It’s the longest tributary to the Danube, the 16th longest river in Europe, a survivor of an environmental disaster larger than the red sludge spill, a basin river of wandering curves, the river I walk to on every lovely day. A dyke snakes along the south edge, protecting Péterfalva and the other villages from the flood plains. Once I biked north-west along the dyke until the stone-strewn tire tracks stopped, and the dyke ahead of me, shrunken and overgrown, marched toward the Hungarian boarder. The river ran along side me the whole way, blue as the sky and cold as the winter the mountains are blowing in.
As the story has been related to me, the villagers of Péterfalva won some sort of Soviet era agriculture competition, and the Communist government built them an amusement park as the prize. It’s abandoned now, the tilt-a-whirl tilted and whirled to the ground, rusty gates, the tall ferris wheel a landmark on the flat plain. Sometimes they have wedding receptions there, but I’ve never seen the wheel moving.
I walked across the concrete bridge with the intention of continuing to the flood plain/cattle pasture, but I got distracted by this.
I took this picture biking back from the far point of the dyke.