retiredmartin

May 2026. Alba Iulia. Romania.

See ! This blog isn’t all closed micros and Singapore rice.

Staying overnight within the Alba Iulia fortress gave us a best spot at the changing of the Austrian guard the next morning (Press PLAY).

I’ve no idea what they’re guarding, or why they’re Austrian, but I think you’ll agree that drum beat is stolen from Fleetwood Mac’s “Tusk”. More like “Dad’s Army”, says an uncharitable Mrs RM.

Apart from the ceremony, and the cathedrals,

and the cups of pistachio and Dubai chocolate gelato,

there’s not a great deal to do in Alba apart from wander, and eat.

No less a pub legend than Tiny “Farnborough” Lea had enjoyed Pub 13’s “posh catacomb” vibe a year ago,

a smart but unfussy dining pub that would have queues round the block in England,

but here was so quiet we didn’t need to book for lunch on Sunday.

The menu declared the house burger, baked in a bun, as a house speciality; I had to have it.

Tony had gone for the novelty Holsten in a boot; I went for the Romanian Carlsberg lager to support the independents.

Once again, unfussy and efficient service here, like Brunning & (half) Price without the servitude.

Alba was a gorgeous historic town, I thought Rye was a good comparator. Decent daytripper trade, untapped overnight potential.

Off to the bus station to worry whether the coach to Sibiu will turn up, and if it does whether we’re at the right platform.