Troutworthy's Travel Blog: Into Transylvania

Those of you who've been following my exploits closely know that I am a completionist and like setting myself silly tasks. Probably the biggest is my current mission, for which the clock is ticking: to visit all the countries of Europe before my fortieth birthday. And that's where this trip fits in.

Archita with its Saxon fortified church, seen from the train.

Only five countries remain. Three of those are not an option right now, for war-related reasons: Belarus, Ukraine, Russia. That leaves two: Cyprus – which I still might fit in before time runs out, though it's tricky without flying – and Moldova. Which is where I'm heading now, for a few days of summer relaxation.

To get to Moldova from Konstanz, you only need to change trains twice – the same as if you're going to London, or indeed many places around Stuttgart. The difference is that this trip takes forty-eight hours. The crucial first step is a somewhat unexpected one: get a local bus to Allmannsdorf and then a slightly-less-local bus across the lake to the small industrial town of Friedrichshafen. This bus goes onto a boat; the trip will be nothing if not multimodal. From there follows a somewhat implausible direct train to Vienna, which takes all day. With any luck I'll be in time to catch the sleeper to Bucharest, and from there another sleeper to Chisinau. Only two changes.

It's cool and crisp the morning I set off, perhaps the first truly chilly morning we've had all sweltering summer. I don't love boats at the moment, but I do hop off the bus in order to take in the lake breeze and survey the surroundings. Compared to this – confirmed holiday destination Lake Constance – Moldova is an unknown, a country I'd perhaps never have thought to visit if it wasn't for my completionist scheming.

I've splurged on business class for the nearly eight-hour Railjet to Vienna. It's snazzy, with big, reclinable black leather seats, waiter service, and a little reading light. Even here I can't avoid crying children or the small clique of Austrian men whose opinions everyone in the carriage Must Hear. But they fade into the background as the train makes the ascent from Feldkirch up the valley to the Arlberg.

Do you deserve this? Do I? Does anyone?

The Arlberg railway is a contradiction, simultaneously a quaint, scenic mountain line and one of Europe's trunk routes. The stretch between Bludenz and Innsbruck is a treat, and I spend much of my time staring out of the window. The highlight is the quintessentially European Trisanna bridge, over a high mountain gorge with a castle at the end of it.

After Wörgl, the train passes back into southern Bavaria for the stretch to Salzburg, and the terrain oscillates between rolling hills and plains, with the latter predominating as we approach Vienna. I stocked up on non-perishable snacks at Friedrichshafen for the sleeper portion of the trip, and don't have much time in this city (magnificent though it is in its own right), but it's enough to sit and have a lasagne and a glass of red wine at a generic Italian restaurant at the station.

Next leg of the trip is the venerable Dacia sleeper from Vienna to Bucharest, one of Europe's longest and slowest. I'm in a 3-bed sleeper compartment with a Romanian man; a Chinese man joins us at Budapest, near midnight. The compartment is basic but functional and mercifully cool. I pop an over-the-counter sleeping pill (top tip for these journeys!) and fall asleep to the smell of burning brake pads. The Hungarian and Romanian border controls in the early hours, and my Romanian friend getting out somewhere, wake me only briefly, and I get at least a semi-decent 8 hours' sleep.

Romanian Dacia sleeper car arriving in Vienna.

When I wake up in the morning the train has started to rise into the Transylvanian Carpathians. This is one great advantage of the Dacia: we don't get in until mid-afternoon, but the most beautiful part of the journey is during the day. As the train passes Sighisoara, I head down to the bar car, which has nice big windows and is well stocked with everything you need for a healthy diet.

The bar.

We pass Archita, a beautifully bucolic Transylvanian Saxon village, as I sip my instant coffee and munch on yesterday's Butterbrezel. At every station we pass, the stationmaster stands to attention in his cool hat. I really must revisit this part of the world some time soon. The train is crawling along, and on a long curve I can see that that's because we're behind a freight train. A map of European train speeds I found on Reddit tells me that the journey gets slower and slower as we head east: from an average of 141.6 km/h (Germany) to 106.8 (Austria), dropping down to 83.7 (Hungary), then 72.9 (Romania), and ultimately into the dreaded No Data (Moldova). Is Zeno's paradox about to kick in, preventing me from reaching my goal? Time will tell; but so far so good.