Emergency Bread! Why cycling in Romania you need to be armed (and dangerous) at all times.

When going into a combat situations most troops arm themselves with a weapon or two. Assault rifle here, flare or two there and even a couple of grenades ready to pull the pin on should the need arise.

To my knowledge however, no soldier has ever been stood in front of his commander and told to carry, and have ready to deploy at ALL TIMES, that most reliable of weapons: emergency bread.

'RIGHT', said Violeta as she handed over bikes to a friend and I in Bran. ‘The first thing you MUST do is cross the road to the bakery and buy some bread'.

Emergency bread (and dirty socks)

(Did we look under-fed? Thought I to myself? That custard-filled raspberry croissant I had only yesterday in Bucharest must have gone straight through me).

'NO' said she (eyeing my thighs of steel), 'The bread is not for you but the shepherd dogs. As it is October, the herds are now down from the mountains and whilst 98% of the dogs are totally harmless, the remaining 2% are NOT''AND, should this (demonic) 2% start chasing you the best thing to do is THROW some bread at them and hope they will screech to a halt and chew on that as opposed to your leg'.

Gulp.

However, not ones to shirk from duty we duly marched into the mini-mart, armed ourselves with a cheap baguette, and were back to our bikes. Ripping off couple of bits, and carefully tucking them into easy-access panier-tops we mounted our trusty steeds and headed out of town.  

And, as anyone who has stayed in rural Romania will know, the minute you hit the countryside you will find it absolutely littered with canines.

Traversing Transylvania on Two Wheels - NOT for non-dog lovers

In recent years Transylvania has emerged as a popular cycling destination. Picture perfect towns such as Bran, Bucium, Sambata de Sus and Sibui are perched on hilltops across the undulating landscape.

Seemingly untouched by time, wonky pastel-coloured houses line the streets and lead to cobbled squares abuzz with pavement cafes (food is good, plentiful and affordable). There are dark-wooded thick-carpeted hotels in quiet backstreets (brown seems a popular colour choice for hotels in many a town) while the busy thoroughfares have shops that swing wildly between beautiful hand-crafted items (pottery, carved wooden boxes, homemade plum liqueurs) and Vampire related tat.

Whilst the towns provide ideal staging posts for the cyclist (easy to get in and out of and plenty of lockable bike spaces) the real beauty in Transylvania (in my eyes), lies in the countryside. Here, if you choose the right roads, you can cycle for miles with only the sound of the wind to keep you company. Vast grasslands spread over the valleys, mountains are covered in thick forest, (where your ears will be primed for the rustle of a bear but all you will see are birds) and as for the villages? A total delight.  

Cycle for a week and you will pass through dozens of villages. They are old, agricultural and very traditional. Farmers bounce down the main street on battered open top tractors and in Chirpar in particular horse-drawn carts are the norm (with every horse sporting a fantastic pair of ear tassels. And, in fact, if you are a horse and NOT wearing a pair of ear tassels I reckon you would be laughed at by all the other horses).

In the centre there is often a fortified church, imposing school with kids yelling in the playground and tiny shop packed floor to roof with everything from pastries to paraffin, sausages to string.  

Last but not least pretty much every iron gateway has a few dogs loping about in front of it. Far from pedigrees they are short legged, long legged, scruffy, scrappy, missing an ear chunk or scratching an itchy looking leg. On rare occasions do they sport a collar. Some sniff about the street aimlessly, others snooze in a sunny corner (if they can find one) and almost all totally ignore female cyclists.

BUT, look one up the wrong way and well…. we’ll get to that later…

Sheep, shepherds and shepherd-dogs

Outside of the villages, when you are seemingly in the remotest spot of countryside (think no signs of human habitation as far as the eye can see – and further) you are never, actually, alone. Pedal along deserted roads with ears pricked and you will invariably hear the faint faraway clinking of sheep’s bells. Scan the horizon and not far from the sheep you’ll find the crooked outline of a shepherd. Occasionally sitting in the shade of a tree but more often leaning on his staff. And where there is a shepherd? There will always be a satellite ring of shaggy shepherd dogs.

Shepherd dogs are enormous. Fact. Much like teenagers they like to hang out in skulking groups, sometimes six, sometimes a full dozen. Unlike teenagers they are fully alert at all times, crouching, watchful and waiting.  Do they guard? Absolutely.  But are they always recalled by the melodic whoops and whistles of the shepherd? In our experience, without a doubt. A few once loped down the road after us (and let me tell you its not superbly relaxing) but they weren’t really that invested and as soon as the shepherd called they ambled off back to his side.

Whilst impossibly large and imposing, if you find a good vantage point they are in fact, superb to watch. Loping over the plains after the sheep in formations the Red Arrows would be proud of they are well trained working dogs – doing exactly what they were employed to do.

Pulling The Pin on the Granary Grenade

And so did I ever need to drop the bread bomb then? Well, whilst in a week my friend and I saw and cycled past roughly 270 dogs, of that number precisely 269 completely ignored us.

But the last dog?

Well, there’s ALWAYS one isn’t there.

Sailing past a sunny doorstep in the village of Agnita I caught the eye of a snoozing corgi-esque type creature. Unfortunately I looked it straight in the one eye that was opening and frankly, it didn’t like the cut of my gib. It took chase, and bloody hell, short legs can move VERY fast. Within seconds there was a frenzy of fur flying (him) ankle snapping (still him) and yelling (me).

And so I dropped the bomb. BOOM. I went full baguette on the road. (I wasn’t messing about).

But, did the despotic demon dog even blink?

No it didn’t. Frankly it couldn’t have given a shit about the bread.

Leaping over it, thus ensued an exciting chase of it trying to snap my ankles while I was trying to accelerate at speed, whilst also not using my pedals, as they were too near the nipping teeth. (It’s a tricky skill and I’m not entirely sure I mastered it).

When I finally got away, stopped to catch my breath, dust down my legs and generally check that my feet were still attached I took a moment.

‘HOW is it’ thought I, ‘that I managed to piss off the ONLY bloody gluten-free dog in  Romania’?