

How many nights you are staying in Eger? He says.

One night, I tell him.

Hmm. He says. It is just you staying.

Me and Katriona.

Hmm.

We wait. His eyes are bloodshot. He seems to be thinking.

OK. I have a room for one night. 2,000 forint each.

Fine. We'll take it.

Really? Its OK?

Yes. We'll take it.

He takes us to the room down a long corridor, slightly dank and illuminated by fluorescent bulbs. The room overlooks the train platform. Its bizarre... Sleeping in the train station. We pay him the money and he gives us the keys. Then he leaves us alone.

Do you think he was stoned? Asks Katriona.

Either he was stoned, or he was very strange.

We're definitely locking the door tonight.

Definitely.

A BEAUTIFUL DINNER

We wash and change and feel like new people. We head out into the city to find a restaurant. We locate a fine establishment that specialises in Hungarian fare. The walls are covered with peasant's implements, giant stuffed animal heads, black and white photos of a distant-past Eger. The waiter is kind and graceful. He brings the menus. I order 'The Guvnor's favourite'. The waiter smacks his lips in approval.

They bring the food and its so beautiful I want to cry. I'm teetering on the brink. So exhausted I'm sure I'm going to slump on the table. They bring me a turkey breast stuffed with cheese, wrapped in bacon and fried in bread crumbs. A mountain of home-made chips serves as a side-dish. They're smothered in garlic butter. The whole thing is showered in finely chopped parsley.

The Valley of the Beautiful Women

EGER

'Where I can smell good wine, I go in,

How could I not stop in Eger?

If I missed this town,

Even God would beat me.'

Sandor Petofi, Hungary's greatest poet

Eger has been a centure of wine-making for nearly one thousand years. Proud, hospitable and refreshingly breezy, this glorious Baroque town serves up charm and spirit in equal measure. Its centre is contained and intimate, filled with bright historic buildings and equally historic pubs. Strolling around, one feels immediately and pleasantly intoxicated. There is a wonderfuly infectious quality to Eger's relaxed atmosphere, sustained by a lively outdoor culture of terraced restaurants, cafes and bars. The town's proudest monument is Eger castle. Situated in the centre and surrounded by enticing lanes, this building adds a touch of regal spice to an already magnificent town.

Eger's greatest treasures, however, are to be found slightly away from the centre. The Valley of the Beautiful Woman conceals around 200 cellars where wine and mirth flow copiously. Surrounded by vineyards, locals and visitors alike flock here daily. The offerings of Eger's master wine-makers include an array of red and whites, dry and sweet: Cabernets, Merlots, Chardonnays and Rizlings. The town's most famous product is Egri Bikaver, 'bull's blood', a careful blend of several blue grapes.

Eger is a jewel. Don't miss it.

A CARAVAN AND WANDERINGS

After our night at the station, we pack up and search for a new place to sleep. The nervous young man at the tourist office directs us to a campsite. Its a short walk out of town. The place is easy and warm and surrounded by vineyards. We rent a caravan there, slightly ramshackle. Its official: We're trailer-trash.

We wash and take a wander through town. We wind up in the centre, strolling up and down cobbled streets, past bright facades and terraced cafes. A giant Baroque cathedral marks the centre. Its enough to rival anything in Spain. They've set up stalls in the square out front. Eger is celebrating one of its many annual wine festivals. There's tables filled up with bottles and glasses. They've set up a stage too. Its currently empty. They play heavy-metal through the speakers, presumably to get the party going:

'Run for the hills!

Run for your life!'

We continue over the bridge towards the castle. Its time for coffee. We stop at a pub and order two espressos. We gulp them down in the sunshine. At the table beside us, an old couple and their daughter are drinking red wine. Its 10am. Their eyes are swollen with the years.

The day continues in this fashion, drifting, taking coffee and photos. In the afternoon we return to our campsite and wash our clothes. We shower and change and head for the wine cellars.

VALLEY OF THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN

As the sun sets over the Valley of the Beautiful Woman, old men sing to the violin. Wine flows copiously from never-ending jugs. The gypsies play and play. There's laughter and clapping and wildly stomping feet. There's dancing and drinking and reverie. The spirit of Bacchus flows. Some wild and playful madness. We pour a glass and raise it. Salut! Salut! Salut!

Eger and the surrounding regions are ideal for vine cultivation. Soil, light, humidity and temperature conspire perfectly. Monastic orders were the first to utilise these blessed climatic conditions in the 11th century. By the 20th century, family wineries had come to dominate production. They established Eger's reputation for all time. The wine produced today is the result of nearly a thousand years of cultivation and experimentation. Eger's wine-makers are masters who benefit from the secrets of many preceding generations.

The majority of Eger's wines are stored and sold here, in the Valley of the Beautiful Woman, on the northern fringe of Eger. The origin of the valley's name is a mystery. Some believe that the valley once served as place of Pagan worship, and that the Beautiful Woman is an old love goddess. Others suggest that beautiful women once sold wine here. Hungary is a nation blessed with beautiful women, so its not too hard to believe.

Its almost dusk when we descend into the valley. People are arriving by foot and car. Its warm and clear. There's a relaxed and tentative buzz. The cellars occupy rows on a U-shaped road. Between each side there lies a small park, filled with families and groups. They're drinking wine and burning small fires. A few couldrons simmer with steam and stew.

We take our first glasses outdoors, as the day's light and warmth are fading. Groups occupy the tables around us, growing lightly sozzled, laughing. People enter with empty plastic bottles, have them filled, then leave. A stray cat weaves between our legs. Katriona is drinking a sweet white, I am drinking a dry red. I like my wine like my jokes: dark and dry.

We drain our glasses and move to the next place. A small old man with an elegant moustache and waistcoat greets us. We order two glasses of Egri Bikaver, 'Bull's Blood'. Bull's Blood is Eger's most famous wine. The origins of its name are obscure, although some believe it was first coined by the Turks. On seeing Eger's soldiers so fortified, they believed they were drinking bull's blood.

Egri Bikaver is actually a blend of at least three different grapes. The exact combinations are decided on a year-by-year basis. It is a thick, dark purple wine with a strong and unique aroma. Its flavour is both sweet and dry by turns. It is excellent.

Our next cups take us to a cavernous cellar with ancient stone walls. The air is cool and moist and fragrant. This is said to encourage the growth of a beneficial mould. I order a Merlot, Katriona has a Rizling. We sit at an old oak table and drink by candle-light. There's nothing like the warm glow of quality liquor. Although, to tell the truth, we know nothing about wine. You don't need expertise to enjoy it here. Simply point to a jug and taste. Whatever you choose will invariably be delicious, refreshing and cheap.

And so we drift from cellar to cellar, tasting this, gulping that. We lose track of what we've tried. Each cellar is different. Some are cool and quiet, others are bright and rowdy. We finish the night in a busy place. An extended family is occupying a long table in the centre of the room. A gypsy band plays jaunty dittys. Waiters bring feasts on platters. Children dance. The world grows merry. We finish our last and stumble out under a full, full moon. I leap right over it. The Valley of the Beautiful woman is some delightfully intoxicated place.

Welcome to Budapest

Budapest boasts all the grandeur befitting a great European capital. Rising on the banks of the majestic Danube, this elegant city is a proud and regal presence. Great boulevards reach through its heart, reminiscent of London or Paris. Huge neo-classical buildings stand upright with pillars and columns. Baroque facades spill over with exuberant detail. Art nouveau mansions flaunt grace and flair. A sea of brightly tiled towers extends across the city.

But architechtural delights are not the only thing that Budapest has to offer. A wealth of cultural, historical and recreational distractions await. Roman ruins, ancient castles, labyrinths, churches, parks, synagogues and endless museums are all within the city limits. Nearly 100 thermal springs rise to the surface in Budapest, giving visitors the chance to bathe in luxurious medicinal spas. Just outside the city, you'll find 'Statue Park' - a graveyard for old communist monuments. As you'd expect of a city this size, a diverse and energetic entertainment scene flourishes. Night-clubs, bars and fine eateries are available everywhere. It is no wonder Budapest has been dubbed 'Queen of the Danube'.

