The BMW which I was sitting in moved fast through the Slow Mountains* of Romania. The laid-back road linking Oradea and Cluj was lined with local* villages, outlandish Gypsy mansions and an inspiring variety of churches. A rail track ran parallel to the road, but further away than one would expect, as if someone wanted to claim for the local civilization just a little more of the sleepy local valley stretching for miles on either side of us.
Local people must have forgotten that a loc.. - OK, OK... that a hot midday had passed - and most of the summer for that matter - and we saw very few of them. Suddenly, in front of one of those classic rural post-Austro-emperial houses we caught a glimpse of a girl and her grandmother. They just sat there and looked ahead in silence. The sight struck me as very strange. I couldn't work out Romania, Oradea, the valley, the village or the pair. What were they doing there? Then I got it: they played the most important part - the girl and the old woman were justifying it all, simply by being there.
*I don't dig slow moutains generally. I dig fast mountains, such as the Tatras or the Alps.
**yes, I can see the problem. I must do something about this thing that I have about this word.
