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It doesn't always rain on Romania, though had you visited recently you might be forgiven for thinking so. As in much of central and eastern Europe, the heavens opened last spring and for an awfully long time they did not close. It rained upon the historic capitals of Budapest and Bucharest; it rained upon the towns and villages of Transylvania, the Tyrol, Bavaria and Bohemia too. The angry waters of the Danube washed away houses, roads and bridges across the continent, wrecking lives and livelihoods in their wake.

But the rains did not wash away everything, and nor could they. Romania, a land that has seen its fair share of trouble (of which the floods were only the latest) has resisted all the onslaughts to which it has been subjected over the years. And in the heartlands of its northern regions where I am travelling, this spirit endures today.

The legacy of Romania's recent history under communism and Ceausescu lives on as well, in the shape of lasting economic stagnation and bureaucratic inefficiency. Having acceded to the EU in January 2007, the starry circle of the European flag flutters proudly upon many a public building, but the reality is that while progress is gaining pace there is still a way to go. So my guide and driver, Ionut Garbea, from Bacau in the northeast of the country, thus begins the trip in typical Romanian fashion - with a grumble.

"You know what they are trying to do now?" he fumes as we drive to our first destination. "They are now trying to put a tax on beggars! On beggars! Can you think of anything more stupid? One day I will leave the country, I mean it." But he doesn't, and he won't. This is just the Balkan way, and I'd better get used to it.

To force his point home he stamps harder on the accelerator and we speed erratically along the rural highway, swerving to miss the stray cats and dogs camped nonchalantly on the tarmac, or the horse-traps driven by wrinkled men in Homburg hats. Romanian roads, another of Ionut's pet hates, are not for the faint-hearted. In an effort to reduce speeding, the traffic police set up regular roadblocks, but in common with many others Ionut has a countermeasure, a small radar detector that plugs into the cigarette lighter socket on the dashboard and which warns him of imminent trouble. He is not a man to take lightly this kind of assault on his personal liberties; but after each checkpoint his wrath is accompanied by conspiratorial signals to other road users that there are police ahead.

As we near our destination his demeanour calms. "The decorations here are so well known we named a colour after them," he tells me with a reverential air. "Voronet blue." We park outside the protective walls of the monastery, lock the car and step into an enclosure partitioned off from the outside world for the best part of five centuries.

It is a world of stillness and serenity. Voronet monastery is centred around the chapel, and every inch of the mediaeval building's surface is clad in biblical scenes. It's as if students of Giotto had fallen on hard times and turned to exterior decorating. On the west wall, rows of saints stare at you from their backdrop of Voronet blue like a holy crowd of football supporters. There is an eerie feeling that they, not you, are the spectators. On the north face a Dantesque scene of hell leaps out at you as sinners tread the path to iniquity borne on the tongue of the devil himself.

As Ionut guides me inside the chapel, under the eaves of the porch his facade diminishes further and is replaced by a solemnity he has not shown before. He crosses himself and leads me into the dimly-lit interior. On either side of us are flat grey slabs, tombs of prominent noblemen, pointing the way to the altar itself. The serious-but-benevolent features of Christ stare down at you from every corner, and all is quiet but for the murmurings of prayer. Nothing is left bare, with every surface decorated in gold leaf. Even the monks are covered, dressed from head to toe in deep black robes topped with a black pillbox cap and with just the pink of their cheeks and foreheads peeping out from above shaggy beards. Space is clearly at a premium.

Seldom visited by outsiders, the county of Bucovina harbours in its valleys a lingering grace and the soul of a past that the rest of Europe has long forgotten. There are many other such monasteries here, most of them just as intricately adorned as Voronet. At the oldest, Humor, the dominant shade is not blue but red and the devil is depicted as a woman; then there are Moldovia and Arboret with their friezes of the siege of Constantinople; and Sucevita, the most pictorial of them all, its religious images emblazoned across its sides like some enormous graphic novel.

As we visit each in turn, Ionut rattles through the history of his country. Modern Romania as a nation is comparatively new, formed in 1878 from the principalities of Moldavia, Transylvania and Wallachia. But centuries earlier the three briefly stood together to face off the Ottoman threat from the east under the leadership of Vlad Tepes. Sometimes called "Vlad the Impaler", he better known to us as the inspiration for Dracula.

