Favaritx Lighthouse on Menorca’s north east coastline

We Brits still visit Spain by the plane load for our summer holidays, despite the ever broadening geographical horizons demanded by today’s more adventurous and savvy tourist. That said, we are quite set in our ways when it comes to choosing our Hispanic destinations, and particularly so when it comes to the islands. The Canaries are as popular as ever, but when it comes to the Balearics, Majorca and Ibiza still win out for sheer numbers over sleepier Menorca, but that just seems to make this little corner of paradise even more idyllic for those who consider it ‘their island’.

I was won over by Menorca’s many charms quite by accident. I was bound for Turkey in 1999, but was informed at check-out that an earthquake had damaged our hotel, and after many hours spent at Manchester airport, was finally offered either Ibiza or Menorca.

My clubbing days well and truly behind me (oh, okay, I might be seen out in town once every now and then if Belinda Carlisle or Hazel Dean are putting in a comeback appearance, but those are special circumstances) I decided to opt for the latter. After all, I’d never been before and I do love to visit new places.

Mahon (Mao) harbour attracts both the rich and famous

I flew into Mao airport in the late October sunshine and was promptly transferred to my resort of Arenal D’en Castell on the north east coast of the island. Now - despite the fact that I now love Arenal for reasons which are quite idiosyncratic - had this been my only experience of the island, good though it was, I may never have yearned to go back year after year (something I thought only old people did. Oh, wait, I am old now. Well, my great nephews and nieces think so, anyway. My excuse is that I do go to many other much more diverse and exotic places for the rest of the year, so returning to Menorca is both my only indulgence and my only weakness. Apart from the gin and steak pies, that is). But I was fortunate enough to take a tour of the island, and this led me to my perfect little corner - Binibeca, tucked away on the south west coast.

Binibeca beach bar - a stunning little hideaway

Binibeca is stunningly beautiful. Not to be confused with the neighbouring Binibeca Vell - a seventies recreation of a typical Menorcan fishing village - Binibeca (also spelt Binibequer) is a quaint, picturesque and gentle settlement built up around one of the most beautiful bays on the island, complete with Los Bucaneros - its very own beach bar. Binibeca itself doesn’t have much to offer the uninitiated tourist in terms of amenities, but literally next door is Cala Torret, which sports a supermarket and a string of seafront restaurants, the best - in my humble opinion, of course - being DPs. Presided over by genial host John, this sizeable establishment manages to be both intimate and friendly, whilst offering superbly cooked food from its extensive menu. It’s not the cheapest, but is always excellent value for money.

Exploring the island is a must, so I’ve broken the Menorcan experience down into the various highlights in order to do them all justice. Have a look through them, and please do add your own comments.

The beach on Walney Island, looking out to the west

I’d been wanting to visit Piel Island for at least two years, ever since I’d glimpsed the stark, imposing ruin of its castle from the shores of nearby Walney. I remember going on about a two hour wild goose chase at the time, frantically trying to locate this eerily romantic half-structure so that I could photograph it at close quarters in the near-perfect light, before I finally abandoned my inherent maleness and sheepishly resorted to the road atlas in the boot. Oh, so all I had to do was drive round to Rampside and proceed along the causeway at Roa Island, and Piel was just a hop, skip and a jump away by ferry. Easy peasy! Except the ferry wasn’t running, and nobody really had a clue as to when it might be.

From that moment, I knew that one day I just had to visit the island itself and explore those curiously inviting shores. It was a trip that proved to be more elusive than I would’ve liked, but I finally had my reason to visit when it was agreed I would do a feature on the place for this magazine.

Right – the trick here was going to be in the planning. I knew I wanted to spend some time on nearby Walney, so I booked a Friday night stay there at the Castle House Hotel, and then made a reservation at Clarkes Hotel in Rampside for the Saturday. All that remained was to book my ferry trip over to Piel on the Saturday afternoon. “No problem,” assured the local ferryman, “just give me a call about half an hour before you want to go and I’ll meet you at the harbour!” Fabulous, I thought – we’re all sorted.

The lighthouse on South Walney has recently been converted into two private dwellings

Travelling from Fleetwood to Walney on the Friday night was an absolute delight – it was one of those sunny evenings (a bit of a rarity this summer, admittedly) and there was virtually no traffic (even more of a rarity), so the journey was a 90 minute breeze, door to door. After checking in to my hotel, it was an unexpected pleasure to just relax with a nice glass of red while basking in the warm glow of the Morecambe Bay sunset, looking forward to a weekend of adventure.

Saturday morning arrived, and I was up and out early for a walk along the beach. This is such a hidden gem on the ‘Lancashire’ coastline (ok, so it might be Cumbria now, but it always was part of Lancashire before all those silly boundary changes of the 70s) and well worth investigation. Walney has a strange feeling to it really: you could almost be on a remote western isle off the north west coast of Scotland, and yet you’ve got busy and thriving Barrow-in-Furness just across the bridge. Follow the road around the west side, and you’ll eventually come to Biggar Village, and the incredible Queen’s Arms pub. It looks incredibly spooky – almost like it could be straight out of The Wicker Man – but serves a gradely pint which washed down one of the best homemade steak and kidney pies I’ve had in years. This claims to be Furness’ oldest inn, dating back to the fourteenth century. It doesn’t actually look as if it’s changed much since then, either, but it would be a sin if it did. The Queen’s Arms’ ancient charm makes it one of those places that just puts a quiet smile of amazement on your face.

The stark, imposing ruin of Piel’s 14th century castle has witnessed some of the greatest events in history

After lunch, with excitement mounting rapidly, I drove the six or so miles round to the Clarkes Hotel at Rampside. Piel Island was getting ever closer: time to ring the ferry man and summon him forth! I waited with bated breath as my mobile made the connection.
“Hello..? What..? The ferry..? No, I’m afraid it’s broken down. Waiting for a part – won’t be fixed til Monday.”
“But I’m here now. I’ve paid a fortune for my hotel and I need to take some pictures and explore the island for a magazine article, and… and…” I was virtually hysterical and bordering on being unreasonable.
“Sorry mate,” came the chirpy little retort from the other end. “Nothing I can do about it. We’ll be back up and running on Monday.” And with that, he rang off.

Of course, he was absolutely right. No matter how unreasonable I wanted to be, there was simply nothing anyone could do, and it was nobody’s fault. This didn’t, however, assuage my bitter disappointment. I felt like the child with no Christmas presents; I couldn’t go to Piel Island and I was moribund.
I trudged back into my hotel room, defeated. I had been thwarted and I needed consolation – maybe I could just park the car up and resort to more beer. It would help numb the pain of my aborted adventure. I had waited forever for this trip, and now I couldn’t go.

I don’t usually sulk for long, and I can’t stand petulant behaviour in others, so always try not to indulge myself in it for more than a few minutes. I didn’t opt for drowning my sorrows in the end, but drove across the causeway to Roa Island so I could at least look longingly at Piel and maybe get some shots with my zoom.