EGER TO BUDAPEST

Katriona and I catch a train direct from Eger. Its busy. We stack our backpacks in the corridor. Now we have a bench. An American family is occupying the rest of the space with around 200 green suitcases. As the train rolls on, more and more people board it. Very soon we're all crammed in and intimate. Arms, legs, faces, hands, feet and green suitcases. All squashed together against the glass. This can happen, if you don't make reservations.

 

THROUGH THE CITY

We arrive in Budapest and book a student room through an agency at the station. They quote us 16 euros for a double. That later turns out to be 16 euros per person. Very crafty.

The price includes a ride to the place. We pile into the minibus with a group of excited young Spanish boys. They like the music the driver has playing:

Very good music! I like it very much! Yes! Reggae! Very good! Hey! You know good night-club in this city? You know night-club that play this kind of music?

The driver shrugs his shoulders. He doesn't speak English. The Spaniards keep tapping their feet, buzzing, making random declarations:

Nightlife! Yes! Nightlife!

And then, from out of nowhere:

Budapest's oldest gay nightclub!

...They must have been reading from a guidebook...

The student halls are located in Buda, on the western banks of the Danube. Pest occupies the Eastern side. These two sides were once seperate settlements, before uniting as Budapest.

The bus moves through tall corridors of stone. There's heavy traffic. Its grey and its raining. The streets of Pest are like the streets of central London. Enormous, busy and cold. I feel anonymous in this place. I feel I could get out and walk for miles without being noticed. Its not until we reach the Danube, however, that I truly realise the scale of it. The river is at least twice the width of the Thames. Grand historical buildings rise from the embankments. The castle on the hill rolls into view. There's a brief rush of awe. Budapest is truly some regal construction.

STUDENT HALLS

The student halls are a like a hospital block. We drag our packs in, wait in a queue and get hit with the actual price. We pay for one night. Tomorrow we'll move somewhere cheaper, and steal some towels for their deceipt.

We have a wander around the city, soon realising that this can't be done here. It takes nearly 20 minutes just to cross the Danube by foot. The metro is the most convenient way to get around, though this serves mainly Pest. Transit around Buda is by tram or bus or overland train.

We eat a fine pizza in Pest, then make our way back through the rain. We work some, then nap. Its dark when we wake up. We take a lift to the top of the building. The view, overlooking the Danube, is excellent. The buildings are lit up like bars of gold.

A HEAP OF JUNK AND SOME COMMUNIST STATUES

Early next morning we relocate to a cheaper student hall. This one costs 13 euros per person. Budapest is not a cheap city.

The halls are slightly dank and smelly and institutional. I won't describe the bathrooms. It is, however, conveniently located opposite a supermarket. Say what you will about the horrors of consumerism, but I do appreciate a well-stocked supermarket when I'm travelling.

We buy some supplies and prepare a daypack. We have a busy day planned. We aim to see Esceri flea market and statue park in the day, the Pepsi Sziget festival in the evening. No rest for the wicked. Let's go.

ESCERI FLEA MARKET

Esceri flea market is a verible trove of ill-sorted objects. Stacked and teetering, stuffed in boxes, overflowing from rusted metal trays. Every conceivable relic.

Wedged between battered old biscuit tins: watches, clocks, daggers, pen-knives, bread-knives, butter-knives. A brass bust of Adolf Hitler. Ten million nuts and bolts. Paintings of naked women. Paintings of hideous drunks. Tables, chairs, bread-bins. Drinks cabinets, glass cabinets, locked cabinets, broken cabinets. Soviet era hip flasks and medals. Swords and cloaks and uniforms. A river of rusted lighters. A mountain of twisted springs.

The secret's in the detail. Peeping through curtains of cracked leather. Twenty glass-eyed, white-skinned china dolls. In dark and ancient caves. Gruseome lamps and gramophones. Chess sets and one-armed bandits.

Down one lane and up and another. Giant flags from unknown places. Portraits of Stalin, portraits of Lenin, portraits of princes and portraits of dogs. A bank of old black telephones. A ton of army surplus. Nets and boots and high-heeled shoes. Hairless mannequins. Spectacles, recepticles, candles, cloth.

Its all piled up at Esceri market. Dust and must and decades of junk.

STATUE PARK

I hear a marching tune. The solid, unified chant of workers. Onwards Comrades! Solidarity! Industry! Revolution! I see Marx, Lenin and Mao emblazeoned on t-shirts. I see communist hip-flasks, lighters, shot-glasses. I see the Red Star, curiously merged with the Starbucks logo, printed on mugs and mass produced for tourists. Marx would turn in his grave.

When communism fell at the end of the Eighties, Hungary was among the many Eastern Bloc countries that suddenly found themselves independent. One of the many challenges they faced was dealing with the scars inflicted by decades of totalitarian rule. Socially and economically, great difficulties lay ahead. There was also the matter of the monstrous monuments commissioned by the former regime. All around Budapest, great statues extolled the virtues of Marx, Lenin and other heroes of Socialism.

After much deliberation and debate, it was decided that all these monuments should be gathered together in one place. Statue Park, just outside of Budapest, is a memorial to the fall of Communism. And while the souvenir stand appears to mock the fallen regime, the park is anything but a joke. For many Hungarians, the years of dictatorship are still a painful issue. Neither inside the park, nor in their literature, is there any mention or image of Stalin - The Soviet Union's most insane and notorious dictator.

The main gates rise in a grandiose fashion. The architect's intent is to mimick the style of Soviet era buildings - Social realism. This architectural style presumed itself the successor of classical architecture. Hence the mass employment of pillars and arches. Such features are intended to conote perfection, symetery, order and godliness. The actual effect is rather stark and ugly. It speaks of cumbersome authority, of centralised rule, greyness and uniformity.

Two statues stand within arches on either side of the gates. The first is of Lenin, the great father of the Russian revolution. He stands upright and noble, as if addressing the masses. He holds a rolled up hat in his hands.

That's not a hat. Says Katriona. That's a bag of Macdonalds...

The second statue depicts Marx and Engels, the intellectual inspiration of the Revolution and authors of the Communist Manifesto. The statue is angular and entirely expressed through flat faces, sharp edges and sides. There is something biblical about their stance. Marx reminds me of Charlton Heston when he played Moses in the Ten Commandments...

We enter the park through a side gate. The building of the park is actually only partially complete, and so the main gates remain locked. A Trabant is parked just behind them. Trabants are the crappy 'paper cars' issued by the communist government, typically light blue.

The park is apportioned into three sections, where paths follow an '8' shape. At the centre of the park lies a star of red flowers, commemorating a similar arrangement in Budapest city. There should be walls following and adjoining the monuments, but a lack of funds has left these incomplete. Consequently, there is a very open feel to the place. If you ever visit, try to imagine how the completed version would have looked. It lends it a completely different atmosphere.

We follow the '8' shaped paths, admiring each statue in turn. Some depict famous characters from the great communist debacle, Lenin most notably. There are more obscure heroes also, many from Hungarian and Bulgarian history. More abstract productions commemorate 'The Workers and Soldiers', 'The Workers Movement', 'The Republic of Councils'.

'Liberation Monument' is one of the park's most famous. This enormous statue depicts a Soviet soldier bearing a flag. It was delivered to Budapest as a gift from Marshall Vorosilov, the Soviet commander who 'liberated' Budapest.

