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Nevertheless, there is a certain homecoming to my arrival, as the engine falls silent among the crumbling masonry. A bat flutters against the windscreen (I kid you not), attracted by the bright interior light, and I step out into the bitter wind that rushes down the snow-swept Arges Valley. The car sinks far more easily than I into this Gothic silhouette, but for a sickly yellow moon reflecting in its darkened glass.

Wandering from room to room, I cross rickety bridges and pad cautiously up winding stairwells. Dusty alcoves seem to whisper in the wind as leaves caught against their walls dance in little spirals.

From the castellated outer walls the ground plummets for a near vertical kilometre to the road below, now lost in absolute darkness. In the eastern corner of the castle, where no moonlight can penetrate, is a pentagonal tower. The highest point of Poienari, its thick walls still stand proud of the tree line, etching a formidable profile to the hilltop from any side. Gripping a rusting iron railing against the force of the wind, I cross another bridge and duck beneath a low, arched stone doorway. Inside, the darkness is so complete as to be almost tangible. Gulping it in with deep and rapid breaths, I begin feeling along damp walls, turning left then right until I reach a narrow stone staircase. Guided by the fall of each foot, I make my way gradually down it, the cold increasing on every step.

And at the bottom, my blind progress is checked quite suddenly by the chill of a metal door. Palms spread against it, I can feel the outline of two riveted horizontal hinges. To the left-hand side, where a lock might be, is what feels like a bolt, corroded to the point of flaking in my fingertips. I return my hands to the centre of the door, and with fortitude, as much mental as physical, I lean against it.

The dogs eventually give up the chase, howling in a wake of dust and exhaust fumes. A glance in the mirror shows the village now deserted, friendly faces we had met the previous afternoon lost behind shutters and deadlocks.

I'd woken that morning as if I'd never slept, bright morning sun boring into my skull. A strange sense of urgency hurried me to the car and the sanctuary of its dark, cossetting recesses, behind thick, tinted glass. Many miles between here and home then, and with Arefu disappearing into the distance, I dig deeply into the throttle.

CL63 AMG. £103,450 basic. £110,930 with the toys on this one. 6.2-litre V8 generating 518bhp and 464lb ft of torque. 0-62mph in 4.6 seconds in a five metre long car that weighs well over two tonnes. Romania's peaceful countryside is shattered by AMG's twin sports exhaust system as the car rips through its seven speeds. Inside, however, it remains serene. Wind noise is non-existent below 110mph, where the engine is still only nudging past 3,000rpm.

The miles tick off, switching back and forth over winding mountain roads and down through sleepy valleys, speckled with haystacks and columns of wood smoke from outlying farms.

The sun arcs overhead, hanging for an eternity at the top of its trajectory. It beats across the windscreen and lances the cocoon of the cockpit. My head aches bitterly and exhaustion is setting in, seeping into every leaden limb as I point the vast black bonnet north for the Hungarian border and home