This ancient keep, which overlooks the bay on Roa Island, is soon to become private living accommodation

It was while standing there weighing up light and distance that I noticed a little yellow boat zipping back and forth around the jetty. Eventually, the little craft bobbed up and moored itself alongside me. It was piloted by young Carl Richards, a native of Walney, who was keen to show off his recently acquired vessel, the Ooloo.
“I don’t suppose you’d take me across to Piel Island?” I asked, rather hesitantly. Why should he? He didn’t know me (I could be an axe murderer) and I didn’t know him (he could be an axe murderer). “I’ll give you twenty quid if you do,” I said anyway, obviously willing to risk anything in my desperation.

After thinking about it for a few minutes, Carl decided he would take me across if I was prepared to share the trip with a few of his mates (they might all be axe murderers). I took a gamble on the likelihood of their murderous intent and, deciding that they probably didn’t have any other plans than a night’s camping, agreed to the proposal with the caveat that I only handed over the cash when he came back to pick me up (much as I relished the prospect of exploring my mysterious island, I didn’t want to be marooned there for the rest of my life). All points agreed, I was loaded onto the boat along with my fellow passengers and several cases of Stella Artois and within minutes we were bound for Piel Island at last.

Walney resident Carl Richards (left) and his mates saw me safely across to Piel Island aboard Ooloo

Ten minutes later, I was disembarking on the island’s shores, ready – at last – for my adventure. Carl zipped off into the distance and I staved off the vague notion that I might be left stranded after all, reflecting on what a sad state of affairs it was that we all seem to operate in an environment with such a lack of trust these days. A sign of the times, I guess.

Piel was not disappointing. The day was perfect, and as I ambled around the island and its incredible ruined castle, I yearned for more knowledge of its history. My research had already told me that this 20 acre island has been designated a ‘Site of Special Scientific Interest’ (SSSI) and is owned by the people of Barrow, having been gifted to them by the Duke of Buccleuch in 1920 as a war memorial. It is managed by the ‘king of Piel’ - a title given to the landlord of the Ship Inn public house, the island’s only watering hole, although the pub has been without a landlord since Rod Scarr, the last incumbent, sadly ‘abdicated his throne’ at Easter 2006 after a 20 year reign. Rod and his family have now retired to the ‘mainland’ of Walney Island.

The Inn is in need of vital renovations, and I understand the local council were supposed to start work in late 2006 to restore and make the premises habitable. This work has still not been started, but the council now appointed a new ‘king’, Steve Chattaway. Planned refurbishment has not yet taken place, so it remains to be seen when the official ‘coronation’ will occur.

Along with the pub, the island’s only other buildings are a block of six privately owned cottages, a public toilet and shower facility (the island is a favourite destination for campers) and, of course, the magnificent ruins of the 14th century castle.

The former glory of Piel Castle is still evident today

The Furness area has always had a chequered history in spite of its relative remoteness. Piel was also known under its Scandinavian name of Foundry Island (or Fotheray Island – the name possibly originating from the old Norse ‘foder’ or ‘fouder’, meaning fodder and ‘ay’ or ‘oy’, meaning island, so literally a foddering place for early settlers to graze their animals). Along with its castle, it has been witness to some of the greatest events in history.

Piel was probably visited by the Celts, and later the Romans, during their conquest of Britain. In 1127 the island was given to the Savignac monks as part of their original land grant for an abbey from King Stephen. After the Savignacs merged with the Cistercians in the middle of the century, Furness Abbey started to grow and the need for a safe harbour was felt. Foundry seemed to be the ideal answer as it was protected, was close to the Abbey and there was land to build a warehouse in order to keep cargoes safe.

There is no mains supply of gas or electricity to Piel, so life can become more than a little harsh for those who wish to stick it out over the winter. It’s not all hardship though, as fresh water is piped from the mainland and there are flushing toilets! Communication is by ship to shore radio and, in more recent times, mobile phone. Supplies are brought across by ferry from Roa, but residents usually get their own provisions either by private boat or across the sands by tractor to the mainland at low tide.

During the summer months, the clear waters and exposed sandbanks around Piel attract numbers of shore birds and in recent years seals have occasionally been sighted. The original marsh pond in the centre of the island has, with careful management, become a haven for many other types of birds and wildlife.

Although only a stone’s throw from the mainland, Piel Island and its castle could be a million miles from anywhere

Information boards at regular intervals provide both historical and environmental facts, which helps to give you a feel for this rich and wonderful place. An unexpected haven of peace, Piel Island is the perfect escape if you need to be far from the madding crowd for a few hours. I would have loved to have stayed for longer myself, but Carl had sent one of his scouts, young Danny McMullan, out to find me – he was anxious to get me back to the mainland and go home for his tea.

It had been every bit the adventure I had hoped, and Carl had played a vital part in making it happen. Without his trust and assistance, I may still not have explored the delights of Piel Island, so I thank him unreservedly for being my personal ferryman. And I urge anyone with a sense of adventure to explore this magical place for themselves.

Words and pictures © Nigel Burton, 2008. Must not be reproduced without written permission.

The Torchwood team - washed, and ready for action (BBC 2008)

WARNING! Plot spoilers abound in the below article. Oh well, I did warn you…

I thought the first series of Torchwood was sensational, but with series two, the BBC have taken adult British sci-fi to a level which surely leads the rest of the world.

Creator Russell T Davies is no stranger to critical acclaim, having given us the fantastic new Dr Who franchise, and previously the much admired Queer as Folk, but with Torchwood, even Russell has excelled himself.

The characters are all rich, and the depth invested in them by each cast member is nothing short of genius. It would be hard to pick a lead, as each and every performer contributes his or her own special magic to make televisual perfection.

Davies is clearly a fan of Joss Whedon’s cult classic Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and there have been one or two brilliant nods to this forerunner throughout the series. But the ultimate stroke of genius has to be the casting of James Marsters (Buffy’s Spike) as Captain John Hart, adding sharp wit and even camper humour, particularly in the superbly scripted banter with Captain Jack Harkness (John Barrowman).

The fantastic James Marsters as Captain John Hart (BBC 2008)

Fine performances too from Eve Myles as Gwen Cooper, Burn Gorman as Dr Owen Harper, Naoko Mori as Toshiko Sato and Gareth David Lloyd as Ianto Jones lend even more weight to the mix, leading to Torchwood being promoted from BBC 3 (where it won fantastic audience figures) to BBC 2 for series two.

As it hurtled towards its apocalyptic finale, the second series made some pretty tough choices along the way. We thought we’d lost Owen for good in episode six (Reset) as he was dispatched by Jim from Neighbours (Alan Dale) in a timely plot twist.

Burn Gorman’s iconic performance of Dr Owen Harper (BBC 2008)

But as Dead Man Walking, Owen continued to be a regular throughout the rest of the series, almost lulling us into a false sense of security, so by the time of his ultimate dispatch in the final episode (Exit Wounds) we were sent into spasm all over again, and then finished off completely with the unexpected murder of Tosh by Jack’s brother Gray (Lachlan Nieboer). I defy anyone to watch those closing moments without shedding a tear, beautiful scenes written by Chris Chibnall and sensitively directed by Ashley Way which must rank among the best in British drama for many a year.