The statues are all invariably imbued with the political ethos of their creators. There is nothing unusual about that. To an extent, all public monuments are works of propaganda. Churches reinforce the rule of Christ, skyscrapers boast the efficency of commercialism. Sovet statues propagate socialism. They seem to contain the following words: Industry, union, revoltion, hope, equality, justice, truth, righteousness, love and brotherhood. These words are lies. Soviet Statues are intended provoke awe, demand respect and hammer home the ever-lasting and infaliable socialist doctrine. They are works of fear. George Orwell had it sussed: All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others. You realise this, gazing up at fifteen foot of immortalised stone. What is fascinating about these statues is that they remain at all. There surely must have been some temptation to destroy them. To break them into a million little pieces.

The Pepsi Sziget Festival

The ground swells enormously, thousands with beer to hand. Some dance, some drink, some sleep. Noise booms from everywhere: music, parties and rowdy young punks. The scenes are fabulous and debauched. Drunkards topple from bungie towers. Hippies go screaming down zip-lines. Around the island, a small plane circles eternally.

The Pepsi Sziget festival, held annually in Budapest, is Europe's largest open air music festival. Staged on Obudai island on the Danube, this year sees 385,000 visitors to the week-long extravaganza. Headline acts include (among others); Underworld, Basement Jaxx, Nick Caves and the Bad Seeds, Korn, Franz Ferdinand and the Hives. In total, 25 stages and tents cater to varying music tastes. Dance, punk, blues, reggae, folk and world music are just some of the genres served.

A plethora of other (mostly hedonistic) distractions are also offered by the organisers. Drink beer at one of the 72 pubs, create something with clay, realign your chakras or just wolf down some fine vegetarian food. And when you've had enough of that, you can jump off the bungie tower. This festival will restore your faith in western civilisation.

Tickets can be bought for a day or for a week. The festival is easily reached from central Budapest, where is accommodation is plentiful. The more adventurous types can camp on site at Sziget. As you'd expect of a major event, facilities and services are widespread, if sometimes crowded.

A MODEST ATTENDANCE

Katriona and I aren't camping at Sziget, and we're only visiting for an evening. A week of debauchery wouldn't serve us well. There's too much to do, and our bones are creaking.

I remember with some affection, the last festival we attended. Pink Pop, Netherlands, 2003. For three days, we sat on a patch of grass by an enormous metal gate. We drank. We didn't move from the patch of grass. We barely had enough sense to pitch the tent. When we finally managed it, it was impossibly warped out of shape. We just sat with our friends and drank. There was clowning, talking, laughing, fighting, screaming. Episodes of sorts and eventually, shared psychosis. We didn't see any bands. We all caught the flu. Do I surprise you?

THE HIVES

Armed with a few bottles of bull's blood, we arrive at the main-stage at 8.00pm. It's the final night of the festival. You can tell the hardcore who have been here all week. That haggard look is unmistakable - chemical and physical exhaustion. We join the assembled masses and start swigging on the red. There's some catching up to do. Very soon, the musicians arrive to much screaming and cheering.

'The Hives' are headlining tonight. This Swedish band formed in 1993. Its members - Nicholaus Arson, Chris Dangerous, Dr. Matt Destruction, Vigilante Carlstroem and Howlin' Pelle Almqvist - were still teenagers at that time.

Grafting for a while as garage rockers, it was not until 2000 that they saw any mainstream appreciation. This was prompted by the release of Veni Vedi Vicious. They have since been compared to The White Stripes. Their sound tends to be fast and energetic and influenced by the Stooges. Their most recent album is Tyrannosaurus Hives.

I'm at first skeptical of this five-some, who enter the stage in trademark, black and white retro suits. 'We are the Hives!' Declares singer Almqvist repeatedly, strutting with cocky self-assurance (a la Mick Jagger). Soon though, they have me charmed. The set is roaring. There's sweat, energy and noise in abundance.

Almqvist is a dynamic, high-energy frontman. He screams, he shouts, he sings, he dances. He talks to the crowd continually. One moment he's scaling the rigging, the next he's in the audience. He's hyper, exuberant and insanely egotistical. Above all, he's charismatic. Almqvist is perfectly endowed to play the rock 'n roll front-man.

We watch the whole set and the adrenalin never lets up. During this time, we polish off the Bulls Blood. Then we wander around with ringing ears until we reach the World Music stage.

THE BUENA VISTA SOCIAL CLUB

The Buena Vista Social Club are the chief attraction tonight. These Cuban musicians were plucked from obscurity in the 1990s, already old men. Their album, released in 1996, has sold over 5 million copies. It has received widespread critical acclaim and several awards. A documentary was released soon after, set partly in Havana and on tour in the United States.

The original band members are now deceased. A new generation of Cuban musicians are picking up where they left off, spreading the good news, that is Latin music....

Its dark when we arrive at the stage. I'm good and drunk now and in the mood for a dance. Twenty or so musicians occupy the platform, armed with brass instruments, guitars, marracas, drums. They play a lot of new material, but its all good.

Latin music has some beautiful qualities: passion, joy, romance, simplicity and style. Gentle rhythms draw you into a dance, then suddenly, a trumpet solo blows you off your feet. Most of these songs make you feel happy. They're about sex, women, machismo and working the land. What else?

 

THE STUMBLE HOME

Once the set finishes, both Katriona and I are wasted. We find a cocktail bar and order a couple of Long Island ice teas. Predictably, they're lousy. The only place for cocktails is an expensive hotel. Don't trust anyone else - there are relatively few people who know how to make them well.

It grows blurry beyond there. I remember talking to a pair of Dutch lads and applauding the city of Amsterdam. I remember stumbling around, searching for the durex dance tent. Then we're on the bus. I'm rambling away to a pair of English backpackers. Slurring slightly. Slurring heavily. We get out at the wrong place. We spend an hour walking through Budapest. We eat. I buy one more beer. Then darkness. Sleep.

Gellert Spa and farewell Katriona

GELLERT SPA

Water issues from the mouths of Chinese lions. A mosaic of turquoise fragments arcs overhead. I lie back and take in the cavernous ceiling. The steam, the smell of mineral salts. This thermal pool has a temperature of 38 degrees centigrade. I let it absorb me. I breathe in the vapours and voluptuous statues gaze down.

Hungary is a land blessed with abundantly flowing thermal springs, of which over 100 rise to the surface in Budapest. 12 medicinal spas are to be found across the city, offering unique bathing experiences and opportunities for luxurious self-indulgence. The Gellert Spa, located in Buda and close to the Danube, is Budapest's most famous.

Boasting a sumptuous art nouveau interior, Gellert spa is a popular haunt for tourists and locals alike. Hot baths of varying temperatures, wave pools and steam-rooms are some of the facilities available. There is also a team of qualified masseurs to further ease your aching body...

We arrive in the morning. The exterior of the main entrance is framed by an enormous and weathered stone carving. It makes the place seem ancient. The interior is lavish and elegant. A great hallway opens up, supported by red marble columns, illuminated by stained-glass windows. The floor is ornamented with an intricate mosaic. Arched enclaves conceal statues of young, naked women. Art nouveau is endlessly stylish and refined.

Gellert has both single and mixed-sex pools, indoors and out. We change into our suits and locate the main indoor section. We find a cool, rectangular pool flanked by pillars and statues. It is shallow. A colourful glass ceiling arcs above. Nearby, there is a small heated pool for bathing only. We soak in that for a while, before venturing outside. There we find a large open-air pool and more ornate sculptures. The wave machine is turned on regularly here.

The single sex areas boast thermal pools at 36 degrees and 38 degrees. These waters are slightly greenish and rich in sulphury smells. People roam nude here, or else clad is a simple loin cloth. There is a small labyrinth of massage rooms, a steam room, showers and a cold pool. There are no windows here, lending it a cavernous atmosphere.

The waters are good and hot, and so I soak here for a while. Then I have a steam.

We spend two hours at the spa, wishing we'd provided more time. Water is a magic element. Come here when your energy is low and spend some time relaxing. You'll leave feeling refreshed, clean and revitalised.

FAREWELL TO KATRIONA

Katriona must return to England. Work beckons. And so we haul our things to the train station. She's taking a direct train to Salzburg, from where she will fly to London Stansted. The journey time for the train is 6 hours. As we're heading down the platform, an overwrought American family storms past.

