May 2005: My friend and I rented a Dacia, a small Romanian-made car, and spent a week driving around Romania, focusing on Transylvania. This mountainous region in central Romania, with an average elevation of 5,000 feet, is steeped in superstitions about werewolves and vampires. Transylvania is a land of gypsy caravans, medieval villages where horse-drawn carts are as common as cars, and countless castles—many abandoned atop forested hilltops.
Traditional European rural life is perhaps best preserved in Transylvania. Many old customs, traditional clothing, wooden houses, and horse carts still remain. This is largely due to the region’s geographic isolation, as it is surrounded by the Carpathian Mountains, which have historically cut it off from the rest of Europe. Additionally, the isolationist policies of Romania’s ruthless Communist dictator, Nicolae Ceaușescu, further preserved these traditions. Ceaușescu ruled the country for decades until he was overthrown in a revolution and executed alongside his wife by firing squad in 1989.
Beyond its medieval villages and old-world charm, Transylvania is also closely tied to the legend of Dracula. During my visit, traveling through the region felt raw and untamed—like a country still shedding its communist past and searching for its new identity. Despite its tourism potential, with its rich history and connection to Dracula, Transylvania remained an untrodden destination. But I knew after my visit that this would not last. Transylvania was simply too cool to stay that way.
Because of Transylvania’s isolation, rugged mountains, and vast forests, it has also become one of Europe’s last true wilderness areas, where bears and wolves can still be seen in the wild. The region is home to numerous nature reserves, offering endless hiking opportunities, including the untamed Retezat Mountains, known for their dramatic peaks, glacial lakes, and diverse wildlife.
The Driving Route
We arrived in Bucharest and picked up our rental car, which I had arranged via email through a local company without a physical office. A representative met us in a parking garage and handed over the keys to our little red Dacia. Over the course of the week, we would push the low-clearance vehicle to its limits, getting every bit of value out of it.
Eager to escape the city, we left Bucharest immediately, driving north into the Carpathian Mountains. Our goal was to reach Transylvania as soon as possible and immerse ourselves in its rugged landscapes and medieval charm.
Route in Transylvania
The legacy of communism was evident across Bucharest and many of the surrounding cities, with its drab, monotonous architecture dominating the urban landscape. It was striking to see the stark contrast between the dystopian expanse of monolithic concrete apartment blocks and the small, rural medieval villages, where traditional wooden homes and horse-drawn carts preserved a way of life that seemed untouched by time.
The Palace of Parliament in Bucharest, built by former dictator Nicolae Ceaușescu, is the second-largest administrative building in the world (after the Pentagon). A symbol of Ceaușescu’s grandiose ambitions and excesses, the massive structure is an architectural behemoth, constructed almost entirely from Romanian materials and labor. Its sheer scale and opulence stand in stark contrast to the economic hardship and deprivation suffered by the Romanian people during his rule.
Depressing Communist Era Buildings
Our first stop was Lake Snagov, just outside Bucharest. We hired a small boat to take us to an island in the lake, home to a monastery believed to be the final resting place of Vlad Dracul Țepeș—the historical figure who inspired Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Vlad made many enemies in his lifetime, and after his capture and execution, his head was taken to the island and reportedly buried there. Despite his brutal methods, Vlad is regarded as a defender of Christianity, credited with uniting Romania against the invading Ottoman Empire. Because of this, he is venerated by some as a saint, and his burial site became a monastery.
After visiting Lake Snagov, we drove north into the Carpathian Mountains, ascending through remote, winding mountain roads where villages became increasingly rare. The few settlements we passed seemed untouched by time, with wooden houses, horse-drawn carts, and smoke rising from chimneys as families burned stacks of wood for warmth. A distinctive architectural feature of the villages was their ornately carved wooden fences and gates, often accompanied by a small bench in front of the house. Usually, an elderly person—an old man in a traditional hat or a woman in a headscarf—would be seated there, watching us curiously as we drove by. The villages appeared to lack young people or children, giving them a quiet, almost forgotten atmosphere.
As we continued our climb into the mountains, night fell, and the villages disappeared. The darkness was absolute, yet we occasionally encountered someone walking along the road with no flashlight, miles from the nearest house or settlement. Too exhausted to drive any further and with no hotels in sight, we pulled off onto a small wooden track and set up camp in the tent I had brought along for the trip.
Carpathian Mountains
Region of Mara Mures Frozen in Time
The next day, we skirted the northern Hungarian border as we continued driving over the Carpathian Mountains, eventually reaching Cluj-Napoca—another drab, gray city still marked by its communist past. However, once we left Cluj behind, it didn’t take long before we felt as if we had traveled back in time to an older, untouched Europe.
