Dates: 04-11 September 2017.

I’ve always wanted to visit Moldova ever since reading the Tony Hawks book “Playing the Moldovans at Tennis”. He painted a wonderfully dark and mysterious country. The sort I like to visit.

Flights to Chișinău aren’t particularly regular but I found a handy Cardiff -> Milan -> Chișinău option and duly arrived early evening in Europe’s poorest country. Like in most foreign airports I feign nonchalance and vigilantly avoid eye contact with the local taxi drivers circling in and around the arrivals hall / exit.

However, as I couldn’t find the shuttle bus I opted for a taxi to the Zimbru Hotel, next door to the Zimbru Stadium, home of Zimbru Chișinău and the Moldovan national team.

Despite loitering I didn’t get asked for a score prediction:

The first evening involved some light site-seeing and then bumping into Big Rob for some beers. Betty Windsor gets the #WalesAway treatment:

After politely declining the kind offers of two prostitutes at Rob’s hotel, the highlight of the evening was the taxi ride back to my hotel. The friendly driver was chatty from the outset and must have taken my spirited replies as a signal that it would be okay to pop off in a random direction for some petrol… The thought of being kidnapped and ransomed flashed across my mind briefly but in reality I think he wanted an excuse to jack-up the taxi fair which was still ridiculously cheap.

The next day is match day. Living in London, my brother Mike often arrives at different times to the rest of us on these #WalesAway trips and this trip was no exception. He arrived at the hotel at something daft like 06.00 and immediately hits the sack.

With Zimbru Stadium being equidistant between airport and city centre, local buses are required and literally cost pennies. Two Moldovan Leu for a single. Around eight pence.

Chișinău is a small city but still twice the size of Cardiff in terms of population. Nevertheless, me and Mike spend a few hours taking-in the sites, catching-up and bouncing around the idea of buying some local property and turning it into Chișinău’s premier nightspot.

Chișinău’s baby Arc de Triomphe, AKA, Triumphal Arch:

And a pleasant fountain in a pretty park:

Now, what I’ve failed to mention up to this point was the fact that whilst sat in Cardiff Airport I had a sudden moment of clarity: I’d left the match tickets at home! Some frantic texting of Haley and Tweeting of the FAW’s own Lucy Mason ensued and the net result was that if I met the FAW ticketing guys out in Moldova on the day of the game I should be able to get hold of a spare pair of tickets. Such an idiot…

As it turned-out it was no hassle. So me and Mike set off to the game and, since the tickets were for the VIP area, smuggled ourselves into the away end instead without any issues.

A Soviet-era tower block shadows the diminutive Zimbru Stadium:

The benefits of a small ground is that you get to see the players up close:

Video clip here.

It was a must-win game and the match was predictably tense. The home side just wanted to avoid defeat but, for the second time in a few days, Ben Woodburn was to prove the difference. After rifling home the winner at home to Austria he came on and set-up Hal Robson-Kanu’s opener late in the second half. Ramsey added a second and we all breathed a sigh of relief:

Back in the (very conveniently-located hotel) we spoke with three Ukrainians on the next door balcony for a bit, shared some of their food and a drop of whiskey – nice!

Mike headed back home the day after,  leaving me to continue on to the part of the trip I was a tad concerned about, heading to the break-away state of Transnistria. Transnistria, officially the Pridnestrovian Moldavian Republic, is an unrecognised state that broke-away from Moldova after the dissolution of the USSR and mostly consists of a narrow strip of land between the river Dniester and the territory of Ukraine.

A few things to know about Transnistria: its capital is Tiraspol and that is where I was heading on day three. They speak primarily Russian, and they use a currency recognised by no other country other than Russia, namely the Transnistrian Ruble, which you can’t get anywhere other than in-county.

The journey to Tiraspol starts at the main bus station in Chișinău, and like a lot of Eastern European cities, catching a bus involves listening out for your destination being bandied about. A combination of looking a bit lost and obviously Western European meant I was soon being whisked-off to a dodgy-looking MPV. Again, thoughts of kidnapping entered my head until I realised there were few other #WalesAway people sat up-front.

Since you’re effectively leaving one state and entering another there is a border crossing with some very stern-looking Russian-sounding border officials sat behind steel bars. All my research into this part of the trip pointed to one key fact: get a migration card as you enter Transnistria. You’ll need it to leave and you may be extorted for cash if you don’t have one…

I got mine. Nice to know my name is Ctebeh in Russian:

In hindsight I was totally unprepared for my visit to Tiraspol. I knew three words in Russian, I had no idea what the exchange rate between Leu or Euro and Ruble was and I had only a vague idea of where the train/bus station needed for my return trip was.

Having said that, my few hours wondering around Tiraspol was lovely. So peaceful (presumably due to the, ah-hem, 100% employment) with an interesting juxtaposition of quaint cottages and half-finished tower blocks. Throw in half a dozen statues of Stalin and you get the picture:

As it happened I found the station without too much hassle and took a stab at converting some Euros into Rubles. Predictably, I didn’t have enough for food, beer and the return trip, but as I sat sipping some beer of unfathomable origin and watching the local schoolkids playing with countless stray puppies, a fellow Cymro appeared out of nowhere. He’d converted too much and handed me a load of Rubles – result!

