Croatia Crusade

You politely made an appearance for Rob's Rome Ramble. 
You hesitantly returned for An Athens Adventure.
You were dragged, kicking and screaming, to Preview Prague.
Welcome to Part Four: Croatia Crusade.

(I realise Parts One through Three were named after cities, not countries, but Mlini Meander doesn't have as good a ring to it, and I doubt many of you have heard of Mlini before. I still haven't, and I slept there for four nights of my life.)

Our main characters for this endeavour are:

• Me
• Ariel - The Boyfriend
• Jacks - The Boyfriend's Mother. That's right kids, I wasn't the responsible adult this time, you can all exhale with relief
• The Boyfriend's Brother, codenamed Bradly. His spelling, not mine.

And we begin, as always, with an observation; because I like thoughts, and hate recounting flights.

There are two types of holiday:
There are actual Holidays. And then there aren't.

Holidays of the first category involve: lying by a pool and changing skin tone, lying by a beach and changing skin tone with sand nearby, visiting restaurants inside (or within a mile radius of) your hotel, reading books, reading arbitrary newspapers, buying swimming goggles, buying other swimming goggles that actually fit, wearing too much sun cream (thus resembling snowmen in July) and, overall, naff all else.

The second type are "Holidays" - and Rome, Athens and Prague all come under this heading. They involve a great deal of walking, city-wandering, history, culture, dining, exploration, sometimes hiking or tenting or mountaineering, and generally, some of the best nights sleeps of your life due to sheer exhaustion.

If you are unsure which type of holiday you've had, ask yourself this simple question: When you got back from your holiday/"holiday" were you a) refreshed and relaxed or b) enlightened and exhausted and in need of a good Chiropodist?

I'm not expressing a preference for either; I entirely loved Rome, Athens and Prague - sure I wasn't exactly rejuvenated by the trip, but I learnt much and experienced more, enjoying myself immensely. All other holidays during my childhood, all of them before Italy, were the first kind. All-inclusive hotels and a newly purchased pool-lilo, every time.

This trip...was a little bit of both.

Sunday - 22/07/2018
We arrived in Croatia under cover of darkness, which would sound more like a spy novel if it hadn't also involved baggage claim, a transfer service, and a brief debate in the passport queue as to whether we're allowed to stand in the EU section. Brexit hasn't happened yet, folks.

A Jet2 representative - provider/sponsor of this holiday and the sole reason I wish never to hear Jess Glynne's Hold My Hand ever again - with a jaw-cracking smile met us and showed us to our coach. My first thought outside was, it smelt like abroad. (A dangerous sentence - Croatia did not smell like 'a broad'.) You may think I'm mad for saying so, but most hot, European countries have a certain smell; it may be the pollen type, or dust, or residual heat aromas, but whatever. I smelt another country and felt warm just by standing; we were definitely on holiday.

More ultra-smiles attached to humans greeted us on the coach and we set off to three hotels. Ours was called Hotel Astarea - and yes, all four of us managed to mispronounce it at least once during our trip. They'd put some dinner aside for us, a light meal of cold meats and salad. Quite basic, but precisely what we were in the mood for, given we were also keen for bed.
Jacks described the rooms as 'retro' - I've never truly understood what that means, but, Ariel and I walked into our room which had been air-conditioned to refrigerated conditions, so we were pretty happy.

I really did learn my lesson from Rome. Air con hummed into the night, but I brought ear plugs.

And I still slept badly...

Monday - 23/07/2018
Retellings of my trips would, at this point, delve into the topic of breakfast and we will come to that, in a moment.
But you recall my saying that we had reached Croatia under the cover of darkness; when it came to catch the transfer shuttle, all we saw were headlamps and any illuminated shop fronts. We knew nothing of the landmass, the shapes, the scenery. Croatia had been a huge black canvas, revealing nothing about its size. We'd noted a number of mountain roads to get to the hotel, and filed this to the back of our minds; but you can still understand our surprise and wonder when we stepped out of the hotel the next morning, to be greeted with this:

Interesting to spent a (somewhat) restful night snoozing while entire land masses loom overhead. To my deep and infinite shame, when confronted by this awe-inspiring natural beauty my (millennial) mind instantly reacted with:
"Wow. It's like Minecraft!"
And proceeded to conjure slow, melancholy piano music to accompany the sights.

It did, at least, prove me right about something. As we were flying in, with me peering over the Boyf's shoulder to see out the window from my not-so-vantage-point in the middle seat, I noticed that a lot of Croatia was unpopulated. There was more space than buildings and settlements, and lights in the night-time dark were either clustered or not there at all.

Standing outside our room, number 720, I now knew why. Few people wish to settle down on a mountainside. It costs a lot more in crockery and your pets don't so much run as roll away.

I personally thought it was gorgeous. I've a thing for sparsely populated landscapes, I like seeing places where we haven't built all over it and switched rural to urban. It was untouched, untarnished and unbelievably intimidating, looming over us for the entire holiday.
It wouldn't be the first view like it, either. But first!

Because tradition is infinite and so is cheap catering, our breakfast that morning was a hotel provided buffet. - Me, Greece, 2016

It's a poor reflection on me that I've quoted myself; but then again, I'm not wrong. Two things met us that morning in the restaurant: trays of warm food each labelled in five different languages, and a swarming hoard of tourists over-excited at the prospect of a buffet.
Actually, Ariel and I were met by a third thing: a greeter who required to see our restaurant card. I'd thought it was couresty to know the opening times, however it was also our meal ticket - and left in my wallet back in the hotel room, back up some stairs, through reception and at the top of a steep drive. I mentioned the place was mountainous. We had our own hillside just getting to and from the foyer.
Fortunately, Jacks appeared and was able to vouch for us.
(It is important and unfortunate to note that our greeter remembered us the next few breakfasts, as I chose to wear the same outfit each time. Either the sight or smell is what she recalled...)
Ariel proceeded to consume a mountain of Nutella with a light smattering of pancakes somewhere underneath, and I had fixed a bizarre concoction of fruit, fried meats and a side of mixed berry yoghurt. A bizarre and terrible thing happens in the minds of anyone presented with a buffet. No-one should be allowed that much access to so much food, all at once.

We elected to visit Dubrovnik, the city to the north of Mlini, and false capital of Croatia. (In the same way that Sydney is and yet actually isn't the capital of Austrialia.) Options of getting there included a bus trip, walking - because let's be honest, anyone can walk anywhere if they really try - or a boat trip. It being a warm, still day - at that moment in time anyway - we chose the boat, and headed down to the sea front.

It took us less than five minutes. Jacks had chosen our hotel location well. Three floors down from reception and a short walk forwards would put you literally in the sea. We strolled parallel to it, having been advised by the reception staff that boats could be booked somewhere 'down and to the right'. We passed an old, very happy man selling some undisclosed fruit, a small store, restaurants and ice cream parlours, and reached the docks with barely an effort.
There were five stalls set up on the docks: one for jet-skiing, one for an island tour, and three - that's three - different providers of a boat trip to Dubrovnik. I've heard of marketplace competition (who hasn't?) but not usually in a situation where you can lean over and literally punch the competition in the face.
We picked the guy in the middle (not sure why) who made an equally good and bad first impression. Actual quote, in a thick European accent:
"Ah, hello! Yes, we have a problem. 'Houston, we have a problem.'" Cue a big, insincere grin.
Good first impression: Enthusiastic, friendly, and open to making jokes.
Bad first impression: Makes jokes which imply we look like clueless American tourists. My pasty skin and excess sun cream on my nose should have screamed British Tourist at him.
Anyway. The problem was we'd have to wait a little longer than expected for the next boat.
We paid some Croatian kuna for four tickets, and went to sit on the docks and gaze at the sea.
Meanwhile, what appeared to be a half-hearted apocalypse was drifting in from the north. We'd checked the weather beforehand - Monday, storms and Tuesday, sun, thus tomorrow was booked as our Do Nothing Day - and a storm was definitely on its approach. Clear blue and cloudless skies were swelling into dark grey formations and low mist over the mountains behind us. I remember distinctly at this point, the town church bell started to ring, tolling for nothing less mundane than 12 o'clock, but it felt like a town-wide warning to get out of the water. The end times were coming.
Our boat arrived, reasonably on time, and we took a seat against the right hand side, towards the back. There were four benches; other tourists facing us, other behind them, and more people facing us on the opposite side. You get the picture. Four benches, some clear tarpaulin over the back, and NO DOORS. Remember that. It's important. NO DOORS. A sort of gull-wing arrangement that completed the roof, but a reasonably-door-shaped gap in the left and right hand side.

We set off north, to Dubrovnik, in what was possibly the best tourist-commute I'd ever experienced.
We hadn't entered the storm, yet.
But we'll come onto that.
Something happened before the hilarity/misery - depending on your mind set - ensued, and became a highlight of the holiday. For me, at least. The sort of man who names tortoises while visiting the Parthenon and comes up with an entire idea for a novel by nothing less than a bridge in Prague.
The sort of man who's odd, and rather proud of it.

Across the bay, visible from our hotel, was what I had naturally assumed to be another hotel complex - a simply designed building of increasingly large, flat squares stacked on top of one another. Sea adjacent, long sandy beach, what promised to be a great number of rooms. Hotel, through and through. So I thought.


Photo courtesy of The Dubrovnik Times

Imagine my surprise, and utter captivation, when our boat drew nearer and I saw that it was merely the shell of a hotel, a lifeless and abandoned corpse, and ghostly reminder of Croatia's sad - and scarily recent - history. Inanimate victim to the Homelands War.
Behind it, other buildings were equally damaged and ruined, collapsed in places, their paints peeling and discoloured - but left standing. A monument. Or grave marker.

