Well, I’ve officially made it to Bucharest, where so far the supposed “small group” of travellers promised as it stands currently consists of just the guide, Alexandru, and, well… me.

Apparently the company has had a string of last-minute cancellations, which is seriously effing annoying, given the whole effing point of doing this kind of trip in the first place was to effing meet other effing people en effing route. And if not for that, I could have effing easily made my way around effing Romania perfectly well all by effing myself for a lot less money and a good deal more effing freedom and independence thrown into the mix too… But, ho hum, there we go, I suppose…

Grrr. Anyhoo, a few more people are apparently due to join in a couple of days’ time, which is just as well really given I’ve already exhausted my conversational reserves with Adrian on day one… (And I know exactly where your dirty little minds are going Tara / Stu / Lorraine – no, he is not my type, and anyhow he’s already married. So sadly no, not even the faintest prospect of a titillating holiday romance to make up for the current lack of fellow travellers…)

As for day one in the capital – and I do sincerely hope this won’t break any Romanian hearts reading – Bucharest is perhaps not quite to be considered the most beautiful city in the world. It would be unfair to expect otherwise really, given that former megalomaniac dictator Nicolae Ceaușescu basically spent best part of 24 years in power studiously and deliberately carrying out a programme of architectural desecration so thorough it would make even a Slough town planner wince. The end result is that much of the city resembles the outside of Milton Keynes train station – albeit sunnier.

Apparently, that unremarkable building in the bottom middle photo is the very rooftop where the man himself was arrested, to the raucous cheers of a crowd of courageous protestors – only to be later shot by firing squad alongside his equally avaricious, unashamedly self-aggrandising and utterly venal wife, Elena (the official Imelda Marcos of the Eastern Bloc). Couldn’t have happened to a nicer couple, really…

The Romanian governmental powers-that-be have since commemorated this momentous occasion in their country’s history by erecting a monument that looks uncannily like a skewered potato (not my words, I hasten to add – that’s apparently the widely accepted local nickname too. I did check).

That said, there were some really lovely bits too – such as the serene Palatul Patriarhiei and Catedrala Patriarhală (Palace and Cathedral of the Patriarchy), where I was briefly overcome with the urge to yell “smash the patriarchy!” at top volume into the cloistered Orthodox stillness, but resisted. Obviously.

There were also some really nice pockets of the Old Town, which had a lot of nice bijoux cafés, funky bars and a lot of quirky street art, which I always love.

As a whole, the city really put me in mind of Prague and Budapest, but perhaps with less consistent post-1989 capitalist “gloss” applied. One street might offer up full-on hipster chic, and the next Communist-style grafitti-strewn throwbacks – all part of the charm, I guess, depending on your individual lens.

I’ll be coming back to Bucharest at the end of the trip, and there’s still quite a bit left to cover. I, for one, am keen to see the obscenely extravagant Former Ceaușescu Residence (will they let me use the famous gold-plated toilet, I wonder…) and a few more folkloric odds and ends while I’m at it.

Right – as for now, I’m officially off in search of Romanian food and wine. I’m not quite sure exactly what I’ll end up with, but if it comes wrapped in cabbage, chock-full of smoked meat (à la Stefan) and smothered in sour cream, I’ll consider it a proper win.

In the meantime, “până data viitoare” – or till tomorrow at any rate…