A dark and stormy night in Dracula country

Curtea de Arges has a better claim to a Dracula connection than many of the Romanian cities that also claim him as their own; Vlad the Impaler lived at the ruined Poenari Castle nearby.

It shouldn’t be a surprise, then, that our arrival at Curtea de Arges late this evening was worthy of chronicling by a 21st century Bram Stoker.

It got steadily darker as the train climbed uphill into the foothills of the Fagaras mountains. We got out to see the huge gothic staton building silhouetted against the ghastly orange glow on horizon of the otherwise deep black sky. 

Gathering toddler, luggage and pushchair took some time, so when we finally emerged from the dark station to the road, all the taxis were taken, and there were lots of people still waiting. With the stormy clouds threatening a deluge, I decided we should walk rather than waiting. Google maps showed the most direct way would take no more 16 minutes. 

The map led us onto side road, where the dusk had deepened into pitch dark. No cars passed in the eerily quiet road. It was a relief to see a lit area ahead, but at the same time barking dogs shattered the silence. The closer we got to the light, the angrier they became. Guard dogs shut up in gated gardens beside the road? But dark shapes loomed out of the gloom, now growling angrily. 

I shouted at them, brandishing my pepper spray in one hand and holding little Bea — who had refused to get in the pushchair — with the other. They stopped their advance but didn’t back away, and continued growling. 

It was a standoff. I shouted; they growled; neither of us would turn back. I knew that if I showed weakness they could attack. 

Alerted by the shouts and grows, a woman came out into the street and asked what the matter was. She said there won’t be a problem with the dogs. She assumed we were staying at her own pension; when she heard we were going to the Montana she was shocked. 

“Where is your car?”

“We came on foot from the station.” (All of five minutes away.)

“On your own!”

“Yes. There were no taxis. Is there a taxi rank nearby?” 

She led us past the dogs – still growling but under the streetlight I saw they were well looked after pedigree dogs not feral strays – and pointed us in the direction of the high street. 

There were no taxis there either so we continued walking, with me stopping every few minutes to check the map app on my phone, hoping not to run out of credit or battery. 

In this corner of Dracula country, the night air was hot and crackling with electricity. We started to hear rumbles of thunder, see flashes, feel spots of rain. 

The only people out on the main street were shirtless youths with beer bottles, but they ignored us. 

Suddenly, it started pouring with rain. The pavements were quickly awash and huge drops seemed to bounce upwards from the wet tarmac. Pausing for a moment, I pulled up Bea’s hoodie, but there was no shelter to be found from the driving rain.

We passed the spotlit Princely Church of St Nicholas, signpost for the Lidl supermarket and a pool of darkness where the map indicated a park lay on the right. 

Eventually we come to a row of restaurants with people sitting under awnings eating and drinking. Not much further now, I thought, as we splashed soggily on. Even Bea soldiered on, draggling a little on my hand but refusing to get in the pushchair. 

At last we saw the sign for the Pensiune Montana. Inside we found cool air, a hot shower, crisp white sheets…