May 2026. Turda. Romania.
I’ve enjoyed spending time seeing unsung Romania, away from Dracula and the bears and the brewery taps. The cities are colourful, spotless and efficient, though of course efficient isn’t always a good thing in itself.
By far the biggest “tourist attraction” round here are the old salt mines of Turdu, half an hour Bolt from Cluj.
“Get there early !” scream the bloggers, but at 8:30am it feels as dead as the century long abandoned mine it is, though you’ll need half an hour to finish the stupendous crepes from the yellow bus cunninly called “Crepes“.
There’s no easy way to say this. It’s a long way down.
And for a while you’ll wonder what the fuss about as you survey the way the salt has taken over the metal.
But then you descend (on foot, the lift is a cop-out) to the astonishing Rudolf Hall,
filled with ampitheatre, mini-golf, and non-functioning carousel.
And below that, the weird shapes of the underground lake,
whose man made shapes are an Instagram influencer’s dream.
Mrs RM refused my offer to take her on a boat tour, still scarred by the “incident” on Lake Bled 20 years ago.
Within an hour the main hall was full of gentlefolk and schoolchildren, queueing to ignore the strict instructions on graffiti.
Two hours is plenty to do the mines justice; 25 minutes of that was waiting for Mrs RM to get the lift back up to the surface, where the toilets seemed to be missing some important instruction or other.
You’ll surely all remember the toilet sign from Bucharest;
Glad I visited, worth the £12.50, but I reckon Wookey Hole edges it.
retiredmartin 