EXPLORING PELEȘ CASTLE, SINAIA, ROMANIA
We began our second day in Romania bright and early—an unforgiving start for someone like me who’s never been a morning person. The bitter cold didn’t help either; it clawed through my coat and clung to my bones, making the simple act of getting out of bed feel like a small triumph. Still, the promise of exploring Transylvania was too thrilling to ignore, so I gathered what strength I had, layered up, and stepped out into the icy morning air.
Waiting for us just beyond the quiet sidewalk was our guide, Kartsi Balázs—though he insisted we call him Charlie. From the moment we met, Kartsi radiated warmth. Always smiling, always sharing, he regaled us with tales of Romania, weaving stories from its complex past to its evolving present. We chatted about history, politics, and even learned a few Romanian phrases. “Mulțumesc, Kartsi,” I’d later say with heartfelt gratitude. He made the road come alive.
Our first adventure led us to the mountain town of Sinaia, about 49 kilometers from Brașov. Nestled deep within the Carpathian Mountains, Sinaia owes its name to a 17th-century monastery founded by a Romanian nobleman who, after a pilgrimage to Mount Sinai in Egypt, sought to bring a piece of that spiritual wonder home. Often called the “Carpathian Pearl,” the town is known for its mineral springs, thought to hold healing properties, and for the fairy tale fortress that awaited us at the end of our journey.
The drive took us through winding roads that curved through evergreen forests and fog-laced ridges. Rain pattered softly against the windows—another gray day, we feared. But as we ascended into the Bucegi Mountains, something magical happened. The thick curtain of clouds began to part, and golden rays pierced through, casting light upon the snow-dusted peaks. By the time we reached the top, the sky had transformed into a royal blue canvas scattered with feathery clouds. My travel companion, always the bright sunflower of the group, was visibly delighted. Her joy was infectious.
A short walk along cobblestone paths brought us face to face with Peleș Castle—rising like a dream from the mist, its turrets and spires silhouetted against the mountain backdrop. It was breathtaking. The architecture, a whimsical blend of Neo-Renaissance, Gothic Revival, Baroque, Saxon, and Swiss Alpine styles, had been crafted with one person in mind: King Carol I of Romania. A lover of German aesthetics and Italian charm, he’d envisioned a residence that was both regal and romantic.
I found myself captivated by the eccentric exterior. The castle’s façade bore strong German influences, no surprise considering Carol I was born Prince Karl of Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen. Designed to resemble a grand hunting lodge, it was adorned with elaborate balconies, carefully manicured gardens, and solemn stone sculptures. In the inner courtyard stood a towering statue of the king himself, watching over the Carpathian landscape with timeless pride.
But the true marvel lay within. Stepping through the heavy castle doors, we entered a world where art, culture, and history intertwined seamlessly. Each of the 160 rooms had its own distinct personality—lavishly decorated with themes ranging from Rococo to Moorish, all reflecting the opulence of the Romanian royal family.
Before diving into the splendor of the interior, it’s worth revisiting the castle’s origins. King Carol first visited Sinaia—then known as Podul Neagului—and was so enamored by its beauty that he ordered a palace be built against its majestic backdrop of pine forests and wildflowers. Construction began in 1873 under Austrian architect Wilhelm Doderer and was later overseen by Johann Schultz de Lemberg. The build faced numerous challenges: treacherous terrain, underground springs, and even the Russo-Turkish War of 1877, which brought everything to a halt. Yet, despite the setbacks, the castle was completed and inaugurated in 1883, with final touches added by 1914.
Few know that Peleș Castle is part of a larger estate, which includes the charming Pelisor Castle, the Guard’s Chambers, the Foisor Hunting Lodge, and the Sipot Villa. A pioneer of its time, Peleș was the first European palace to be fully powered by electricity and central heating. Interestingly, Carol and his queen shared a bedroom here—something quite rare among royalty.
Stepping into the grand reception hall, we were greeted by the imposing staircase, carved from dark wood and crowned by intricate arches and velvet drapes. The space radiated Baroque opulence. Over the years, the castle had welcomed royalty, politicians, and artists alike. I paused, imagining myself at the foot of those stairs a hundred years ago, perhaps extending a greeting to Kaiser Franz Joseph I, Richard Nixon, or the incomparable Sarah Bernhardt.
Upstairs, we entered the Hanor Hall, where soft mint-green walls contrasted elegantly with deep wooden tones. The highlight? A retractable stained-glass ceiling—an ingenious design by the king, allowing guests to stargaze on clear summer nights. From there, we moved to the Florentine Room on the third floor, where Italian Renaissance influences reigned supreme. Its grand marble fireplace and solid bronze doors whispered of Roman palazzos and Florentine salons.
Then came my personal favorite: the Royal Library. Shelves of rare books bound in leather and embossed in gold lined the room like sentinels of forgotten knowledge. I could have spent hours there. One delightful secret? A hidden door disguised as part of the bookshelf. Can you spot it?
For a touch of the exotic, we visited the Turkish Salon—once a smoking lounge for gentlemen. Its walls and ceilings were draped in hand-stitched silk embroidery. I questioned the wisdom of smoking around so much delicate fabric, but the room was undeniably enchanting. Then we found ourselves transported again—this time to Egypt. The Moorish Salon, designed by French architect Charles Lecompte de Nouy, was a tribute to his travels through Turkey, Greece, and Cairo, complete with a Carrara marble fountain modeled after one found in Egypt.
Of course, no palace is complete without its own theatre. The intimate Theater Hall was adorned with frescoes painted by Gustav Klimt and Frantz Matsch. A little further on, we found ourselves in the Grand Armory—a treasure trove of over 4,000 weapons and armor pieces spanning centuries. Should there ever be a zombie apocalypse, I know exactly where I’m heading. “Would you prefer the Baselard or the Arquebus, Mr. Darcy?”
Before leaving, we took a quiet stroll through the courtyard. With few tourists around, we had the place nearly to ourselves. The silence, the view, the grandeur—it was the kind of morning I wouldn’t mind waking up to every day.
The Old Mountains
by: Edwin Curran (1892)
The old mountains are tall, silent men
Standing with folded arms, looking over the world,
Lonesome and lofty in their manner.
They have seen empires come and go,
Civilizations rise and fall,
Stars break on their breasts.