To Romanians, however, it is Dracula's ally, Stefan cel Mare, Stephen the Great, that is the most talismanic figure. It was he who in the fifteenth century established the monasteries of Bucovina - a name which means "land of beech trees" to commemorate his victories in battle; the Byzantine frescoes came a hundred years or so later and UNESCO World Heritage status in 1993.

We drive on. By now the count of stray animals blocking our path is up to double figures. Ionut swears ("Stupid dog number twelve!") and struggles with the steering wheel, though whether to avoid or to attack them it is hard to tell. Finally we call a halt. Ensconced in the homely comfort of an Alpine pension-style guesthouse, it is now time to enjoy another Romanian custom, to complement the earnest spirituality of the monasteries or the mortal combat on the roads. Impervious to our protests, the landlady brings out vast quantities of creamy chicken stew and mamaliga, the polenta-like stodge that forms the centre of every meal. She bears also an earthenware bottle accompanied by tiny mugs in the shape of beer barrels.

"What's this?" I ask, perhaps knowing the answer already. "Palinc," says Ionut, filling the thimble-like mugs to the brim. "We drink. Noroc!"

Before any meal can even begin, a shot of this tongue-stinging throat-burning head-splitting plum brandy is as inevitable as salt and pepper. It is just as necessary during and after the repast and when the bottle is drained the hostess is swift to replace it with another, brewed on the premises. It is a long evening, and as we finally stagger to bed I check that my guide will be fit to drive next morning. "It's OK," he says, "We do this every night." Great.

The following afternoon we arrive at Putna. Here the monastery is not so richly decorated as the others, but look to your left as you enter and there is no danger of forgetting whom you are here to see. Upon one of the hills that swaddle the monastery in their folds is the word "Stefana", carved in letters twenty feet high. And to my right, snaking down from the summit of another is an outstretched line of people, highlighted against the green as they fulfil the last stage of their pilgrimage.

Within lies none other than the man himself, Stephen the Great, now a saint of the Romanian Orthodox. Ceausescu tried but failed to rid himself of this troubling challenge to his authority and the mediaeval king's hold is as strong now as ever. People trek for miles to visit his tomb; even our very own Prince Charles once took part.

As the light of the early evening dims, an eerie clacking reverberates around the courtyard, echoing from every corner of the monastery walls and the valley. It is a "toaca", a wooden plank hit rapidly with a hammer to announce the forthcoming evensong. Into the chapel the people crowd, crossing themselves elaborately (I see my driver perform the same again and conclude that his devotion compensates for his road-rage at least) and the toaca is joined by the solemn tolling of bells.

But for the electric light, it is a scene otherwise undisturbed by our modern age. As vespers begin, the monks conceal themselves behind the panel of icons and chant their sombre hymns; in the congregation, headscarved women kneel on the cold stone floor absorbed in prayer. All enough to make a Church of England protestant (non-practising) feel distinctly uncomfortable; pagan even. Romanians, I can see, take their religion very, very seriously.

Of course, all cannot be perfect. On our final day, a thin strip of a road that I suggest will get us back to civilisation more quickly dwindles swiftly from the thoroughfare marked on the map to a mere bridleway. A couple of locals seated on their horse cart are of little help and as we pass in the wing mirror I see them swigging their palinc straight from the bottle. They’re happy enough as they are, I concede. We struggle on along the gravelled track, the pace slowing until the car almost grinds to a halt until after an age we are back on the road to Bacau with its factories and concrete, the trappings of modernity.

And it seems as we depart that our fleeting presence has had no impact. Time still ignores Bucovina but in its spirit is contained the essence of this nation. Come what may, whether it be rain and snow, upheaval and transformation, that spirit will remain.

NEED TO KNOW
Getting there: The author arranged his own visit, but Imaginative Traveller (0800-316 2717, www.imaginative-traveller.com) will take you to Bucovina in their Transylvania and Beyond tour, starting in Hungary. Prices start at £770 plus local payment and flights.
Red tape: British passport holders need no visa.
Further information: Telephone the official Romanian travel and tourism board at 20 7224.36.92 or check their website http://www.romaniatourism.com.

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