The loggers said the wood was destined for Schweighofer. Our guide, who showed us land registry excerpts proving his claim, was visibly nervous. ‘It’s very dangerous if they see us. As you are foreign they might not realise, but if they know it’s me … ‘ The brief was to get ‘Mordor shots’. It was an apt description of the scene. Late in the day, the factory belching grey smoke into a grey sky, piles of wood just visible beyond the fence and crows circling. Vicious thistles pricked through socks and jeans as we skirted the hill, keeping out of sight. On the other side of the rise, a Transylvanian graveyard: the decaying bodies of once living trees massed in crazy piles that arched overhead or walled us in. A stark contrast to the forests they came from.
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