The old Renault 9 carrying me across Moldova splutters and groans, as it heckles through the pothole covered countryside roads. The scenery shoots past through the window, rolling hills, horses ploughing fields, small towns of half-finished grey brick houses.

I am headed towards the town of Horodiste, a former kolkhoz, planted on a headland overseeing the river Dniester, facing the breakaway region of Transnistria. As I stroll through the unpaved streets, ancient memories of town fairs, happy hubbubs, children laughing, the loud violin of gypsy songs reverberate across the landscape. I have a growing feeling of arriving late to a party. The props have been packed up, guest have left, but remnants of cheerfulness can still be sensed in the air.

That’s a suitable metaphor of the Moldovan people. For, they have seen better days. Life is tough and sparse in these run down towns, yet they radiate gentleness, share the little they have, joke and laugh. Tomorrow might be another rude day, but for now, all that matters is the joy of this fleeting communion.