CAN SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP US! Squeals the daughter, close to tears.

Yes, what is it?

WE NEED TO GET OUR LUGGAGE ON THE TRAIN! Cries the father, struggling with an enormous suitcase.

....But... you have five minutes... Says a bystander

OH WE DO!?

Katriona and I say our farewells and she boards the train. I smoke a few cigarettes and watch it roll off. I am alone now. What shall I do? I wander around, watching things, killing time until my train this evening. I am going to Romania alone.

A rough ride to Romania

We're off to deepest, darkest Romania. Bucharest. City of hustlers and street dogs. Final bastion of Eastern bloc edginess. It's a 16 hour ride from Budapest. You'd better be ready.

I decide to knock myself out for the journey. I take a few beers in a bar, then a few more in a park. Then I head for the supermarket and stock up on some essentials: bread, cheese, water, beer.

A CABIN FOR SIR

The night train leaves at 8 in the evening. Its not a plush affair. It creaks and rattles and shudders. The guard shows me to my couchette. He calls me 'sir'. I like that. It seems fortune has smiled on me tonight. I have a cabin all to myself.

A good thing too. Body odour has been an issue of late. I ran out of deodorant 2 days ago. The cleanest t-shirt I have, I've been wearing since the sziget festival. I had a good, deep clean in the spa, but traipsing around with a backpack has ruined all that.

I am so revolting, I should be locked away. That's exactly what I set about accomplishing. I pull the door and lock it. Then I take off my boots to air them. It's a ripe aroma. Rotten stilton, cheesy wotsits and dishcloth. It rises like steam. These things need to be destroyed when I get back to England. Definitely a biohazard.

THE TEST

I kick back and crack open a beer. I guzzle it down and watch dark shapes roll past the window. Three beers later and I'm ready to sleep. Being alone affords me the chance to try out each bunk... just like goldielocks. The bottom bunk rocks and rattles madly. It shakes me up like a cocktail. I feel the beer fizzing inside me. I get out of there quick. The middle bunk sways like a ship. The nausea is diminished though very present. Finally I climb onto the top bunk. This bunk is just right. Its covered in odious grey stains, but I'm too tired to care. I fall into a strange, sweaty, beery slumber.

THE INVASION

The first knock comes a few hours later.

PASSPORT CONTROL!

I hand it over, bleary.

LOOK AT ME! He barks.

And so I stare...

OK, OK, that's enough.

Passport control disappears and I'm left alone for another hour or so. Then the second knock comes. It's the guard. I'm very sorry sir, but there will be five people joining you soon.

I knew it was too good to last. I tidy my things and arrange what I need on the top bunk. That will be my corner from now on. My hideaway. I climb up there and doze vaguely, dehydrated.

I say something some I very used to saying by now. Those beers were not a good idea. My skankiness is multiplied tenfold. The cabin reeks of stale, alcoholic sweat. I am a tramp. A fetid, miserable tramp.

BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH

My companions arrive momentarily. A Romanian family. A loud Romanian family. They fling on the lights and take over the cabin. I watch them carefully from my corner. Like a rat.

They open a cool box and start having a picnic. Its 1 am. Do I even exist? There's this old man and I can't tell if he's deaf or crazy or both. Everything that comes out of his mouth is a high-level exclamation. BLAH! BLAH! BLAH! BLAH! He slaps his thighs, gathers his breath. BLAH! BLAH! BLAH! BLAH!

I can't take it. I have to get away. I jump from my corner, just like Spiderman. They barely have time to react. I feel their eyes on me. I don't dare look. I charge through there, into the dark calm of the corridor.

SCENES FROM THE WINDOW

I open the window and light a cigarette. One follows another. We're moving at a pace. Crawling. Edging slowly forward, little by little through the blackened Romanian countryside. The moon is full, illuminating fields and structures. We pass a collection of cobbled together animal sheds. Wooden slats, boards, scraps nailed together haphazardly. Standing upright in the mud. Washing lines strung between them. Those are not animal sheds. We pass a river, banks piled up with human waste.

I finish all my cigarettes and there's nothing else to do. Back at the cabin, the party's still going strong. Every other cabin is sleeping. I ask the guard if I can move somewhere else. I'm sorry sir, there are no empty cabins.

And so I head back to my corner. The old man starts shouting at me. I tell him I don't speak Romanian, but that doesn't deter him. He just keeps shouting and pointing at my feet. Ah yes, the feet... they are bad aren't they? But I'm afraid I could not possibly wash them tonight. No, no, old man, you're going to have to suffer. We're all going to suffer together...

A NEW DAY

They finally shut up around dawn. I get in a couple of hours before a new party starts in the next cabin. They're all having beer for breakfast. Its not long before the old man wakes and I find myself in the corridor again.

Pretty soon after that, I'm in and out of the bathroom. My stomach is wrecked. I'll have to pop some immodium and hope that knocks it back into balance. I'm not squeamish about these things. Not after Mexico.

I ponce a cigarette from a group of backpackers and smoke it. I watch the scenery. We stop at a village and two Roma teenagers bound into our car. They try forcing a few doors and then jump out. We watch them go running over the tracks.

A NEW DISGRACE

By 10 am, the entire compartment is awake and busy. People get on, people leave. A cabin becomes vacant and so I storm in there and make it my own. I eat some stale bread. The cheese is no good now. It sweated to hell.

And then, during some ill-fated toilet trip, I manage to knock over someone's beer. The can empties out into the corridor, goes rattling down the length. The beer rolls everywhere. Some alpha male character yells at me. I grab a crushed, half-roll of grey toilet paper. I profer it up lamely and he shoos me off with violent gestures. I hide in the cabin and don't come out again. Now I really have stunk the place out.

We arrive in Bucharest after inexplicable delays. We stop in the middle of nowhere and wait. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, half an hour. We're finally get there two hours late. Total journey time; 18 hours.

IN SEARCH OF INFORMATION

I exit the train unravelled. I don't have the nerve for this big, bad city. Bounce echoes madly. People swarm everywhere. I've got a ten ton weight on my back. Sweat pours off my face, dampening my clothes. There's this noise between the echoes, a churning of teeth. Keep calm, keep focussed, keep controlled.

The guidebook tells me that the Elvis Villa hostel has an information booth on the platform - 'manned by friendly, helpful, staff'. So I amble over. I'm greeted by some surly sort of wink who doesn't have maps, information, or anything helpful for me. He seems reluctant to tell me how to get to the hostel.

A WORD ABOUT ROMANIAN CURRENCY

So I go and change some money and buy a phonecard. I'm convinced the woman short-changes me. It later turns out I'm wrong. Romanian currency is a minor nightmare to deal with. There are, in fact, two currencies in circulation: an old and new. The rate for old lei is around 35,000 to the pound. The rate for new lei is 3.5 to the pound. So far so good. The confusing part comes when your change arrives as a mixture of old and new currency, banknotes and coins. You'll see prices sometimes quoted in old lei, sometimes quoted in new, mostly quoted in both. When dealing with cash machines, you will be dealing with new lei. Be careful with that or you could take out tens of millions that you'll never be able to change in England.

OF LINGERING THINGS

I make a call to the hostel and book a bed. Then I wait for a bus at the front of the station. It seems so long coming, I make enquiries with the taxi. They quote me 300,000 lei. I tell them to get lost. They quote me 150,000 lei. I tell them to get lost again. The bus is 10,000 lei. I'll wait.

Finally I make it to the hostel. I get a bunk in a six bed dorm. I take some t-shirts, underwear, socks and I wash them in the sink. The rest I put in for laundry service. It comes back a day later, smelling worse than I gave them. Sometimes there's nothing you can do.

