Limits
These pages are not a map for the drive, and they are not a notice about the road tomorrow. They are notes from a pull-off, dated November 2026.
Memory, not a dispatch room
We wrote what we saw from the wheel and from pull-offs, in November 2026. A pass can be closed the next day by snow, by works, or by a truck on its side.
The notebook does not hear about it first. We do not sit in a room of live maps, and we do not get a signal when a barrier goes down.
No dictated route
We do not tell you which way to go, and we do not tell you how to climb one particular switchback. You are the person who sees the asphalt in front of the bonnet.
A mention of the ring, of a village, or of Tulcea is a memory of an order of places, not a route card. If the road in front of you contradicts the sentence, believe the road.
The season changes the road
Summer and winter are not the same carriageway, even when the place name is the same. A note about a pass describes a day of dry stone or of crust, not a calendar to prop on the dash.
At night the same lane reads shorter than it does at noon. The notebook does not replace the headlights, and it does not replace the gap you leave.
The vignette, only as a mention
Where we mention a vignette, we mention it as something the driver already knows. It is part of using the main roads, next to washer fluid and a belt already clicked.
We do not say where a person gets one, and we do not turn the mention into an instruction. If a sentence sounds otherwise, write and we cut it.
A correction
If a sentence promises more than a note from a pull-off, write to [email protected]. Name the sheet and the sentence, and we bring it back to what was seen.
We send nobody out to check a bridge, and we only correct the text. The road stays with the person who is on it.