The Real Transylvania

Thanks to our regular contributor Emila Frinculeasa


Transylvania, the medieval jewel of Romania with its majestic castles, imposing towers, remarkable citadels and distinguished churches as well as idyllic cobblestone streets and colourful, Old-Saxon homes, its glorious Carpathian Mountains – the very birthplace of Count Dracula's myth, still leaves plenty of room for exquisite Gothic tales and mysterious, larger-than-life figures.


Transylvania’s tumultuous history, beginning with the Roman province of “Dacia Traiana”, with unrighteous decisions ruled against its fate by outsiders, the bitter religious conflicts born inside its multiethnic communities and numerous blood shedding events such as public executions, tragic betrayals and barbarous assassinations, all these made an anonymous Saxon writer state that "only 
God's mercy" saved this region and its people from annihilation.

However, despite its share of tragedy and discord, the Romanian province fueling the most controversial historical debates, Transylvania remains the cradle of hope for civilization, tolerance and peace.

Emila Frinculeasa

From "Dracula" by Bram Stoker

I soon lost sight and recollection of ghostly fears in the beauty of the scene as we drove along, although had I known the language, or rather languages, which my fellow-passengers were speaking, I might not have been able to throw them off so easily. Before us lay a green sloping land full of forests and woods, with here and there steep hills, crowned with clumps of trees or with farmhouses, the blank gable end to the road. There was everywhere a bewildering mass of fruit

blossom--apple, plum, pear, cherry. And as we drove by I could see the green grass under the trees spangled with the fallen petals. In and out amongst these green hills of what they call here the "Mittel Land" ran the road, losing itself as it swept round the grassy curve, or was shut out by the straggling ends of pine woods, which here and there ran down the hillsides like tongues of flame. The road was rugged, but still we seemed to fly over it with a feverish haste. I could not understand then what the haste meant, but the driver was evidently bent on losing no time in reaching Borgo Prund. I was told that this road is in summertime excellent, but that it had not yet been put in order after the winter snows. In this respect it is different from the general run of roads in the Carpathians, for it is an old tradition that they are not to be kept in too good order. Of old the Hospadars would not repair them, lest the Turk should think that they were preparing to bring in foreign troops, and so hasten the war

which was always really at loading point.

Beyond the green swelling hills of the Mittel Land rose mighty slopes of forest up to the lofty steeps of the Carpathians themselves. Right and left of us they towered, with the afternoon sun falling full upon them and bringing out all the glorious colours of this beautiful range, deep blue and purple in the shadows of the peaks, green and brown where grass and rock mingled, and an endless perspective of jagged rock and pointed crags, till these were themselves lost in the distance, where the snowy peaks rose grandly. Here and there seemed mighty rifts in the mountains, through which, as the sun began to sink, we saw now and again the white gleam of falling water. One of my companions touched my arm as we swept round the base of a hill and opened up the lofty, snow-covered peak of a mountain, which seemed, as we wound on our serpentine way, to be right before us.

"Look! Isten szek!"--"God's seat!"--and he crossed himself reverently.