WELCOME TO BUCHAREST

Crumbling gothic mansions hide between Communist tower blocks. Traffic moves endlessly, spewing black exhaust into the day-time sun. Beneath clamouring columns of scaffold, piles of sand reach like pyramids. Gangs of street dogs sniff around broken bottles. A hustler watches from a dilapidated and overgrown playground.

The beauty of Bucharest is invariably cradled by urban poverty, decay and pollution. In fact, it can be so hard to see beyond these things, one could be mistaken for thinking that Bucharest has no beauty at all. This is not true. Architectural gems lie hidden in the labyrinthine old town, while museums contain captivating collections like the national treasure. Even the Palace of the People, a monstrous Communist building, contains admirable decorations on the inside. There is beauty in Bucharest, but it must be hunted out.

The real appeal of Bucharest, however, is not aesthetic. This is a teeming, edgy city, made intriguing by powerful history. Visit the civic centre, an ancient quarter flattened by Ceaucescu and rebuilt in his Communist vision. Enter inside old Orthodox churches, black with the soot of centuries of candle-burning. Discover bullet holes in the square where the revolution began. Touch the ruined palace where Vlad the Impaler once resided. Learn some history and you'll discover lingering ghosts - that's something Bucharest has in abundance.

CONTEMPLATIONS

I arrive at the hostel by lunchtime, somewhat bedraggled. Exhausted. I have no intentions of exploring the city today. I must only complete some basic and urgent chores: washing, eating, laundry, writing. Order must be returned. Order, energy and cleanliness. Then I'll sleep. I'll sleep a good, long time.

I wash my clothes and take a cold shower. I spend a while typing and posting things to the site. Then I settle down to work with the pen. I make some long-overdue notes, grunting at backpackers as they enter the dormitory. I'm working, can't you see? Writing demands absolute isolation. Otherwise you're running around naked, bearing the grisly horror of your most private parts. I only reserve that pleasure for hostels I really like.

I spend a time contemplating words. The craft of writing. The continual expansion and retraction, the going into the world and retreating, the hunting and hiding away. The long nights in small, cheap rooms. The tides of extroversion and introversion.

The best writers are incurable introverts, with brief periods of heightened sociability. The natural talkers aren't usually that familiar with their inner landscapes. They've never had to face themselves, because they've never been alone. They have the advantage of charm, and they can obtain information quickly. They make fine journalists.

Writers, however, require a certain amount of solitude. It invariably breeds anguish, but nothing great is created without a staggering amount of pain. That is the meaning of labour. A writer needs to sit and work laboriously. He needs to write and write and write. He needs to listen for the voices, emerging from the depths. He needs to write down everything he hears. In this way, the words begin to teach. Character emerges and soon after that, style.

Equally important is the need to refresh one's soul with new ideas. And not always from books. The whole world is a store of beauty and horror and madness. It is filled with tales and characters and conversations. It demands exploration, if a writer is ever to obtain depth. Some people call this, 'having experiences'.

So if you want to write, I'd advise you to postpone taking a literature degree. That is, unless, you want to learn how to write essays. Go and fill a backpack with a few essential items, pack a notebook and pen and head out into the world. Don't stop until the world has changed you.

Here is a quote from my favourite writer, Louis Ferdinand Celine, he has the idea:

'Travel is very useful and it exercises the imagination. All the rest is disappointment and fatigue. Our own journey is entirely imaginary. That is its strength.

It goes from life to death. People, animals, cities, things, all are imagined. It's a novel, simply a fictitious narrative....

And besides, in the first place, anyone can do as much. You just have to close your eyes.

Its on the other side of life.'

(From Journey to the End of the Night)

BRIEF WANDERINGS

I take a break from work and decide to have a wander. I'm slightly away from the city centre in a residential district. Large mansions flank a confusing web of streets. Now and then I emerge onto a small square where locals linger with beers. Feral dogs loiter in large numbers. As I make my past, one comes bounding after, eyes bright and hopeful, tongue flapping.

Not today, I tell him.

I reach a main road where an ugly fountain froths energetically. The traffic moves at a lunatic pace, beeping continually. A trolley bus roars past. Dirty apartment blocks gaze down. Currency exchange shops are spaced evenly along the boulevard.

I reach a small grocers and buy some cheese and bread and water. I head back, stopping in a vandalised phone-box to use up my credit. Then I make my way back to the hostel, where I continue working until nightfall.

REVOLUTION SQUARE

'Look, it happened like this. There had been fighting for the last twenty-four hours, all over the country. On December 22nd 1989, everybody was standing right here, in the square. Ceaucescu came onto that balcony with some Communist party officials.

He addressed the people. He promised more bread, more meat, more milk. But the people didn't believe him. They started shouting, 'Liberty! Liberty!' And Ceaucescu, he was genuinely shocked, you know. He couldn't do anything, so he went inside.

The next thing that happened, a helicopter took off from the roof. Ceaucescu and his wife, Elena, were trying to escape.

First they went to Snagov, a small island outside of Bucharest. Nobody knows whether it was to pick something up or drop something off. Then they abandoned the helicopter and started hitch-hiking. A man picked them up and drove them to a military base. They were arrested and a few days later, executed...'

Marina, 72, has been a resident of Bucharest since she was 10. During her lifetime, she has witnessed the rise and fall of one of the most notorious regimes in history. The legacy of Nikolae Ceaucescu, Communist dictator, was largely inspired by the social engineering projects of China and Korea.

During his reign of megalomania, he succeeded in demolishing ancient parts of Bucharest, then rebuilding them in true Communist vision. His food export policies led the country into famine, and he fostered a hideously paranoid surveillance culture. Perhaps the worst excesses of his dictatorship was a draconian policy that outlawed contraception and encouraged women to have as many children as possible. This created a whole generation of orphans and an HIV epidemic.

As you'd expect of one who has lived through decades of despotism, Marina is a strong, wilful and fiery individual. She has been leading tours of Bucahrest for the last 36 years. She knows everything.

'Look,' she tells me. 'Of all these Communist countries in Eastern Europe, nobody had it worse than Romania. For years, there was nothing to eat. No meat, no bread, no nothing. We had to queue with our ration books, and the Party was telling us all the time, 'there is plenty to eat'.

As I stand at Revolution Square, I try to imagine life under Ceaucescu. Born into Thatcher's England, I have spent my life in the relatively safe confines of a 'free' society. At times our freedoms seem spurious, but compared with life under Ceaucescu, Thatcher's fascism is a walk in the park. We take our liberty for granted. And no matter what you say about Tony Blair's cult of personality, his ego is nothing compared to the former Romanian dictator.

'He was insane.' Says Marina. 'But very calculating. After the revolution, they went into that building, the Communist Party building. They discovered tunnels underneath it. This is so Ceaucescu could escape if he needed to. You see, every possibility was planned for.'

Ceaucescu's paranoia seems wholly in proportion to his inflated sense of purpose. Government surveillance was highly organised in Romania. People deemed a threat to the regime were regularly 'disappeared'. Marina explains how, when leading tour groups through Romania, she would be continually followed by agents of the securitate.

Phone lines were tapped and mail was intercepted. Museums had false walls where eavesdroppers could listen out for words of dissent. Most effective were the vast network of informers, comprised of everyday members of the public.

'You couldn't trust anyone,' Marina tells me.

THE HOUSE OF THE PEOPLE

Bucharest's Civic Centre is a monument to Ceaucescu's uncompromising urban planning scheme. An ancient quarter once filled with mansions, churches and an enormous peasants' market, the dictator demolished it all in the 1970s.

His aim was to create a new administrative centre, complete with government buildings and a redirected river running through its heart. Much of the centre remains incomplete and eerily empty.

Unirii Boulevard, originally named the Boulevard of Socialist Victory, is flanked by tower blocks intended to house Communist party officials. The street concludes at what is the most powerful symbol of Ceaucescu's monumental egomania - The House of the People.