Sad loss - how will Torchwood cope without the fabulous Toshiko (Naoko Mori)? - (BBC 2008)

How a future Torchwood will fare without half of its team is anyone’s guess. Is Owen really gone for good? Can Tosh be brought back with the resurrection glove for more than two minutes? Would she want to be? Oh gosh - the suspense is killing me already!

All images used in this post are copyright © BBC 2007/2008 and reproduced by kind permission

The beautiful Eilean Donan Castle

I’m not sure I could get through a year without my annual pilgrimage to the western Highlands of Scotland. What started out as a trip to find my grandfather’s final resting place on the Isle of Skye some twelve years ago - a journey made regularly with my beloved Uncle Heccy - has become a yearly pleasure I look forward to with the anticipation of a child on Christmas Eve.

The 360-mile journey to Dornie, which I always make my base, is nothing short of arduous and takes me the best part of a day from Fleetwood in Lancashire. This matters not; I’m always so excited, and the lunch stop at our special cafe on the banks of Loch Lomond serves as the gateway to a breath-takingly beautiful journey from that moment on.

Despite the extremely enjoyable drive up, I’m always glad when I finally pull into the car park at the wonderful Dornie Hotel; that last sixty or so miles can be heavy going. The traditional Highland welcome extended by hotel proprietors Paul and Suzanne Meikle is second to none, with rooms comfortable and cosy and an outstanding restaurant (serving the best haggis I’ve ever tasted). All this combines to make me realise every time just why I keep on coming back to this place. I wouldn’t entertain staying anywhere else - especially at the price. Whenever I get my bill, I’m always quietly running through it in my head as it never seems to be enough - not that I’m complaining in any way, shape or form. I always feel so ‘looked-after’; without doubt, this establishment is a vital part of my stay each time I visit.

The village of Dornie itself is quite the most wonderful place on earth, its pretty coloured houses overlooking picturesque Loch Duich (in fact, Dornie is situated at the meeting point of Loch Duich, Loch Alsh and Loch Long) and the majestic highland peaks surrounding it on all sides.

Dornie nestles peacefully on the edge of Loch Duich

I discovered Dornie quite by accident; my uncle - Rev. Hector Lee SSM - had an arrangement with the Anglican Church whereby he could have cheap accommodation in a variety of locations throughout the UK in exchange for being the resident Sunday preacher at the local church. This was the happy circumstance which led us first to Dornie, and the quaint little caravan which overlooked the village and its neighbour Bundaloch from the far side of the Loch Duich. This in turn led to the discovery of the tiny yet delightful church at Nostie, and all the wonderful local people who formed its congregation, especially the wonderful and inspirational Penny Roome, God rest her soul.

Dornie, it turned out, was an ideal location from which to visit Skye itself, being just nine miles south of the famous Skye bridge at Kyle of Lochalsh. It’s also perfect for exploring nearby Plockton, with its famous tropical palm trees (thanks to the prevailing Gulf Stream), Duirinish (or Diurinish, depending on which sign you take to be accurate), the beautiful and often photographed Eilean Donan Castle and the breathtaking Glenelg Bay, the short journey to which is a sublime and wonderful experience in itself.

Vilnius Cathedral links the Old Town with bustling Gedimino Prospekt

Tell people you’re going to Lithuania and, almost without exception, your announcement will be met with a furrowed brow while they try to think exactly where it is. As part of the former USSR, the country only achieved independence in 1991 after several years’ struggle, so it’s perhaps not so surprising that western Europeans aren’t so familiar with its history or geographic location

Lithuanians are rightly proud of their country, and if you visit with a completely open mind, you’re in for something of a treat. The locals are friendly and welcoming, hotel and pub standards are generally high and there’s plenty to see and do. If arriving by plane, Czech Airlines offer an excellent service from Manchester, albeit via Prague. On arrival at Vilnius airport, transfer by taxi (by far the easiest option) will cost around 50 to 60 litas (Lt) - around £11.

If you’re making Vilnius your base, try to pick accommodation somewhere between the main commercial street, Gedimino Prospekt, and the beautiful old town. You should have no problem finding a hotel which suits your pocket - there’s the upmarket Radisson SAS Astorija where a double room will cost anything up to £130 per night, or at the other end of the scale you could choose the Ambassador (situated perfectly on Gedimino Prospekt, right opposite Gedimino 9 shopping centre, which even boasts an M & S to make you feel right at home!) which is a ridiculously cheap £22 per night for bed and breakfast (and that’s per room, not per person!). You may find this suspiciously cheap, but trust me - there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it and it is a real bargain. Incidentally, it’s well worth picking up your copy of a little publication called Vilnius in your Pocket. You can get it at almost any hotel or bar, and it’s an invaluable source of information (just don’t trust all its restaurant reviews - I feel the publishers may be in their advertisers pockets a bit!).

Night view of Gedimino Prospekt, the commercial centre of Vilnius

The Lithuanian diet is geared up for cold winters, and therefore most of it is quite stodgy with a high calorific value. It’s great to try traditional food, but be prepared to gain a few pounds over the course of your stay. You might want to try zeppelins (stuffed potato dumplings) or potato pancakes. There’s also a selection of Russian-influenced fayre, including blinis (small pancakes served with various accompaniments).

If you’re a lager drinker, try some of the authentic local brews (worth a try even if it’s not your usual tipple) - bitter drinkers will find a decent selection of hostelries serving both Guinness and Kilkenny. Also on offer is a vast selection of wines and spirits - do try some of the Lithuanian vodkas.

• Must do things

Lithuanian Philharmonic - for a rare treat, an evening at the Phil is culturally rewarding. Try selecting a piano recital (tickets will only set you back about £4) for a sublime experience that won’t go on all night. The Philharmonic Hall itself is a stunningly beautiful building, inside and out.

Vilnius City Tour - guides for the tour are excellent, with a fantastic command of English. You’ll get a great insight into the city’s finest features, with plenty of opportunity for budding photographers to snap away. The tours leave Cathedral Square at 11am and 3am and last about two and a half hours.

Trip to Trakai - this is an absolute must and makes a superb day out. One of Lithuania’s many former capitals, Trakai, located just 28km west of Vilnius, is a charmingly small settlement, strategically placed in the middle of five large lakes. It is a popular destination for locals seeking a little rest and relaxation by the water and tourists hoping to storm the infamous castle. To replenish all types, Trakai now plays host to many a fine restaurant.

The castle at Trakai, viewed from across the bridge

Church of Peter and Paul - if you’re not particularly religious, it matters not - a visit to this church must be on your agenda. If you do the city tour, it’s included, but if you don’t, make sure you squeeze this into your programme. A beautiful church, inside and out, it offers much more than you might expect.

The beautiful Church of Peter and Paul

Museum of Genocide - not for the faint-hearted, but definitely worth a visit. The Lithuanian people suffered greatly at the hands of the soviets, and this former prison tells the story without pulling any punches. Quite chilling and sobering, but well presented and memorable.