Everyone else in the boat lapsed into a respectful silence. I remember saying 'Oh' very quietly, when I realised my own mistake. Not a grand and ostentatious hotel plaza after all. A hard and fast lesson/reminder to never judge a book by its cover. This particular book was dog-eared, falling apart, and containing a story I needed to know.

Research, that night, named for me the ghost resort: Kupari Beach.
It inspired its own short story - four pages of my journal filled, easily - and my fascination with its actual story. Anyone interested in additional reading can read The Dubrovnik Times entry - same website I found the above photo.

We journey to a hot, tropical beautiful country, and I go full moody-teenager studying black spots of the past.

Fascination is fascinating in itself...

Disclaimer: the serious part is now finished. Please allow some time for mental readjustment.

(Basically, I don't want what happens next to in any way to detract or diminish the poignant history of Croatia, or my emotional realisation. It'd be the thoughtless equivalent of performing slapstick comedy at a funeral.)

Ready? Alrighty.

So we've passed Kupari Beach and its plaza, well and truly beneath the storm clouds now. It was like we'd sailed into night. The sea was picking up, the rain was picking up, waves were asserting their dominance and all present children and toddlers were making their noises of complaint.
I would soon want to make them too, but being at least 20 years older than them, expectations for me are a tad different...
Remember the lack of doors? Potentially crucial lack of foresight on the manufacturer's part, most boats need doors - this one did not. Water was free to enter from both sides of the boat. It had started out as infrequent, gentle splashes of seawater - we all laughed, the first time, in our blissful ignorance we enjoyed the fun behind it.
The fun wore off.
The further we went north, the deeper into the storm, the amount of water coming in increased, exponentially. Occasional flecks of water upgraded to regular splashes - as though some mean-spirited entities were nearby, clutching a bucket.
I. Got. SOAKED.
I don't mean damp. I don't mean wet. I don't mean the sort of 'soaked' we wrongly use when we've been lightly rained on for thirty seconds. I was drenched. My clothes stuck to my skin - I became incredibly concerned for my phone in my non-waterproof pocket - and residual water that had landed on the bench was serving me a damp arse.
In short, I couldn't have got much wetter if I'd actually jumped into the sea.
I closed my eyes in pseudo-meditation, attempting to clear my mind of the cold in my bones, the damp in my shorts and the salt in my ear.
Suffice to say, when we arrived in Dubrovnik, I wasn't in the best of moods. The first half hour or so was lost to me as I lumbered about, squelching slightly, disgruntled to the fact I'd arrived in a major city location resembling a drowned rat.
(And gratitude passed on to me from the girls sat to our left, that I'd shielded them from getting wet, was not well received. Human shields and martyrs usually have to volunteer, first)

Jacks suggested we stop somewhere to dry off, so we chose a random café down a narrow side-street, which was literally the size of someone's kitchen. There, we had hot chocolate and tried to think dry thoughts. I ventured into the miniature bathroom to use the hand-dryer. Managed to dry my t-shirt slightly, but in a side room with no lock on the door, I didn't feel brave enough to remove my shorts to dry them, much less my underwear.
Back at the table, Jacks suggests we eat something, and orders two strudels. One between each pair. Mother and Son. Timelord and Princess. Something sweet, to cheer us up.

TANGENT
I cheered up for a different, odd and very much "Me" reason. Nerd/Geek that I am, all I need sometimes is an event/person/quote to put me in the mind of a certain piece of fiction; and once I've done that, it shall affix itself to my memory. In Rome, for example, I kept thinking about the movie Gladiator.
When our food arrived in the tiny Dubrovnik café, literally all I could think about was the strudel scene in Quentin Tarrantino's Inglourious Bastards. 
[Wherein tense and apprehensive Shosanna eats dessert with the man who, during her childhood, killed the rest of her Jewish family: German Colonel Hans Landa. Suave, collected, fluent in French and ignorant to the fact he has purchased pastry for a grown-up version of his missed victim.]
[[Suitably, the scene ends with Landa snuffing out his cigarette by dumping it in the remains of his strudel and walking off; Shosanna's composure collapses and she bursts into tears. Somehow, and I annoyingly cannot recall how, our topic of conversation led to me talking about that very part of the scene.]]
TANGENT OVER

After snacks, we popped over the road alley to a Pemo, Croatia's chain supermarket. We always misheard it as 'chemo' - leading to a running, slightly morbid, joke throughout the holiday.
We also purchased an umbrella. The storm hadn't moved on just yet.

Still, I had eaten and dried a little, so was feeling better - I may well have looked daft, ambling about soaked to the skin, but I quickly found that other tourists had committed far worse crimes to appearance and had swathed themselves in brightly coloured, plastic ponchos. The type typically worn on a water ride at a theme park. So I was wet, but I didn't resemble a neon coloured bin bag.
(Jacks suggested we could buy and wear some bin bags from Pemo but we ungratefully declined.)
Still, now my mood had improved, I could appreciate the place to which we had come.

And to add to my millennial and video-game-obsessed-brain, my initial reactions to Dubrovnik included:
"Wow! It's like Assassin's Creed!"
We had entered a sandstone city - shout out, once again, to Bath - with terracotta roofs, and dark green shutters covering the windows. Jutting out from this main street at regular intervals are more narrow alleyways, all of them ending with stairs in the distance - it being a mountainous country, as we've established. Some buildings have columns. Some had sculptures. Some had neither.
And Ariel and I reached a similar conclusion. It was like Prague all over again. We had visited a patchwork city. One that hadn't settled on one historical style, but several all at once. Bit of Italian, bit of Greek, tiny bit of Russian, saw some French.

I knew Dubrovnik would yield its own hidden gems. The city was a web of narrow alleys and back streets, and that is where wonders may hide. That's where you'll find the out-of-the-way niche shops and restaurants that the genuine locals use, not the tourists who settle for the big in-your-face places.
There would be so much to explore.
I was feeling ready to fall in love all over again.

But we just didn't have the time.

This wasn't a city break, after all. This was a Holiday.

Dubrovnik was still ours, for a little while. We did visit the Franciscan Monastery; a small, tucked-away complex with an old, rustic, authentic pharmacy that was still in use - since being founded in 1317. 700 years. Imagine all the medicinal developments they must have seen. From lemon grass to Lemsip.
Ariel and Family went off into a museum to learn all there was about mortal and pestles; I took a quiet sit between two arches bordering a lush outdoor garden. Visiting locations of religious significance cause a contemplative mood in my mind; I tend to feel out of place, being a non-believer myself, but I can still show appreciation and admiration for what the believers have built in the name of faith.
Or fear.
Or love.
Or a mixture of them all, as went the philosophical discussion that occurred when Ariel appeared at my shoulder.

Close by the Franciscan Monastery is access to the top of the Old Town wall - the little town we'd been exploring was actually a walled-in, beach-front fortress. Due to inclement weather and salt water in my eyes, I'd missed our arrive into the city itself, and could almost be forgiven for thinking the whole city of Dubrovnik was inside these walls.
However, prices to walk on the wall top seemed quite expensive for us, so we kept heading forwards, under the large arch and out the other side. And when we ventured beyond Old Town, there we found even more city to explore on the other side. The New Town, if you will.

A friend of mine at work had overheard my planned trip to Croatia, and gave me two pieces of advice for Dubrovnik: ride the cable car, and count the bullet holes. (She'd actually been unable to ride the cable car due a thunderstorm, which is totally understandable. I've been on a cable car in Alton Towers in high wind before and feared for my life)
Her advice about bullet holes was true, though. Kupari Plaza was not the only victim, nor remaining reminder of the war. Some walls were lightly peppered, others were porous with bullet holes. I studied them at great length, following paths forged by gunfire. Dubrovnik was its own, city-sized museum. I wish I had researched the war some more, but I didn't.

I was adamant about riding the cable car, whereas Jacks and Bradly weren't too interested, so we split into two groups. I loaded up my phone's map app - an unsung hero of all foreign holidays - and headed north. The cable car station was only eight minutes away, apparently, but on the other side of one formidable staircase. Journey to Prague Castle all over again.
I, denizen of hill-y Bath and one-third-mountain-goat, bounded up the stairs, pausing often to take photos and let Ariel catch his breath. A rather unnerving sight greeted us at the top though, opposite the gorgeous sight of Old Town and its bordering wall.
A crumbling brick wall at the top was covered in graffiti, the more noticeable of which being the words: JESUS GOD HELP US in large, blue and yellow letters. Who wrote them, and why, will remain forever unknown, but I paid them my respects all the same.

About 8ish minutes later, we arrived at the station, with large orange cable cars travelling overhead. The queue moved decently quickly, we weren't waiting there for long, and I managed to get a seat at the front. Only then did I realise why it was so easy to get a seat at the front; because the main views going up a mountain are behind you. All other tourists were clustered at the back to see Dubrovnik and the sea stretch out below. Meanwhile I, and Ariel loyally by my side, got to see the side of a mountain.
I jest, it was still a gorgeous ride, and in truth, I rather enjoyed the sensation of gliding forwards and upwards. The land fell away beneath us and the mountain-top cable car station rushed to meet us. We also saw a dirt track, winding and curving its way up, for those who didn't want to ride the cable car/enjoyed hiking/are slightly mad. We vowed not to walk down.
We'd paid for a return ticket, after all.

I shall do without words, for a moment. These are the views that greeted us, at the top:

Some of you may have noticed an inconsistency in my preferences. I like the untouched country and natural landscapes; and I also love cities and the greater displays of architecture.

