Rough, time-worn and sun-warmed timbers and gray weathered stone form the bastion that protected the city for centuries and now hosts an incongruously festive atmosphere of various vendors of spirits and snacks.
The raised bridge leading to the bastion's portal overlooks an open-air stage in what was once likely a moat, where a band of indeterminate nationality warms up for a show, blending flute, viollin, guitar, drums, bass, keyboard and vocalists singing strains of perfectly ethereal Irish folk before breaking back into their own incomprehensible tongue (Hungarian? And... French?) to comment on levels. A nondescript middle-aged guy in nondescript T-shirt and shorts tests out his Irish step-dancing shoes, tapping and kicking sporadically in time with the warm-up music.
I lean against the low wall of the bridge, shifting my weight against the rough stone that digs into my palms, waiting for the show to begin. Washed-out blue sky harbours picturesque fluffy white clouds as the sun casts its final glowing rays on red-tiled roofs, bathing everything in that perfect golden light of dusk as it sinks its way behind the green hills of Pécs.
Those hills invite further investigation. We enjoy the decidedly non-spectacular but pleasant performance of the Hungarian Irish folk band as they play and step dance their way through a set of Irish folk standards interspersed with pop and The Cranberries. The juxtaposition of their between-number monologues in Hungarian with their perfect imitation of Irish folk accents while singing is beguilingly puzzling.
And then the hills beckon and we set off in the direction of a distant TV tower high above the city. Rounding the corner, the spires of the cathedral come into view, lit spectacularly in the fading sunlight. I snap impatient photos, eager to climb and reach a vista that will offer a complete sunset panorama.
The narrow street is lined with the type of houses common to hillsides with views, modern and impressive. And selfishly blocking strolling pedestrians from enjoying the view they pay premium prices to closet away in their backyards.
A sign indicates the elusive TV tower can be reached via an even narrower, steeper street cobbled with large, uneven stones, and we continue on in the atmosphere of calming, falling dusk. Snatches of uncomplicated local life add interest to the journey, families unloading groceries, or having murmured conversations on porches. Then we spot a tree laden with deep purple plums, situated invitingly on the street side of a fence surrounding a steep property flanking a house at some disance above it. The plums are sweet and juicy and irresistable and we revert to our anthropoid nature, foraging happily.
A family group makes their way slowly up the hill in our direction, merrily pantomiming the strain of the steep climb and chattering happily with each other. They turn in at the house above our plum tree, obviously the residents here, but just smile and lob a few phrases of Hungarian I don't recognize in our direction as they hike up to their house, clearly unperturbed at our scavenging of their tree. I try to convey my gratitude and enjoyment of their plums, though no appropriate Hungarian phrases enter my brain and I have to resort to grinning broadly.
A fluffy gray cat slinks like a wisp of smoke in our direction, followed by the smiling young matriarch of the family. She seems to be attempting to recover the cat and return it to the house, so I momentarily abandon my plum harvest and join in on heading off the cat so she is able to scoop it up into her arms. She strikes up a very one-sided conversation with me, as I shrug my helpless lack of knowledge of her language. She grins and laughs, shrugging her own lack of English, so we content ourselves with stroking the velvety soft, thick fur of the somewhat perturbed cat while Arlo sagely impresses with his knowledge of the Hungarian word for cat. (cica = tseetsa) Our friendly hostess wanders her way back up to the house as we return to our own steep upward climb.
A paved sidewalk jags off to the right into a tree-filled area that seems more appealing than the continuing suburbia-lined cobbled street, and we climb in this park-like area, still hoping it will open out to present the much-awaited vista of Pécs. But alas, it is not to be -- any possible view is blocked by houses. The hilly forest holds its own charms and beckons further exploration, but the sun has disappeared and the darkness is wrapping its tendrils ever more thickly around the landscape. I consider awaiting the advent of the moon and stars from the vantage point of some inviting star-gazing rocks on the hillside, but the inadvisability of navigating strange streets in a strange city by moon and starlight sinks in and we decide to make our way back down the hill before complete darkness sets in. Our meandering route takes us down a dirt and gravel road through construction sites and into the backyard of an apparently unoccupied house, where we finally get a decent panorama of the city below, though too dark for opportune photos.
Winding our way back into the city, we return to the bastion where the festival is continuing even more full-swing. A Colombian band has the crowd in its rhythmic sway, and I recognize the charismatically cute lead singer and the dark-haired enchantress who sings back-up and mesmerizes with her amazing full-bodied gyrations from the tail-end of their show we had caught two nights(?) previously on the chain bridge in Budapest.
And I am back full circle on the same rough-hewn bridge wall over the ancient moat, enthralled in the sensual pleasures of the intensely rhythmic music provided by a three-man percussion section, and an incredibly amazing funky bass player who would give Flea and Les Claypool a run for their money. And the lovely Claudia, bewitching the audience with her voluptuous vivacity, and the lead singer with his eager, face-splitting grin and soulful voice... losing myself to the beauty and energy and foreignness of the night.
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