In the countryside, people wore traditional clothing—men in wooden hats, women in colorful dresses and headscarves. The churches were wooden and centuries old, and there was no sign of modern industry. Farming was still done manually, with animals pulling wooden carts, which remained the primary mode of transport. The people were warm and welcoming, and commercial tourism had yet to take root in this magical land. We had entered Maramureș, and I was instantly captivated by it.
Once in Maramureș, the paved roads disappeared, replaced by dirt and gravel paths—some in poor condition, scarred by years of government neglect. Ironically, this neglect had helped preserve the region’s isolation and cultural authenticity, allowing traditions to survive unchanged for generations.
Along the way, we picked up some fascinating hitchhikers. One was an elderly woman, strong and tough, carrying a large basket. We had stopped to ask for directions to a wooden church, and through a combination of sign language and photos, we managed to communicate. She kindly offered to show us the way, so we gave her a ride to her destination.
Later, we picked up a Romanian Orthodox monk, dressed in black robes with a long beard, and drove him to his monastery. He was kind but reserved, and, like many monks, reluctant to let me take his photo. His quiet presence added to the mystique of this remote, time-frozen land.
500 Year Old Wooden church Maramures
A highlight of our journey was visiting one of Maramureș’s 500-year-old wooden churches. It’s astonishing that these towering structures, built entirely from wood, have withstood the test of time, avoiding destruction by fire for centuries. Almost every village in Maramureș is home to one of these historic churches, but accessing them wasn’t as simple as just walking in. To enter, we first had to track down the key keeper in town—usually an elderly villager—who would then meet us at the church to unlock the heavy wooden door.
Surrounding the church was an overgrown graveyard, where Gothic-style gravestones barely peeked out from the tall grass. Some of the tombstones dated back hundreds of years or more, their inscriptions weathered and faded by time. Stepping inside the church was like entering another world—a dark, mysterious space where the walls were covered in ancient paintings of fire and brimstone. The artwork was blunt, almost grotesque, depicting demons inflicting torturous punishments on sinners in vividly disturbing scenes. It was a stark, medieval warning to the congregation, a reminder of the consequences of a sinful life.
This wasn’t unique to Maramureș. Nearly every Romanian church we visited had similar haunting depictions of Hell, a visual testament to the deep religious traditions and moral teachings that have shaped the region for centuries.
Interior paintings depicting demon torture of the damned
Interior paintings depicting demon torture of the damned-Demons Hammering Objects into the Rectums of the Damned
Abandoned graveyard
With no hotels or guesthouses in sight, we had nowhere to stay for the night. So, we decided to take a chance—I walked up to a small wooden house where a woman was working in the garden and, using sign language, asked if there was a place to sleep in the village. She understood immediately and, without hesitation, offered to let us stay in her home.
That night, we experienced true Maramureș hospitality. She cooked us a traditional meal made entirely from fresh, organic local ingredients—simple but incredibly flavorful. Her kindness and generosity were humbling, and we felt as if we had stepped into a way of life that had remained unchanged for centuries.
The next morning, I explored the village in the most authentic way possible—hitchhiking on the back of horse carts. Whenever I saw a cart passing, I would ask if I could hop on, and the villagers always agreed with a smile. I rode around the village, taking in the scenery, chatting in broken Romanian, and soaking in the atmosphere. When I wanted to switch directions, I simply hopped off and waited for another cart heading the other way. It was an unforgettable way to experience Maramureș’s timeless way of life.
Ornate Wooden Gates
Maramures Village
Painted wooden hats of village men
Elderly woman who hitchiked with us
Horsecart driverds in Maramures
Woman casually sewing in Maramures
Elederly lady sheperd
Maramures Village Life
Maramures Village Life
One of the fascinating old customs still practiced in some villages of Maramureș—though slowly disappearing—is the tradition of placing pots and pans in a tree in the front yard of a household with an available woman. This unique ritual serves as a subtle yet public announcement to the community that an unmarried woman of marriageable age lives in the home. The more decorated the tree, the more attention it draws, signaling that a potential match might be found there.
Tough natured people, elderly woman carrying heavy slabs of wood on her back
Villagers on horsecart carrying logs
Scărișoara Cave in the Apaseni Mountains
After leaving Maramureș, one of my favorite regions on Earth, we drove toward the Apuseni Mountains in search of the Scărișoara Ice Cave. Along the way, the allure of idyllic rural mountain villages tempted us onto rough, rutted roads. Once committed, there was no turning back—the roads were too narrow, and the terrain too unpredictable.