There, on the peak of the low mountain Srđ, I stood in the middle, the centre acting as a perfect balance point between both. On one side, Dubrovnik and its mysterious network of alleys and side streets just waiting to be explored. On the other, untouched mountain ranges and lush forests, with barely a man-made influence besides farming and power-lines. Standing the right way, looking in the right direction, you would almost believe the world belonged entirely to you.

Distractions would include everyone else milling about the place, so I stole an idea from my Athens anthem, and put my earphones in. The Acropolis saw On Melancholy Hill by Gorillaz; upon Srđ, I listened to Holding Onto You by twentyonepilots, for a similar reason to my 'strudel moment'. This is one of the lyrics:
 
You are surrounding all my surroundings/Sounding down the mountain range/Of my left-side brain.


My hope is that now, every time I hear the song, I shall recall Srđ.  

There are a few features up there, like a gift shop - because of course there is - and an overpriced restaurant - because of course there is - and a giant crucifix and what worryingly seemed to be a sacrificial altar. Ariel and I took a break in a sandstone Amphitheater and discussed, among other things, variations in prejudiced beauty standards for women across various international cultures, and whether we should get some food.

On the way out, Ariel stopped for a toilet break. I hovered awkwardly in the hallway, waiting patiently, and entirely distracted by a man whistling. He was trying to recreate the 'Colonel Bogey March' (song from The Bridge Over the River Kwai) and, as recorded in my notes, he could not whistle that song "to save his life." He missed most of the notes, specifically the higher ones, in such a way that would probably have upset a number of British POWs.

It was time to return to ground level. I'd hoped to get a seat at the front again, but this was the variation where everyone wanted to be at the front, too. As it happens, we sat in the same seat as on the way up, just facing the wrong way. Credit where its due, though, the ride is smooth and done with quite quickly. There's some turbulence as you cross a metal support, partway up the mountain, which did inspire a shudder from Ariel, but, we returned to Dubrovnik streets with no trouble and discovered the storm had passed. Hot and unhindered sun was baking whatever it could. We elected to return to Old Town, for a wander and nourishment, and eventually reconvene with Jacks and Bradly.

(Couldn't find one written in
Croatian, sadly)

Back in Old Town, we were attracted by the bright colours and sickly sweet scents of a Captain Candy sweet shop. I instantly realised they were a chain, not a one-off as I'd previously believed in Prague. There were barrels of sweets, chocolate coated things, things to chew, things to not chew and generally more sugar than anyone could handle. We decided that Bradly, the youngest of the group and thus stereotyped to be the most interested in such shops, needed to see this, so we left the Captain with the intention of returning.

With practised and expert precision, I located my first bookshop. I have a knack for finding them. They call to me like cultured beacons in an ocean of restaurants and shops. In the window (going by image alone because - naturally - I couldn't read Croatian book titles) I discovered what had to be book three of Stephen King's The Dark Tower series - The Waste Lands.
[Book three features a sentient, insane monorail named Blaine the Mono, and the cover was devoted to his design - hence I spotted the book for what it was.]
I ventured inside, hoping to see more cover art variations like we had in Prague's bookshops, but I swiftly fell out of love with this particular Croatian nest of reading.
For I searched, as best I could, but found NO NEIL GAIMAN D:
Not one single printed fable from my favourite wordsmith. Ariel discovered some English books with covers I recognised, but still, Gaiman was nowhere to be found. I left the premises "thoroughly shooketh" - as I believe the saying goes.

We stopped for a sandwich and a drink, by now intimately integrated with Old Town's network of alleyways. A short walk beyond the sandwich shop and the alley opened out onto a large town square, with war memorial and people wandering about the place - including, I noticed, a few nuns. If I'd been told I was back in Italy, I'd have believed it, the architectural style in that square was almost pure Italy: columned buildings festooned with ivy, sandstones, and cobbles. Throw in a café with chess-sets outside and we'd have walked into a perfect, if misplaced, cliché.  

We'd passed a great many shops that advertised "genuine Game of Thrones merchandise."
Brace yourselves: I don't watch Game of Thrones. I knew and cared little about what had been filmed in Croatia, but, research would suggest it's quite a lot. A few death scenes, presumably. In any case, the tourist-loving businesses had taken the fame and run with it, as always. Every alley contained at least one shop with some GoT memorabilia stocked on the shelves - there was even some to buy in the airport before we left.

It was time for ice cream. A big moment, on any holiday, for one usually leads to several before the trip is done. By now we'd wandered a number of alleys and side streets, accidentally passed a Dubrovnik aquarium - sadly without time go in - and found ourselves back in the harbour we'd arrived in, soaking wet, some hours ago. There was an ice-cream shop nearby, a busy one, which is always a good sign. I elected for two scoops: banana split (which also included chocolate) and strawberry - thus achieving the three coloured food groups. Equipped with our rapidly-melting treats, we sat outside a church and watched the world go by. A dog I'd spotted earlier made a second appearance, a coincidence that merited the animal be named. Thus, Charlie the Dog became the mascot of our Dubrovnik endeavour. I'd love to have a photo of him but he traversed the crowds too quickly, and I was still working with a dripping concoction of pink, yellow and brown.

Jacks and Bradly re-joined us on Old Town's main street, and Ariel and I led us back to Captain Candy. While they deliberated between chocolate raisins and chocolate nuts, and what kind of fudge to have, I was stood still, furiously trying to listen to the music they were playing. I'd heard one line of it, faintly, and wanted to make sure I was right. It is a rather famous line in song history.
Ariel noticed my statuesque behaviour; I shushed him and pointed up.
"Sweet dreams, are made of this," I said in time with the speakers. An apt choice of tune, for a shop such as this. Jacks equipped her Shazam app - a feature I'd mostly ignored in life but now find myself intrigued - and found its artist: Deepmaniak. A name is all I can offer on the band.

Equipped with a diverse and laden bag of sweeties, we ventured back to the nearby harbour, and waited for the boat ride home. The previous storms had all but abated, the sea was calm again and reflecting the sunlight of clear skies. It promised to be a smoother, drier ride back, and provided me with a chance to see the route properly.
We'd passed endless cliffs leading into the ocean, broken into caves in several places, and an isolated and near unpopulated island further out to sea. Besides a rather distracting family sat opposite us who seemed to want a photo of everything - both Ariel and myself were employed as their photographers on two separate occasions - it was a much more enjoyable and relaxing journey. I could enjoy the ocean's natural beauty without being constantly hit in the face with it...

Dinner that night was a random buffet. Not that the buffet itself was random, the staff were normally dressed and no-one performed any acrobatics - but I distinctly remember returning to the table with a plate of pizza, pasta, meatballs, beef stew, potatoes, chicken and pickled cabbage.
Again, I argue that the human mind was not designed to deal with free-for-all buffets. Something instinctual, and primal, developed in our cave-men days and since locked deep within our brains tells us that there is food, all the food we can possibly want, and we must have all of it, for who knows when the food shall return?
Despite the answer being: Tomorrow. At breakfast.

Having eaten my weight in various cuisines, we decided to go for an evening walk - and it was in that moment I knew I'd grown up. As a child on holiday, I wanted nothing less than to be dragged on an evening walk, because it would always be too far, and too hot, in uncomfortable shoes, and would probably require more hours than realised because someone would suggest stopping for a drink that then leads to several.
But, I am an adult now. I want the walk. I want the chance to explore the place I'm staying in. I also want the drink.
And why?
Because unlike my pre-adolescent self, I paid money and took time off work to be here.

Added bonus: the Mlini water-polo team were practising their sport, just down the road from us. Mlini had constructed part of the harbour to act as a swimming pool of sorts, with a large gap in one corner to then fill it with sea water. There were guide ropes and two goals and everything.
And let's just say, a large group of fit, toned, muscular young men in small swimming trunks strolling about the place, well......three of the fours of us weren't complaining...

The drink did end up happening, much to Bradly's teenage displease. We were passing a small, cozy bar just past the water polo, where live musicians - The Jazzaholics - were performing. This caught the attention of Jacks, a musically-orientated member of the group, and swiftly saw us on bar stools, sipping cocktails. Piña coladas, of course. A tropical holiday deserves a tropical drink.
Bradly and I went for a rock-top wander, as the bar let onto a stony beach and I've a fondness for rock climbing at the beach - I did it in Cornwall, after all. What I'd apparently lost since then was the knack - I grazed the back of my calves within the first few steps. I ventured closer to the water, with Bradly somewhere behind me, and sat near the gentle current. Moonlight reflected off the rippling blanket of water, coloured a dark and dull blue colour, to the soundtrack of gentlly tumbling waves - and all I could think about was the opening scene to Jaws. I soon after re-joined Ariel and Jacks, having collected Bradly along the way.

Ariel and I had a heart-to-heart chat before bed, kindled by alcohol and being abroad in another country, and went to sleep late.

Well, one of us did.

Sleep and I were not acquaintances in Croatia.

Tuesday - 24/07/2018
Rejoice, for this day shall not be recounted in quite so much detail. As mentioned, Tuesday had been ear-marked as our Do Nothing Day.
I told you about sun-soaked sandy Holidays and city-break, tiring "holidays."
Tuesday was of the former category.
And started with another mountain of Nutella with pancakes for Ariel. My memory has expelled information regarding whatever I ate that morning. More fruit and pouring yogurt, presumably.

A decision was made to visit the hotel's indoor pool, before any other events could occur; plus, the outdoor pool was pretty small and prone to being busy throughout the day.
It was nice enough, if quite cold - Ariel, born-and-bred-mermaid still took a good twenty minutes to get under the water. It was also, we were quick to learn, a salt water pool. There was an immediate and dire need for swimming goggles, and a drink of water that didn't taste oceanic. Difficult when our next stop was The Sea.

