Istrian Delight - Monday 14th to Wednesday 16th August 2017

The hangover was unreal. Evidently a day and night of drinking, coupled with the heat and possibly not enough water, meant we were feeling rather delicate. Most of the late morning and noon was us both anxiously putting off having to leave our bed.

Once we had enough effort to do so, and shower and change, we set off mid-afternoon for an exploration of the town. The searing heat that welcomed our departure from the pansion was not agreeable, but we ambled along down the hill again to the old town.

People filled the plazas and the alleyways again, so we passed through the throngs and onwards into the old town proper. This move at least saved us from the direct sunlight. The old town felt very Venetian. Narrow, paved alleys led to tiny squares. The buildings were coloured red, orange, or lemon, in a rustic hue, often with washing lines (or were they telephone cables?) knitted between them. It was quieter here, and we drifted between some alleys that were strictly residential, and others that had shops or eateries, with half being open and the other half promising to open in the evening.

We wound anti-clockwise around the hill and made our way to the plateaued summit on which the Church of St Euphemia stood. Its whiteness stood out brilliantly against the crisp blue sky, and the views from here were spectacular. We continued anti-clockwise to return back down to sea level and stopped at one of the few restaurants that were open in the afternoon. I had a lovely risotto as I sat on the shaded side of the table. 

After a little more exploring, we returned to our hotel to nap off the rest of our hangover until the evening. We returned via the usual route once more to the town, and found a busy pizzeria with a small queue waiting to get in. It seemed popular, so we waited the 20 minutes to get in. Following our food, we walked along the quay as the sun was setting. It was beautiful, as the darkening blue sky was buffered from the now lit-for-night-time old town by a streak of yellow and orange of the setting sun. We then found a bar in the old town, looking over the darker part of the quay, where we supped on beers and wine whilst watching small pleasure boats arrive from a day out at sea.

I was not feeling too super the next day, my stomach was troubling me somewhat. John played doctor and went out to get me salty snacks and some pharmacy goodies. He triumphed on the first count, but on the second it turned out that it was a national holiday - the Assumption of Mary - and so the pharmacy was closed. Upon his return, I felt the need to get out of the room. So we packed beach items and walked to a nearby wood, which led to what would hopefully be a more secluded beach off the tourist trail. We crossed the road onto a grassy area, before finding the main trail through the trees. As we walked along a Croatian woman in her late 40s, whom we were slowly passing, spoke to John and me. We struck up a conversation, the usual of where did we come from and such, and soon her male companion joined in. It turns out that she is an Istrian native, and her husband was originally from Canada.  

As we approached the coastline, our new friends gave us a tip on the best place to pitch up, and so we diligently followed their instructions. We found a quiet spot, but still surrounded by enough people to peer at and guess at their lives. As ever, John went in for a dip a few times, whilst I lay as still as possible, so as not to disturb the mild nausea, and read my book. By 5pm, we decided to head back, and that was the end of the day for me. I rested my eyes, only to wake up again the next day.

The sleep is what I needed, as I woke up feeling a lot better. As we got ready, we decided upon a boat trip. There was one that left the old town harbour and was a comfortable 25-minute ride to the Red Island. We packed our beach things and went to town. 

We approached the south-eastern part of the quay, as this seemed the place where there were pontoons from which to board a handful of the larger, passenger carrying boats. Other boats offering services were for those who wanted a more private experience. It seemed that this island also had on it a hotel, and so many of the passengers had suitcases and whatnot to get to their final destination. We boarded for a mere 40kn and got a seat. At the point at which it seemed we reached capacity, a few more people were wedged on, and then the gangplank was removed, and the engines began to roar. 

We sort of reversed out of the dock, rear end into the quay, but now pointing in the right direction to head out to sea. As we picked up a little speed, the sea breeze was a welcome addition as it cooled us just as the sun’s heat began to rise. It was such a pleasant journey. We slowly bobbed along, admiring the passing mainland, then sporadic rocky outcrops, whilst being entertained by some sea birds flying alongside us, and played a guessing game of which island was our one.

Once our final direction was set, we knew which island was ours. A quayside had a few people near a quay house, possibly waiting for our boat to arrive to take them back. Over the horizon of a small knoll, you could see a brutalist inspired hotel complex peering out. Disembarkation was smooth and we made our way, along with our fellow passengers, up over the small hill, and into the main area of the hotel, which had a cove like beach, with sand, which was made up of an isthmus that joined two separate islands. This area had beach party vibes, what with the pumping dance music. But at least there were food and drink options for later. We carried on over the isthmus to the southern island and found a more tranquil and secluded spot.

For the first time in a long time, I went into the sea. Its clear waters were very enticing, and its temperature very cooling. As always, I never want to have to repeat going into the water, what with the sharp, cold pangs of horror each time, so I spent a good 20 minutes just paddling about with John. I dried off, and carried on as normal, rotating between reading and people watching. A few of our fellow beach dwellers were rather more revealing than others. How Mediterranean!

By about mid-afternoon, we used the handy beach showers to wash off the sand and salty sea water and decided to get a drink and snack. So, we ventured back to the party part of the island and grabbed a table overlooking the busy beach that was, ideally, under some shade. John went to get us some beers and, almost to type, he returned with cheese and ham toasties. This moment was bliss. Just sitting, chatting about anything and nothing at all, and slowly sipping beer.

We decided to try and get the second last boat back, so we walked back to the dock for the 5pm ferry. It was very busy. Perhaps other people had my very own fear of being stranded, so leaving a cushion of 1 or 2 services more before the last one just in case. We boarded, and I recorded the journey back. After we departed the boat, we went back to the pansion to change, and grabbed a gluttonous ice cream on the way.

