Bethlen Estates

'The number of wolves in these parts has dwindled, partly because there are so many bears.' I’m not sure whether to be reassured or alarmed by our host Sandor’s deadpan delivery as we stumble through the pitch-dark Transylvanian countryside on our way to Bethlen Estates. The path ahead is flanked by skeletal trees and the occasional flicker of a farmhouse window. It’s late October — the week of Halloween, in fact — and my sister (the vampire to my werewolf, as per our lifelong supernatural self-assessments) is already plotting our survival strategy should one of these numerous bears decide to pop by for supper.

By the time we locate our lodgings, in the heart of the tiny Saxon village of Cris, we’re somewhere between giddy and mildly terrified — a pleasingly gothic emotional register for our first night in Transylvania.

Bethlen Estates isn’t a single hotel so much as a living, breathing restoration project. Scattered across Cris’s cobbled lanes and hilly meadows, its guesthouses are reborn village buildings — a cluster of hay barns, farmhouses and once-forgotten homes painstakingly rescued from ruin. The estate’s story begins with Count Miklós Bethlen, who spent his childhood exploring these same fields and forests before his family was forced to leave when communism swept through Romania after the Second World War. When he finally returned decades later, he found his birthplace crumbling and resolved to revive it. What began as one man’s effort to restore a fading village has since evolved, under the care of his wife, Gladys, and son, Nikolaus, into a quietly dazzling model for rural preservation.

Our own base is the Corner Barn, a former hay store enveloped by the branches of a sprawling walnut tree, which is a protected species in Romania, as Sandor proudly explains while unlocking the heavy wooden door. Inside, up in the eaves, our Red-Green Tansy Room feels lifted from an autumn still life — all copper, claret and moss-green under a sloping canopy of honeyed beams. We collapse into bed with the scent of rain and wood smoke filling our red-from-the-cold noses.

Morning arrives not with an alarm, but with the clonk, clonk of a cowbell. Through the mist that still clings to the burnished hills, I spot a farmer in a wool hat gently steering his brown-and-white cow across the field opposite. A low ‘mooooo’ floats through the crisp air. Dewy fields, livestock, a church spire curling upwards in the background; it’s like winning a whole bucolic bingo card.

Everything here seems suspended in time — as if some invisible hand pressed pause a few centuries ago and forgot to hit play again. Even driving feels faintly anachronistic. After breakfast, having admired the hand-thrown pottery holding the locally picked berries on our table, I find myself steering towards the village of Corund, determined to see where it’s made. The road winds through rolling fields and forests shedding their leaves, and by the time I return to Cris, the boot of my rental car is clinking with handmade ceramics — bold and folk-art vivid in palette, from cobalt-blue to forest-green and tulip-red glazes, birds, pastoral scenes and floral patterns painted across jugs, spoon rests and plates.

It feels strange to be moving through this landscape at such modern speed; I should be on a horse. So later that afternoon, I am. At the nearby Villa Abbatis equestrian centre, my mount is a beautiful chestnut called Pálinka, named for the fiery fruit brandy beloved across Hungary and Transylvania. We set off into the coppery countryside, riding alongside a pack of friendly, wolf-like dogs who dart ahead and rustle noisily through the leaves — 'To keep the bears away,' our guide says cheerfully, as if this is the most normal sentence in the world. The rhythm of hoofbeats and panting dogs spurs us on. We pass through bronzed fields that will be filled with wildflowers come spring, and dip into shadowy forest paths where shafts of sunlight cut through like stained glass, leaves falling onto our path and getting tangled in Pálinka’s long mane. From the saddle, I spot fresh bear tracks pressed into the mud, the prints leading in the direction of the village. It’s peak feeding season for the bears as they’re busy bulking up for hibernation.

Back at the estate, dinner feels like a feast from a folkloric fantasy, beginning with flutes of welcome fizz that tastes uncannily like caramelised apples. Chef Robert Tordai, a local protégé turned culinary wizard, sends out breaded lamb goujons (refined nuggets, if you will) balanced on an actual tree stump, with a dipping sauce served in a miniature steel bucket. Dessert is rákóczi túrós, a Hungarian curd cheesecake layered with meringue. 

By the flickering fire, Sandor and the charming Irina tell us about the estate’s wider rebirth — how each guesthouse was once part of the village fabric. The blue Depner House, once a family home; the Caretaker’s House, an homage to the 300-year-old building’s original purpose; the Corner Barn, our own hayloft haven. Even the old schoolhouse, currently being transformed into a second restaurant and wellness area with a pool, is finding fresh purpose. Every building restored here supports not just tourism, but local craftspeople, apprentices and families.

The next morning, we lace up our boots and set off straight from the estate gate onto the Via Transilvanica, following red ‘T’ markers through forests shimmering with gold and russet leaves. The path feels enchanted — part hiking trail, part portal through time. We’re told the trick is to make noise as you walk — conversation, laughter, the occasional crunch of leaves underfoot — to let any nearby bears know you’re coming. They’d rather avoid you, apparently. The feeling is very much mutual.

Our walk ends at Bethlen Castle, the ancestral home of the namesake family. Built in the 14th century by Márk Bethlen, the castle was originally a fortified Renaissance residence — its location chosen as much for protection as for the resources that would sustain a noble court. Over the centuries, the family expanded it with Baroque wings and towers, transforming it into a lively cultural hub where Transylvanian high society once gathered for feasts, balls and the occasional political intrigue.

Legend, of course, adds its own embroidery. Locals still tell of a dragon that once haunted these hills, slain by an ancestor of the Bethlens with a golden apple — the creature is said to have choked on it, and both dragon and apple appear on the family’s coat of arms. Unlike so many castles in the region, this one has survived remarkably intact: its haunting good looks have made it a favourite of horror filmmakers. Ultimately, it’s all part of the same lineage — generations of Bethlens shaping, safeguarding and reviving this corner of Transylvania.

As we wander the arched hallways and spiral staircases, I think of William Blacker’s Along the Enchanted Way, rumoured to be Countess Bethlen’s favourite book about Romania’s Saxon lands. Blacker wrote of a place 'where time seems to move sideways rather than forward'. Standing on these footstep-worn flagstone floors, it feels precisely that.