It took us all of two minutes to get from the beach-facing indoor pool to the beach itself. Jacks got set up with an umbrella, made difficult by surprisingly windy weather, Ariel required another twenty minutes to get into the surprisingly cold sea, meanwhile Bradly and I f*cked off into the ocean.
I learned exceedingly quickly that Coratia - or its town of Mlini, at least - has very rocky beaches and a lot of reefs. Trying to get into the sea was bad enough, with loose stones and pebbles making every step unstable, and when you eventually get into the water, you soon find yourself out of it again. Bradly and I had gone a fair distance out, enough that in a normal sea would have had me out of my depth, yet I was standing on a reef and standing mostly out of the water like some half-hearted attempt at being Jesus. We more or less walked away from the beach and into deeper waters. I left Ariel and Bradly behind, to achieve a personal goal. Roughly a kilometre out to sea was a long rope with floating discs on them, in a wide bow shape around the beach; presumably a marker for boats not to pass this point unless they wanted to hit a pedestrian/swimmer. I swam out to reach the rope, and no further, achieving a goal I'd set myself the day before. My victory was slightly tarnished by a man floating past me on a lilo, wearing an officious look as though some lowly, swimming commoner had interrupted his relaxing time. I wanted to knock him off, but didn't.

I swam back, collecting Ariel - now in his natural habit - and Bradly along the way. We were all wanting some goggles and, in mine and Ariel's case anyway, some slightly larger swimming shorts. My ones purchased from H&M were nice, but, erm...not too accommodating for those us with larger thighs.
Before we could address this matter, however, my train of thought was derailed by Ariel directing my attention towards the ground. Beneath the big toe of my left foot was some red, like I'd trodden in a tomato. Apparently the sharp pain I'd felt when clambering on the reefs was a bit more serious than I'd first thought. Good thing Croatia isn't known for its blood-sniffing sharks...
I washed my red-dripping toe as best I could, retrieved my flip-flops - having left a trail of one-legged red footprints - and went with Ariel to better equip ourselves for beach conditions. Fortunately, there was a shop in the hotel, staffed by an incredibly friendly Italian woman. She set us up with new shorts - I insisted we not wear the same colour - and some sleek, tinted swimming goggles that Jacks said made us look like bug-eyed insects. In a nice way, of course.
And I only bled on the changing room carpet a little bit...

Ariel and I returned to the ocean, accompanied by Bradly who'd bought a full set of scuba-gear; diving mask and breathing tube - the latter of which was immediately disregarded. Now able to see beneath the water, we realised just how many fish we'd been disturbing. It was far from being the Great Barrier Reef, but, there were a few shoals, some sand-diggers and a fair few in lovely colours.
I'm not a master of diving, nor studying fish. My approach was lacking in detail and subtlety. Having swum about awkwardly with my head only just beneath the water, I would occasionally come up for air, cry "Fishies!" to get the others' attentions, and then swim after all the aquatic animals trying desperately to get away from the big, loud, limbed thing chasing them.

Despite being promised a hot day, the sun was hidden by clouds quite often during our sea-time. We'd been a bit over-ambitious in our application of Factor 50 sun cream. I'll spoil the ending now, I did not tan nor burn on this trip.
Once we'd taken our fill of looking at fish, when it came down to it, we were cold, wet, tired, two of three of us had sore thighs, and another two had damaged feet - Bradly had managed to cut his toe, as well. To any travellers due to visit Croatia, I do recommend it, but beware the reefs.
Or, bring swimming goggles up-front. Then you can see the obstacles before you swim over them and accidentally kick them.

Ariel and I elected to head back to our hotel room. I admit to waddling, a tad, and the trip from beach to bed seemed longer and more painful than I'd known so far.
We deposited our four pairs of swimming shorts in the shower and got to relaxing and unwinding before dinner. Ariel had a nap. I sat on the balcony and read, my choice of material for this holiday being: We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson.
(I also brought The Man in the High Castle by Philip K. Dick for no other reason than I liked the neatness of having two books with 'castle' in the title. As it transpired, I only managed to read one of them. And that was mostly on the plane home.)
In any case, my reading view was undoubtedly superb:

There remain no further notes saved to my phone regarding Tuesday, though I can imagine it contained yet another mish-mash meal at the buffet, and if I recall correctly, a cup of tea in the hotel lounge.

And, another sleepless night. I realised a few hours too late that I shouldn't have drunk caffeinated tea that close to bedtime...

Wednesday - 25/07/2018
Pancakes. Nutella. Pouring yogurt. Mish-mash.
Breakfast is pretty much established by now.

Ariel had expressed a desire to visit Dubrovnik again, to grant it a second chance before we left. Jacks suggested we visit the other town south of us, named Cavtat. This involved catching a bus.
This involved walking out of the hotel and up to the main road, where the buses stop. I've described Croatia as mountainous, with its many curving roads and steep cliffs. Well, from the main reception up the drive to our hotel room was a decent incline enough. Our hotel room to the main road was equivalent to mountain climbing.
It is well known that my university years spent living in the steep city of Bath has gifted me a knack to navigating steeper hills, and while I did outdistance the Boyf and his family, I admit to the challenge. In Bath I would've classed this as one of the trickier hills but imagined Mlini citizens saw it as fairly regular.
We all arrived at the bus stop sweating and out of breath - plus Ariel stating that he would never forgive Jacks for the ordeal. 

The bus trip itself, to Cavtat, was actually rather enjoyable. I was mostly just grateful that I wasn't the one driving, what with sharp curves, steep bends, looming cliffs overhead and a swift drop on one side -  suitably, the right side, the side we were on. The trip was pretty short, and provided some incredible views of the Croatian countryside and the ocean. Mostly, the latter.
I was surprised by Croatian flora, since the start of the holiday. Trips to Italy and Greece had seen dry scrubland, shrubbery and contenders from the 'sand-coloured' side of the spectrum. Croatia, for the most part - that is to say, not the grey and brown mountains - was green and lush, maintaining what were basically forests, despite the heat. It had my approval. It added to the country's 'mix of cultures' reputation.

We were dropped off in Cavtat's minimalist bus station. It was a harbour town, that was made immediately obvious by the number of boats coming in, going out, and moored at the docks. The four of us strolled along, seeing a fair number of huge deluxe/luxury cruiser ships, including one called The Incognito - which it REALLY wasn’t. It could have contained a Bond villain, but was in fact full of American tourists. Wealthy American tourists. We overheard their holiday rep/tour guide/handler in a nearby shop buying an expensive bottle of wine (or oil) for each of them. We, meanwhile - and by we I mean Jacks - purchased gifts for family back home.

Observation: I'm one for spotting trends, on holiday. Ariel and I had noticed (and personally been slightly unnerved by) 'Lavender Dolls' on our first day: rosy-faced wooden puppets finished in lavender purple. We saw similar dolls, and stalls selling lavender oil, in Duvrovnik. And here in Cavtat, we saw them again, and wondered if a bountiful Croatian harvest would include lavender.
Well, further research has concluded that Ariel was right: the Croatian island 'Hvar' is apparently covered in the stuff, with entire aromatic plantations of the stuff. As is to be expected, this had worked its way into Croatian marketing, with products like the dolls and oils and paintings.
The locals must have amazingly scented baths...

Done with the market, we took a short walk north, onto what seemed to be some sort of nature walk. A cliff-side path wound its way around the cove's edge, with more forestry inland. Before traversing this path of unknown distance, I accessed Apple Maps and saw that the path was not only long, but entirely unpopulated of buildings, besides one: “Beach Bar Little Star." Cute business title, but, not enough to entice us. We stuck around long enough for a little rock climbing and photo-taking opportunities, but soon after headed back into town, with a desire for a drink and some food.

The docks were understandably stuffed with restaurants and bars, destined to entice the ceaseless waves of tourists - ourselves included. We stopped in an outdoor place, seated in the shade of a huge tree, and ordered some cocktails at Ariel's request. I ventured upon a Long Island iced tea which almost blew my head off - apparently all measured in shots, including the mixer - and settled on another Piña colada for my second.

Another observation: lots of strays cats, in Croatia. Hotel Astarea had a black kitten which always appeared near the reception entrance, and every walk and wander had seen at least one ownerless feline. At lunch that day in Cavtat, we had the pleasure of meeting another stray. We waited for our drinks, and it...er...relieved itself in the dirt of the tree we were beneath.

There was another trip to Chemo Pemo, before catching the bus back to Mlini. This bus was being driven by a “no sh*ts given” bus driver, typical to the style of most European motorists. I'm not trying to instigate nor stereotype here, but, in my travels to Rome, Athens, Prague and Croatia, every driver seems to have it in their head that the 'right of way' falls entirely to them.
Our bus driver was also more than generous with beeping the horn, at apparently everything, even if the road in front was clear....

Back at the hotel, I joined Jacks and Bradly for another indoor pool swim while Ariel attempted a nap. I returned to him not long after, still awake but doing his best not to be, so I went out on the balcony to read (and sunbathe) a little more before dinner.

After our third and final diverse dinner display, we decided to take one last stroll along the sea front - and this time, Bradly did not join us. The three of us reached the same bar as Monday night, went past it, walking upwards and round to the right. There was a small scrap of beach below, and a cliff-side bench up ahead, overlooking the entire of the night-cast sea. We three sat together, enjoying the view, wishing we weren't twenty-four hours from being home, already. Jacks and Ariel chatted about the past, including their family, which did mean my input was limited.
It mattered little though, I was experiencing another of Rob's Random Film Moments. Off in the distance was a flashing red light, a marker beacon atop a buoy, that was marking the opposite end of the cove. It blinked in a steady rhythm, and all I could think of was the end of the movie adaptation of The Great Gatsby. Yes, I realise the film's flashing light is green, but it inspired me, nonetheless. While mother and son held their counsel, I dreamt up new stories and changes to my existing ones - and decided I shall not kill off one of my beloved main characters.
But that is a spoiler for another time.

