On the road in Salaj

After what has seemed like an eternity, I finally got out on the road with a flock of sheep. My host was Ghita Danulet and together with his three hired shepherds and at least 1000 animals we walked for ten to 12 hours a day for six days until my things got so soaked I could bear it no longer. It was an incredible, extraordinary experience, a huge test of human and animal endurance and I never want to eat lamb again.

Ghita and his men - and his girlfriend - are still out there while I have retreated to Cluj.

My bivvi bag, bought from eBay and said to be almost new, ex-army Gortex and rainproof, wasn't. Last Friday afternoon, after months without any appreciable rain, the skies darkened, the thunder clapped and the lightning flashed and we were drenched. After 'parking' the flock in a beautiful dell surrounded by oak and beech woods - with eyes narrowed it could have been somewhere in Leicestershire - the ten dogs exploded into paroxysms of barking, shot off into the dusk, and the shepherds shouted one word, 'Lupi!' (Wolves). It was still pouring. Hugging the fire to dry off, I searched the gloom but my glasses were dripping and through their windscreen I could just make out a moving form, no more.

The scare continued all night and I was the only one able to doss down: every few minutes the dogs broke out into another roar of alarm and the night sky was lit with the crossbeams of four powerful head torches like antiaircraft lights in a war. Ghita was nowhere to be seen: he spent the entire night checking and rechecking the restless sheep. At 1.20 pm while I was buried in my bivvi, Marcel, a 14 year old Rrom, raced from the woods to the fire screaming, 'A luat un magar!' (It's taken a donkey!' It hadn't; one of the donkeys had either slipped over or was rolling.) Ghita was furious; his stress levels were incredibly high due to the enormous responsibility he carried, and we all felt the sharp side of his tongue from time to time.

I might have dropped off peacefully after that but for the aforementioned Marcel who at 2.10 am yelled right in my ear, 'Tanti, tanti, umbla ursi!!!' ('Auntie, auntie, there are bears about!!!'). There weren't of course - we were too low down - but I didn't know that and his electrifying news got me out of bed in seconds flat.

No sheep were lost to wolves but during the downpour one of the ewes slipped down a steep bank into a stream and drowned. We found her in the morning, when the rain had eased and we were off again on the quest for grass. My jeans, boots and socks were sopping and cold; it was time to withdraw to rethink the equipment.

I also found it hard going without breakfast, no coffee or tea, sometimes we only had one meal a day and we never knew when it was going to be. When there was food, though, it was wonderful: mamaliga and branza de burduf, delicious soups, and slanina all cooked in a cauldron or grilled on an open fire. Water, when we had it, came from wells, in varying degrees of purity. Not my usual fare, but at the time it tasted ambrosial.

Ghita can't afford to withdraw: he faces another four to five weeks on the road until he can reach the relative safety of his home village, enclosed fields and then there will be the dangers of the summer pastures in the mountains of the Cindrel Massif. Gadina (monsters) are everywhere: he will often travel at night so as to avoid traffic in town centres; he will have to cross railway lines and main roads; he will have to face angry farmers who don't want sheep on their land and keep his animals from trampling new crops.

If I had time to sort my gear I would go back to the flock but my time has run out and any return visit will have to wait for the autumn or next spring. Who knows if Ghita will go on the road again; if I were him I might shrink from the idea but he's made of much stronger stuff.

My overall impression? One of huge respect and liking for this courageous 29 year old. Spor la treaba, Ghita!