It was a quick change around and we were soon back in the old town. After wondering around as the sun was setting, we decided to eat at somewhere near where we were the other night. It was a place that predominantly had fish, but I opted for the risotto. It was gorgeous. With our dinner, John and I sank a litre of white wine, such was the occasion - our last night in Rovinj. After food, we returned to the bar from the other night, which we thought was part of the restaurant. It had seating within the restaurant. But you could then descend some stairs to take you on the concrete buttress at almost sea level. Makeshift seating was made up of cushions, and small café tables were dotted along the walkway to the seats.

The night was warm and clear. The sound of the sea lapping up against the stone was soothing. We drank beers and cocktails, slowly, as we took in the stars and the moon, illuminating the town and reflecting in the water. Small boats again returned to the dock for the night. It was a truly sublime last night for our visit to Rovinj.

The Road to Rovinj - Sunday 13th August

It was a familiar start to the day as we departed another city. We packed and cleaned up our underused accommodation, and left the keys in the box outside as instructed. John unclipped the chain allowing me to reverse out, and replaced it before he jumped in the passenger seat. I was confident enough to drive out of the city, as it was a straight-line west from the apartment and out of the city to the nearby motorway.

It was a lovely, sunny day, and just as we were leaving the city limits, we hit upon some intense traffic. Unbeknownst to us, we were embarking on the well-tread route of central European holiday makers to the Dalmatian coast - in the middle of August! Looking around in the traffic, I noticed a smattering of licence plates from Slovakia and even Poland, a handful from Hungary and Serbia, but a sizeable volume from Austria and Germany. I did note that there were few from Croatia itself. The reason for the queue was the motorway toll booth up ahead. It took about 20 minutes to reach, as we inched our way forward.

Once we paid our fee, the motorway was freed up before us as the mass of cars reduced to a moderate trickle. The journey from Zagreb to the outskirts of Karlovac was uninteresting, but the scenery was luscious. Agricultural land interspersed with large rolling green hills of grass and forest accompanied us on our route southwest. It became slightly more rugged and mountainous after Karlovac, and the traffic loosened as cars and campervans left our motorway to turn south, and eventually south east, towards Split and Dubrovnik.

For a good hour or so we just carried on meandering between hills and mountains, but then slowly we noticed we began to descend somewhat. It was also at this point that we began to notice the scenery change to a more dry and rocky terrain. We had now reached the Dalmatian Littoral, the slice of land between the Adriatic Sea and Mountainous Croatia, stretching north-west from Istria south-east to traditional Dalmatia. Our descent towards the city of Rijeka accelerated once we passed what looked like an abandoned airfield on the hilltop outside of the city. And the descent was even more winding than our previous meandering. We soon hit the outer suburbs, and felt close to the city centre itself, until we plunged into a tunnel, and emerged on a by-pass behind the city travelling west again.

The crystal blue waters of the Adriatic were enticing, but we could only see dashes of them between the high-rise apartments that were dug into the hillside. As we drove through, I did ponder why I didn’t think to make a pitstop here, as it had an attractiveness I would have loved to have explored on foot. It also had Tito’s yacht, the Galeb, in residence. But as we neared an elbow of coast, our sat nav told us to turn off the by-pass, heading to Slovenia, and onto the Istrian Peninsula. It was also here that we now noticed the roads signs had become bilingual, with Italian hinting at Istria’s Venetian past.

We crossed Istria from east to west, and the environment was almost arid, but still held the ability to cultivate certain crops. Our pace had slowed a little as we passed through rural settlements and wide expanses of fields.

As we approached the western side of the peninsula, we paid a toll for using the main road. We were now on a country road with a slower speed limit. We then saw signs of urban build up, with the odd hotel or restaurant built for passing trade, or tourists from the nearby coastal towns, pop up along the road. But this was sparse until we hit the city limits of Rovinj.

One of the reasons why I was keen to come to Rovinj was because I met a Croatian woman, who was a former MP, at a Labour event the previous year. She said that the Istrian peninsula was one of two counties in Croatia to vote against the constitutional amendment to limit marriage to a man and a woman. I was told of Istria’s liberal mindedness, and that is what initially attracted me to visit.

We reached the city and made our way to the southern suburb where a number of holidays homes and pansions were located. For the pricey sum we paid, the 3-star accommodation was as basic as it could get. Keen to not be sat down for much longer, we just grabbed some beach essentials and went straight out. We went to a nearby Koznum store and bought picnic supplies. John said he would drive back from the beach, so I bought a bottle of rosé to keep me refreshed as we sunbathed.

We drove through the compact town centre, and round to the north where a stretch of land jutted out into the sea. You had to get to this part of the coast via a drive in a forest that stopped literally at the water’s edge. As we got closer to the parking area, it was evident that the area was popular. But we managed to find a spot to park in the woods, the fresh smell of pine warmed up by the days sun was something to savour.

We walked past a beach bar and walked along the now familiar rocky Adriatic coast. We hurriedly made our way through a popular beach and on to a more remote beach. Here, we settled on the rocks, and then sunbathed and picnicked. An impromptu airbed was inflated by one group nearby, for added comfort on the rocks, I understood.

We must have spent a good couple of hours there because, as it was in the latter part of the day, the lowering sun brought a golden sheen to the rocks, followed by fellow sunbathers beginning to pack up for the day and return to their cars. I did a good job on that bottle of rosé, so I may have stumbled a little on our return to the car. Plumes of dust wafted up from car wheels as we left the car park and made our way to the concrete road and back to our apartment.

A shower soon freshened me up before our first proper trip into the city, which was a good 20-minute walk. The crisp and dry evening was a pleasure to walk in, as we commented on all the villas and apartment blocks we walked past. We began to notice the bilingual road signs again as we entered what was obviously the outskirts of the old town. The streets narrowed, and the buildings began to reflect a Venetian form. The number of people around us began to rise rather quickly too.