Originally intended to house the offices of government, the ironically named House of the People is the second largest building in the world, after the Pentagon. Rising enormously with classical style pillars, the rectangular building is 276m long, 246m wide and 86m high. The effect is monstrous.

It's interior, incomplete by the revolution, is lavishly decorated. Great hand-woven carpets reach through enormous corridors. Function rooms boast details of oak and cheery wood. White, red and pink marble are employed widely. Two ton crystal chandeliers hang from the ceilings. Interestingly, all materials used to construct this building are Romanian in origin.

One particular quirk of the building is its sole reliance on natural ventilation. There is no air conditioning whatsoever. The reason for this, I am told, is that air conditioning has a tendency to dry out the throat. Ceaucescu was prone to making eight hour speeches and wanted to remain fresh throughout.

Today, the House serves as a government office, a venue for hire and a tourist attraction. There are thousands of rooms contained within its labyrinthine confines, but only a few are open to the public. It is rumoured that the basement contains a nuclear bunker.

PATRIARCHAL CATHEDRAL

Romanians practise their own brand of Christian Orthodoxy, overseen by a national Patriarch. Patriarch Teoctist, aged 90, resides in central Bucharest on a hill close to the civic centre. Nearby stands the Patriarchal Cathedral, dedicated to Constantin and Helen.

The Cathedral's exterior is decorated with intriguing frescoes. The wall to the right of the entrance contains diabolical scenes of hell. The left hand side depicts heaven.

The interior of the church is also decorated with frescoes. Sadly, these have become blackened with soot from candles. Close to the entrance lie the remains of the patron saint, of whom visitors ask favours. Prayers and requests are written on small pieces of paper, then delivered to him.

A queue extends from the door to the altar at the front of the Cathedral. Two thrones offer respite to Royal visitors. Other seats are available for the infirm. Aside from that, sitting down is not permitted in Orthodox churches.

Despite my mistrust of all powerful organisations, especially ones who claim to know God, I find churches interesting places. Dark, but interesting.

SPOOKY STORIES AT MANUC'S INN

Manuc's Inn, on the edge of Bucharest's historic quarter, was built in the early nineteenth century by a wealthy man of Arabian descent. Moorish-style balconies overlook the terraces where caravans once used to arrive. A legend tells how the owner was poisoned by a fortune-teller. Marina and I stop here, to refresh with ourselves with a beer.

'Tell me,' I say, pouring a glass. 'Are there vampires in Romania?'

'Look,' says Marina. 'There are not exactly vampires. There are... paranormal things. Look, I tell you a story. When I was a little girl and living at my father's house, he told us not to go to a certain hill at night. This was because a girl, a young girl was forced to marry an older man there. On the night of the wedding, she killed herself.

Well, one day I was playing on this hill. Suddenly I saw a woman in wedding veils, walking towards me. She held her arms open and she took me. I don't remember what happened after that. Everything went black. They found me hours later and it was dark. They didn't know where I had been. Neither do I. Throughout my whole life I have had these kinds of experiences. I am a scientist by training, but I am also a paranormal person.

I tell you another story. It was Halloween, and I was reading cards for tourists. It was a very busy night. I saw a man and I read his cards and I told him, 'You are a faithful man, but you are going to meet a girl here in Romania, and you will leave your wife and children for her'. He said 'okay', but he didn't believe me.

A few years later, I met this man completely by chance. At first I didn't recognise him, because I see so many people every day. But he remembered me and he said, 'Marina, you read my cards and you told me I must leave my wife and children'. And then I remembered him. Everything I told him was true, it all happened. He was living with a young girl in an apartment in Romania. How do you explain it?'

'It's a mystery. Do you have any cards?'

'Here? No. Give me your hand. Your left hand. Hmm. You are going to live a very long time. Your health is excellent, but one day maybe not too soon, your life will change suddenly. Maybe you have an accident, something like that. But you will still live a very long time.'

Ah well, it can't all be good news.

HOUSE OF VLAD

Bucharest's historic heart is marked by the Old Princely Court, built in the 15th century. Around here, artisans plied their trade and the city grew in stature.

However, it was not until the arrival of Wallachian prince Vlad Tepes, that the area really flourished. He built a Prince's Palace here, that would serve as a royal residence until the 18th century.

Vlad was a ruler of such notoriety, he makes Ceaucescu seem like a pussycat. Most know him as Dracula, 'Son of the Dragon'. Some say his name is a reference to the secret order of knights he served, the Order of the Dragon. Others say it is a derogatory reference, akin to 'Son of Satan'.

Whatever the meaning of Dracula, his name forms the basis for Bram Stoker's Transylvanian vampire. However, aside from an insatiable thirst for blood, there are few similarities between Stoker's character and the Wallachian prince. Their connection is entirely superficial.

It seems a shame that the real-life Dracula has not received more literary attention. He certainly deserves it. Vlad was a cruel and infamous character, fond of impaling people on stakes, especially Turks. This manner of death is extremely painful, sometimes lasting days. It is said that a 'forest of the impaled' surrounded Bucharest, so as to unnerve any advancing army. It is for this reason that Vlad was also known as 'Vlad the Impaler', that is Vlad Tepes.

His old residence, which has undoubtedly witnessed some incredible scenes, is a sad and crumbling ruin. Destroyed by earthquakes, fires and floods, little remains of this palatial abode. Reconstruction efforts are in progress, but they have a long, tough job ahead of them.

'Touch this wall,' Marina tells me. 'Perhaps Vlad Tepes touched it...'

THE NATIONAL TREASURE

Romanians trace their heritage to the Romans, who conquered the territory, then known as Dacia in 106AD. The occupation lasted over 150 years, before being driven out by marauding tribes. The present-day Romanian language is directly descended from Ancient Latin. Some boast that Romanian is a closer relative to its ancestor tongue than Italian.

The National History museum in Bucharest examines the pre-history, history and cultural development of Romania. Its collection of artefacts includes Roman relics, most notable Trajans column. The museum's most priceless works, however, are part of Romania's national treasure, located in the basement.

Ancient gold necklaces, jewel encrusted cups and other exquisitely laboured finery tell the story of Romania's development. It is possible to spot Roman and Greek influences with the early relics, often bearing Pagan or early Christian themes. Later treasures belong to the highly developed style of the established Orthodox church. The very youngest treasures are royal jewels, often bearing French motifs.

Sadly, the National Treasure is only a fraction of what it was. Over the centuries, Romania has suffered several invading armies, who have all plundered the country's wealth. The worst culprit is Russia.

In 1917, fearing a German occupation, Romania sent the entirety of its National Treasure on trains to Moscow. It was agreed that Russia would guard the hoard until the end of the first world war. Later, Russia refused to recognise the agreement and has since returned only a minor portion.

Bohemian Brasov

Contained by an ancient Saxon wall, Bohemian Brasov is a city founded on Medieval trade. German merchants settled on this ancient Daician site and proceeded to erect churches and houses.

They administered and protected their city through the system of Saxon guilds. Romanians, disallowed from residing within the city, dwelled in the nearby district of Schei.

Brasov's commercial centre revolves around Piata Sfatului. Terraced cafes, western-style shops and restaurants overlook this historic square. The surrounding roads are bright and architecturally elegant. There is a young feel to the city, owed to it high proportion of students. Closeby stands the Black Church, a gothic cathedral that regularly fills with organ music.

Surrounding green mountains offer hiking opportunities, while longer treks into the Carpathians can also be arranged from Brasov. This is a good base for Transylvanian excursions. Several villages, castles and monasteries are accessible from the city. Vampire freaks will not want to miss Bran castle, where Dracula was filmed, while Peles castle at Sinaia offers astonishing glimpses of opulence. Sighisora, Prejmer and Harman are well preserved medieval towns.

During Stalin's reign, Brasov was renamed 'Staline'. Tower blocks surround the city, particularly near the train station, which is a ten minute bus ride into town.

