Rule number one: If you’re thinking of exploring Maramures by car, think again. The whole point of visiting the place is to enjoy a way of life and a traditional wood-working culture that was wiped out everywhere else in Europe centuries ago. Driving around in the comfort of your leather-upholstered BMW rather isolates you from the charm of the place, so take my advice. Get out of your car and onto your bike. Better still, get off your bike, pick up a rucksack and start hitch-hiking. Thanks to the legendary hospitality of the people of Maramures, you’ll be literally fighting off lifts with a shitty stick, and will inevitably end up meeting friendly / interesting / strangely attractive / downright odd people. The villages here are traditionally hugely patriarchal places, with women being only reluctantly invited to join the community. Single men, on the other hand, are welcomed with open arms and plied with bottles of tuica. Result!           

Rule number two: forget about drawing up a route beforehand. There are so many beautiful villages to visit, that the best thing is to simply wander the area, getting lost and taking recommendations from locals. I recommend getting the train to Sighet, and slowly heading towards the Tibleşului mountains. Sighet is pretty dull, but boasts one of the few museums in Romania that stand as a testimony to the communist regime – the superb Prison Museum, where actual prison cells have been turned into exhibition rooms. Go there, if only to catch a glimpse of the place that a fair number of today’s parliamentarians probably used to work.

Accomodation: If you’re after luxury villas and guest-house owners who think that having a bar in your front room is a sign of good taste, go back to Prahova with the rest of the crowds. However, if you’re interested in staying in spectacular wooden houses with locals who wear traditional costume for the hell of it, then Maramures will have you clutching at your groin a la Michael Jackson with excitement. During the seven days I spent in Maramures, my accommodation arrangements involved turning up in a village, putting on a doe-eyed, smiley face, and asking local people to take me in. It’s the only way you’re going to really get under the skin of the place. A word of warning: half the time, no matter how hard you insist, people will refuse to accept your money. I suggest leaving it under your pillow like a tourist version of the tooth-fairy. Oh, and be prepared for locals to stop you in the streets and invite you in for dinner. Really.

Hot spots: If you’re entertained by the idea of church paintings of people being forced to eat aborted foetuses and having bellows inserted into their anuses (and let’s face it, who isn’t) then head to the wooden church of Poienile Izei. These unintentionally hilarious depictions of hell were probably a lot scarier in the eighteenth century, and were intended to warn people of the sinfulness of things like farting in church (true!). You can feel smug in the knowledge that places like this would be teeming with tourists in any other country – yet the place is so quiet that you’ll have to ask the priest’s insouciant eleven-year-old son to let you in with a truly enormous key. If you fancy accommodation in a traditional wooden peasant house complete with luxuries like hot showers, head for Botiza and ask to be directed to the priest’s house.