At a small square, where the city’s bus station was situated, we joined what on appearance looked like a pedestrian street, but turned out to be used by a considerable number of cars despite it being packed with tourists. There was a real hive of activity here. Gelato and pizzerias seemed to dominate this stretch - and as it turned out, most of the city - so we carried on in search of further options.

We ended up at another small square, but sort of turned back on ourselves to reach the small harbour of the city. Small and medium sized boats were tightly packed in, and were sometime three or four deep. The now dark sky was lit up beautifully by the moon, which radiated onto the marble quayside and brought out the pastel colours of the nearby harbour side buildings. A slow yet pleasantly warm breeze brought with it a fresh smell of the crisp, salty sea waters.

Where we had walked through seemed to have been the ‘mainland’ of the town, and where we stood now seemed to have been built up to connect the mainland with, what I presumed to be, a former island of the old town. That part of town was packed tightly in ahead of us, spiralling up to the point where a church spire dominated its peak.

We made a small adventure of going up one of the first lanes that wound around and up the old town, but decided to retreat back to the quayside and eat at what looked like one of the first and finest hotels of the city.

The aptly named Hotel Adriatic did not disappoint. We sat out on the quayside in order to both continue our people watching, and to really take in the wonder of our surroundings. Cocktails were ordered, and for my main I had a lovely steak with parmesan and greens. We ordered a bottle of Croatian red to prolong our stay.

It was getting late, and the quayside began to slowly quieten down. We paid our bill and walked to the north part of the town to sit outside a bar that formed the centre of a fork of two roads going into the city. We noticed a taxi rank, and located a gay club just outside of the town that would take 5 minutes by car. Its unique selling point was that it was the only gay venue on the Dalmatian coast. Interesting.

We travelled along the same road to the beach we visited earlier in the day, but turned on to a country road that was pitch black. Here we got out and in the near distance there seemed to be a villa that was lit up but with few people around it.

We gingerly walked up the path and heard voices, and then muffled music. It did seem it was a converted country house that was the gay club. We walked past a couple of people smoking outside and went in. There weren’t many more people inside, but we walked over to the bar and ordered two beers. Contemporary Euro-pop was being played yet no-one was dancing. Clearly, Sundays are not the busiest.

After another round of beers, and a little disappointment, we spent 30 minutes trying to get a taxi home. We eventually did do, and collapsed on the bed after a tiring day.

A Secret Tunnel - Saturday 12th August

The weather turned overnight, so we would have to contend with rain showers throughout the day. Yet the rain was a welcome relief from the searing heat we’ve had up to now. We dressed accordingly and left the apartment.

We were next to a tram stop and John was keen to try out the vintage looking metro system. So, we purchased a ticket, and boarded one that we thought would take us to the main square via a loop around to the west of the city. We stood at the back, to get a good view out of the windows. The tram was of a similar style as those in Sarajevo, cigar-shaped if seen from above and, if like the Sarajevo ones, second hand from Vienna. They were painted a near deep blue and white, presumably as part of the city network branding. The rain was trickling down the back window, but we had swift view of our surroundings as we saw cars weave in and out behind the tram.

We jumped off at the main square, and headed up the hill in the general direction we went last night. We carried on past last night’s restaurant and continued further on up what seemed like a narrow valley. There were numerous cafes and bars along here, but we spotted one that was serving Israeli food. I saw the menu and instantly fancied a shakshuka, so in we went. It was an outrageously decorated venue, with lime greens and aqua blues sploshed everywhere. However, pride of place, above the staircase to the mezzanine level, was a painting of the one and only Dana International. I think we chose wisely.

The food was ordered, it arrived, and we devoured it hungrily. I was keen to head back out so that we could make most of the dry spell that had arrived. So, we walked back down the street, which had a bit more life on it now the rain had stopped, then turned right to venture up the hill to the government area. It was a steep old climb, up part cobbled, part tarmacked roads alongside central European, baroque style buildings. We weaved our way through, and then came to the Stone Gate, the old entrance to the old hilltop town. A few pilgrims paused here, as it also has a shrine to the Virgin Mary.

We continued on up, and arrived at the Sabor, the Croatian Parliament. But the dominating feature of the square was St Marks Church that sat in the middle of it. Its glazed roof tiles displaying two vivid coats of arms were the draw for people to come here. We meandered around the narrow lanes and found ourselves on a viewing platform with great views over the city. After some time of pointing out landmarks and points of interest, we wound our way down the hill, alongside the funicular, and took in the sight of the National Theatre, in its faded, yellow glory. We passed the former Trg Masala Tita, and onwards to a square I had visited before, tucked off the main roads, and so had the chatter of patrons, flutter of pigeons, and clinking of glasses as soothing background noise. 

We chose one of the cafes that had a canopy, to shelter from the unpredictable rain, but was half perched outside as it was still mild temperature wise. We flicked through our respective books, between sipping cool beers and commenting on people around us or plans ahead to make. I ordered an ice cream, as a reward for my hillside walking. After more than an hour, we paid our bill and made our way towards the market and cathedral area. We stopped off for some burek on the way, to stave off initial hunger following our two beers. 

At the cathedral, I kept to my thoughtful and default mode of not entering a functioning place of worship as a tourist, out of respect for those have faith. But John was eager to have a look at the impressive building from the inside. He spent about 10 minutes inspecting whilst I checked out the surroundings outside. As John re-emerged, he clocked that he had misplaced his coat. He thought it may be at the café, so we walked back at a pace in order to retrieve it. Now we had come full circle, we thought it may be best to walk further west, so after some searching online, John found the rather homely sounding ‘British Market’, so we set off for it.

We walked along one of the busier streets, but it was narrow and had a bohemian vibe to it, what with its artisanal shops and cafes in many low-rise, almost bungalow style buildings. It was on the quieter side, perhaps the time of day, but small groups of tourists were busying the pavements. The rumble and clanging of trams occasionally disturbed the peace as we strode along. We reached the British Market, but we must have come on the wrong day, as there was just a smattering of stalls open. The space itself had an almost small French town square feel to it, with a couple of taller buildings jutting up that could easily be a hôtel de ville or bureau de poste. Indeed, a pošta on the square!