• Where to eat and drink

Radisson SAS Astorija - this is a high-quality, well presented hotel, offering relaxed drinks in the conservatory bar whilst watching the old town go by. Drinks are no more expensive than average, but for a real treat why not sample the restaurant menu? For an evening of culture, you could tag this on to your Philharmonic evening (the restaurant serves until late). For something really tasty, I can recommend the wonderful stuffed cabbage leaves (a Lithuanian speciality) but whatever you choose will be beautifully cooked and presented.

Transylvania - a bit of a departure, as it’s a traditional Romanian pub/restaurant. They serve a wide selection of beers, spirits and wines, and a superb menu. Staff are friendly and prices are keen. You’ll find this just off Gedimino Prospekt (on Totoriu 22). Thankfully, there’s not a vampire in sight, either, as the whole place is themed around Vlad Tepes (the impaler). All in the best possible taste, of course.

Bar Centro - a nice, relaxed wine bar/bistro. Cheap house wine (but good quality) and a selection of delicious food make this the perfect venue for a chilled, mellow evening. Staff are again friendly and helpful and the surroundings are tasteful and comfortable. An intimate little number situated just up the road from Transylvania.

Bar Bobo - it feels as if you’ve stepped into a Victorian funeral parlour, but the gothic atmosphere of this place is absolutely superb. Sit in dimly candle-lit surroundings and enjoy a bottle of Chateau Neuf du Pape if you’re into your reds - it’ll set you back just over £20, but what an experience!

Markus IR Ko - a superb establishment in the heart of the Jewish quarter in the old town. By day a relaxing lunchtime treat (try one of their delicious salads washed down with a glass of local cider) and by night a funky jazz bar.

Du Drakonai - if you like Chinese food, then prepare for a sublime experience! Hidden away on Labdariu 8, this amazing restaurant is one of the finest I have ever patronised at home in the UK or abroad. The dishes are delicately cooked to perfection and the surroundings are tasteful and relaxing. Great staff, excellent prices and a vast choice of menu make this a must.

Busi Trecias - Try this place for its great atmosphere, fine food and home-brewed beers. It makes a perfect venue for either daytime or evening, when the moods steps up a gear. Frequented by locals both young and old, this popular pub/restaurant offers excellent service and very reasonable prices (situated on Totoriu 18).

• What to watch out for

Lithuania is a beautiful country, and Vilnius a clean and pleasant city. While there’s virtually no litter, spitting does seem to be the national pastime. Vilnius is not particularly threatening, but like all cities it pays to be vigilant. Beware of aggressive beggars - if approached just walk away without making eye contact. Avoid driving if you can - Lithuania has the highest number of road deaths in the whole of Europe, and five minutes in a car will show you why.

Words and pictures © Nigel Burton, 2008. Must not be reproduced without written permission.

Vlad Ţepeş, the Wallachian prince at the heart of Bram Stoker’s Dracula

How my fascination with Vlad Ţepeş began

I have been a keen horror film buff since I was a kid, and this is something else I can attribute to my dad. He gave me a 1958 collectors’ first edition of Forrest J Ackerman’s classic Famous Monsters of Filmland magazine, and I was hooked from that moment on. I would pore over the pages studiously, marvelling at the old black and white stills of Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney et al, and patiently wait for the next showing of these classics on television (we only had two channels in those days - I remember my parents getting a new tv set that could receive BBC 2 just so I could watch Hurd Hatfield’s seminal performance in the title role of The Picture of Dorian Gray).

I never did forgive Steven Kennyon for not returning that much loved, prized copy of Famous Monsters when we were both eleven - well, maybe a bit when I finally managed to replace it on eBay a couple of years ago, even if it did set me back sixty quid. I undoubtedly have it to thank for stirring in me an interest not just in the classic portrayals of Dracula by Bela Lugosi and Christopher Lee, but also the fifteenth century prince of Wallachia, Vlad Ţepeş, the real inspiration behind Irish novelist Bram Stoker’s iconic vampire count.

Even as a child, I was fascinated by this mysterious prince - a national hero in his own country for delivering his people from the marauding Turks. How had he earned the name Vlad the Impaler (Ţepeş) and was he really the inhuman monster he is often made out to have been?

My research into the character was obviously limited as a child - it was mainly down to what I could learn in books or glean from infrequent tv documentaries. Much of what you read is biased too - poor Vlad is portrayed almost as the antichrist in many volumes, and this is wildly opposed to the opinion of most Romanians today.

Bela Lugosi, the definitive screen Dracula (Universal 1931)

In adulthood, my fascination with the subject and the man as strong as ever, I decided I would have to go on a journey to get to anything like the real facts about Vlad III of Wallachia. I would have to go to Transylvania.

Take a look at my post ‘Transylvanian Journey - discovering the real Dracula’ for more of this story

Below: The old medieval town of Sighisoara in Transylvania

We started out early the next morning and, as luck would have it, fetched up at Sighisoara on market day. On these days, outlying villagers come in horse drawn carriages to sell their produce, cheese or meats, and the market is an experience in itself for the old time feel and genuine people. One hour north of Brasov, this citadel is straight out of medieval times. As the best preserved and only inhabited walled fortress in Europe, Sighisoara certainly sees its share of Dracula fans. The house where Vlad was born still stands, and has become a quaint restaurant serving traditional Romanian cuisine, as well as contemporary foods.

Once you enter the citadel, you could be forgiven for thinking you’ve stepped back some 500 years, as little has changed inside the walls of the fortress. Passing under the 64 metre clock tower, you will be mesmerised by the medieval architecture and buildings beautifully preserved and still in use.

Radu was on form. We strolled around these ancient streets and I drank in the atmosphere. It was as though time had stood still here, and the bustling charm of the place was an experience to be savoured. Stopping at a hostelry, we ordered a bottle of local wine and sat down at an outdoor table. The sun shone warmly on my back as I sipped eagerly from my glass. Radu, his pleasant, weathered face smiling excitedly, brought out the three volumes together with some hastily scribbled notes he had made the previous evening. “Now,” he said in his inimitable, animated fashion, “on with our story. I got to thinking quite a lot last night, and I compared several accounts of the next few years of our prince’s life

“I think we can go from 1447, when Vlad’s father was assassinated in the marshes near Bălteni by rebellious boyars, because of his semi-pro-Turkish policy. In the same time, his older brother Mircea was also tortured quite brutally. He was blinded with hot iron stakes and then buried alive, after being killed by his political enemies at Târgovişte. At this point, the Sultan released Vlad, invaded Wallachia and and put the young man on the throne as his puppet ruler. But this rule was brief because soon after that, Hunyadi of Hungary himself invaded Wallachia with the Hungarian military and ousted the Turks.

