The Danube scythes through Budapest, a constant reminder of not only mans insignificance in the face of natural wonders, but also his ability to tame constrain and utilise it to further the never ending quest for the progress of humankind.
On one side the city sprawls out on a flat plain, a never ending mass of buildings, referencing the various stages of history the city has experienced. Impressive church spires dot the skyline as 18th and 19th century grandeur mixes with austere soviet era concrete functionality. Modern late 20th and early 21st century hotels and office blocks show a new side of Budapest emerging from post soviet times.
On the other side of the river the citadel and castle mount impose themselves impressively on the skyline. A skyline that I proffer has changed little in the last few centuries. The suburbs of the city creep up the surrounding hills providing a multitude of vantage points with which to view the city below.
I found myself meandering my way up the winding pathways of the citadel once more. Only this time the sun shone through the white clouds as blue skies created the perfect backdrop to a panoramic view it was hard to get tired of.
The citadel park in the daytime is a much more welcoming affair, the wind whips her way off the river and up the hill, creating a welcome breeze to the weary traveler, a never ending supply of benches provide idyllic vantage points to stop, take a rest and feast on the view below.
The clouds parted and the sunlight lit up the riverside buildings one by one.
Today was a day for tour buses of East Asian tourists atop the citadel. Now if there is one thing my travels around the world have taught me, it is that is that travelers from the land of the rising sun and its neighbours across the sea love a good group tour with accompanying guide.
An endless stream of happy travellers marvelled at the view below, snapping pictures at a rate suggesting it was a practice that would soon be made illegal. Their personal tour guide rambled on in their native language complete with portable microphone as they listened on intently.
I found myself gliding past them unnoticed wishing I could speak mandarin to understand the nuggets of wisdom their tour guide was confidently espousing. He bore the expression of one who considered himself the leading Chinese authority on all things Hungarian.
Before the mount drops steeply to the riverside, the summit on the castle side slopes gently down. The wooded grassy plain was too inviting and I found a suitable spot in and amongst the trees, and sat down as the first flowers of Spring sprouted up around me.
Upstream, not more than half a kilometre away the castle stood soaked in sunlight. It was hard to decide whether it looked more impressive under floodlit darkness or in the daytime sunshine. My weary brain decided it was a decision that was too hard to make and I ambled my way down towards the Danube, which seemed to have a seemingly never ending allure, a forbidden mistress tempting you back time and time again.
Langos! Under the towering walls of the castle I had my first taste of the deep fried tasty treat. A crispy circular shaped batter, the size and shape of a pizza, doused in sour cream and cheese, a unhealthy but sumptuous feast. After a day's sightseeing it had the effect of making one feel they had just gone 12 rounds with a prize fighter, that fighter being saturated fat. A double espresso was needed.
I crossed back over the Danube, the parliament building now visible, maybe even more impressive than the castle mount, ornate and strikingly majestic, it nestled on the riverbank bathed in the Crimson glow of the fading sun. As the sky and clouds turned a backdrop of blue and white to a kaleidoscope of red and Crimson variations.
I sat under the arches of the impressive 19th century bridge as the ebb and flow of the Danube lapped against the riverbank rocks I was sat on. The sun setting behind the castle on the opposite bank, as tourists and locals sat relaxing and enjoying the view, a perfect ending to the day.
The river tour boats were calling my weary legs. A tour guide with a penchant for suicide anecdotes, a national history museum selling a sanitised version of Hungarian history and a market offering up nostalgic delights. But, that triumvirate of intruding stories I save for my final Budapest blog.
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