We headed north, over cobbled stones to a park that was on a hillside. It was here that we saw the brown tourist signs for a ‘Tunel Grič’. Intrigued, we went back down the hill onto a quiet, treelined side street, then to a junction, on which a small tunnel doorway was situated, looking almost like the entrance to a garage for the neighbouring property. Upon inspection of the tourist sign, the hidden tunnel was built in the 1940s during the Ustasha regime, as a bomb shelter and promenade. We ventured in and walked the length, which brought us out into a courtyard just off a street adjacent to the market.

We made another pit stop and had a few hours sipping on beers and chatting, before deciding upon a čevapi place to eat. We returned to the apartment and, after a full day of walking, slept.

The Brotherhood and Unity Highway - Friday 11th August

So, this was our last morning in Belgrade. By 11 am we had to leave, so we packed up in anticipation, but still left time for a bit of breakfast. Alexandar, our host, led us out of the apartment and down to the garage. John was in the driving seat for this initial leg of the journey. A shaft of light filled the dark and cool basement, and soon we were out and onto the cobbled street above. 

John retraced our entry into the city, but this time amongst noticeably more traffic as we passed the Parliament building and descended down towards the motorway. The one advantage the traffic provided was the time to scrutinise some of the old buildings along this governmental boulevard, and guessing their function.

With an unfamiliar road layout, and a version of the Birmingham ‘Spaghetti Junction’ coming up, together we exited the boulevard and veered right onto the downward slip road onto the main east-west motorway, seamlessly merging in. We glided over the Sava River, past the brutalist New Belgrade community, and were waved off by the Western City Gate, or Genex Tower as its also known. However, nerves began to bubble, as I knew that soon I would have to take over the driving.

Soon enough, we pulled into a service station to fill the tank and grab some road snacks. I was now in control of ‘Sandra the Suzuki’. I got my seat right, and mirrors sorted, and then set off back onto the somewhat quieter road. It took some getting used to, but on a straight and easy road I did not find it too challenging. However, the first stop on the way to Zagreb was going to take us off the ‘beaten track’ and north-east towards a quieter border point and beyond, to the town of Vukovar.

I turned off at the sign for Sid, and we now found ourselves travelling along a busy country road passing through small and narrow villages. Having gone north, as we arrived in Sid we turned left and towards the border about 1-mile further west. As we approached the small border post, a grave yard appeared to our right. Despite it being an ominous symbol of the reason why I wanted to visit Vukovar, I found it odd that a graveyard would sit on the border where no village appeared close by.

The Serbian side of the border was swift. When it was our turn to be checked by the border guard on the Croat side, a rather terse woman asked for papers, which I handed over. She barked ‘papers’ once more because, unbeknownst to us, we needed to give her the documents for the car. John shuffled in the glove box and pulled out a green booklet, which I handed over. A flick through aforementioned documents led to their return, and a barrier being raised. The road ahead was ours. 

I recalled that I had passed through this area before, and have the stamps to prove it, as I had crossed the border here some years ago when I travelled by train from Belgrade to Sarajevo. It’s always nice to have a new perspective on a journey when you are retracing your steps. Certainly, going through the border was quicker by car than by train!

The countryside had more contours now, with winding roads dipping up and down agricultural fields and low hills. We came close to the Danube again, swerving away from it once more until we would see it fully again at Vukovar. We were greeted on our arrival by the destroyed water tower in the east of the town. Meandering through some road works, we then found ourselves on a sort of bypass that went around the main high street, both of which were parallel to the river. We located a car park on the opposite side of the bypass to the market, through which we would have to walk to reach the river. We paid our fee and traipsed over. 

The odd person was spotted, doing their shopping or sat out staffing their stalls. It was a humid day, so perhaps people came out later in the day. We reached a sort of quay where a small river cut through the town to reach the Danube. We walked over the modern bridge which had helpful information on. The west part of the town was in geographical Slavonia - a name and place which has existed for many centuries. The east of the town was in the Srem/Srijem. This area stretches all the way to New Belgrade, bordered to the north by the Danube and to the south by the Sava. We crossed over into Srem/Srijem.

Situated here were older buildings, more turn of the century and rather more ornate. But also, the evidence was there that they were also recently refurbished. It’s difficult to imagine the horrors that took place here, little over two decades ago. One of the familiar clips of video, in my mind, is of a bus, window wipers miserably oscillating, driving through this very high street after forces on the Serbian side had ‘taken’ Vukovar. Rubble was strewn everywhere, and no people could be seen. It really captured the overwhelming destruction that took place at the start of the war, on a town that had only recently become a frontier town, as former internal borders overnight became international ones.

We walked briefly up and down the high street, during which John attempted to exchange denars at a shop (unsuccessfully I may add). The buildings were Austro-Hungarian in style, plastered and whitewashed, or pastel coloured, with minimal ornamentation gracing them, such as dark wooden beams. A notable feature were the arched colonnades you walked through in lieu of pavements, which provided much needed shade. We returned to Slavonia and sat in a café, near a fan with water misters, and had a coffee. We then returned to the boiling hot car, to continue our journey.

We needed to re-join the main highway, and did so in a south-westerly direction. The terrain was very much the same, but the roads passed by more villages than through them. The slower journey on these countryside roads allowed us to take in our surroundings. We circumnavigated the ring road around the only urban centre we would see until Zagreb. This was Vinkovci. Similar to any experience you have of circling a town - a junction, an industrial park, a retail park, some houses adjacent to the road, and topped off by my first roundabout!

