Seven chestnut horses, hobbled by their front hooves, walked slowly up the road as we cycled past them. I wondered why these farmers, who sow, harvest, cut, transport hay and other produce on bullock or horse-driven drays, would risk these magnificent animals on Romanian roads where anything goes. We also rode past gaggles and gaggles of geese, sheep, chooks, goats, the odd pig, many dogs, lethargic in the 35 degree heat, but the hay makers continued to fascinate me. After forking the mown grass, someone, usually an older woman, picks though it to separate out any weeds then it is stacked on a dray and carted to a home paddock where intricate hand-stacked mounds grow, as the grass is draped over a variety of usually triangular wooden supports. This is medieval farming at its best. Everything is manual and requires much labour to perform.
Some have asked why I am doing this trip. One reason is that I can see daily life in detail as I cycle past at about 20 kms an hour. We go on the roads less travelled and into villages where I would never venture if I was in Europe as a visitor. Often there is no public transport and to drive would be madness.
Baile Herculane where we are at the moment is a spa town built along a fast-flowing stream. The Romans bathed here and I can recommend the waters, which I took this morning. One side of this narrow valley is edged with mountainous limestone rising to craggy needles, pine trees clutching the crevices. I am half expecting a tribe of Sioux to emerge on one of the peaks, so similar is the landscape to those cowboy and indian movies I saw as a kid. There are many Victorian hotels, dilapidated and empty, just waiting for the right entrepreneur to restore them to their former glory.
The roads we ride on vary from well-paved busy highways to mediocre paved secondary roads to almost non-existent roads, often not much better than a stony riverbed. Traffic is sudden, fast and unpredictable. Men take both hands off the wheel as they go by and thrust their fists into the air in an international sign of encouragement.
Yesterday our sweep, Randy, was told that the four of us had taken a wrong turn by some supposedly well-meaning local. We think it was the father or relative of a wiry gypsy boy who followed us for three or four kms, on his rusty squeaky bike, begging us for money. As we did not take a wrong turn, we can only think that Randy was being lured up a deserted lane for the purposes of robbery. A random act of unkindness, the like of which we have not encountered before. In fact, we have so many examples of kindly regard, that it makes us smile from ear to ear.
We are spending more and more nights in hotels as the state of camping grounds deteriorates. I never thought I would miss my tent, but it is cosy snuggled up with forty others under canvas as we breathe and talk and snore in our sleep. I am sharing with Monique from Quebec or Karen from Nova Scotia, both fine room-mates.
There are six staff who are with us: Randy and Duncan, who organise the day's itinerary and route and ride sweep, Olivier, our mechanic extraordinaire, who also rides sweep on occasion, Amandine, a nurse, Jon our cook and Theresa who is lunch lady, photographer and general all-rounder. Each evening we have a rider meeting where the notes we are given are explicated more fully. Also, at this time, we award the lame duck, a somewhat dishevelled rubber duck liberated from the Moevenpick Hotel in Ulm. I am the present Ober Duck Fuhrerin, awarded becasue of a really dumb question I asked on the eve of Canada day. I have many stories of equal if not better stupidity, so am looking forward to presenting it tonight to a worthy recipient.
More stats...
July 2: Timisoara to Resista, 100 kms, hot, four and a quarter hours
July 3: Resista to Baile Herculane, 126 kms, hot, head wind, hilly, seven and three quarter hours, but the mulberries sure tasted good from the tree on the side of the road!
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