“Vlad fled to Moldavia and was put under the protection of his uncle, Bogdan II. Legend has it that during his escape, he had the shoes on his horse put on backwards to confuse anyone who tried to follow him. He stayed until October of 1451, when Bogdan was assassinated. Vlad then decided to go to Hungary and try an alliance with Hunyadi. Shortly afterwards, Vlad became the Hungarian candidate for the throne of Wallachia.”

In 1456, Hungary invaded Serbia to drive out the Turks, and Vlad simultaneously invaded Wallachia with his own contingent. Both campaigns were successful, but Hunyadi died suddenly of fever. “It was at this point,” Radu told me, “that Vlad became prince of his native land and began his main reign during which he is supposed to have committed his many cruelties, and hence established his notorious reputation, earning him the title ‘the Impaler’. But we really have to look at this in context. Here was a boy who had been brutalised, witnessed unspeakable attocities performed on his beloved younger brother, and seen his family and people suffer greatly at the hands of their foreign enemies, in largely unprovoked attacks. You’ve got to admit he’d be pretty pissed off!

“But what does he do? Well, admittedly, there’s a little revenge killing spree in there, but his main aim is to gain power to stop these actions against his people, and he went about it in a fairly measured way. These were not the actions of some deranged megalomaniac.”

Revenge

In fact, as Radu had said, one of the first things Vlad did as the prince of Wallachia was seek revenge for the deaths of his father and brother. On Easter Sunday of 1459, he arrested all the boyar families whom he held responsible. He impaled the older ones on stakes while forcing the others to march from the capital to the town of Poenari. This fifty-mile trek was quite gruelling, and those who survived were not permitted to rest until they reached their destination. He then ordered them to build him a fortress on the ruins of an older outpost overlooking the Arges river. Many died in the process, and the prince succeeded in creating a new nobility and obtaining a fortress for future emergencies. What is left today of the building is now identified as ‘Castle Dracula’.

Said Radu: “Vlad’s brutal punishment techniques were well known; he often ordered people to be skinned, boiled, decapitated, hanged, burned, blinded, strangled, roasted, hacked, nailed, buried alive or stabbed - in fact, you name it and he probably did it. He also liked to cut off noses, ears, sexual organs and limbs. But - as him name suggests - his favorite method was impalement on stakes. Even the Turks referred to him as ‘Kaziglu Bey’, meaning ‘The Impaler Prince’. It is this technique he used in 1457, 1459 and 1460 against Transylvanian merchants who had ignored his trade laws.

“To balance this, we must also consider his donations to various churches and monasteries, one such place being the monastary at Lake Snagov, rumoured to be his burial place. I’ve organised a trip there for tomorrow, so you can take a look for yourself.”

I nodded thankfully in acknowledgment.

“He also fought to reduce the economic role of the nobility,” continued my guide, “and increase the rights of peasantry and reinforced some castles, like the one at Poienari, where he also had a personal house built nearby.

“Vlad was a deeply religious man,” said Radu. “He believed he had to answer completely to God for all his actions, so in his own mind his wars against his enemies were just and right. And, as we’ve already established, the punishments he dished out were not peculiar to him alone, except maybe the impaling. But these are the actions of a ruler who is trying to establish strength against his enemy. One wonders just how many people he actually killed and tortured - the propaganda machine turned in fifteenth century Wallachia just as much as it does anywhere in the world today, and it suited Prince Vlad to have his enemies believe he was a murderous tyrant - fostering this reputation was a crucial deterrent.”

Reputation of a monster

My own research had told me that in the beginning of 1462, Vlad had launched a campaign against the Turks along the Danube river. During that winter, he was very successful and managed to gain many victories, although the military force of Sultan Mehmed II was far more powerful than his Wallachian army. Knowing this, the Sultan decided to launch a full-scale invasion of Wallachia in order to transform this land into a Turkish province. He entered Wallachia with an army three times larger than Prince Vlad’s. Not having any allies, Vlad was forced to retreat towards Tirgoviste. I checked these facts with Radu.

“Ah, now this is where many accounts really go against him,” he observed. “The greatest criticism levelled by the anti-Vlad camps is that he brutally murdered many of his own people in an act of pathological madness. The truth was, in order to maintain his chances of winning the battle, he had to make some very hard and cruel decisions. He burned his own villages and poisoned the wells along the way, so that the Turkish army would find nothing to eat or drink. Moreover, when the Sultan, exhausted, finally reached the capital city, he was confronted by a most gruesome sight: thousands of stakes held the remaining carcasses of some 20,000 Turkish captives, a horror scene which was ultimately nicknamed the ‘Forest of the Impaled’.

“This terror tactic must have had a very profound effect on the Turks and the Sultan, who were tired, hungry and on the point of dropping. They admitted defeat. These were desperate times, and a lot was at stake. Just think of how many people are killed in our modern wars - nothing’s really changed, things were just done a little differently back then. And it suits historians and authors to have wicked, evil tyrants upon whom to base their characters.”

Following his retreat from Wallachian territory, Mehmed left the next phase of the battle to Vlad’s younger brother Radu, the Turkish favourite for the Wallachian throne. At the head of a Turkish army and joined by Vlad’s detractors, Radu pursued his brother to Poenari castle on the Arges river. “This must have saddened Vlad a great deal,” said Radu. “This was, in his eyes, his great failure in life coming back to haunt him. His own beloved brother standing against him was proof positive to Vlad of just how much Radu hated him, indeed blamed him, for all that had happened to them as children. And the tragedy didn’t stop there; Vlad’s first wife, Elisabeta, rather than surrender to the advancing Turks, committed suicide by leaping from the towers of their castle into the waters of the Arges River below. Now, many accounts say her name was not ever recorded, but one of my three books states that it was indeed Elisabeta, though I can’t vouch definitely for its authenticity. I do find it curious that this was the name Francis Ford Coppola used in his movie about Dracula though, so he must have got this from somewhere. I doubt he has a copy of my grandmother’s book, so I would guess that this is recorded somewhere else too.

Incarceration

“Devastated at his wife’s suicide, Vlad escaped across the mountains into Transylvania and appealed to Matthias Corvinus for aid, but was arrested and imprisoned in a royal tower near Buda, where he remained a prisoner for twelve years. Unlike the film though, I really don’t believe any of this turned him against God.

“During his imprisonment, Vlad was able to gradually win his way back into the graces of Hungary’s monarch and subsequently, according to rumour, married the sister of Matthias Corvinus. During Vlad’s incarceration, Wallachia was ruled by his brother, Radu cel Frumos (the Handsome), who was still the puppet of the Ottoman sultan.

“In 1476 Vlad and Prince Stephen Bathory of Transylvania invaded Wallachia with a mixed force of Transylvanians, a few dissatisfied Wallachian boyars and a contingent of Moldavians sent by Vlad’s cousin, Prince Stephen the Great of Moldavia. Radu had died a couple of years earlier and been replaced on the Wallachian throne by another Turkish candidate, Basarab the Old, a member of the Danesti clan. For a short period of time, Prince Vlad managed to reclaim and hold the throne, but soon a large Turkish army entered Wallachia determined to return Basarab to the throne.