At one point, we found ourselves descending into the Sava floodplain, but its backdrop, to the south and ahead of us, were the peaks of mountains in northern Bosnia, beyond the river. Their allure reminded me of our time there the previous year, and a hint of sadness crept in with the knowledge that we would not be there again on this trip. As we continued to the motorway, joining it after paying our toll, we were in the lull of the floodplain and our horizons were now fields or forests, the latter acting as barriers to settlements beyond.

Two hours out of Vukovar, and very much in the western part of Slavonia, we departed the motorway once more for a pre-planned stop. Having studied south-east Europe, and continuing to read an array of books on the region, the place we were going to visit had a sinister past, the traces of which were now long gone, and a memorial built in another era to commemorate that past.

It was a quiet country road that led to the outskirts of the village of Jasenovac, with the Sava, and Bosnia & Herzegovina, only a stone’s throw away. The name, notorious amongst a number of communities in the former Yugoslavia, represents the concentration camp that existed here during the time of the Nazi-puppet regime of the Ustasha. That regime took the destructive intent of the Nazis - murdering Jews, Gypsies and Roma, and political opponents - and added to those the local Serb population, who lived in the newly created, and expanded, Croatian state known as the Independent State of Croatia (NDH). The regimes’ intent was to ‘cleanse’ the territory of Serbs to make an ethnically pure Croatia. The Serbs comprised the largest group of detainees and victims.

The place was still as we arrived. Only a couple of cars were parked up, and the collective hum of crickets were the only background noise. We parked in front of a single storey building, a disconnected ‘L’ shape, the void of which had marble slabs with information on the site and the architecture of the nearby point of interest. The small museum was of interest, but only took 20 minutes to pass through. The photos of the camp were the only way for you to comprehend the space in which the horrors took place, in the vicinity of where we stood. 

We returned to the heat and proceeded to walk up a short embankment, which turned out to be a former railway line branch. An old steam train with animal wagons stood idly on the side, as a reminder of the disturbing role it played in the atrocities. The other reason why I wanted to visit here was to see my first, of what I hope to be many, Tito-era ‘Spomenik’.

The embankment kept the river at bay, but created an almost boggy island between it and the road on which we arrived. The only thing dominating this space was the quadruple winged ‘Flower Monument’. Wooden railway line sleepers formed the causeway to it, with two landscaped pools as sites for reflection, and small circle mounds symbolising where the former camp structures lay.

We had the space to ourselves, and it was peaceful to be here. The concrete structure, despite its beauty, encapsulated the brutal nature of the regime that did its evil work here. Bogdan Bogdanovic was the architect, and he went on to create a vast number of these monuments. One commentator noted that the abstract and non-explicit designs avoided explicit references to death, and instead moved into the sphere of how a monument can create feelings in the observer, feelings of the past, present, and future. Here, I think he captured that sentiment perfectly.

We returned to the car once more and made our way back to the motorway. Within 60 minutes we were at the city limits of Zagreb, and the urban sprawl began to suck us in. Despite my reluctance to drive in cities, I had ensured that the route to get to our accommodation was as simple as possible. It was a right fork off the motorway, now named ‘Slavonska Avenija’ and a left towards the Railway station. As we pulled off into a quiet set of low-rise central European style apartment blocks, hidden behind the Lisinski Concert Hall, I recalled the area as this was where I stayed in 2011. We were met by our host and shown around, given the house rules and what we needed to do before departure, then off they went. We gave ourselves some time to recharge our batteries and shower.

It was dark when we left the apartment, and the area behind the railway station was, as I recalled, a quiet and mildly threatening space you didn’t want to spend any time in. So, we aimed straight for the underpass, stopping for a quick snack from a newsagent, and then appeared out on King Tomislav Square. The series of three squares we were about to walk north through formed part of the late 1800s planned reconstruction of the city, and were the right line of a squared letter ‘U’ of green spaces arching through the city, and were surrounded by grand buildings with ornate facades popular at the time. At the third square, a classical music festival was taking place. We savoured it as we slowly passed, but hunger was very much controlling our movements.

We passed through the brightly lit Ban Jelacic Square, and wound around behind it up a bustling lane of cafes and restaurants, and then down a long and narrow street that had single level wooden framed shops, similar to those in the Bascarsija in Sarajevo. There was a lively atmosphere here, with people singing solo or in a duet every so often. John spotted a nice restaurant, where we could sit out and savour the music and warm evening.

Laterna na Dolcu was the name of the restaurant, and we examined the tasteful few options on the menu. We decided to get a bottle of wine too, after all our driving, and so asked the waiter to recommend one for the food we had chosen. He suggested a specific Croatian red, and we obliged. Only after he left did I see the price, and had a mild panic. It was going to be more than the food! John put me at ease, let’s say, and thankfully the wine was both nice and an had the effect of helping me forget its cost. The steak I had with a potato and spinach side was very nice, and we even had pudding. We left satisfied and meandered a little more about the centre of the city. 

A friend of mine from Zagreb recommended going to a small gay club that was near the central square, so John and I headed for there. A glazed door that looked more like the entrance to an office or travel agent was our discreet entrance into this club. We showed our ID and descended to the basement in the now familiar fog of cigarette smoke. It was quiet as we walked in, a couple of patrons on one side and a table of six around a low-level table and sofa. We had some beers and found a spot to perch. We chatted about the day, and often turned towards the door when someone new came in, as that’s how quiet it was. But all of a sudden it had become busy. 

Although we didn’t dance, nor stay too long after it had reached a party atmosphere, someone had spoken to us and, as we got chatting, mentioned that a lot Bosnian’s come here, given that it was the closest friendly city for them with a gay scene. I now noticed an ID card of someone who was getting served at the bar when I was, and this confirmed his observation. Soon after, we called it a night and returned via the green squares, and back to our apartment.

