Modern travel is weird. Have a problem? Just ring up your local Cornish vicar. No-one at the retreat speaks any English, and we're the only guests here. It's all a bit of a mystery. Apparently our room's already been paid for and everything. So I ring Pat the vicar, back in Cornwall, to ask her a few things, not least what the hell is going on. Not in those exact words. She's a vicar. So I slip a couple of expletives in too.
She tells me that, as we knew, they'd been expecting us three days before, but adds that most of them have been away at a wedding. The English speakers should be back soon. She also confirms she has indeed paid for the room, to save things getting confusing. Which is ace, and very nearly worked. But at least we can expect a bit of banter soon - it'd be nice to get the lowdown on the retreat and the area in general, to see what it's all about. For now Pat recommends a woodland walk nearby, which leads you to a waterfall you can chuck yourselves into, which sounds like the perfect thing to do after yet another blisteringly hot day in a row (sorry England). Also, she says, if you want to pack a picnic, pop into the shop on the way and pick up some bread and stuff. That sounds ruradyllic.
We jump in the car and head to the shop, which gives us our first taste of the Romanian countryside. In through the beaded curtains to find a tiny timewarp grocery, stacked with packets of incomprehensible things. And Pringles.
There is no humour here. One poker-faced punter pushes me out of the way with his beerbelly. Then the similarly squat owner comes round and stands about six inches in front of Jeff's face. He just stares at him. Jeff smiles. Nothing. Jeff waves. Which looks ridiculous. 'Pizza,' says the shop owner, pointing into the cabinet. We leave the shop carrying our pizza. Jeff succinctly describes the experience as: 'Romanian as fuck.'
It's good to be out in the countryside. Again, there's too much for the eye to take in. Driving through valleys with steep hills on either side, overtaking more old country women, and men on carts carrying sticks. It's a beautiful area, even if we'd really rather be out walking in it, not driving again to go walking in it.
We follow Pat's directions, down a dirt track next to the railway line, and follow the river. The dirt track is nothing but a dusty lane full of pot holes, but that doesn't stop people coming the other way driving massive trucks. The faces covering our car take a proper pasting (sorry people).
We can't help noticing that people seem distinctly indifferent to the sight of a rallified Fiat Punto covered in the faces of lots of pale people. Not that we're expecting a huge reaction everywhere we go, or for people to react differently because we're English, but given the looks, laughs and winks we'd got in countries on the way, we'd have thought that would only increase when we got out to some proper countryside.
It's not that people are negative necessarily, they just couldn't give a fuck. As Jeff points out, they're probably a bit miffed to have gone from an entirely traditional rural existence to having a big main road shoved through with massive billboards advertising Lexus. Or Lexi, for Partridge fans. Steve, usually an immovable rock of understanding, sums it up by saying: 'I would call it ignorance, if they weren't so stupid.'
We totally fail to find the waterfall, but pull up at another part of the river. Steve gets out to guide us in, walking past a house that contains the worst smell he's ever smelt. He figures there has to be a dead body, of human or cow, inside. Then we go to tuck into the pizza which the kindly shopkeeper had passed our way earlier. I tuck in. Steve points out that it's rotten. Oh shit.We drive back. Again, we're blown away by the countryside. We pass more Jesus statues, and an old woman completely crashed out in a hedge.
When we return, the staff are all back, and they serve us a delicious meal of pork cutlets and incredible herby potato. But not a single word beyond the basic pleasantries. Is it shyness? Or is it aggressive? Are they just tired, or is it just that they can't be arsed? Does a group of English blokes abroad have a reputation preceding them? Or is it just that our time-keeping is appalling? The hard part is just not knowing, which means you can't do anything about it. You start thinking you don't deserve friendliness, or that we're doing something wrong.
The ones who speak English are the worst. It's like they've learnt our language so they can ignore us more fluently.
We recover our sanity by lounging in the grounds of the retreat, taking in the views.
Then Jeff skips about the meadow and gets the horn over nature again.
We end the day with an evening kick-about among the hay bails. In a perfect world we'd now be surrounded by a load of Romanian kids, helping to foster international understanding through the language of visionary through-balls and sweetly-struck volleys. As it is we have to suffer our inelegant hoofs alone.
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