FROM BUCHAREST

I am sedate on my exit from Bucharest. A teenage kid shows me my seat on the train. Very polite, very smartly dressed. He tries to sell me some magazines. Playboy and the like. I can't afford any magazines.

The train rolls out of Bucharest and I smoke. It's a modern train. Cool and plush. The evening returns in flashes. I exhale.

A man strikes up a conversation, asking where I'm going.

'Brasov,' I tell him. 'And you?'

'Sibiu. I am from Sibiu.'

Sibiu is an old Saxon city, a few hours by train from Brasov.

'If you're going to Brasov,' he says. 'Then you are to going to Bran Castle.'

'Dracula's castle.'

'You know what Dracula means?'

'Son of the Dragon.'

'It means son of Satan. Son of the Devil.'

'Are there vampires in Romania?'

'No, there are no vampires in Romania.'

I don't believe him. So I ask him about the stakes through the heart.

'Ah yes, this they do sometimes. If people in a family die one after the other, then sometimes they dig up the first one and hammer a stake in their heart. To finish it. This is called strigoi.' The man pauses. 'But these people always die of natural causes... not bites...'

The man disappears with his daughter, returning for a smoke before we reach Brasov.

'Come to Sibiu some time,' he tells me. 'I will show you some interesting things...'

TO DEEP SLEEP

I exit the train and a man at the car park offers me a room at his uncle's house. He lives in apartment block in the centre of town. It's more than I want pay, but it's OK. I need to work, I need a private room.

I pay him £10 for the night and ditch the pack. My preliminary ambles take me to the supermarket. I buy bread, cheese, water. No beer today.

I go and sit the park and eat my bread and cheese. My funds have depleted. I'm in survival mode, scoffing a tub of Philidelphia, wild-eyed, laughing maniacally, scratching at fleas, glaring at invisible enemies.

'I'm not one of you!' I howl at the gathering street dogs. 'Leave me alone!'

But the street dogs just grin, and people walk away quickly.

If even see another tub of Philadelphia, I will be sick in my lap...

I finish my food and feel wasted. I have to drag myself up. I find an internet cafe and type. Then I head back to the room, getting lost on the way. It gets me every time, the flights of stairs, the twisty roads.

I get back to the room intending to work. Instead, I get sucked into some film with Ben Stiller and Drewe Barrymore. A black comedy about them trying to murder an old woman. It's just not funny. Still, I sleep deeply.

ON A MOUNTAIN

I wake early the next day and decide to hang around in Brasov. I get a coffee at a kiosk and collect my thoughts. A few thousand words must be written.

I decide to take the cable-car to the top of the mountain. I'm not planning any hiking, I just need somewhere to work. The cable-car runs frequently from the east wall of the city. Expect your ears to pop.

I find a good spot near the exit, overlooking a valley. There's a place nearby where Vlad impaled 40 merchants on stakes. Good man. I'd be wary of all capitalists.

I plot up on a rock and work. I write up my accounts of Budapest, interrupted infrequently by passing tourists. I eat bread and cheese. I watch the rolling clouds. Then I descend.

I spend the day in and out of the internet cafe, typing e-mails and posts.

Peles Castle

Embraced by cool mountain cloud, Peles Castle emerges with dream-like elegance. Tall, snow white turrets reach from the grounds. Terraced gardens conceal exquisite statues. Dubbed the most beautiful castle in Europe, Peles is truly the stuff of romantic fantasies.

Built in Sinaia, 44km from Brasov, Peles was commissioned by German Prince and future king of Romania, Carol I. Viennese architect Wilhem Doder oversaw its construction until 1876, when Johannes Schultz took over. Building was completed around 1914 by a Czech architect, Karel Liman. Peles was the first castle in Europe to be completely powered by electricity.

Perched high on a hill, I reach Peles via a road that zig-zags upwards. I stop at Sinaia Monastery along the way. This complex contains a chapel with original exterior frescoes. In typical Orthodox style, scenes of hell occupy the right-hand walls at the entrance. Scenes of heaven fill the left. The domed ceiling above shows Jesus and the saints in a circle. I wander around the grounds, then continue my journey to Peles.

The interior of Peles castle contains over 160 rooms. Only a few are open to visitors. Visits are by guided tour only (included in the entrance price) and protective slippers must be worn at all times. The higher levels are completely out of bounds. We are told that the ceilings can't cope with such a high influx of tourists.

What we are permitted to see though, is astonishing enough.

Filled with exquisite antique furniture, Peles conceals treasures from all over Europe, the Middle East and the Orient. A valuable collection of paintings, masterworks of glass, porcelain and precious metals are all contained here. Peles is an incredible display of craftmanship.

Hewn from marble, wood and stained glass, the castle is mainly decorated in German Renaissance style. Additionally, one can spot details of Italian Renaissance, Gothic, German Baroque, French Rococo and Art Nouveau. These are all masterfully blended. The effect is insanely sumptuous.

The main hall contains a beautiful and delicate spiral staircase, hand-made from wood. Other rooms follow a foreign country theme. They include the Moreque room, the Turkish room and French room. The poetry room shows elegantly rendered scenes from Romanian fairy tales. Armouries hold an extensive range of weapons, including a ceremonial sword used for beheadings. The library conceals a secret passage to a private bedroom.

Peles castle took nearly 40 years to complete, and employed over 400 craftsman in the process. Perfection of setting and of form make this place impossibly bewitching. It is an extraordinary accomplishment.

Dracula's Home Town

ON THE TRAIN

I catch the train to Sighisoara, a fabled Medieval town north-east of Brasov. The ride takes around two hours.

On the exit from Brasov, we lurch through the suburbs. I watch the people gathered on the grass under apartment blocks. They're sitting at plastic picnic tables, drinking coffee, talking, playing chess.

The Carpathian mountains roll on their glory. Villages emerge and disappear. Grey slate roof tops clamour upward. Horse and carts file down dirt tracks. Shepherds gather their sheep. Then the emptiness of the countryside. Greenery, rolling endlessly.

I exit at Sighisoara where young girls try to sell me a room.

'You need room?'

'No thank you.'

'You no stay?'

'Not today.'

'Oh.'

I follow directions to the town, passing an old Soviet cemetery, an Orthodox church, a river.

SIGHISOARA

The old citadel of Sighisoara is contained on a hill and surrounded by fortified walls. A solid clock-tower marks the main entrance. This is the traditional gate to the city, used since Saxon times.

I follow the tourists and arrive at the house where Vlad Tepes (also known as Dracula) was born. There's even a plaque to prove it. The house is painted yellow and occupied by a restaurant. I don't go in. I'm not in a carnivorous mood.

The geographic heart of Sighisoara is Piata Cetatii, a small square with the usual terraced cafes. This is the place to get souvenirs. Gypsy-style caravans flog everything from Vlad Tepes t-shirts to Romanian textiles. Tourists arrive steadily. I don't hang around too long.

Around Piata Cetatii, Sighisoara is network of atmospheric medieval lanes. Bright coloured houses fill narrow, teetering passages. Stone arches reach over cobbled roads. It makes for fine, if brief, wandering.

I reach a set of steps that lead up through a tunnel. I ascend them, counting around 170. There's a church at the top, a creepy cemetery too. I take a wander around, enjoying the peace and quiet, the sunshine. I find a bench under a tree and get the notebook and pen. Time to work.

I wander back to the train station a few hours later, getting lost on the way. I discover the train tracks and follow them.

A Roma girl approaches me at the station. She's around 12 years old.

'American?'

'English.'

'Oh. How old you are?'

'Twenty-six.' I show her with my fingers... ten, ten, six.

'Twenty... six. You have some money, please, for mama?'

I give her some change, a few thousand lei.

'You have a cigarette, please, for mama?'

I reach for the pack and her eyes light up.

'Give me three... give me four cigarettes!'

'No. I'll give you two.'

'Please,' she squeals. 'For mama! Please!'

'I'll give you two.'