Ariel and I briefly visited the scrap of beach we'd seen, wishing to dip our toes in Croatian waters one last time. When we reached the beach though, it was of loose stone and shingle again, with fresh promises of imbalance and damaged toes, so, we quickly wetted our feet and made way back to the hotel.

And to end on a happier note, I slept the whole night through.

Thursday - 26/07/2018
Journeys home offer little to the story, much less to entertainment. Our hotel-to-airport transfer ran smoothly, our flight was on time, and during the flight I managed to finish We Have Always Lived in the Castle. Its ending involved a delicious twist in character development, so unnerving I had to put the book down for a little while and be consoled by Ariel.

One final incident for the record, suitably to mark the end of our journey. The pilot guiding us home had been fine in most respects - although was of the variety who enjoyed the sound of his own voice - but his approach to landing the plane was a little, shall we say, enthusiastic.
We were high-ish over the yellowing, drought-ridden fields of England, and heard over the speakers: "10 minutes to landing." I remember looking down and thinking: Ten minutes? Really?
And, if fairness to the guy, his estimation was pretty much dead-on, though we couldn't have reached England any faster unless we'd nose-dived. Several consecutive drops that put our stomachs somewhere around our shoulders led to a final landing that was less of a touch down, more a slam. (During this entire process, Ariel came to close to breaking my fingers)

But, we made it nevertheless. Breezed through baggage control, and back on the road homewards within twenty minutes.
Fans of irony may enjoy the fact that, having gotten back from a European holiday, we returned to a home country that was much, much, MUCH hotter. Walking out of the airport, I know understand how a chicken nugget feels before being shoved into the oven.

I still think we won, though. Because as scorching as you may have been, England, you didn't have views like these:

So ends another slab of travel writing, one fairly different when compared to the ones that have come before it. I told you of Holidays and "Holidays" and warned you this was a hybrid of both types. I wish I could offer more on Croatia's history, and Dubrovnik's secrets, but I can't.

Ariel and I agreed, though, we want to return to Croatia one day, to do it properly. Grant that amazing city of Dubrovnik with the attention it deserves, and just maybe find a sandy beach instead.

Limited though this recount has been, I return from Croatia with an intense desire to visit there again someday.

And that says it all, wouldn't you agree?

Preview Prague

In the minimalist records of my travel writings, we started with Rob’s Rome Ramble, progressed through An Athens Adventure and now we reach this: part three. Two immediate differences within this narrative:

A) The other half of this duo, the person joining me on this holiday was my boyfriend – known as Ariel – and not my mother. This in itself results in numerous holidaying differences, such as use of the word ‘romantic’ without being inappropriate

B) I had to be a mature, fully-functioning, confident adult. This is a cause for concern, for many involved, namely myself. In fairness to Ariel, I had originally pitched myself as the responsible adult, to which he quickly pointed out that he is too. Given his experience in street smarts and navigating the urban nightmare that is, to me at least, London, he went into this city break with the least cause for concern. I meanwhile was the one carrying the passports, money, boarding passes, and spent most of my time in the airport checking I still had them. My mother had taught me well.

Rome and Athens happened because of my passion and interest for Classical Civilisation studies, Prague happened because Ariel Googled ‘romantic breaks.’ (Google is the unofficial third character of this tale. Praise be to Google Maps.) He settled on Vienna, Prague and Milan as contenders. We watched videos about each on YouTube and I fell for Prague pretty much straight away.
Our reasoning, and our timing, are sound and logical. Which is a rarity, for me. February 12^th marked one year since I sent our first message on Tinder, February 14^th marked, well, that unique time of year when chocolate, flowers and alcohol are all available in one aisle. Our short break in Prague covered both.

That about wraps it up for the introduction. Let us begin.

Actually! Let us take several steps backwards, to the Monday (or Tuesday) before we went – a grand total of 5 or 6 days beforehand, ladies and gents. Here’s a tip: when travelling abroad, check what currency that country uses. We felt so ready and sure to go buy our euros later that week; it was only someone at work pointing out me that Prague actually uses Czech Koruna (CZK). Cue Ariel and I trying to buy money online through Debenhams: they offered a great rate, but ‘less mainstream’ currencies such as Koruna have to be ordered in. If we’d rocked up on Saturday, the day before our flight like we’d planned, there’d have been a slight issue.

Anyway, this is just your basic ‘monkey see, monkey plan better next time’ situation. Do your research, shop around for a good exchange rate, and be ready ahead of time.

On a positive note, the money issue was more or less the most stressful part of the holiday. Not bad, considering we’d hadn’t actually gone yet.
Which will happen now.

11/02/2018: Sunday. Day One.

The very first line in my entry for Sunday runs thusly: Ariel and I are currently in Southend Airport – which, though small, isn’t nearly as tiny as the shed that is Bournemouth. While not exactly a riveting start to this fable I’ll admit, I feel it worth mentioning. Ariel warned me before we arrived that Southend was small, and I agreed with him when we pulled up outside. (Bear in mind Rome and Athens both occurred from Heathrow Terminal 5 which is a behemoth-size shopping mall with occasional flights.) But, Southend had 3 restaurants and two shops. Compare that to when my immediate family and I went to Spain, some years ago, we flew from Bournemouth. That had been essentially two rooms with security in the middle. And a plane outside. Southend had a few, including one with propellers. It turned out to be a display model. Until I realised this, I was terrified it was our ticket out of England.

I won’t dwell too much on the flight itself; though a small airport does make for small planes. Two seats either side of an aisle, that was it. And besides a small, infuriating and intrusive child sat in front of Ariel – who we would both have preferred to see restrained to his seat (or better yet, one of the wings) – the flight went smoothly, on-time, even managed to arrive thirty-five minutes early. Our transfer was waiting for us too – so far, so seamless.

Thus began our drive from the airport into the city itself. I almost committed an ultimate in Tourist Blunders, by burying my nose in a guide book during the journey, instead of looking out the windows. I’d planned to look for places for us to visit over the next three days, but I was missing real-life versions of my guidebook’s photos. Ariel quickly nudged me and gestured outside the taxi. I promptly dropped the book and took my first proper look.

Prague is a beautiful city, there can be no denying it. Not striking exactly, like Rome and Athens had been, instead mesmerising and intriguing. It draws you in with promises to take your breath away later - and trust me, it will do that.

A typical, wonderful, Prague street

In our first glimpses, my attention wasn’t immediately drawn to huge structures and shapes, rather, I saw mixtures of cultures and artistic licenses. Bits of Greek, bits of Roman, bits of Russian, even bits of more eastern countries. Sitting landlocked by so many other nationalities (and, Ariel later informed me, having been invaded a fair few times) had turned Prague into a makeshift sponge of culture and design. No two building matches. All of them differed in size, shape, and colour – a lot of pastels, for that matter. Basic residential houses would have front doors flanked by beautiful sculptures, streets were cobble-stoned, narrow, and flanked by parallel tall buildings. It was like walking through a library of randomly assorted books. Prague is a fairy-tale city. 
You just know, as I knew, I would fall in love with the place.

That's not all of Prague though. Due south, the city becomes newer, industrial, and impaled by skyscrapers. There’s less of a merge of old and new in this city. There's like a boundary (specifically, a bridge) where you can step forwards or backwards through time:

Literally travelling forwards in time

Throughout the holiday we remained in the past, walking its gorgeous narrow streets, riding on its wonderful tram network, soaking in so much saturated history.

But more of that is to come. We’ve only just reached our place of re`sidence, suitably named Elema Residence. Found on lastminute.com – appreciative shout-out to them, while we’re here – and served as a perfect little home from home. We had our own kitchen area, a spacious bedroom with very high ceilings and free Wi-Fi.
It had already gotten dark by the time we arrived. In moments like these, you may decide to go out for dinner, or you hold-off and wait, go in the next day and see the city proper. We elected for the latter and found a nearby supermarket to buy an easy dinner – first helping of thanks to Google Maps, there.

The exchange rate became a hot topic throughout the holiday – so much so, Ariel made frequent access to his phone’s calculator. The rate between pound sterling and koruna can be a little disorientating. Example: we went shopping, bought enough food to last us the four days – if not even more – which cost us 684CZK. Sounds a lot, do the exchange though: £25. The same amount of stuff, bought back home, for that kind of money would be considered decent. It did mess with my head when I was standing in a Prague shopping queue – also, FYI, having learnt 0 Czech words, minus points to us there – handing over a note with 1000 on it. Hand over a £50 note anywhere in England and they look at you like you’ve just robbed a bank.

Dinner that night was oven-baked pizza (I know, how culturally relevant…) and general snacks. I’d picked up a vanilla and white chocolate wafer biscuit, and it was wonderful. Ariel had brought along his laptop so we could even watch movies. Pizza and film night, it was almost like being back home.
Day Two fixed that, though.

12/02/2018: Monday. Day Two.
Upon reflection I could have included this in the introduction of differences, but no matter. This will make more sense, contextually:

C) When the mother and I visited Rome and Athens for our city breaks, we would wake up as early as possible, wolf down a hotel-provided breakfast-buffet and be on the streets before 10am. This had apparently engrained itself into my head as The Done Thing, when one has a city break.

Thus, you may imagine my surprise when, come 10am Monday morning, I find myself awake, Ariel is snoozing peacefully next to me and we have yet to see one Prague landmark.

