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.
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.
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| Photo courtesy of The Dubrovnik Times |
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
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.
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| (Couldn't find one written in Croatian, sadly) |
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.
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
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?
