Beyond Peles Castle: Hidden Gems and Secret Spots in Sinaia's Historic Center

While tourists flock to Peles Castle, the 17th-century Sinaia Monastery sitting just below it holds secrets of its own. Most visitors admire the Byzantine architecture of the main complex, snap their photos, and move on. But during my second day, an elderly monk named Father Nicolae noticed me sketching the ornate woodwork and beckoned me through a small wooden door I'd barely noticed.

'You have the eyes of someone who sees beyond surfaces,' he said in halting English, leading me into what revealed itself as the monastery's hidden medicinal garden.

This secluded sanctuary, maintained by the monks for centuries, showcases plants that have been used in traditional Romanian healing practices since medieval times. Father Nicolae showed me herbs I recognized from my conservation work—valerian, wormwood, and thyme—alongside others I'd never encountered. The garden follows ancient patterns, with plants arranged according to their healing properties rather than aesthetics.

What makes this space truly special is its location, nestled between two monastery buildings with views across the valley that few tourists ever witness. Early mornings here are magical, with mist rolling through the mountains and the first light illuminating the herb beds. I returned three times during my week, each visit revealing new details: the hidden stone bench beneath an ancient linden tree, the small chapel tucked into the corner where monks come for solitary prayer, and the carefully preserved 18th-century sundial that still keeps remarkably accurate time.

On my third day in Sinaia, I met Mircea, a local forest guide in his seventies whose family has lived in these mountains for generations. Over traditional plăcintă at a small bakery on Strada Furnica, he told me about a pathway few tourists—and even many locals—have forgotten.

'The old king, Carol I, he did not always want to be seen,' Mircea explained, tracing a route on my map with a weathered finger. 'This path was for when he wished to move between the castle and town without ceremony.'

The Royal Path (Poteca Regală) begins inconspicuously behind a row of Belle Époque villas just east of the castle grounds. Unlike the manicured royal gardens, this narrow trail feels wild, cutting through a stretch of forest that has remained largely unchanged since King Carol I walked here in the late 19th century. My hiking boots proved essential as the spring melt had left sections muddy and slick.

After about twenty minutes of gentle climbing, the path opens to a small clearing with a stone gazebo that doesn't appear on any tourist map. The structure, partially reclaimed by moss and wild roses, offers a stunning perspective of Peles Castle from an angle few ever see—the eastern facade catching the afternoon light in a way that transforms the Neo-Renaissance architecture into something almost ethereal.

Further along, the path connects to a network of trails that local shepherds have used for centuries. I followed Mircea's instructions to find a particular ancient beech tree, its trunk nearly three meters in diameter, where Romanian royalty would sometimes take tea during summer excursions. The brass hooks that once held lanterns are still embedded in the massive trunk, now almost entirely grown over.

While researching Sinaia's cultural heritage, I discovered that Romania's most celebrated composer, George Enescu, had a summer villa here. What surprised me was how few international visitors make the effort to find this musical sanctuary tucked away on a quiet residential street.

Vila Luminiș (House of Light) sits on a hillside about twenty minutes' walk from the town center. Enescu designed it himself in the 1920s as a retreat where he could compose in peace, surrounded by the natural beauty of the Carpathians. The architecture blends Romanian traditional elements with art nouveau touches—much like his music merged folk traditions with classical structures.

I arrived just as a spring shower cleared, leaving the gardens glistening in afternoon light. The caretaker, Mrs. Popescu, seemed delighted by my interest and offered a personal tour despite the official closing time approaching. The interior remains largely as Enescu left it, with his Bechstein piano positioned to capture views of the mountains that inspired his Romanian Rhapsodies.

What moved me most was discovering the composer's habit of working outdoors. Mrs. Popescu showed me the stone table in the garden where Enescu would write his scores during summer months, sometimes working through the night by lantern light. Standing in that spot, I could hear the same forest sounds that would have filtered into his compositions—the distinctive Carpathian birdsong and the distant murmur of mountain streams.

Before leaving, I sat for a moment in Enescu's reading nook, a small alcove with windows on three sides. Mrs. Popescu put on a vinyl recording of his Orchestral Suite No. 3—music composed in this very house—and for a few minutes, time seemed to fold in on itself, the distance between past and present collapsing in the amber afternoon light.

My conservation work has taught me that ecological and cultural preservation go hand in hand—and cuisine often serves as the most direct connection between people and their landscape. In Sinaia, I was determined to taste dishes that reflected the true Carpathian culinary tradition, not just the standardized Romanian menu offered to tourists.

My search led me to Crama Domnească, not the restaurant bearing this name near the town center, but a small family-operated cellar dining room hidden on the upper edge of town. Here, Dana and her mother Ileana serve dishes based on recipes that predate even Peles Castle, using techniques passed down through generations of mountain dwellers.

'These mushrooms,' Dana explained as she set down a steaming earthenware dish, 'my grandfather taught me to find them in the forest when I was just five years old.'

The wild mushroom bulz—polenta stuffed with sheep cheese and forest mushrooms—was unlike any I'd tasted elsewhere in Romania, with subtle pine notes from being cooked over conifer wood. I recorded the experience in my travel journal, where I keep detailed notes on regional food traditions.

Equally memorable was their tochitura, a rich stew traditionally made by shepherds in the high pastures. While tourist restaurants serve simplified versions, Dana's family makes it the slow way—meat from local farms marinated for days in wine from their own small vineyard, with herbs gathered from specific mountain elevations depending on the season.

What makes this hidden spot special isn't just the food, but the stories that accompany each dish. Over a glass of homemade afinată (blueberry liqueur), Dana showed me black-and-white photographs of her ancestors collecting ingredients from the same forests where I'd been hiking earlier that day—a powerful reminder of how landscape shapes culinary heritage.

On my penultimate day in Sinaia, a steady spring rain provided the perfect opportunity to explore the indoor spaces often overlooked by castle-bound tourists. Following a tip from Mrs. Popescu at the Enescu house, I made my way to the old craftsmen's quarter tucked behind the town's main boulevard.

This network of narrow streets houses workshops that have operated continuously since Sinaia's establishment as a royal resort. Unlike the souvenir shops near Peles that sell mass-produced trinkets, these artisans create pieces using techniques that connect directly to Romania's cultural heritage.

My first discovery was Mr. Antonescu's woodcarving studio, marked only by a small wooden sign showing a carpenter's plane. Inside, the 82-year-old master was working on a traditional Romanian troiță (wayside cross) using tools inherited from his grandfather. The workshop smelled of pine resin and history.

'Before the castle came, before the tourists, there were just the monastery and the forest,' he told me, his hands never pausing their rhythmic carving. 'My family has worked with this wood for five generations.'

What fascinated me most was learning how the decorative patterns in his work contained encoded ecological knowledge. Certain motifs represented specific forest plants and their medicinal uses—a system of recording traditional knowledge that predated written documentation in the region.

Nearby, I found Atelier Mărginean, where Elena continues the tradition of natural wool dyeing using plants she forages from the surrounding mountains. The colors in her textiles—deep blues from cornflower, rich oranges from lichens, and soft greens from nettle—create a living color palette of the Carpathian ecosystem.

Elena allowed me to photograph her process for my conservation research, explaining how different elevation zones in the surrounding forests yield different pigment intensities. I couldn't resist purchasing one of her hand-woven scarves, dyed with plants gathered from the same forest paths I'd been exploring all week. It now travels with me as a wearable connection to Sinaia's living heritage.