Having given it thought and discussion together, a bit later into our trip, I decided it’s hardly a bad thing. I had booked a week off work after all, and while I admit that mine and Mum’s holidays were certainly successful, they were tiring. You arrive home sunburnt, knackered and with feet that are learning how to sue you for mistreatment. With Ariel, I enjoyed a lie-in everyday, a leisurely breakfast, then we’d head off around noon. In previous holidays, I’d have already seen two sights and be buying tickets for a third. This way, I got the best of both worlds: an amazing and inspiring tour of a foreign city – details of which will begin soon, I promise – plus a chilled and relaxing break.

It still took time to adjust, though. Ariel woke at last and sweetly cooked us both an omelette for breakfast. There was also time to shower and prepare etc. – by the end of which I was two considerations away from carrying him out the door, but we were underway eventually.

While he had been showering, I had been productive and marked places on our maps of where to go, and how to get there. The conclusion Ariel had reached was he wanted to see Prague Castle. The conclusion I then reached was we needed a number 22 tram. We set off into town, walking north, as we’d noticed a tram stop wasn’t far from our hotel/apartment. When a 22 arrived, we boarded and it started heading north – in the direction of the castle, so no worries there. When it then started to go south, away from Prague Castle, we jumped off and tried another tram – possibly a 19, I forget – which didn’t work out either.

So it came to be, we walked to Prague Castle. It was no hardship in itself – Ariel may disagree – as it meant taking in our first sight: Charles Bridge. Located north-west-ish of the city, it’s a clear and evident tourist attraction and by far the most interesting bridge – of several – that crosses the Vltava River. Clear and evident tourist attraction because it’s marked clearly on every guidebook and map, it’s populated with the typical caricaturists and knick-knack salesmen, and predominately, it’s stuffed with tourists. It’s also got some simply astounding views; looking south follows the river through the city, towards the newer section mentioned earlier. 

These are the sort of views you can expect from Charles Bridge

Looking north sees the land rise above you, topped with Prague Castle – and so, our destination. Lining the bridge on both sides are various statues of a religious theme. Put simply, spot Jesus. He is one of the more striking of the several figureheads running parallel. A lot of the tourists were stopping to rub the base of the statues. I assumed for good luck, though didn’t partake in it myself. I’m the kind of adventurer who assumes the Do Not Touch sign, even if there isn’t one there.

On the other side of the river there began some hills, considerable in steepness, and from there, large stones steps. All part of the passage to the castle, because the higher a castle is, the more defendable it becomes. Also, the more exhausted you become when you try to visit the damn thing. I wasn’t too bad. Having lived in the bowl-shaped city of Bath for three years, I’ve become accustomed to uphill strides. I once described it as my mountain goat legs have come in. Ariel – self-proclaimed mermaid – did struggle, and we stopped a few times for a breather. Not that I was complaining.

Stopping on the steps and looking back brought a beautiful view of the city, made slightly better with each step taken, especially at the top. We paused, for the sake of our lungs but mostly the appreciation side. Prague lay out beneath us, in all its beauty, grace and pick-and-mix-décor radiance. And as if that weren’t atmospheric enough, it was at that precise moment that it started to snow. It was a light cascade, quite hail-like in honesty, but it landed and settled in our hair like pure proper snow and added to the moment tremendously. (A Facebook post later that day ran: “And so, the Timelord and the Princess visited Prague Castle at the top of the city – just as it started to snow.”) I’d described Prague like something out of a fairy-tale when we arrived, and here we were, witnessing it live up to that reputation.

Breath back and stamina restored, we ventured into the castle grounds. Like all good castles, like the Tower of London or Windsor Castle, it was a formidable fortress, containing more than just a banquet hall and an armoury. There was a fully fledged cathedral in the middle of it, a tower, a treasury, two palaces and whole side-streets around the edges, with living quarters. Not just one building, more a miniature town at the top of the city. And we got in for 250CZK each – estimated £8.75. I’ve paid a great deal more than that to visit a capital city’s main attraction. Admittedly, it was the cheaper ticket that allowed access to only a few inner locations: the main palace, Saint Vitus's Cathedral, Golden Lane, and the Basilica of Saint George. There are other tickets for more money and so more locations, but as it turned out, we were happy with what we got.

We did the cathedral first, not knowing it effectively was the crowning jewel – pardon the pun – of all that we were about to see. When you eat a big, sumptuous, and amazing main meal, whatever smaller dishes which may come immediately after doesn’t catch the attention in quite the same way. Nevertheless, it was a sight to see.

A problem I have, or specifically a problem in situations like these, is when I see something amazing, I tend to say: “Christ!” Not too shocking, doubt I’m alone in this. However, when one is visiting a cathedral – a fully decked-out House of the Lord – is it wise not to blaspheme. Every time we went around a corner and saw, say, a staggeringly beautiful pane glass window, or a four-piece sculpture four sizes taller than me serving as someone’s coffin, or happened to gaze upwards at the artworks on the ceiling; I would gasp and mutter “Christ!” Here, Ariel would, rightfully so I think, nudge me. He spent a lot of time gazing up at the sights on the ceiling, leading to his nugget of wisdom: “Catholicism is bad for the spine.”

I was very thoughtful during my time in the cathedral, reflecting on what it meant to me compared to other people. I will hold up my hands and admit that I am not a religious person and consider myself to be an Atheist. I may not sing the songs, read the books, make the prayers – but I can, will and frequently do admire what mankind has done, in the name of tribute. Whether God is real, whatever people wish to believe, it doesn’t change the fact that so many years ago, hard-working and diligent citizens of Prague banded together and constructed one of the most beautiful cathedrals I’ve ever had the pleasure of visiting. God-fearing or otherwise, they should at least be proud of themselves.

Pantheon, Acropolis and Saint Vitus' Cathedral - three different but uniquely wonderful temples built in the name of belief.

As a result, the Basilica of St. George fell rather flat. It’s a much-much-much smaller room with about three shrines in it – plus two police officers, when we went in. Though admirable and striking in a classical sort of way, Ariel and I breezed round it in a sort of U-shape, discussing ancient history if memory serves. The man at the ticket barrier did seem surprised to see us back again so quickly.

The Royal Palace itself was…well, big, I’d give it that. I’m not intending to cause some international debate/incident here, but interior-wise, our local Windsor Castle trumps the Prague Castle by an astonishing degree. I’d gone into the Royal Palace with Windsor in mind; all the old crests and ceiling banners and ridiculously huge dining tables. What we got instead were a lot of large rooms that demonstrated the meaning of the word ‘minimalist’ and a few spiral staircases. I myself am not one for spiral staircases. They make my head go funny.

Golden Lane

In the interest of fairness though, exterior-wise, Prague wins. Windsor’s good but there’s something more intimidating about Prague Castle. On its hill it looms over the entire city and feels like it would survive an attack better off. Windsor Castle versus Pražský Hrad. A siege I'd love to witness, but that is a story for another time.

Sticking to the theme of fairy-tales and old-fashioned quaintness, I fell in love with Golden Lane – a small section of living quarters, for workers who’d wanted to get away from higher taxes in the city below. Small multi-coloured buildings with misshapen front doors along a crooked, narrow, cobblestoned lane, where in places parts of the houses jutted outwards – mind your head as you go along. It was all quite Diagon Alley from Harry Potter, sans wizards, wand shops and some Weasleys. I loved it immensely; much like the hot-chocolate-with-rum I purchased not long after. The hot choc warms your tum and the rum makes your brain swim, it’s a wonderful combination in taste and sensation. Ariel and I have vowed to recreate it, back home.

 
With a substantial point checked off of Ariel’s Prague List, it was time to tick off one of mine.

I’m a reader, most people know this about me, I yearn for a personal library in my home and if I glance over my shoulder right now, there are…...twenty books on my bedside To-Read pile. Not counting the pile of graphic novels next to me on my desk, or un-read items stored in my bookcase, or a box of them somewhere in my wardrobe. My assumed method of death is one day being crushed by a toppling, overfull bookcase, accidentally of course. I love books in general, not just reading them but how decorative they can be; and because of this, a friend of mine at work likes to tag me in pictures of beautiful, old-fashioned, classical libraries on Facebook. Just before we left, he found me this one. The Strahov Monastery. It cost us a fair amount to get in, plus an extra 50CZK for the privilege of taking photos – which of course I was going to buy. I even got a little sticker for it, too, and when someone saw me get out my phone to take a snap, I enjoyed being able to show her my “badge” of authority. Yes, it’s the little things in life.

Anyway. The library itself is cut off from the public unless you pay for a special tour which has to be booked in advance. In retrospect I could have booked something, but given my reaction, it probably worked out better that I didn’t. No tour guide would be able to deal with me tagging along, tearfully mumbling the words “It’s all so beautiful” every fifteen seconds. We Book Nerds, we’re a pretty calm and collected bunch, until you put these kinds of locations in front of us:

Room One

Room Two

There are two ‘viewing points’ as it were, where you standing in the doorway, on the edge looking in. Room One: I looked into a gigantically tall room with stocked bookcases on all sides. Room Two: a lower, longer room finished with baroque frescos on the ceiling, decorative wall sconces, a sculpture, and three brown-wood classic globes. Call me quaint, call me weird, call me old-fashioned, I don’t care. I stood on the edge of the latter room, mildly unable to breathe, lost in the wonder of it. It may look like some boring old study to some; to me, it looks like a literate, literal heaven. Ariel had to come and collect me at one point, to ensure I was still able to move. I took over a dozen photos, most of them the same anyway, but had to store it all somehow. And after all, I’d paid for the right.

In the gift shop, I purchased a journal – what else? – for me and a fridge magnet for Mum. She got one from Rome and Athens, after all.

