Our driver was wearing wide linen trousers -"gotza" they call them - which covered the whole front of his seat. He cracked his big whip over his four small horses, which ran side by side, and we set off on our journey. I soon forgot my ghostly fears in the beauty of the scene as we drove along. But if I had known the language, or rather languages, which my fellow-passengers were speaking, I might not have cheered up so quickly.

Before us lay a green sloping land full of forests and woods, with steep hills, crowned with trees here and there. There were farmhouses, the doors turned away from the road. Everywhere there was a mass of fruit blossom - apple, plum, pear, cherry. And as we drove by I could see the green grass under the trees covered with the fallen petals.

The road ran in and out amongst the green hills of the countryside they call the "Mittel Land". Sometimes I lost sight of the road as it swept round the grassy curve, or was shut out by the pine woods, which ran down the hillsides like tongues of flame. The road was bumpy and difficult, but still we seemed to fly over it with great haste. At the time I did not understand what the hurry was for, but the driver obviously intended to lose no time in reaching Borgo Prund.

I was told that this road is excellent in summertime, but that it had not yet been put in order after the winter snows. This is different from Carpathian roads in general. There is an old tradition that the roads are not to be kept too well repaired. In the old days they would not repair them, in case the Turks would think that they were preparing to attack, and so start the war which was always likely to happen anyway.