“Prince Vlad was finally killed in battle against the Turks near the then small town of Bucharest in December of 1476. Some reports indicate that he was assassinated by disloyal Wallachian boyars just as he was about to sweep the Turks from the field. Other accounts have him falling in defeat, surrounded by the bodies of his loyal Moldavian bodyguard (the troops loaned by Prince Stephen of Moldavia remained with Vlad after Stephen Bathory returned to Transylvania).

“Still other reports claim that, at the moment of victory, our prince was accidentally struck down by one of his own men,” said Radu. “His body was decapitated by the Turks and his head sent to Constantinople where the sultan had it displayed on a stake as proof that ‘the Impaler’ was dead. As I said earlier, he was reportedly buried at Snagov, an island monastery located near Bucharest.”

“So what was the reaction to his death among his own people?” I wanted to know.

“They were devastated,” explained Radu. “Here was a man who had led them through their darkest hour, been a fair and just prince and probably one of the strongest rulers they had ever had. A very religious man, he had staunchly upheld the Christian teachings - you see, not many people think of Vlad Ţepeş as a Christian, but he most certainly was - a devout one at that. Now does that really fit in with the evil murderer portrayed in history and legend?”

Monastery at Snagov

Ultimately, of course, we all have to make up our own mind. My journey throughout Prince Vlad’s land took me to one last place as Radu had promised, the monastery at Snagov. The village is a short jog north of Bucharest, and is a worthwhile trip for any Dracula enthusiasts. The most notable feature is the lake, in the centre of which is located an island. On this island lies the monastery which actually does house Vlad’s tomb. Whether his body was ever really in there is apparently a matter for conjecture, but it’s hard to imagine how anyone could have got this wrong.

The Monastery at Snagov, reputedly Vlad’s burial place

My whole journey into Vlad’s life had been a real eye-opener, and had certainly opened my mind to the possibility of a different man than the one we all think we know so much about. As Radu had said, it sometimes seems to suit writers and historians to milk a subject for all its dark, dramatic worth - look at the demonisation of Richard III, the accuracy of which is now in some considerable doubt - and I suppose all we can ask for is balance. So, next time you’re about to make a rash judgment about this famous Wallachian ruler, at least consider the other side to the story. Surely, as time marches inexorably on, and we too are consigned to history, it’s all any of us would ask.

A more familiar image of Vlad Tepes featured in this woodcut

On the trail of Vlad Ţepeş

I flew to Bucharest with Tarom Airlines of Romania, a comfortable enough service even if they did still allow people to smoke on board. I’d arranged transport and an English speaking guide to collect me at the airport and take me on the arduous four hour journey to Poiana Brasov which, nestling about eight miles above Brasov high in the Carpathians, would make an ideal base over the coming days. We stopped for about half an hour at a roadside inn and, as I savoured the delicious glass of local red wine, the butterflies in my stomach did extra somersaults as I peered longingly up into the darkness of the imposing mountains. What mysteries did they hold? What stories could they tell? My guide informed me that “we should be getting along,” and so I quaffed the last of my wine and, minutes later, we were on our way again.

Dănuț, my guide, helped me work out my schedule for the next hour or so of the journey. Every now and then, I would gaze out of the window, inwardly beaming at the prospect of all that lay ahead. I was like a child in a sweet shop, and almost had to pinch myself to realise that I was actually here, in Transylvania, ascending the Carpathian mountains - even if it was in a Ford Transit minibus.

I asked Dănuț what his opinion of Vlad Ţepeş was. “He was a good man,” he told me, “very fair and much loved by his people. He was also a very holy man, defending his empire and the church against our enemies.”

“So how did he manage to earn such a dreadful reputation?” I wanted to know.

“It’s true he impaled people - that was his execution method of choice,” my guide went on. “But it was only to those who were treacherous against the Wallachian people, and you must remember that those methods of torture and murder which seem so barbaric today were much more common-place in the fifteenth century.”

West to East

Food for thought, certainly. For the last hour and a half of the trek up into the dark, majestic mountains, I sat back, deep in thought, pondering the life of Prince Vlad and wondering where my quest would take me. When we finally arrived at the Poiana Hotel in Poiana Brasov, I was relieved that the check in process was quick and uncomplicated and, within five minutes of my head hitting the pillow, I was fast asleep. It had been an exhausting first day, with an almost twenty-four hour journey with various stops and connections. Unbelievable when you think what few miles lie between England and Romania, but in some way it added to the epic nature of my undertaking and, as Jonathan Harker had observed in his journal, the distinct impression I had had of the journey “was that we were leaving the West and entering the East”. What a pity, I thought as I drifted off to sleep, the Stoker himself had never actually visited this strange and wonderful land.

The next morning I awoke to glorious sunshine. Having breakfasted well in the hotel’s dining room, I met with my official guide for my stay here, Horia, who immediately handed me a glass of cloudy liquid, urging me to drink it in one. I ran through my notes I had made in the minibus with Dănuț, and Horia gave me his own input into what I should do and in what order. His own thoughts on Vlad very much echoed those of his colleague - maybe this misunderstood prince really didn’t deserve all his bad press. I’d have to wait and see, but many more of those local welcome drinks - it seemed to be a blend of absinthe and gin in equal measures - and I’d be in no state to make any valid judgments. I downed the last of it out of politeness and shivered, much to Horia’s amusement. “Come on then,” he said, patting me lightly on the back, “let’s get you off to Castle Bran. Your guide today will be Radu.”

Bran Castle - fictional home of Dracula

Bran Castle - again thought to have inspired Stoker in some way with his depiction of the castle of Count Dracula - is probably the most visited of the ‘Dracula connection’ sites, but undoubtedly the least authentic. Situated near Bran and in the immediate vicinity of Braşov, the castle is a national monument and landmark in Romania. The fortress is situated on the border between Transylvania and Wallachia, on Highway 73. Commonly known as Dracula’s Castle’, it is marketed as such, and this has led to persistent myths that it was once the home of Vlad Ţepeş, ruler of Wallachia.

The castle is now a museum open to tourists, displaying art and furniture collected by Queen Marie. Tourists can see the interior individually or by a guided tour. At the bottom of the hill is a small open air museum park exhibiting traditional Romanian peasant structures, such as cottages and barns, from across the country.

Castle Bran, high up in the Carpathian Mountains

Radu was both personable and eloquent, and probably the most knowledgeable Vlad ‘expert’ I had encountered so far. After my castle tour, during which he even donned a pair of plastic fangs to illustrate just how seriously the whole ‘Dracula’ thing is taken from a commercial point of view, we sat in a small restaurant for a chat over a bottle of ‘Vampyre’. This local red wine which, by rights - and its cheesy name - should be diabolical, was in reality rather moreish, and proved an excellent accompaniment to the fascinating conversation that followed. “It’s very difficult to separate fact from fiction these days,” explained Radu. “But I’ve brought these along to help us discern a little of the truth,” and with that, he opened up his rucksack and lifted out three rather dusty, ancient tomes scribed in his native tongue - “they were my grandmother’s” - and proceeded to thumb through the wafer thin pages of the first volume.

