I left St Miklos in a snowstorm, though it was only the 16th of
September--very early for such signs of winter. I was not prepared for
wintry weather. It frustrated my plans and expectations a good deal. I
was disappointed, too, in the climate, for I had always heard that the
late autumn is about the finest time for Transylvania.
I have invariably remarked that whenever I go to a new country it is the
signal for "abnormal meteorological disturbances," as they call bad
weather in the newspapers. My own notion is that weather is a very mixed
affair everywhere.
For three mortal hours I rode on through a blinding snowstorm. At length
I espied the ruin of an unfinished cottage by the wayside, and here I
bethought me I would take shelter and see after my dinner; for whatever
happens, I can be hungry directly afterwards--I think an earthquake
would give me an appetite.
My unfurnished lodgings were in as wild a spot as imagination could
picture. No wonder that the builder had abandoned the construction of
this solitary dwelling; why it had ever been commenced passes my
comprehension. It was just at the entrance of a mountain valley,
treeless, stony, and rugged, through which there were at intervals the
semblance of a track--a desolate, God-forgotten-looking place. On
consulting the map I found that the "road" led to Moldavia. I resolved
it should not lead me there. Here then, in this dreary spot, with its
gable-end to the road, and turning away from the prospect--and no
wonder--stood the carcass of a cottage.
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