We hoped to squeeze in a visit to the town of Snagov on our
way to Bucharest, then in Bucharest the plan was to visit the Peasant Museum
and the Village Museum before meeting our Couch Surfing host in the evening.
Snagov is the town about 40km north of Bucharest where Dracula was laid to rest
in a monastery on a small island in the middle of Lake Snagov. Unfortunately
the way the road network is laid out, even though we were approaching Bucharest
from the north we had to drive almost all the way into the city and back out to
reach the small town, adding about 70km to our trip. But putting it in context
of the fact that we’d already driven about 50,000km and seeing it was a
beautiful, crisp frosty day, we thought it would probably be worth it.
As we arrived in the town we realised that finding the
island and the grave wasn’t going to be all that straight forward though, and
we ended up driving around all the streets in the small town, attempting to
find our way down to the lake. Every road seemed to disintegrate before it
reached the lake, turn around and lead back the way we’d come from, or simply come
to a dead end at a property. After a while of this frustrating circle-driving
though we found ourselves at the edge of the lake, which to our delight was
completely frozen over. Considering the temperate and how long it had been so
far below 0°C
for we should have realised that the lake would be frozen, but we hadn’t really
considered it, so much to our embarrassment we were excitedly surprised. Disappointingly
though, as far as we could see there was no bridge across this section of the
lake. We did consider for a brief moment (well I considered, the others of
course would never consider something so horrendously stupid) driving the car across
the frozen lake, but for obvious reasons that idea was quickly dismissed.
The late afternoon sun (it was only about 1pm actually, but
the sun was low as if it was late afternoon) was beating down on the
snow-covered frozen lake, turning the trees and shrubs around us into nothing
but dark shadows, contrasting against the shimmering crystal of the lake. It
was difficult to see through the glare of the sun reflecting on the snow-covered
everything, but families, groups of teenagers, couples with dogs, cyclists, and
all sorts of other people were using the perfectly flat snow-covered lake as
the ideal surface for any number of fun activities. We ourselves had a bit of a
running and skidding tournament, resulting thankfully in no injuries, but
unfortunately we had to keep moving if we wanted to find this grave and get to
Bucharest in time to meet our host. We were gradually coming to the realisation
that we probably weren’t going to be making it to either of the museums that we
were intending to visit.
We got back in the car and decided to drive further around
the lake, out of the town of Snagov itself, and around to the other side where
we hoped to find a bridge, and maybe even some indication as to where we might
find the grave that we had dedicated this day to finding. All we had to go by
was some vague directions we’d gleaned from various websites, but none of the
directions were really making sense until we stumbled upon a sort of nature
reserve which seemed to be closed for winter. One of us had definitely read
something about something like a nature reserve, so we turned onto the frozen
mud track and drove in. Whilst trying to find someone to ask, Ben made friends
with a family of dogs, but other than that the nature reserve was a bum steer
and we continued our circumnavigation of Lake Snagov.
We continued on to the next town where we wound our way
around some narrow residential streets to lead us down towards lake once again.
When we spotted a sign which clearly pointed us towards our destination we
heaved a sigh of relief, hoping that we may actually find this grave after all.
We reached a small track that lead to a pedestrian bridge across the iced-over
Lake Snagov, so we parked the car and were immediately accosted by a group of what
we can only assume to be gypsies, who claimed to want to “protect our car”. Apparently
the spot we’d chosen to park in “wasn’t safe” and we were given a very
suspicious spiel about the positioning of security cameras and told we should
move across the street. The security of our vehicle (aside from our personal
well-being I suppose) being the most important aspect in terms of the quality
of our trip, we were in the habit of taking every precaution within our
capabilities to protect it, and we were pretty uncomfortable leaving the
security of it in the hands of these men. We’d noticed them following us for a
few hundred metres before we stopped and gave them the opportunity to approach
us, and they seemed far too worried about our security. We actually hadn’t been
in the least bit concerned until this group made it into such a big deal, so
with them all hovering around waiting for us to leave our car and all our
possessions, we decided to visit the island in twos, taking it in turn to hang
out with the car. As soon as they realised this is what we were doing they quickly
dispersed, clearly realising they were wasting their time on us. It’s very
disappointing that in this case our observations support the stereo-types
surrounding the antics of gypsies, but unfortunately we couldn’t really find
any other way to read this situation.
A couple of the same guys made their way to the bridge,
intercepting Denner and Dee as they made the crossing and asking for a toll for
the bridge, which they were of course refused, and then an entrance fee to the
island, which they were again refused, and then the monastery itself, which
they were obviously once again refused. Hoping to avoid the accosting, Ben and
I walked over the ice instead of the bridge, as the island was much closer to
the mainland on this side. It was oddly silent in this little section of the lake,
sandwiched between the monastery on the island, and the backs of houses on the
mainland. Huge ruptures streaked across the ice, as if there had been an
earthquake, and along the edges a few brave plants had pushed their way through
the frozen surface. The ice became very thin in places, and we could see the
swirling water just beneath the surface, hearing a few creaks as it shifted
around the bridge. We wondered how long the lake had been frozen for, and when
it would eventually melt.
The island was home only to an old farmhouse with a very
barky dog, and the small understated monastery in which we believed Dracula’s
grave lay. There wasn’t a single signpost and other than the barking dog and
the gypsy standing on the bridge, we couldn’t spot any discernible signs of
life. Because of the hovering gypsies making us feel so uncomfortable, we unfortunately
didn’t go inside the monastery, but although we never set eyes on the grave
itself we were pretty chuffed that we’d at least found the location, and
regardless of anything else it was a beautiful little island.
Needless to say we arrived at the Village Museum and the
Peasant Museum shortly after their closing times, so hoping we’d get a chance
to visit them during our few days in Bucharest we continued on to our meeting
with our host.
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