Dawn Berkoski

I followed Princess Marie’s heart to Sinaia, but I lost my heart to Peles Castle. Maybe it was the surprise of finding such a gorgeous palace in the middle of the Carpathian Mountains, surrounded by acres of towering trees, bird song, and whispers of a Renaissance Revival that fed my soul. As soon as I entered, I knew this was where I belonged, a space where timelines collide and everything was, is, and will be. I was old and young again. That’s how I felt walking into Peles.

Marble statues representing the four seasons greeted me at the entrance, like I had wandered into a Shakespearean dream. I walked up a grand staircase of dark wood draped in red carpet, my steps, slow and soft, as if afraid to disturb the illusion I’d fallen under.

“That time of year thou mayst in me behold,” wrote Shakespeare, “when yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang. Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. This…which makes thy love more strong. To love that well which thou must leave ere long.” Sonnet 73

Peles Castle is a love story in architectural form. A beautiful story with silent spaces of sorrow and grief over a lost child, a tale woven into wood panels that welcomes one into the Great Hall. Tucked within it’s pages are oil paintings with vibrant pigments, each one a deep dive into a mini story. As you rise up under the arches, an angel with a trumpet hangs high, welcoming all with it’s call; and the magnificent stained-glass ceiling inspires awe. But, more than that, Peles Castle is alive.

My late husband was a carpenter. He taught me to appreciate trees, inside and out. The rarity, the softness, the pros and cons of working with material that breathes. Thanks to him, I was able to notice the workmanship that this castle hides. The wood carvings are masterpieces, and they are everywhere. Walls, furniture, stairs, doors, every nook and cranny houses a hidden wonder. 170 rooms, with influences from all over the world; the Florentine Room, The Moorish Salon, the Turkish Parlor, to name a few. The finest damask fabrics are found within, along with priceless porcelain, fine furniture, even decorative hinges and latches.

In one room, several gorgeous Murano glass chandeliers hung from a gold-plated ceiling beside a fresco by Gustav Klimt. I can’t explain how much artistry is in Peles Castle. I won’t try. My heart pounded in excitement at each new master level discovery. This is where the birds had led me. I was sure of it.

But where were the vampires? Vlad Tepes, Mihnea, Corvinus, Hunyadi, all the names I had followed that inspired legends of eternal youth, at a cost, were born centuries before Peles Castle was built. I found no link to Dracula, which made sense–if vampires were mortal. I had thoughts on this, but I needed evidence. Transylvania taught me that I wouldn’t find dark lords in shiny chambers that distracted me at every turn. I had to dig deeper to find hidden secrets.

Dawn B~