The rattling sound of the train rocks me and lets me enjoy the views slowly reel by. From time to time it stops to let people off who cut across fields and reach their lost villages. Then the diesel engine puffs and pants to set the train in motion after the stop and the fumes get in through the open doors. I stick out my head for a breath of fresh air and to watch the line of blue carriages covered by corroded iron sheets, as a curve approaches.
Sighişoara’s highlight is the citadel and its beautiful tower that is simply magnificent from whatever angle you observe it. In the evening it’s floodlit and looks more romantic still. There’s an event going on tonight, and youngsters have stormed the hostels, so I take a bed and breakfast in a quiet house with a nice veranda.
The unsealed cobblestone in the town looks so natural, with no mortar to keep the rain from seeping into the ground. During the heavy downpour spurts of water gush out of the gutters and run in the mid-street channel.
I pay a visit to Saturday’s weekly market and watch people do their shopping. While I’m here I can’t resist buying some of that white cheese that looks delicious. Also the vegetables, and the carrots in particular, look authentic, smeared with earth, knobby and crooked; they must have a real carrot taste, unlike the ones that are now on sale in my country.