We had plenty of time in the afternoon to do road trips through several small villages around Sighişoara.
Viscri
This was a fun adventure because of the rutted and potholed dirt road we took to get there. The last seven to ten kilometers was really slow going, which made us feel like we were in the middle of nowhere.
But, lo and behold, we were somewhere.
In fact, Prince Charles has a place here.
Yes, that Prince Charles.
It is a bed and breakfast, as well as one of his vacation residences, and the money earned goes to support a school that teaches Romanians how to use the traditional methods and craftmanship to maintain and restore buildings.
We had no idea. We just drove right past, until a guy stopped us as we were walking and told us about it.
This is another old Saxon (German) village, with long dirt streets. There is another fortified church up on a hill here, which I totally missed as I was going into town, because I was dodging the potholes.
You have to drive up to see it, parking and hiking up a path where it is hidden in the trees. On the way out I didn’t have to concentrate on the road as much, and so I was able to see it, like a castle on the hill.
People were working, gathering in the hay or the cows. Lots of hand made wool items for sale, very colorful and very scratchy.
Stork nests on top of poles, lots of them around. Lots of good luck here!
A man and his wife were pulling a hand cart piled high with hay. Their scythe and pitchforks were thrown on the pile, and they walked side by side down the road pulling the handle together.
Good team building I suppose.
I glanced at Gail and she said, "Don't even start..."
We took a photo of the fortified church, but then were looking at the overlooked Orthodox Church, down in the shadow of the fortified church.
I like the orthodox people because they are the true artists. Their churches are all gaudy and full of glowing icons with gold foil discs and bright colors, candles lit. It doesn’t matter if they are Greek or Serbian or Russian or now Romanian Orthodox, they really have it together.
Anyway, the old neighbor came over and gave us a big toothless smile.
“Gor-jay” was his name, which I take to be George. He produced a key, and opened the door to let us in.
We stared around, like we were let into a secret room full of glowing art, candles all lit, waxy smoke in the air.
When we were done looking and taking photos, I donated a few RON to the chest, and Gail lit one of the home-made wax tapers.
This is why I don't want to do tours. I like to be free to meet people, to go to places out of the way, to bumpity-bump miles down a dirt road on my own, wondering just where the hell we are.