Our very dated 60’s room-en-suite
was situated on the 4th floor in the top left corner of this vast
empty hotel, apart from the 300 children whose presence we never heard. It took
ages to pack up and get our luggage into the intriguing lift that had 3 metal
panels and an open grilled front, jamming doors with feet and taking two trips to
reach the bike. Breakfast was a dreary affair on the empty terrace, only this
time there were two waiters and a big trolley carrying metal urns. We were
offered tea or coffee. B asked for black coffee. Big mistake. The coffee urn
was already pre-filled with milky sugary mixture. It took a long time to get a
tiny cup of black sludge and surprise, surprise; it came with a separate till
slip for about 50 cents. Obviously not part of the set breakfast menu, which consisted
of egg and sausage.
Well, the sausage
was another surprise. We couldn’t cut them! Our knives kept sliding off the
skin which actually was a soft plastic tube. Once we’d pierced it with our
forks and peeled the front bit off we squeezed the sausage out like toothpaste. Filling up on lots of bread and jam seemed a
good option before we headed off to the reception and our bike. At reception the message of the deal offered
by the manager the night before hadn’t been passed on, so we were presented
with a bill for 60.50 euros. Now that’s a surprise! B showed the receptionist the
piece of paper with the all-inclusive quote (except for 3 beers) and insisted
that the manager be contacted. Communication became a bit complicated as neither
side spoke each other’s language. Eventually the English speaking
manager/waiter from yesterday was traced and the computer system almost crashed
with all the tut-tutting and button pushing to change the bill. With full
tummies and empty pockets B rode out of the foyer much to the surprise of the parents
coming to fetch their kids.Peering into the one and only open door, I waved my ticket at the lady behind the computer. Pleasantly enough, she came out and proceeded to escort me in and out of all the doors showing me what was in each one and waiting while I photographed and admired and appreciated the artefacts. This took rather a long time so I declined to go upstairs and instead went to relieve B from his motorcycle watchpost. He went through the same process and went upstairs. I had a very long time to bike and people watch, standing next to the bike in the rising heat of the day. It was very interesting to wander a short way from the bike, rest in the shade and watch the passers’ by and their curiosity. Fortunately no-one got close enough to put my hollering skills to the test. It was a lovely warm afternoon’s ride to the border post and we were thankfully waved on past the rows and rows of cars and buses and huge trucks. The Danube River separates Serbia from Romania, although in Galerius’s day it was all one big Roman Route for the Emperors and wine production.
We are now in Romania and it’s a short
beautiful ride through the mountains to Camping Hercules in Mehadia. We arrive
at 5pm to be met by a lovely German proprietor and his wife, where we are shown
to a patch of lawn next to a sparkling clean 3 metre square swimming pool. Quick
as a flash the tent was pitched and cozzie was on and I was in. Within 30
minutes 5 campervans and a couple on bicycles had pulled in and set up camp. Popular
place, this. To offset the rather meagre breakfast and lack of lunch we treated
ourselves to dinner with wine and the biggest tastiest most delicious Goulash
ever. What a surprise.
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