Around the Balkans in 20 Days - Part 15

It was rather a rude awakening, our first morning in Dubrovnik, as loud refurbishment-induced noises came from the apartment above. We had hired a small studio flat, which came with a private balcony that was furnished functionally. A large double bed, a cream and slightly worn three-seat sofa, a glass coffee table that matched the 4 person dining table, and a TV and stand all occupied the main section; with a galley kitchen coming off it opposite the balcony doors. After the banging had stopped temporarily, we collected our things and departed, looking and feeling rather scruffy.

Having not been in any water to swim, let alone the sea, since Belgrade, we decided to explore the Babin Kuk shoreline. As we were on the top of a hill, we walked to the houses that backed on to the steep hillside, and descended from there to the shoreline. What I was told was true; the coastline was pure jagged rock. I should have listened to all those people suggesting I get the appropriate shoes. Before us, though, was a simple dock for leisure boats, bobbing as they were in the clear blue sea. However, at some places, sand had been placed for that more familiar beach feel. At one point John became very amused, as we passed the dog pool. It was a ring-fenced part of the sea that dogs could have for themselves. I saw an Alsatian, and felt for the poor sod in the penetrating heat. We walked around, and then back for about 1km to find a spot to pitch, and duly did so where more of a crowd had gathered. This patch had gravel laid on it, so at least the rocks weren’t jabbing in our backs.

We laid here for an hour or so, turning over and over to get some sun on our pale backs and fronts. A cruise ship emerged from its berth, and passed before us at a snails pace. A toot from its horn vibrated across the water, with the waves from its slow passage reaching us some minutes later. After our stint here, we decided to go further round to the west of the coastline, as we saw that there was a bar there. It was mid-afternoon at this point, so we thought some refreshments were in order. As we walked, there came a point where the path led away from the water and climbed up. It led towards a number of hotels on this more remote part of the area. However, before we reached the hotels, we came to a sign that pointed back down a series of steps to a bar.

The beach bar was very glam in its appearance. Nice wooden loungers, or chairs with over-sized canopies or umbrellas covering them. Some were sectioned off, presumably for reservations. The bar and facilities were built almost into the hillside. It was quite quiet, so we had the choice of seating. We decided on a large, deep sofa – enough for 6 people – that sat directly in the sunlight. We thought, “Sod it”, so ordered a jug of cocktail. The price was an eye-opener, and a sign of things to come. Dubrovnik is very expensive, something I claim to be because the city can cash in on cruise ship passengers who have money to burn in the few hours they are on land. That leaves us, more committed holidaymakers, worse off. The second jug, this time taken at a table under an umbrella, soon loosened me up to ignore the price.  After an hour or so and a further round of beers, we paid our bill and slovenly walked back to the apartment, where we napped for a few hours.

That evening we decided against the “Brits abroad” area, and opted to see Dubrovnik first at night. We looked at the helpful portfolio that the apartment had for public transport, and located the bus number and bus stop we needed. We retraced our steps from the previous night to the roundabout, and joined the gaggle of people also waiting for the same bus.

25 minutes later, we arrived at the northern gate. There was almost a carnival atmosphere here, with masses of people passing by, others eating at restaurants under the walls of the city, and more people funneling in and out of the gate. We walked in that direction. The walls of the city, when looking at the gate, came from the hill to our left, and down towards the sea to our right. It was discreetly lit to give it that medieval feel. We went inside, and then down some steps into what may have been the vestibule area to check arriving visitors in eras gone by. Here, you could pay to go up on to the walls. We decided against that, for tonight at least. We then passed through another gate that opened up on to the familiar main boulevard running almost north-south through the city. I have to say, it was very pretty. Smooth stone slabs on the floor were almost slippery through being worn down by visitors over the years. The buildings on either side could easily have been a film set for a 14^th century royal court drama, adorned with regal banners and such.

The only downside was the tourists. I know we were of them too. But having avoided the hoards up to Mostar, this really was intense. We did our best to have a wonder around, because off the main boulevard were a myriad of alleyways and side streets to explore. To the east, these alleys immediately went up at a steep gradient. To the west, towards the sea, they were laid out on a flat, gridded system for about 4 or 5 short blocks, before they too rose up. So the main city was in a small valley, it seemed.

We hit upon one of the main plaza areas, and decided we were both hungry and thirsty. So we people watched for over an hour, as we sank two beers over pricey food. It was then that I noticed John glowing, and not in a romantic sort of way. He had really caught the sun. He did admit that his skin did feel rather sore. After that, we went to a bar back near the entrance and began talking to two other tourists, both from Germany. The night ended at an Irish pub back in the centre of the old town, downing shots of Jager (or was it Rakija?).

The next day, we woke up rather late and had sore heads. John now started to feel his sunburn, and it didn’t look too good either. We decided to explore the old town in daylight, so we could soak up the history and admire the architecture. We meandered around the part of town nearest the sea, getting lost in the maze of streets, sometimes following tourists we thought knew where they were going, and at other times eerily alone thinking we were intruding into someone’s private garden or such.

The alleyways were one and a half meters wide, at best, and the grey, stony, functional buildings rose up three or four floors beside us. The Italian/Venetian appearance was no surprise, given that at one time or another, when not its own independent city-state, it was run by Venice. It also played on my image of the quintessential Mediterranean way of life – wooden shutters in place for when the temperatures rose, or the plastic cables for hanging the washing on stretching between the houses above. My immediate observation, though, was that there was no apparent trace of the damage done by the JNA during their siege of Dubrovnik. It was one of the handful places to seemingly have itself protected by the few instances of international public outcry, because of its status as a UNESCO world heritage site. It’s shaming that the international condemnation did not extend to other parts of the former Yugoslavia during the Bosnian war. Buildings counted more than people, it seemed, as the shelling of the Mostar Bridge could also highlight.