Our little Dacia struggled on the rugged path, bottoming out multiple times as we climbed through the mountains. On steep inclines, where 4WD was needed, the small engine began throwing tantrums, nearly stalling at times. But despite the challenge, we pressed on, knowing that what awaited us would be worth it.
When we finally reached Scărișoara Ice Cave, we were the only visitors. To enter, we descended hundreds of feet into a massive pit, where a caretaker met us, unlocked the entrance, and allowed us to explore on our own.
The cave was incredible—one of the few in the world with perennial ice that has remained since the Ice Age. Inside, the chamber stretched for thousands of feet, filled with towering ice stalactites and stalagmites, creating an otherworldly frozen landscape.
Some sections were steep and treacherously slippery, and as much as we loved crawling around on the ice to explore, we remained keenly aware of the hidden dangers. The deep, shadowy ice pits looked bottomless, and we knew that if we slipped into one, there would be no way out.
Apuseni Mountain Village
Apuseni Mountain Village
Me inside the Scarisoara Ice Cave
Me inside the Scarisoara Ice Cave
Sigisoara Village-Birthplace of Vlad Tepes Dracul
After driving all day, we arrived in the medieval hilltop village of Sighișoara, the birthplace of Vlad Țepeș Dracul. We booked a homestay inside the old fortified walls, parked our car, and set off to explore the village on foot by night.
Though we were exhausted, Sighișoara had an enchanting, haunted atmosphere that kept us wandering, uncovering unexpected wonders at every turn. The Gothic towers, narrow cobblestone streets, covered bridges, shadowy walkways, and eerie old graveyards made the village feel like something out of a dark fairytale. It instantly became one of my favorite medieval villages.
But what made our visit truly special was that, despite its incredible tourism potential, we had the village almost entirely to ourselves. Every street, every hidden passageway, every ancient courtyard—we explored them in solitude, feeling as if we had stepped back in time into an undiscovered medieval world.
Sigisoara streets
Sigisoara Tower At Night
Covered wooden walkway leading to an old graveyard
Graveyard at night we walked into with ancient tombstones
Transylvanian graveyards with photos of deceased
Our homestay was in a centuries-old house, adding to the medieval charm of Sighișoara. The owners spoke with an accent that was eerily Dracula-like, which only enhanced the atmosphere of the experience.
When we inquired about a room, they moved out of their own quarters and gave us their sleeping space, a gesture that felt both incredibly hospitable and slightly mysterious. As we settled in, we discovered a secret passageway in our room, leading to what appeared to be another hidden living space.
We couldn’t shake the feeling that this was where the owners were actually staying while we occupied their main room—watching over their guests in a way that felt straight out of a gothic novel.
Portrait of Vlad tepes-Dracula at a restaraunt we ate at in town
Romanian Gypsies
No visit to Transylvania is complete without encountering the Roma people, often referred to as Gypsies. Their origins trace back thousands of years, when they followed Alexander the Great’s army from India, performing various tasks, including grave digging. Since then, they have remained in Europe for centuries, maintaining a distinct cultural identity despite widespread discrimination and being treated as outsiders almost everywhere they go.
The Roma have long had a mixed reputation, some of it deserved, some not. However, one undeniable trait is their resilience and adaptability. No matter where they are, they find ways to sustain their nomadic way of life, taking on occupations that suit their unique traditions. Romania is home to one of the largest Roma populations in Europe, with approximately two million Roma people living across the country.
As we traveled south through Transylvania, we began spotting caravans of nomadic Roma families journeying across the countryside, their colorful wagons and horses standing out against the rural landscape. Intrigued, we decided to drive to a Roma village to experience their way of life firsthand.
However, upon arrival, things took an unexpected turn. As soon as we entered, a group of about twenty Roma people suddenly started running toward our vehicle, waving their hands and shouting. My girlfriend panicked, and without hesitation, we sped off, unsure of their intentions. Whether they were greeting us with curiosity or had other motives, we never stayed long enough to find out.
Gypsy caravan
Gypsy Village
Gypsy caravan
Hunedoara Castle
We left Sighișoara, driving across southern Transylvania through more tranquil villages, where life seemed to move at a slower, more peaceful pace. Our goal was to reach the wilderness of the Retezat Mountains, a rugged and remote range known for having some of the largest wild populations of mountain goats, bears, and wolves in Europe.