To our good fortune there was a tram stop right outside, from which we caught a number 23 back down the hill. I will say, on the topic of trams, they go faster than you think. First one we’d got on, earlier that day, its pulling-away acceleration almost had us both toppling over. This time, sat as we were on polished wooden seats, swiftly coming down the curved hills to city-level nearly saw Ariel slide off onto the floor. It was a unique tram trip, of the holiday. A Japanese woman stood near my left shoulder started to sing, quite sweetly I thought; but she was consistently being over-shadowed by the braying hysterical laugh of a Czech girl, who apparently considered whatever her friend was saying to be incredibly funny.

All it needs is Tinkerbell flying over the top

Back down again, we ventured east into town, into the Old Town Square. I’m one for crooked narrow cobblestones streets; I’m equally all for old town squares. This one was boarded on all sides by tall decorative buildings; including what appeared to be a mosque on one side, and what would easily make for a Disney castle on the other. There was also a fountain, street vendors of food and hot chocolate, and a mixed assortment of street buskers. On our way into the square, we passed a burger place named – if memory serves – something simple like We Love Burgers. As we passed it, I was walking with my phone in my hand, ready to take pictures of the Disney-worthy castle; when I detected a familiar song. I could hear my number one favourite song On Melancholy Hill playing, which also happens to be my ringtone. It took several moments of staring at my phone, displaying its camera mode screen, to deduce that I wasn’t being phoned by somebody. I doubled back and realised it was on the exterior speaker of We Love Burgers.
“I swear that song follows you, sometimes,” Ariel remarked.

The Old Town Square is also the location of Prague’s famous Astronomical Clock. This too had been recommended to me by friends at work, and as a Timelord and indiscreet lover of beautiful old time pieces, this was a sight for me. It has, according to guide books, three mechanisms to tell the time, date, and location of the Sun and Moon, and even had moving figurines. It sounded perfect. When we walked into the square, however, I noticed that one of the huge buildings on the right was covered in scaffolding.

Wouldn’t it be funny, I thought to myself in Czech, if it’s like the Big Ben situation and no-one can see it? Tourists travel great distances to see a famous clock, only to discover that they can’t just now.

Follow it round to the right, we see that the Astronomical Clock is behind a blue cover and scaffolding, with signs and placards beneath to say it’s under repair and won’t be ready until later in the year. Big Ben, eat your over-sized clockwork heart out.

It had been a long time walking, and we were hungry for some local, traditional Czech cuisine. One thing you’ll notice about Prague, a great number of restaurants have in the windows or on signs outside: “Traditional Czech Cuisine!” Maybe it’s just me, but I felt wary of these claims. If I were back home and saw a restaurant offering “Traditional British Cuisine!” I’d pop in the Italian place down the street. “Traditional Czech Cuisine” felt exactly like the sort of sign a restaurant would use to entice gullible tourists.

And I’d also read in our guidebook to be careful of restaurants and food sellers near tourist hotspots like the Old Town Square and Charles Bridge. They were apparently liable to increase prices, just because tourists don’t know the difference.
Sure enough, we ended up dining in a restaurant on the edge of Old Town Square, with the words “Traditional Czech Cuisine” printed over the doorway. Ariel and I had the same meal. They brought over some bread and pâté for us. We shared a starter of cold meats and cheeses, then we each had Czech goulash served in a bread bowl – a large bread bun, mostly gutted of its soft centre to hold the stew. The goulash itself was fairly basic in flavour, but it was warming and wholesome – the perfect thing after a long, busy day – and the beef was unbelievably tender, it required minimal chewing. Ariel and I enjoyed our “Traditional Czech Cuisine” immensely, dining and chatting about the day over candlelight – all very romantic and atmospheric. We did pay and check out pretty soon after, when a massive group of Eastern tourists rocked up.

A short evening wander led us to the Bake Shop for dessert. Ariel enjoyed a tiramisu and I chose one of the best marble cakes I’ve ever had. We got a number 6 tram back to our residence, with a convenient tram stop just up the road from us. After a long day of wandering, fairy-tale sights and “Traditional Czech Cuisine” we slept the whole night through.

Thoughts on the Day

An extra little tangent. While Ariel and I were waiting for a tram, our conversation went like this:
A: You know what I can hear?
Me: What?
A: Nothing.
Prague is the quietest and calmest city I’ve had the pleasure of visiting. It feels safe, too. I didn’t feel tense at all, unlike when I’ve gone walking about London or Southampton. It’s just a very nice, calm, beautiful place to be, sprinkled with mixed histories and delightful to visit. You say “European holiday” your first thought is unlikely to be ‘the Czech Republic’ but it had changed my mind, and it worked in our favour. Sure there were tourists, but not nearly as many as Rome, or the Acropolis in Athens. (The reduced number of tourists may also be caused by our travelling in February.)

But, to wit, for the first holiday I’d ever undertaken without parental supervision and under my own initiative, it was going extremely well with no stress whatsoever.

Off the back of that point, Ariel and I did spent time on holiday holding hands, walking arm-in-arm and sharing the occasional kiss – it was an anniversary/Valentines holiday after all. We’d done our research. Czech was listed as a LGBTQ-friendly place to visit. While I was a bit apprehensive myself – always a supporter of “just in case” – barely anyone glanced twice at us. It made the holiday even more enjoyable. We could fully relax.

13/02/2018: Tuesday. Day Three.
Another chilled start to the day, fuelled by strawberry grahams – opening note for the day.

(To those who are confused, there are cereals known as Cinnamon Grahams and Golden Grahams – and I’m unsure if they’re still called that. In Prague, I found strawberry-flavoured ones, a version I’d not seen in a very long time and bought in a fit of excitement.)

(I hadn’t begun my day eating men called Graham that tasted of strawberries.)
(Just thought I’d clarify.)

Anyway, while Ariel showered, I had my maps and a pen ready, plotting out a whole day for us. We would start with the closest part, at the south-east end of the city, called Wenceslas Square. Which in itself is poorly named as it’s actually a rectangle. Well, technically it’s one long, wide high street of parallel shops - boulevard I believe is the term. A bit like a smaller version of Leicester Square or Times Square, except swap the lights and overhead television screens with pastel-coloured buildings and sculpted architecture – less high-tech, but more aesthetically pleasing. What it held over the London and New York alternatives was, at one end in full majestic view, the Prague National Museum……also under scaffolding.

Add this to the Astronomical Clock, it was becoming a recurring theme. A lot of our holiday was very much Still Under Construction.

At the museum-end of Wenceslas Square, where we started, Ariel and I encountered a four-legged hero of the holiday. A pug wandered by, weaving between the legs of street walkers, dressed in a rather fetching purple jumper. We christened him Simon. Simon had no leash; instead a misguided trusting owner, we saw shortly after, who kept having to go back to get him.

Further down the road – boulevard if you’re that way inclined – on the right we saw something that caught my eye with ease: a bookshop, known as Palác Knihy.”Palace of Books,” my beloved bindings of stories given the royal treatment they deserve. Of course we had to go in, to Luxor. It was akin to our Waterstones although this place came with four – that’s four – floors. It included a section for English readers, but my love and attention was saved for the Czech versions of Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchett, Stephen King, Douglas Adams and Ray Bradbury. I decided I’d just have to learn how to read Czech, because they really knew how to design a book cover.

A LEGO version of the museum we didn't get to see

Next stop on our tour – guess who picked this one – a LEGO museum. It had sets from up and down history and all over the franchise universe. One whole room for Star Wars sets, shelves devoted to Harry Potter, an entire city diorama in the middle and even stuff from my childhood! There were a few that I own myself, but so many amazing and timeless pieces. It may well be true that I took more photos inside the LEGO museum than anywhere else in the whole of Prague.

Hungry again, we wandered back to Wenceslas Square/Rectangle and decided to sample a Prague desert: Trdelnik. It is advertised and available everywhere, we’d seen some the day before but not gotten round to having one. It’s a welcome advance on our ice-creams; rather than a wafer cone, you’re given a hollow cylinder of dough, baked with sugar and spices caramelised around the outside. Once you’ve decided on filling – I went for strawberries and vanilla – they coat the inside with chocolate (or vanilla) fill it with cream/ice-cream (and strawberries) and drizzle sauce over the top. Whole thing is entirely edible and entirely delicious. I may well have had the best, freshest strawberries I’d ever tried, and they came from a basic street vendor in the middle of Prague.

It was a lot of sugar we needed to walk off. A random detour down a side street put us out front of a small, tucked-away church, and a cubist-design lamppost which served as an excellent photo opportunity.

Close by was another long and wide pedestrian street, not a main road this time, playing host to some kind of market and full of street stalls. Most of the street stalls contained the usual tourist crap one would come to expect: mugs, bookmarks, magnets and far larger sundry items that no-one in their right mind would be able to buy and then get on a plane home. Two stalls also sold these ultra-creepy and quite unseasonal cackling witches. Hardly decorative; I idly wondered if Prague hadn’t differing views and opinions on witches and hadn’t condemned them to October. Either way, their recorded cackles were equally unsettling and annoying, so we pushed onwards.

Now. Some of you may judge. But we had seen the day before on Google Maps, quite by chance, that Prague has a sex-machine museum. Three floors, over “200 items” according to their website – yes we had to see the website – and located somewhere south from the Old Town Square. We weren’t on a lad’s holiday, far from it, but we’d seen it on Google Maps so had it on a back-burner of potential sights to see. What then happened, quite by accident I assure you, after several minutes wandering down identical streets and alleyways, we found ourselves right outside the museum. One of the…ahem…”items” was on display in the foyer. Ever the mature and responsible one, I was reduced to sporadic fits of giggles. More level-headed, Ariel suggested we check the prices first. Given that they were quite steep, or not great value at least, we ventured onwards and left things like “hand-operated vibrators” to themselves.