We ended our little exploration in a different square to the one last night, on the south side of the city. Again, we sat and people watched whilst making plans for what to do next. We settled on a further walk to the old port of Dubrovnik, where we saw that in the sea a football goal was erected, and a group of people were playing, whilst the rest of their group were on the rocks having a BBQ. In the distance, across the water about 2 km away, was Lokrum. Although we had never watched the show, this was apparently where they filmed some of A Game of Thrones. I’m sure others would be thrilled, but we wanted to visit because it involved a boat ride. We planned that for the next day. We walked to a pharmacy on the main avenue, so that John could get some after sun. It turned out that he needed some extra special industrial cream, as his skin was very puffy.

Despite his ailment, and in a seeming pang of motivation and energy, we decided to walk back to the apartment. It was a good few kilometers, but we fancied the challenge. Beyond the old city to the north, we passed through mostly suburb, but often we would happen upon a “secret” cove occupied by an extended family or a smattering of couples - locals, I presumed. At one point we could see a fancy hotel that was built into the south-facing hillside of Babin Kuk. It looked luxurious, with its own private beach. That evening we stayed local again, going for a few drinks to “Brits Abroad” boulevard early on, as it had a bit of a buzz about it that evening.

The next day was the boat trip. So we made our way back to the old town, and the old port. There were about 4 or 5 boating companies offering a range of services, from a functional boat taxi, to a full on tour around the islands - one even had a glass-bottom. We decided on the direct boat taxi one. It was a busy service running every half an hour, and had an early last departure service from the island at 6:30pm or so. Given its popularity, and my anxiety to have a plan, I decided we should get the second to last return one at the latest, lest we arrive to a full boat and become stranded.

We disembarked at a thriving entry point to the island. But the first thing to hit you was the all-encompasing and constant sound of crickets. There must have been millions of them on there, as I though I was experiencing the onset of tinnitus. We reconfirmed the return journey times at the port house, and then walked clockwise around the island. The island was more or less covered in pines, which provided relief from the shade, and gave off a fresh smell. Aside from the crickets, two forms of wildlife emerged out of the bushes that surprised me - rabbits and peacocks; the latter being in abundance. We passed the FKK sign to our left, and circled around to the north west of the island. Here we pitched up and sunbathed for a couple of hours. The bottle of wine I packed was a lovely relaxant. Afterwards, dehydration mixed with genuine hunger led us to seek out food at one of the two available restaurants on the island. The one we chose was in the centre, and had landscaped gardens, presumably one of the reasons why the TV show was filmed here. As we tucked into pizza, the odd peacock appeared, scavenging for scraps as if they were a stray dog.

The return journey was sufficiently busy but not full, and the breeze that came over us was welcome in the late afternoon sun. Instead of heading straight back, John had discovered a bar that perched out from the old city walls, with views to the west. We decided to head there. What initially was meant to be the odd drink, turned into a wonderful 3 or 4 hours sipping beers and cocktails as we chatted, or just sat in silence admiring the view. This consisted not solely of the sea and islands, nor indeed the passing boats and kayaks, but also the handsome men diving into the sea from the cliff edge below us. As our intoxication increased, so did my slight irritation at a couple sat in front of us. Not their presence as such, or the volume of their conversation, but the sheer absurdity of what they were discussing; especially the ignorant opinions on the history of the region. John, I believe, showed solidarity with me for once, rather than the usual eye-roll he does when he sees it as my problem not other peoples.

A bar tab that again raised my eyebrows, saw us leave very much closer to drunk than sober. And in that spirit, we tracked down a pizzeria and endeavored to make a night of it. We hungrily ate our two slices of pizza, and then went to a bar that promoted itself as a rock music place. We climbed up the steep steps of the east side of the city, and then into a doorway, and up further still to get to the bar. It had echoes of an Irish pub, but it certainly wasn’t that. The darkened room with dark oak effect paneling was the backing canvass for an array of Americana/rock paraphernalia. The rectangle room was divided in two by a central wall with door-less doorways either side, with the bar occupying the central wall on the opposite side to the entrance. We sat at a table under the gaze of two members of Fleetwood Mac, which basically represented the style of music we heard and enjoyed through the night. Afterwards, a taxi was in order to get us home in one piece.

We yearned for a fancy brunch with views. So after 10 minutes of searching online, John found one nearby that was set in a small marina. It also overlooked the cruise ship docking area and the modern, steel road bridge that had echoes of the sails of a yacht to it. We walked down casually, to sea level, and saw a white wall stretch from our left for about 500 meters, with an entrance halfway down. We walked over and into the private marina.

Small boats and pocket-sized yachts were moored here on a few wooden jetties. We sat down on the quay and ordered a set menu for lunch. This was indeed what we wanted and needed, but the service was incredibly slow. Still, it meant we had the time to admire the view. The cruise ships before us, on the other side of the bay, were gigantic. How they stay upright always fascinated me. After two hours, we finally managed to leave. We decided to walk around the bay to see what was what. There were a number of passenger ferries, charged with taking people up and down the Dalmatian coast as well as across to Italy. The one I wanted most to try was the catamaran. It looked speedy and grand, and the classiest way to travel.

We’d packed for the beach anyway, so we walked the same route as on our first day; the bottom of the stairs we took previously began near to the brunch place. We walked past the fancy bar and up to a similar level as the apartment. We got wind of a secluded beach, so turned off at some ruins surrounded in long grass that then led to a dense but low-rise forest that occupied the cliff edge. We walked over and entered the forest. We soon began a steep descent and clung on to the dry, fragrant branches as we skidded over gravel on slate-like rock. After emerging out of the trees, we were still 10 meters above the water, on the cusp of a more or less sheer drop. We managed to locate and navigate a series of outcrops and lowered to near sea level. There were literally two people here. So we found possibly the only two remaining “flat” spaces to drop our towels. We un packed our belongings, and as I settled in with some Factor 30 and a book, John went straight into the sea.

