We boarded a bus at the Bucharest airport and settled in for a five-hour drive to Richiș, a dot of a town in the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains. I was part of a group of 10 women, all of different nationalities. Our common bond was my childhood best friend, Catherine, who has lived in Europe for almost three decades. It was her idea to bring her friends together in Transylvania, a part of the world most commonly associated with vampires.
Our plans did not involve Vlad the Impaler. Rather, we were embarking on a five-night biking and walking tour with the Slow Cyclist, a British travel company. Founder Oli Broom first visited Transylvania in 2014 and was smitten by its tumbledown quirkiness and authentic field-to-table culture. The Romanian region had an untapped tourism infrastructure in its charmingly restored but mostly empty network of guesthouses. My group visited in May — peak wildflower season.
Our destination was the Saxon Lands, a collection of villages colonized by the Germans in the 12th century. Current residents are mostly Romanians and Gypsies, who scoffed when I asked if they wanted us to refer to them as Romani, which I thought was the more respectful term.
These towns are the land that time forgot. Hay is hauled in horse-driven carts and homes stand close together along dirt roads, like brightly frosted gingerbread houses. There are storks nesting on chimneys and UNESCO-designated fortified churches. Beech forests harbor bears, and gentle high pastures shine gold in the evening sun. Locals congregate for a bump of palinka (fruit brandy) at the bar, and people eat food grown in their gardens, which stretch back behind the houses toward the hills. I spotted more than a few caged rabbits, and they were definitely not pets.
Our first full day got off to a sloppy start when rain forced us to trade a woodland bike path for a highway shoulder where we were sprayed by trucks. The hoped-for al fresco lunch wasn't going to happen.
Any disappointment dissolved when we stepped into a small house in the town of Floresti. As our shoes and coats dried near the wood-burning stove, we toasted with a red liqueur that our guide, Szabi, called a "soft lady schnapps." It tasted of cherries picked from a nearby orchard. I was distracted by the bounty being served: vegetable soup, meatballs, red peppers stuffed with homemade sheep cheese, chicken schnitzel, crepes topped with homemade fruit jam, rhubarb cake covered in meringue. We washed it down with rosé.
We departed, relaxed and fortified, for a slippery walk to Apafi Manor, a pink stucco mansion where we would spend the night. We spotted snails inching through the mud. Our other guide, Marco, explained that the Gypsies harvest them to sell to Italy.
The next morning brought sun and optimism. We'd now be able to relax into the pattern of the journey: breakfast, sightseeing, several hours of biking or hiking, a leisurely lunch, an afternoon bike or walk, dinner, more rosé. We visited timbered churches and private homes. We met farmers and weavers and wine enthusiasts. My favorite meal was spent in the home of Anca and Charlie, a young couple selling their own preserves and craft beer. They served us Varza a la Cluj, a hearty cabbage lasagna.