What followed was a remarkable few hours over which we debated the rights and wrongs of popular Vlad Ţepeş myth and culture, set against three fascinating accounts of the real man written by his fellow countrymen. Some of what emerged I already knew: Vlad Ţepeş (pronounced tse-pesh) was indeed a fifteenth century voivode, or prince, of Wallachia of the princely House of Basarab. Wallachia is a province of Romania bordered to the north by Transylvania and Moldavia, to the east by the Black Sea and to the south by Bulgaria.

Birth of a Prince

But let’s go back to the beginning. All three books seemed to agree that Vlad was born in either November or December 1431, in the fortress of Sighisoara, Romania. His father, Vlad Dracul, at that time appointed military governor of Transylvania by the emperor Sigismund, had been inducted into the Order of the Dragon about one year before. The order was a semi-military and religious society, originally created in 1387 by the Holy Roman Emperor and his second wife, Barbara Cilli. Now there was the first hint at that legendary name, ‘Dracul’ - so what exactly was the significance and how did it evolve into Dracula?

Radu explained: “The order’s emblem was a dragon, wings extended, hanging on a cross. The dragon was the symbol of the devil and consequently an alternate meaning of ‘drac’ (the devil) was dragon. The main goals of such a secret fraternal order of knights were to protect the interests of Catholicism, and to crusade against the Turks. This order provides an explanation for the name Dracula; ‘Dracul’, in Romanian, means dragon, and the boyars of Romania, who knew of Vlad’s father’s induction into the Order of the Dragon, decided to call him ‘Dracul’. Dracula is simply a derivative which means “the son of Dracul,” which was the surname to be used ultimately by Vlad himself. This is clearly where Bram Stoker took the name from. It was no invention of his, as is often believed, but something he lifted straight from the pages of history. “So you could say that your famous nineteenth century novelist is responsible for much of the negativity about Prince Vlad, purely by the stigma now associated with his name, which actually had quite noble connotations in its day.”

There isn’t much information about Vlad’s childhood. It is known that in 1442 he and his younger brother, Radu, became hostages of Murad the Second, as a result of an agreement between Vlad’s father and the Sultan. Being under considerable political pressure, threatened with invasion by the Ottomans, Dracul gave a promise to be the vassal of the Sultan, and reluctantly gave up his two younger sons as hostages to ensure he kept his promise. If he did not follow the sultan’s policies and interests, both Vlad and Radu would surely die. His eldest son, Mircea, was allowed to stay at home.

“Dracul is believed to have desperately regretted this action,” said Radu, “and it’s fairly well known that the boys suffered intolerable cruelty and sexual abuse at the hands of the Sultan. In fact, the disastrous effect was the massive division it created between the two. Vlad was the stronger of the brothers, but never forgave himself for his inability to protect his sibling from the depraved Sultan, who it seemed made Radu one his his ‘favourites’. The leaner, more chiselled features of the elder brother were apparently not to his taste and, although Vlad was tortured and beaten much more severely and with alarming regularity, he did escape the sexual attentions of his captor.

“Radu was much weaker than Vlad, which is probably why he chose to stay put when he had the opportunity to escape. He never forgave his older brother for symbolically “letting go of his hand” and this would prove to be something neither man would ever fully come to terms with, as later years would show.”

These years were influential in shaping Vlad’s character as he suffered much at the hands of the Turks, and spent much time locked up in an underground dungeon. It seems he was often whipped by his Turkish captors for being stubborn and rude, and one wonders if his fascination with torture truly began under the Ottomans as he witnessed their vicious atrocities and, it is believed, occasionally took part in various discussions on the art of torture.

We had finished our wine. “We’ll leave it there for today,” said Radu, “It’s almost sundown.” He smiled wryly as he saw I had acknowledged his sense of fun. We returned to my hotel and he bade me goodnight as I headed off to a dinner of Transylvanian sour pork. I had plenty to think about, and tomorrow’s destination was Sighisoara, Vlad’s birthplace. More wine would be on the agenda, I was sure, and hopefully more revelations.

For the final part of this story, see my post ‘Vlad Tepes - Christian Prince of Evil Monster?’

Auschwitz death camp today, eerily preserved

As you enter the notorious concentration camp at Auschwitz, you cannot help but be sickened by the legend wrought in the ironwork of the main gates. “Arbeit macht frei” - which translates as “Work makes you free” could not have been further from the real truth, unless the ruthless engineers of the Third Reich meant it in a twisted, ironic sense.

It seems an odd thing to do in some ways, signing on for the ‘Auschwitz Birkenau’ tour, yet these organised trips out of Cracow will leave you feeling humbled and - unless you are particularly thick skinned - deeply moved. This is no ordinary tourist trip, but a journey straight to the heart of one of the most evil places on earth, so expect a stark reminder of just how cruel man’s inhumanity to man can really be.

My dad is the one responsible for sparking an interest in both the first and second world wars. My mum always said she couldn’t understand his morbid fascination with the subjects; I guess some of it was down - as with a whole lot of other people - to nostalgia for a time gone by (isn’t it surprising how so many people of that generation remember the war years fondly?), linked with a genuine interest in recent European history. He told me he had always wanted to visit the site of a concentration camp, and Auschwitz seemed the obvious one. I offered to take him, but his inherent fear of flying (or indeed anything which was a little out of his comfort zone these days) nudged him to decline. But the seed was planted, and even though I hesitated to admit it, I had in me a desire to make such a visit myself.

The chilling ‘Work Makes You Free’ legend on the gates of Auschwitz

I believe it’s one of those things that generates a certain amount of guilt. There’s a morbid curiousity which resides in most of us at some time or another, but to actually go ahead and act upon this instinct can sometimes make one feel a little uncomfortable. When I booked my trip to Cracow, I’d like to say that there was no real plan to visit Auschwitz, but I think I would be lying. Under oath, I would have to confess that there was no way I was going to be so close and not satisfy that need deep within me to experience my own reaction to something so dark. I’m sure we’ve all seen at least one holocaust film, probably for most Steven Spielberg’s amazingly insightful 1993 film Schindler’s List, after which many proclaimed “We must never let anything like this happen again!” - but believe me: seeing things for real leaves a tangible bitterness in the mouth, not just a nasty taste.

The tour was easy enough to organise. The Chopin Hotel - our base in Cracow - were extremely helpful in booking the tour, and the fact that it was advertised, and therefore no big deal, made me feel less of a freak. I still can’t quite get my head around the coach which came to collect us, with its pretty blue and yellow sign in the windscreen which said: Cracow Tours: Auschwitz Birkenau. It seemed equally as out of place as the gift shop at the infamous death camp; you could almost imagine the cocktail party conversation: “And what do you do for a living?” “Oh, I work at the Auschwitz gift shop…”

The transfer from Cracow to Auschwitz - or Oświęcim as it is known locally - was no more than a couple of hours. We were met by our very competent guide, who explained to us that, although we were officially not supposed to take any photographs, as we would see plenty of other people snapping away, he wasn’t going to stop us. “But please,” he said, “most places are fine, but I ask you to use discretion and not photograph the inside of the crematoria we will visit. Remember these are people’s graves.” That was surely the least we could do, I thought, but no. One insensitive Auschwitz anorak in our group just couldn’t resist squeezing her head and her camcorder actually in to one of the ovens… pity it wasn’t still on. I mean - where and when exactly was she going to show this bit of footage? “Would you like to see my video of Poland… oh, and this is the inside of one of the crematorium ovens at Auschwitz - hundreds of thousands of people died here, you know, and their bodies were burned in this very oven. Another glass of rosé anyone?”