We lazed about for hours, in and out of the sea, applying and reapplying sun cream. We observed one cruise ship after another depart north westerly into the distance. Parties of kayakers streamed past. A furry looking guy near to us constructed some sort of bear cave with a shawl draped over and between two high-rise rocks around him. A woman in her 50s seemed high on life, and raved with him to his trance music. They were far enough away for it not to be annoying, but close enough that it agreeably blended into to the sound of the sea.

We returned to the apartment to shower, and possibly snooze, before our booking at a recommended restaurant. John’s parents had come to Dubrovnik earlier in the year and visited Otto’s. After brunch this morning, we dropped by to book at one of their only two sittings a night. We opted for the 7pm sitting. We decided to smarten up as best we could with holiday gear. We sat down to a lovely three-course meal, outside but under a canopy, with only about 25 other diners. The service was impeccable, and the wine was very complimentary with the food. As the sun set on us, we became drowsy with booze and rather giddy. We made plans to return to the Fleetwood Mac bar.

After settling the bill, we returned to the apartment and ventured to the bus stop. Once in the old town, I had it on apparent good authority that there was a bar frequented by the LGBT community. It was described as a jazz bar, which I thought I could stomach so long as it wasn’t too avant-garde. We negotiated the maze like side streets, to come to a diagonal thoroughfare that had a small square to the left, and then proceeded to have one on the right. All rather jagged, no doubt planned to accommodate the grand church that occupied one of the spaces between the squares. We found this “jazz bar” located in the space between the two squares. Most, if not all, of the patrons were outside sat at cabaret-style chairs and tables, all facing towards the door of the establishment. We sat down at one about two thirds away from the door, so that we didn’t have to lead the interest in any jazz performance. I ordered a wine, third up from the lowest price. It cost me the equivalent of £10. As the performance started, we concluded that it was not a gay place, but that a smattering of the patrons clearly read the same review as us. We stayed for 20 minutes or so, and left feeling slightly cheated by the price of the wine and mediocre number of gay attendees. Instead, we returned to the rock bar and made a night of it.

The next morning, the banging upstairs reached a peak. I even videoed it as proof for the people we were letting it off. I banged the ceiling with a mop handle, to no avail – and John’s eye rolling. In a huff, I immediately sent off a further, angrier message on Airbnb. Profuse apologies came later that day, but at that moment we just packed our bags and left for the beach. We decided to get some breakfast on ‘Brits Abroad Alley’ and, following that, we went to the beachy cove that lay at the other end. This was very family centered and had a little café, unlike the secluded beach. Overlooking us, to the south, was just another rocky cliff face. To the north was a steep hill, cut horizontally by a road, with a couple of smart looking hotels below, and private houses above.  After an hour or so here, we decided to walk along that road, and follow it clock wise to the secluded beach in the north.

Once we walked past the hotels and houses we saw from the cove, the roadside became bare and arid. But the views to the west were unspoiled. The road was quiet with traffic, possibly because we only passed two hotels on the way to the beach, so we were undisturbed, but thankful for the water we carried, as there was no shade from the sun. We descended back to the beach and occupied it for a good few hours until sun set. This time the sea was less choppy than it was the previous day. John was put to use with his skills of finding great restaurants on TripAdvisor, and located one near the brunch place. After a snooze at the apartment, we left for our final night in Dubrovnik.

The restaurant served gastro pub style food, with a coastal edge. It turns out that the guy who ran the place was from London and this was the second season that the restaurant had been open. The food was delicious, and the setting in a private, open aired courtyard next to the marina screamed Mediterranean life.

The next day we packed up and left the apartment in a taxi to the quayside where the bus station was. This was only the start of our ‘Planes, Trains and Automobiles’ trip back home. We booked the flight back from Split, as it was considerably cheaper than Dubrovnik, even with the bus fare. We allowed 45 minutes before departure, so we could grab snacks for the journey. It was going to be 3 hours or so to Split, and half of it on road already travelled, so there was less intrigue that usually comes from seeing pastures new.  We threw our bags into the undercarriage and boarded. Again, the bus was an improvement on the last - modern leather seats, air con, and a toilet. We set off on time and meandered our way back to the Bosnian border, stopping off at the hotel restaurant again. We then crossed back over, on towards Ploce and beyond, to new territory. The terrain was much the same. To our left was the Adriatic, pocked with islands long and short; to our right was the Balkan hinterland, ascending both steeply or slowly in equal measure away from us along our route.

I nodded off for a while, and came around as we hurtled down a modern highway about 40km away from Split. The scenery was much the same. I felt somewhat drowsy, possibly from lack of water and the air con. Once we turned off the highway for Split, it became a lot rockier and mountainous. It so happened that as we approached the city from the east, we had to navigate around then through a horseshoe of peaks that encircled the city, leaving it as an enclosed enclave looking out to the sea.

Once through a tunnel, the city before us was the largest we had seen since Sarajevo. I noticed lots of Hajduk Split graffiti emblazoned on walls and houses on our route in. We arrived at the bus station, which was again next to the dock. This one was a lot busier, and made not just for passenger, but cargo. We booked our shuttle bus to the airport (another 50 minutes away) but had an hour to kill. So we walked to the main square nearby, that looked out on to the sea. We surmised that perhaps Split could be a future destination. It seemed more like a city, and one that was not just filled with cruising tourists.

I think we had reached the pinnacle of buses, on the one to the airport, but there was a bit of commotion on how many people could fit onboard. We were fine though, as John and I had seats. But I did my usual huffing, aimed at those tourists, who seem never to have planned or organised anything in advance. Anyways, we set off on our last bus journey, which took us anti-clockwise 180 degrees around the wider bay Split was set in. The airport was a small affair, surprising for what I could only assume would be thousands of tourists this time of year. John and I got suitably tanked up for the flight, Wizz Air no less, boarded and settled in for the return home.