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Wednesday 20 August

I had recovered from my opening the night before, and I was now heading down the path to selection day, 10am on Saturday, and the final exhibition on Sunday, I still had one canvas to complete. That was put on hold because the programme dictated a mandatory overnight Wednesday into Thursday at Rimetea, a Hungarian village about 40 minutes from Aiud that was part of the Kingdom of Hungary, until 1920. Over 90{7be53c347edc93dd53d32315dd5e13accfceff0591d7e48b64940a69993424f5} of its population is Hungarian.

Granted, we all needed a break, and spending time in the quiet (no wifi) of communal living in a B&B with a large lawn ending at a babbling brook on one side and a serene lake with doll-sized summer houses on the other, was balm for our tortured souls. Well, balm for this tortured soul who was still having cross words with her last canvas, over its stubbornness to reflect what my mind was projecting. Was that too much to ask?

Town centre Rimetea with communal water supply

Town centre Rimetea with communal water supply

The time at Rimetea passed quietly. Some parts of the village reminded me of Young Street, or more correctly, what Young Street and the surrounding historic centre could/should look like. Even the presence of tourist buses did not detract from the period ambiance. I thought that keeping the communal watering hole in the village centre was a brilliant idea. The cold, delicious water flows 24/7 from a spring into a long channel, providing free water to the public and a natural cooling spot on hot days.

After a wholesome lunch freshly prepared at the hotel, most of us went to find a shady spot on the grass, or under a tree, to sleep. Some of the more energetic played table tennis, nine pins or badminton. I went to my room to write this blog, and awoke just before supper, blog hanging by a comma. Guilt forced me out on a short walk with colleagues to a nearby orthodox monastery 2km down the road. Lovely building and grounds, but no photos were allowed. Back the way I came, I stopped for a photo op at this marker, noting that I had a long way to walk back to Aiud, if I missed the bus.

Note the distance

Note the distance

The highlight of Wednesday evening was a huge campfire near the brook. My back was cold, my front was toasty, but I stayed put to take photos of the fire as it danced and changed shape. Much later, general conversation became pantomime, sing-alongs, spontaneous poetry and oratory. The party broke up in the wee hours. A bunch of sleepyheads turned up for breakfast at 8, and we were barely awake when the bus showed up and we piled in for the drive back to Aiud, and to a day’s work in studio.

Friday 22 August

The anti-dracula group - Patrick, Gaya, Clemens me and Lojze

The anti-dracula group – Patrick, Gaya, Clemens me and Lojze

Primed with a week’s worth of raw garlic and hot peppers, the anti-dracula group was ready for our trip to Sighișoara. We left immediately after breakfast, and the bus took us through villages and lonely roads winding through wild countryside. We passed several abandoned factories and industrial sites that I wish were in Grenada, so I could turn them into artist colonies. Many sites were abandoned after the fall of communism; others were left to ruin; others were sold piece by piece, like so much scrap. The stories I heard about the everyday impact of the political situation here at that time, horrified me that several people whom I had befriended on this art camp – and their families and friends – had been personally traumatised and victimised. Decimated, would be the word I am looking for.

I am so grateful to be living where I am living, and thankful that my family and my friends are safe and whole.

Cobblestone walk to the fortress

Cobblestone walk to the fortress

After we passed the umpteenth factory shell, we finally arrived at Sighișoara. Lunch was first order of business but first we had to find the place, along two streets, right at the lights, through a nondescript gate, and voila, there it was. The building reminded me of military barracks, and the dining room, a mess hall. The restaurant sponsored our lunch, and the food was good. The fortress towers over the town, so we headed there. Stunning sights everywhere, and we were in luck, there was a traditional market inside the fort, and it was doing brisk business.

But where was Dracula? I found the house he was born in, now a restaurant and bar. His bronze bust near the church was much better. Nutz. All that garlic for nothing.

Vlad Dracul and me

Vlad Dracul and me