I enjoyed my brief stay in Transnistria but I wish I’d made an effort to eat in a restaurant. A brief chat with a curious local who ended-up wanting to sell me some of his artwork was the only real interaction I had.

I ended my last evening in Moldova with an excellent meal and a decent bottle of red whilst watching the remnants of the #WalesAway contingent drink the last of Chișinău’s beer.

Leu on the left, Rubles on the right:

The next day was all about catching the twice weekly overnight train from Chișinău to Bucharest. Chișinău’s train station is far bigger than it needs to be. I’m pretty sure some days it doesn’t see a train. That said, the powers-that-be in Cardiff could do well to take note of its grand approach:

Buying a train ticket proved quite comical. I prepared my best Moldovan, queued for about ten minutes (there was one person in front of me) and then was told I was in the wrong queue. The next booth along sold tickets to Bucharest. Except it was unmanned. For another ten minutes. In that period I befriended a guy called Dave who was from Cymru but lived and worked in Germany. He was getting the same train on his way back to Bochum.

I was expecting old Soviet rolling stock, but surely this was not a sign of things to come:

Now, in addition to this romantic notion I held for sleeping in an old-fashioned sleeper cabin whilst hurtling (okay, ambling) through sparse Eastern European hinterland, I was also looking forward to the wheel change.

The story goes that Stalin, in an effort to slow down any Western invading forces during the second world war, decided on using a broader gauge track for the outlying Soviet republics. Hence, a train needing to go from Moldova to Romania will need to switch its running gear from one gauge to the other!

Video clip of the jaded but cosy sleeper cabin here.

The journey takes over twelve hours due to the walking pace of the train, the wheel change and the border controls. Here are the wheels being changed prior to the border  town of  Ungheni:

It was an odd experience being lifted-up whilst still aboard!

I’ve always enjoyed travelling by train and I was particularly looking forward to this journey with the sleeper carriage, wheel change and border crossings. The Moldovan border guards were superbly serious, though the female one was very cute. However, the Romanian one was a bit of a laugh: he asked if I was carrying any guns or drugs in my case. I must have looked petrified when I replied that I wasn’t because he just smiled and said: “good, carry on”.

Okay, so it wasn’t the best night’s sleep I’ve ever had, but as I sipped a beer, read my book whilst tucked up under a warm blanket and listened to the clickety-clack of train over rail, I couldn’t help smile smugly to myself that this is how I hoped it would be:

The train pulled into Bucharest shortly after 06.00 the next day and me and Dave headed for some coffee. He seemed unsure of his travel plans but after watching him on to the airport shuttle bus I headed to my hotel around the corner, dropped-off my luggage and headed out for some site-seeing.

First-up, Bucharest’s version of the Arc de Triomphe, AKA, Arcul de Triumf:

It was a beautifully warm and cloudless day and the city has some lovely green areas dotted with statues and monuments:

In the evening I joined-up with a free walking tour where amongst other things, the myths of Vlad the Impaler / Dracula were busted. He was a former ruler and hero of Romania and wasn’t Dracula. He was however the son of Vlad Dracul…

Mr V Țepeș (or Vlad the Impaler):

The centre of Bucharest is deliciously post-Communist grandeur:

As the walking tour progressed I met two other solo travellers, Simon (Cymru fan, plumber and traveller) and an American girl whose name I can’t remember:

The three of us grabbed some food and after the (married) American girl headed to her hotel, me and Simon got quite drunk in a “seedy” part of the city! Whilst on our umpteenth Afflegem we agreed to meet-up in Brașov in a few days time.

Wish I’d stayed here:

Day two was very hot. First-up, the former palace (current Romanian parliament building) of despot Nicolae Ceaușescu. It is huge:

 

Boulavard Vlad Țepeș is postcard-worthy:

The very shallow Dâmbovița:

I covered some serious ground in the afternoon, taking in Rapid Bucharest’s ground and Romania’s new national stadium, plus visiting Bucharest’s answer to Little Man Coffee Co., The Urbanist, for a flat white. I really liked this little fountain too.

Brașov is a picturesque city 100 miles north of Bucharest and easily reachable by train, so that was the plan for day three. After inducing some severe eye-rolling from the train station ticket seller thanks to my terrible Romanian, I was en route.

I arrived too late to go up the mountain via the funicular, so I had to be content with the vista from the town centre below:

After food and drinks with Simon I headed back to Brașov train station. Unfortunately, the final train back to Bucharest failed to appear on time, and since the announcements were in Romanian only I had to hope it was merely delayed rather than cancelled.

Please turn-up, the sun is setting:

Thankfully, just as I started contemplating finding a hotel, the last Bucharest train of the day finally arrived and around two hours later I was back in Bucharest in time for a final beer and to get drenched in some unexpected torrential rain.

Chișinău was only vaguely similar to Tony Hawks’ description in his book. Manhole covers weren’t missing and street lights stayed on, at least in the city centre anyway.  Transnistria wasn’t as scary as some accounts on the internet and the overnight train was a delight. Meanwhile Bucharest was both beautiful and historic, my favourite combination. A great trip that I’d happily repeat.