Along the way, we stopped at the Gothic castle of Hunedoara, where Vlad Țepeș Dracul was imprisoned for a time. Hunedoara Castle was the quintessential medieval fortress, complete with a drawbridge and moat, exuding the dramatic, imposing presence one would expect from a castle straight out of a dark fairytale. The only thing that felt out of place was its surroundings—instead of a pristine countryside or medieval town, the castle stood awkwardly amidst communist-era concrete apartment blocks, which took away some of its mystique.
Continuing toward the Retezat Mountains, we passed through breathtaking countryside, dotted with abandoned hilltop castles. There were too many to explore and too little time, but their lonely silhouettes against the rolling hills and forests hinted at forgotten histories and untold stories.
We made occasional stops in small villages, each with its own distinctive architecture, different from what we had seen in other parts of Transylvania. The diversity of styles, traditions, and landscapes along the way reinforced just how unique and untouched this region still felt.
Hunedoara castle
Transylvanian village
Transylvanian village
Abandoned hilltop Castle
Camping in Retzat Mountains
We arrived in the Retezat Mountains in the afternoon and, before heading into the wilderness, paid a village to look after our car while we were in the reserve. As soon as we began our hike, a village dog appeared and decided to join us, sticking by our side as if he had appointed himself our guide and protector. He remained with us throughout the entire hike and even well into the next morning, before mysteriously disappearing as suddenly as he had arrived.
Our trail led us through a forested valley, flanked by towering, snow-clad mountains that loomed dramatically on both sides. The scenery was pristine and wild, with no signs of human development, just the sounds of the wind, rushing water, and the occasional distant echo of unseen wildlife.
As we pressed forward, we crossed a raging river multiple times, balancing on fallen logs and broken bridges, some of which looked like they hadn’t been repaired in decades. The water was high, and the rapids were furious, roaring through the valley with raw, untamed power. Each crossing was an adventure in itself, made a little easier with our loyal canine companion beside us, trotting along as if he had done this journey countless times before.
Retzat Mountains
Retzat Mountains
River crossing
River Crossing
Me crossing a bridge
Me with our companion that followed us from a village
With no map of the trail and no real idea of where we were going, we wandered deep into the Retezat Mountains, walking for hours until darkness and cold began to settle in. Just as we were beginning to worry about where we would spend the night, we stumbled upon an abandoned cabin, its wooden frame looking weathered and half-collapsed. It didn’t seem like the safest structure to sleep in, so we decided to pitch our tent outside and build a massive bonfire to keep warm.
As we sat by the fire, sipping wine and enjoying the eerie solitude of the wilderness, our canine companion—who had been with us since we started our hike—suddenly began growling loudly, staring into the darkness beyond the fire’s glow. His barks turned frantic, his body tense as if he sensed something lurking just beyond our field of vision. It was unsettling because we couldn’t see anything, yet his intense reaction made it clear that something was out there.
Then, without warning, the dog let out a final burst of barking and bolted into the darkness, chasing after whatever had triggered his instincts. His barks faded into the night, and then—silence. We waited anxiously for his return, but he never came back.
After some time, we grabbed our flashlights and searched the area, but the forest was thick and swallowed the light, offering no clues as to where he had gone. The night felt vast and impenetrable, a realm of shadowy shapes and unknown creatures. With no other option, we eventually retreated to our tent and tried to sleep, but the mystery of our vanished companion lingered in our minds.
By morning, we hiked back to retrieve our car, leaving the wilds of the Retezat Mountains behind us. Our faithful dog friend—who had stayed by our side for two days—was never seen again.
We continued our journey, driving via Sibiu to our next legendary destination—Bran Castle, the so-called “Dracula’s Castle”, ready for the next chapter of our Transylvanian adventure.
Abandoned Evil Dead like cabin where we camped for the night
Bran Castle
The next day, we visited Bran Castle, a picturesque fortress widely marketed as “Dracula’s Castle.” While its dramatic turrets and mountain backdrop fit the legend, historians agree Vlad Țepeș Dracul likely never lived there.
From Bran, we drove to Poenari Castle, the true stronghold of Vlad the Impaler, perched in the remote Carpathians. Unlike Bran, Poenari is a ruin, but its authentic history made it a far more fitting Dracula site. Our plan? Camp beneath the real Dracula’s fortress for the night.
Bran Castle
From Bran Castle, we drove back to Bucharest to return our mud-caked Dacia, which conveniently concealed the dents and scratches from our off-road adventures. Fortunately, the rental company never started the engine, sparing them from hearing the sputtering damage we had inflicted on the poor car.
With no accommodation booked, we slept on the airport floor to save money. The next morning, we flew to Frankfurt, Germany, where we spent the day before catching our flight home—ending our wild Transylvanian adventure.