I’m a huge fan of the Balaton. In winter. Not in summer. I thoroughly dislike it in summer. But in winter it’s magical.
There’s a ribbon of towns that stretch along the north coast of the Balaton blending into each other as towns do in Malta around Spinola Bay. A church and a graveyard herald each border crossing. And, of course, the town sign.
I’ve driven along the fringe of Balatongyörök many times. It’s there that I go to meet my good friend BA as it’s roughly halfway for us, coming as we are from opposite directions. I know a few Hungarian friends rate it as their favourite of the Balaton strands but until recently, I’d never taken that right turn at the last roundabout and ventured into the town centre itself.
It’s an old, old part of Hungary, its age evidenced by the discovery of a stone axe from the third century BC. There are also the remains of a Roman settlement from the sixteenth century. Today’s town is built on those remains and some of the village houses still wear their age.
From 1734 it was owned by Kristóf Festetics, whose family owned the palace in nearby Keszthely. At the turn of the twentieth century, like many towns in the area, it found its calling. In 1907, some five years after the railway appeared, the spa was completed. While still owned by the Festetics family, they donated the land to develop the strand. The row of plane trees planted by Lady Hamilton in the 1910s still stands today.
The town officially became a resort in 192o and the pier was finished 12 years later.
In summer, it’s overrun by Hungarians escaping Budapest to their family holiday homes. Germans, Austrians, Russians, and Poles make an appearance, too, in the myriad B&Bs and apartment rentals. The air is thick with the smells of fried hake, gyros, and lángos. Bars belt out gipsy rock, ice-cream vendors do a roaring trade, and the strand-side stalls sell their tat. If you’re lucky, in the summer months of July and August, you might find enough space on the grass to wedge your towel between those of random strangers. No one seems to mind.
Except me.
It’s all too much.
For me.
But in winter, it’s deserted. Except for the ducks. And the occasional dog and their human. And maybe a squirrel.
Glorious.
In January, when the ice forms and the lake freezes, magic happens.
Broken sheets of ice line the shore like sheets of translucent pastry. The swaying reeds suggest a balminess that is notably absent as the biting cold pinches bare skin and freezes fingers, making me wish I hadn’t been so quick to pooh-pooh those touch-screen-friendly gloves.
Driving out of town, I remembered seeing a sign for an Africa Museum and Zoo in Balatonederics. and thinking it was a little far from home. So when I spotted the statue of a man with a rifle at the base, I added 2 and 2 and came up with 54. Széchenyi Zsigmond was a different lad altogether. He, along with other famous Hungarians, lived in Balatongyörök for a while, back in the day.
Count Zsigmond Széchenyi of Sárvár-Felsővidék was a Hungarian hunter, traveler and writer. An outstanding figure of the Hungarian hunting culture. He hunted in Africa, India, Alaska and various parts of Europe. His outstanding hunting trophy is a world record addax.
Two things stand out for me. The first is that he hunted in Alaska. The second is that he was born in Oradea, Romania, or as it’s known in Hungary, Nagyvárad. Little did I know that mere minutes after seeing his statue, I’d be debating how to pronounce Oradea.
It’s the little things that make me wonder.
His book Alaszkában vadásztam (I hunted in Alaska) is not available in English – if I’m wrong, please tell me, as I’d love to read it. Back in 2012, someone organized a trip from Hungary to Alaska for a party of 9 plus a guide to follow in Széchenyi’s footsteps – shooting with cameras this time, rather than rifles. I’d have liked that.
I might well pop back to Balatongyörök before the season opens and the hoards descend. It’s a lovely spot. And more statues worth checking out.