A fall of snow does little to dilute the aura of evil at Auschwitz

There had been a snowfall in the days prior to our visit, but during the morning the sun shone brightly. It was a strange mix of emotions as we meandered in and out of the row upon row of wooden buildings,which had housed anything from desperate prisoners whose only hope was to perish quickly, to barbaric experiments carried out by fiends who had no regard for human life or dignity save their own.

Unloading the train at Auschwitz - innocents head unwittingly to their demise

The camp was established in mid-1940, more than a year before the Germans embarked upon the “Endlösung der Judenfrage” (Final Solution of the Jewish Question) - the plan, systematically carried out, to murder all the Jews living in the countries occupied by the Third Reich. The direct reason for the establishment of the camp was the fact that mass arrests of Poles were increasing beyond the capacity of existing ‘local’ prisons.

Initially, Auschwitz was to be one more concentration camp of the type that the Nazis had been setting up since the early 1930s. It functioned in this role throughout its existence, even when, beginning in 1942, it also became the largest of the death camps.

Victims of Dr Josef Mengele’s medical experiments at Auschwitz

The location of the camp, practically in the center of German-occupied Europe, and its convenient transportation connections, led the Nazis to expand Auschwitz on an enormous scale and deport people here from almost all of Europe. At its peak, the camp was composed of three parts:
The first and oldest was the so-called ‘main camp’, later also known as ‘Auschwitz I’ (the number of prisoners fluctuated around 15,000, sometimes rising above 20,000), which was established on the grounds and in the buildings of prewar Polish barracks;

The second part was the Birkenau camp (which held over 90,000 prisoners in 1944), also known as ‘Auschwitz II’. This was the largest part of the Auschwitz complex. The Nazis began building it in 1941 on the site of the village of Brzezinka, three kilometres from Oświęcim. The Polish civilian population was evicted and their houses confiscated and demolished. The greater part of the apparatus of mass extermination was built in Birkenau and the majority of the victims were murdered here.

Our visit here - just three short kilometres from Auschwitz I - somehow drove home the feelings of desolation and desperation. There is a foreboding surrounding Birkenau that is all consuming; from the moment you arrive at the rail line which passes through the main gate (actually used in the filming of Schindler’s List) you can’t help but feel a connection with the poor souls who perished here. What actually went on we will never know, but there is enough evidence of atrocity still abundant here to denounce even the staunchest holocaust denier. As we passed through these hellish gates, the sky became a uniform, empty grey, and flakes of snow began to descend and gather under foot; it was as if nature were mirroring the desolation out of respect.

Birkenau perimeter fence - the boundary of so many wretched lives

Many of the rows of wooden huts have been demolished, but a sufficient number remain to paint the grim picture of what this place was like at the height of its genocide. As I stood still, not daring to smile or even pose for any pictures, I noticed something incredible. It was true what people had told me: no birds sang over Auschwitz Birkenau.

On our journey back to Cracow, I wanted to cry. My head ached for the want of a good sob, but I knew that if I started it would be difficult to stop. I’m not even sure what or who I would be crying for. I mean, there’s the obvious answer of course, but this day had affected much more deeply than that. On some fundamental level I knew my life would never be quite the same again. It felt as if a dark spectre had sullied my soul. I was not alone in my sombre silence; no one in the bus spoke a word - not even companion to companion. Not even any gallows humour could deliver a little relief.

It was only over a beer in the hotel bar later that night that I felt able to talk about the day. Don’t get me wrong, I’m so glad I made the effort and experienced the trip - I think more should - but I knew it was also a place I would probably never visit again. Its legacy though, would be indelible.

Words and pictures © Nigel Burton, 2008. Must not be reproduced without written permission.

Castle Bran - Dracula’s Castle - high up in the Carpathian mountains

A few years ago I made the decision to visit a place which had fascinated me since childhood - Transylvania, the land beyond the forest. When I announced this is where I was bound for my summer holiday, strangers thought me eccentric and friends thought me mad. Transylvania? Isn’t that in Russia somewhere? (They had no idea of what was to come further down the line! Wait ’til they hear about my planned visit to Chernobyl later this year!) What would you want to go there for? Etc, etc… I’m sure you get the picture.

Now, up until this point in my life, I’d pretty much visited the usual old places we all do - you know, Spain, Greece and more traditional European destinations - save for an eye-opener of a trip to communist Bulgaria with my school way back in 1979, after which I got a ‘damn good hiding’ on my return for literally selling the clothes on my back on the blackmarket. Mind you, I did get twenty-five quid for an Adidas t-shirt (a small fortune for a teenager in the late 70s) and even £15 for an edition of Motor.

My trip to Transylvania, that beautiful land beyond the forest, rewarded my sense of adventure beyond my wildest dreams. Once the 24 hour journey was under my belt (believe me, by the time I’d been in a taxi, a train, a plane and then a private minibus for a four hour trek up into the Carpathians, with all the associated waiting around, that’s exactly what it was) and I’d got over the shock of Tarom Airlines and the fact that they still allowed passengers to smoke on board, I thought I’d arrived in Paradise. Well, almost.

I fetched up at a place called Poiana Brasov, a little tourist spot about eight miles above Brasov, nestling quietlyin the majestic mountains. It wasn’t so much the place itself, although I did love it despite its man-made lake - it was just the whole experience of being in such an organic, unspoilt land with its simple, charming folk. And I mean simple in the best possible way - these people know how to live off the land, relatively stress-free and - in my opinion - all the better for it. They may not have all our western material riches, but they possess a strength of spirit and values which could teach us all a thing or two about true happiness and how to attain it.

Life in Poiana Brasov is a quiet affair, as it basks in its 90 degree summer sunshine. There were a surprising number of tourists milling about, but the pace was most definitely unhurried. Even the bear rummaging for food in our hotel bins wasn’t particularly fussed about anything. I figured that as nobody else seemed to bat an eyelid, he probably wasn’t about to eat me, but equally I wasn’t going to offer him one of my crisps.

Strange too are the indigenous packs of wild dogs, once tame pets who had been cruelly cast into the streets by Nicolai Ceauşescu as he ousted their owners from their homes and resettled them in concrete tenements; they weren’t allowed to take their beloved pets with them. The resulting packs that roam and forage can be quite daunting, but in reality they do little harm, resembling more a motley cast of Disney characters from some bizarre cartoon existence. That’s sometimes how life feels in Romania.