This left us with a gap of spare time. Ariel wished to see the Palladium. It's a vast shopping centre, located in the north-east end of Prague, but given it was also the location of that night’s dinner establishment, we decided to while away a few more hours. I’d seen on the map, and heard mentions of, a John Lennon wall. Getting there took us back over Charles Bridge – cue more tourists rubbing more statues – and due south.

Sure enough, we passed a Lennon-themed pub with a yellow submarine hanging over the doorway.

No-one capitalises on small fame like a small business.

There was a bridge after the pub, with railings covered in padlocks. Ariel expressed agreement with it; personally, I consider it cliché now which I think detracts from the romance of it. 

A small section of the scene

After that was the wall. The four letter word ‘wall’ doesn’t do it justice, for one of the most moving moments of the whole holiday. It was an ordinary wall, but after Lennon’s death, Prague youths painted on Lennon/Beatles inspired lyrics, quotes and artwork into one multi-coloured mural. (Then in 1988, according to my guide, there was a clash between police and Prague’s youths on Charles Bridge.) The wall stands as a symbol to free speech and rebellion. When we got there, the place was full of tourists, plus one guy with an acoustic guitar singing Beatles songs and some of the crowd joined in. The quotes on the wall said to love life, make peace, chase dreams; all unbelievably atmospheric and moving. Ariel and I spent most of our time there in silence, struck by the emotion left behind over so many years.

We then took a romantic walk into a nearby park and sat on a bench in front of the river. We shared thoughts on the holiday so far. It was sweet, especially after we’d shared a inspiring moment at the Lennon wall, but – and consider this an Overshare Warning – I was so cold that my nipples could have been used to sharpen knives. We walked a little further and caught a nice, warm tram to the Palladium shopping centre.

We saw a pet shop, with cute budgies and parakeets, and the biggest Guinea pig I’d ever seen. There was a toy shop with purchasable rare sets like the Ghostbusters fire station – the sort of thing I’d expect to see in the museum, not available in a local toy shop. Ariel, an employee a long way from his local branch, had to visit the Prague Lush store too. He sent a photo to his co-workers and, of course, did some price comparisons.

Dinner was in a place called Café Palanda. Ariel had found it the day before by literally Googling ‘Prague Gourmet Burger Kitchen’. What he got instead was a trip review, stating that Palanda was superior in both food and prices. So we had to go there. And oh. My. God. The review did not lie. I enjoyed the best cheese and bacon burger of my life, with pulled pork chips on the side. Essentially someone cooked a small rack of ribs, stripped the meat and dumped it on a pile of chips with two types of sauce. Plus a vanilla milkshake on the side. This whole delectable meal, it cost us less than we would have spent in a GBK. It was incredible.

14/02/2018: Wednesday. Day Four.
Ariel picked the first location of our last full day: Vyšehrad – another castle/fortress/public-park to the south of the city, towards the more industrial and modern side. There was an entire section of city – mostly residential by the looks of things – situated beneath a vast road-bridge. It drew my eye and sparked my creative mind. A part of the past literally sheltering beneath the modern world. And there must have been houses down there which would have never been rained on.

We also ended up, unsure how or why, on the roof of a pub/restaurant decorated with modern-art sculptures. It was eerily quiet and we saw hardly anyone, at this point. Besides the traffic noise of the bridge, now behind us, Prague almost belonged to us alone.

There were a few hills to reach and then navigate around the inside of Vyšehrad, but they came with simply astonishing views. Facing south, we gazed out across the river below, that caught the sunlight of a new day and the ascending hills into the distance. Facing north, I picked out a sharp point on the horizon that was Prague Castle – two fortresses facing each other.

Our location helped me realise that Prague (and its surrounding lands) makes it sort-of W-shaped. We were stood on the middle point, Vyšehrad. Prague Castle was the opposite point. The distant hills to the south were the third point.

It was also on Vyšehrad – apparently where random thoughts run rampant! – that we upgraded our earlier talk of Prague being quiet. Up here, with barely any people and sights onto the still city below, Prague wasn’t just quiet, it looked abandoned. From one look-out point, we peered down over some disused tennis courts. The nets were tattered, its frames rusted, the courts scattered with dead leaves. Nothing moved in that line of sight. A brief moment where Prague resembled a post-apocalyptic ghost-town, upgraded from quiet to full-blown spooky. Again, it could have been due to the unseasonable time of year, but it was intriguing me without end.

I’m rather shocked and confused as to why the next part isn’t in my journal. Located within the grounds of Vyšehrad was Basilica of Saints Peter and Paul, with a cemetery adjacent. First thing you’d notice about this graveyard was how pristine and well-maintained it all was. Forget typical English cemeteries of crumbling gravestones, over-grown weeds and lichen upon lichen – a testament to forgetting the dead. This place compared, I mean not to pass judgement, but it seemed to be flooded with money.
However, Ariel did some digging (not literally) into some information on the place, and discovered that the Vyšehrad cemetery is the final resting place of many composers, artists, sculptors, writers, and those from the world of science and politics. It was this realisation that rerouted my thoughts entire. As a writer/creator myself, I fully appreciated this touching and poignant tribute to the thinkers and makers of the world: a resting place of geniuses. The afterlife version of this place must be absolutely amazing.

We got another tram back into town – of course – for a final wander and a bite to eat. It took us a while to decide what we wanted, having passed numerous restaurants offering “Traditional Czech Cuisine” along the way. It inevitably led to a Google. I found a place called White Horse in Old Times Square, which turned out to be a rather posh restaurant with an underground cellar and iPads for menus. (It almost turned into my own grave when, having removed my dark-tinted reaction glasses to be able to see, I then missed the bottom step.) Once we were sat down and had consulted the menu, Ariel told me he didn’t feel quite right. Nothing looked appetising to him, everything was expensive, and he felt out of place. The waitress wouldn’t leave us alone, so I ordered some non-alcoholic (and pricey) Piña Coladas.
I said I’d Google again. I made a search for cheap, good food in Prague and found a local eatery called Sad Man’s Tongue Bar and Bistro – they named it, not me. When Ariel said it back to me, after suggesting it, he made Sad Man sound like "Sandman". I smiled at that. We (over)paid for our drinks and left, to head for “Sandman’s” instead. It was instantly much better: cosy, comfy, 1950’s rock music, a rock-and-roll/movie theme and some lovely staff who spoke excellent English – one of them even expressed admiration for my t-shirt.
There we enjoyed some excellent chicken nachos between us, followed by the best sandwich of my life, with some pretty damn good fries on the side. I even had my first beer, given that Prague is famous for it. My decision reassured me that I still don’t like beer, but it came in a typical beer flask, and wasn’t too bad an accompaniment for the chicken sandwich I was devouring, with all enthusiasm.
“Sandman’s” was much cheaper, better prices, better atmosphere and excellent food, with staff that treated us like friends, not customers. Ariel had been apologetic for taking us away from the White Horse, the kind of expensive establishment which sells itself as the “perfect place for a romantic Valentine’s.” Let others have that. It's just another cliché, like a lock on a bridge. My boyfriend and I spent our Valentine’s in a basement burger/sandwich place, that we found ourselves at random, loving every part of it. It was without doubt more us.

Remember: it doesn’t take money to make a great Valentine’s Day. If it does, you’ve got a problem.

We ended our last night in the Old Town Square, tucking into our second and last Trdelnik each. The place we’d found offered one with vanilla and white chocolate sauce, one that I was enjoying immensely. Nearby, a very talented man was playing converted versions of pop songs on his piano, so I had fun trying to guess the song title. I recognised Bohemian Rhapsody, soon after Ariel realised My Heart Will Go On. We caught our last tram back, trying to ignore the fact it was our last tram ride. We packed up most of our stuff, and proceeded to finish our Valentine’s Day together, in the proper way.

15/02/2018: Thursday. Day Five.
There remains little to tell, as always. We woke early, finished packing and left Elema Residence. Our transfer was on time, as was our flight – maintaining our faultless holiday. Ariel realised why our tickets were so cheap, though. We were sat at the very back of the plane. We didn’t mind, though. He slept and I read Don’t Panic by Neil Gaiman. A story about one of my favourite authors, penned by another one; I was loving it.

Back in London, landing in London Gatwick this time, we caught a series of trains and underground ones to get back to his student digs in Reading. We had Chinese food, a nice bath, and I managed to fall asleep by about 9:30pm!

A Final Reflection
I like to end my travel pieces on a thoughtful note. I'd also like to end this one with an apology, given it has taken nearly a month for me to finish this damn thing. Chalk up some blame to my iCloud drive. Trying to get all my pictures off became a farce, and only recently did I remember to acquire the ones Ariel had taken. It has just occurred that I haven't used any.......No matter! And a great deal of love to him, for they will still take their rightful place in my records.
So what can I say about Prague? I knew nothing about the place before going, and know perhaps just a smidge more since getting back. What I do know is that if I were (in some bizarre scenario) ordered to live in Prague for a year or two, I wouldn't argue. Well, I'd want Ariel to come along too, of course, but something about that wonderful city appeals to me, as a long-time-lover of all things fantastical and characterful. Prague was full of character, it is worthy of the title I bestowed: the fairy-tale city. Order me to live there for two years and I'd never stop exploring it; and I imagine that two years wouldn't be enough to discover it all.
Prague had never before been my first, second, third or tenth choice for a holiday, but I loved my visit to the Czech Republic, just as much as I did in Italy, and Greece. The best way to put it, if 'best' is the right word, is quite simply:
There's just something about it.

Also. Prague has inspired me with an idea for another new novel-to-come. I shall call it Underbridge, and while certainly not a story I was expecting to find, it is one I have come to enjoy crafting already. So thank you, Prague, for that as well.

Perhaps I'll go there again one day.

Peace out.