I give her two cigarettes. She asks for the dog-end in my hand. I can't refuse. She drags the last smoke out of it and exhales, grinning.

As the train arrives, the sky opens. A river falls down. The Roma girl runs over.

'This for Brasov! This for Brasov!'

I tell her thank you and she shakes my hand. I get on the train.

BACK TO BRASOV

I relax in the restaurant car, smoking, drinking coffee. I feel tired. I can't face writing. So I watch the people eating. I listen to an American couple talking. They're about my age, maybe slightly younger. They sound professional. Its disturbing.

It reminds me of another time, in a mini-bus with a crowd of American tourists. They were discussing their up and coming careers at the UN, their business degrees and their political ambitions. It depressed me. Inhumanity, the next generation.

I begin to wonder what I'm doing here, drifting. Hadn't I been the most promising of sociology students? What went wrong? How did I end up like this? Unemployed, without a penny to my name, no qualifications to speak of. Ah yeah, I keep forgetting.

I open the curtains to get a view. The mountains are lit up with thick bolts of white sunlight. The rays plunge through the clouds with monumental force. There is an immense and ethereal quality to the scene. My soul is replenished. I know where I am.

EXIT ROMANIA

I spend a couple of hours in Brasov before catching the night train out of Romania. I drink a couple of beers to help me sleep. They don't go down too well. I wind up scrawling some dreadful notes in my journal. Awful, pretentious ramblings. I tear them up and throw them out the window.

I reach Budapest the next morning. I'm broken, slightly, exhausted. Not necessarily anything but general weariness and malnutrition. I feel the onset of something.

I eat a couple of undercooked eggs at the train station's restaurant. I smoke. I watch the clock. I wander around the building and take a coffee in KFC. I use their toilet.

Finally my connecting train arrives. A good, fast, modern train. Its going as far as Berlin but I'm getting out at Bratislava. As the Slovakian countryside rolls into view, I feel strangely calm. There is a undeniably gentle quality to this place.

This is the end...

ARRIVALS

I have a good feeling about Bratislava before I even get there. When you've been on the road a while, you start getting intuitions.

Unfortunately, I can feel my energy waning. My throat's getting raw. I'm coughing like a beast. Something bad is coming.

I get a private room in a hotel in the suburbs. It takes me a while to find it. The receptionist isn't very polite. Perhaps she's used to dealing with well-dressed business men. Perhaps I lower the tone. The lobby is marbled and vaguely expansive.

Its deceptive though. The room is cramped and the corridors are filled with junk and furniture. The shower emits a pitiful trickle that smells of hot tea. At £10 per night, its entirely functional. I can't stay in a dormitory, the way I'm coughing.

I wash myself and I wash some clothes. I smoke a couple of cigarettes on the balcony, surveying the drab tower-blocks and industrial chimneys. Time to wander into town.

BRATISLAVA

Bratislava's old town is a delicate maze of Baroque prettiness, located on the north bank of the Danube. A castle overlooks the city in the west, in typical Central European style.

Grand museums stand alongside terraced cafes and restaurants, while peculiar statues emerge regularly. Many of these are life-size cows. Cow Parade has arrived in Bratislava, and brightly bovines seem to occupy every street corner.

Central Bratislava is a refreshing blend of vibrancy, glamour and grandeur. The suburbs are drab and functional.

TO BED

I wander into town, stopping in an internet cafe. I type some notes and post them. Then I find myself something to eat. I plot up at a pizzeria and order food, even though I don't feel like eating. The waitresses are kind to me. I feel better.

I'm able to wander around the town, before exhaustion gets me. I'm all in. The sky's undulating and my legs are all seized up. I feel like I'm on bad acid. The return to the hotel gets me lost. It rains, to complete my misery. Finally I get back around 7.00pm. I cough like a monster before I get into bed and sleep.

TO SALZBURG

I sleep around 15 hours. I feel like I haven't slept at all. My chest is a lake of fire. My head's burning, my brain's firing nonsensical images. Relentlessly, ferociously. My throat's torn to shreds. It's rough. Time to get out of here.

I pack everything up and haul it onto my back. I make it out in a sweat. I feel like a wrung-out cloth. All I can think about is getting to Salzburg. My flight leaves tomorrow. I want to go home. I want to put my feet up. I need to.

The first train takes me Vienna, Westbanhof. The guard is insane and shouts at me for no particular reason. I don't know why I attract these people.

The second train takes me to Salzburg. It's a long enough journey, five hours in total.

I find a room at a large hostel. Its actually a dormitory, but I'm the only one sleeping in there. There are six bunks and a clean, en-suite bathroom with two powerful showers. It's a slightly strange experience, having all this space to myself.

I wash and take my obligatory wanders.

SALZBURG

Surrounded by mountains, Salzburg is a sublime and civilised city. It's bright, white Old Town is contained on the banks of the River Salzach. Baroque churches rise with great domes and towers. Elaborate statues mark every street corner. This is a city filled with music and art.

As the birth-place of Mozart, Salzburg does use this fact to its advantage, even though Mozart hated the place. His image fills the city and is used to sell everything from chocolates to tea towels. Cross a bridge into the Old Town, and you'll hear classical music pouring from in-built speakers.

Salzburg is perhaps, over-civilised?

EXIT SALZBURG

Sunday morning and my fever is full blown. My jaw, my ears, my throat are thick and tight. A white hot cough tears through my chest. My limbs ache. There's a permanent dizziness. I'm groggy.

I take breakfast at the hostel. Bread and cheese, included in the price. What a delight. I stuff myself. Then I make the 9.30 check-out. Only 12 hours to kill now.

The streets of Salzburg are empty. Cloud drifts in from the mountains. I wander around the baroque squares, in a deep, strange haze. Church bells ring through my skull. Horse-drawn carriages thunder through my bones.

Nothing is open. The tourist onslaught hasn't yet begun.

Besides, I have no way entertaining myself. I have a handful of euros to make it through. What to do? I take a coffee and use the internet. I wander around the old town, I wander around the new town. I take pictures of the statues. I sit by the river and eat more bread and cheese, washed down with cough syrup...

I make it to the airport with three and a half hours to spare, its 6.00pm. Phew! Nearly missed it. Eventually I give into my boredom and visit the cash machine. I don't care about overdrafts now, I need amusement desperately. I sit at the bar and gulp a few pints. I read a copy of the Guardian. I flirt with the barmaid.

'I have to leave now,' I tell her. 'I have to get my plane.'

'You're not going anywhere,' she tells me. 'You're staying here forever.'

LONDON AGAIN

The flight is on time and I reach Stansted by late evening. I catch a bus into the city, watching the cold streets through the window.

There's delays around Limehouse and I get angry. We make it down the road in jerky spurts. Where else can you get stuck in a traffic jam at midnight? When we finally arrive in Victoria, I hurl my backpack into the street, making a fool of myself again.

The night bus is full enough. We wind our way into the suburbs. Sloane Square, Kings Road, Chelsea, Putney, Barnes. Mortlake, finally. The brewery spews its smoke into the sky. The streets are empty. The river is dark and slow. I try not to think about it. Just to get home. Get the back-pack off.

Its nearly 2.00am when I get back in. Katriona is still up and watching TV. I pour some Becherovkas and turn to the news. Hurricane Katrina is roaring over the gulf, on a collision course with New Orleans. Its surreal.

We drink a little, then we sleep.

FROM THE PLANT TO THE POT

The next morning, New Orleans has been devastated. Mother nature is displeased, again.

I head over to the allotment and check on my plants. Its been a month. The courgettes are winding down, bearing a few overgrown marrows. The lettuces are finished and have gone to seed. The broccoli is finished. The leeks are fine. The peppers, the melon and the tomatoes are all bearing fruit. The sweet-corn is ripe.

We harvest a couple of cobs and cook them in boiling water. They're good and juicy. Sweet-corn should always be put straight in the pot. Its important. From the plant to the pot. Immediately.

It tastes sweeter that way....