Author: brian.sheasby@outlook.com

First impressions, like snap decisions can often be wrong. Or occasionally right. Sometimes even a bit of both.

Surprisingly, our entrance into Croatia takes us through two passport controls. Both within one hundred metres of each other. A perfunctory glance by both Charlies and we’re in. That’s often the effect a GB number plate has. Or maybe it’s our smiley trustworthy faces. 🙂 +  🙂

Our road in is clear all the way. Not quite like the one leading out of Croatia. It tails back a good couple of kilometres. What could they be suspected of smuggling out? 90K further on sees us pitch up at Bi-Village Holiday Centre. The short journey down underwhelms us. Like two spoilt Slovenian romantics our expectations have been jacked up to ‘wow’ level. Everything seems plain ordinary.

Our pitch spot is 100 metres from the Adriatic. Having taken my first plunge in Piran I’m eager for more. The water temperature 20+ invites. Our afternoon is spent walking the prom, riding the prom, swim. It’s Saturday 22nd. We decide to eat out later this evening. Give Mary-Ann a break.

At the restaurant we have the choice to eat inside or out. We decide on an inside table. It’s next to a large open window. However, the chairs are very uncomfortable. Even after sitting for just a few minutes. We don’t really want to grin and bear it. Mary-Ann decides to check out the more comfortable looking chairs at the table just the other side of the window. As she sits down the waitress approaches me. She speaks English. But not quite enough to make true sense of what I say. Her understanding of the situation is that I am going to sit inside to eat and my wife is going to sit outside. The look on her face is a mix of confusing astoundment. She thinks we’ve had a quarrel. This is the English way of giving the cold shoulder, perhaps?

The delicious meal of monkfish nuggets is taken together and outside. All in all it’s been a really great first day in Croatia. Pity the night isn’t too. Someway in the distance a Saturday night Rave starts up at 11pm. The persistent thump like the one you hear from a passing car. But slightly muted. However, in the calm of the still night it seems to be accentuated. It’s a cruel water torture, without the water. Every thump a drip hitting your forehead, penetrates your skull. There is no escape. We forgot to pack the cyanide pills. At 3.48am I have a great idea. Tear off a couple of pieces of tissue and bung them in my ears – aah, sleep at last . . .

When things are going really well, or when you make that perfect decision, it’s easy to feel smug. Pleased with yourself and the world around you. A sublime feeling of peace enfolds you. Mollycoddles and mollifies. Thoughts of what’s been and what is yet to come negated. Time stands still. Like being asleep. You’re in your own private unburstable bubble – until the alarm clock goes off . . .

With the effects of storm Ali pushing further southwards, tomorrow’s forecast is not one of the best. Winds, rain and a fall in the temperature heading our way.

Today we have a holiday. We becomes beach-bums for the day, though this section of coastline is far too pebbly to place our derrieres on for any length of time. And venturing into the water is like entering into a yet to be cleared minefield – one small oversight or slip and you’re a gonna. No sand anywhere. We invest in some swimming slippers and extra thick spongy mats.

We make the most of it. Stretch out. Stretch the day out. There is good, there is . . .

Yesterday’s bubble gets popped – big-time. Today’s start has a topsy-turvy beginning. Usually, waking up brings relief from a nightmare. Today’s waking up brings on the nightmare . . .

The direct route from the shower block presents me with a confusing vision. As I get closer, it seems the grass around Beastie’s driver’s side front wheel has grown an inch or two overnight. On closer inspection it most certainly hasn’t.

Mrs S suggests, as we’re covered, we call FIAT Europe Assistance. I’m up for having a go at changing it. It’ll be good practise. First, to make it easier to jack Beastie up, I decide to lighten his load. I remove Scoot and all the other paraphernalia from the garage. However, the weather worsens – quickly. Within a few seconds everything is soaked. A frustrating two hours later it subsides. The sun returns, but doesn’t blow away the squally wind.

During the storm I’ve had chance to read the manual. There’s a bit of a knack to removing the spare, which is fitted under the chassis, towards the rear. But other than that it all looks do-able. My only concern at this point is that the torrent will have softened the ground.

I get down to business. After thirty minutes scrubbling around on my back, I am still knackless.  I’ve got the wheel down and on the floor. It’s big and heavy. It’s still attached to Beastie’s underside by a phantom umbilical cord. Its metal placenta won’t pass through the centre of the wheel. According to ‘the book’ I need to slide part ‘E’. It won’t budge. I drench it with WD40. The same. Get a hammer to it. Let it know who’s boss. It continues to play stubborn. Two can play that game. Then, on second thoughts, I resist the urge to smash the living daylights out of it. Come up for air. Time to refocus. Sneak a look on YouTube. That usually helps. The world’s full of know it alls and done it alls. Not this time. It must be me. Again Mrs S ‘suggests’ a call to FIAT would be best. I become deaf and determined. Take another look. There is a knack after all. It’s called using your eyes. A certain twist at a certain point releases the wheel from its mothership. No sliding necessary. A manual re-write in order methinks.

At this point Robbie and Heim, the two German campers opposite, are starting to take an interest in proceedings over the way. They come and join me. I express my concern about the now soft ground. Robbie returns with five 5″ squares of plywood. He very kindly suggests I can use these to prevent the jack from sinking. We’re then joined by Peter, a Scotsman. He’s from the next row of campers back. Seems I’m going to be the afternoon’s entertainment. Better not disappoint. With three pairs of eyes staring down watching me it becomes difficult to concentrate. You know that nervous feeling in the pit of your stomach, just before you turn over that exam paper? And when you do, you go blind and senseless. I look for the wheel wrench. I need to loosen the wheel nuts. Select the wrong tool. Foolishly try it. Idiot!  At this point conversation is exchanged between the onlookers. “You can always tell who the office workers are” (Ha, ha). And “Has he loosened the wheel nuts?” And “Does he know to loosen the nuts alternately”. It’s like I’m not really there. I’ve become that invalid in the wheelchair, who gets spoken about rather than to. “Tell me, how is little Johnny feeling today?”

Beastie gets jacked up and the useless wheel removed. Heim decides to give me a hand with the spare. He can see it’s heavy. The ‘consensus’ is that it should go on quickly. There are two off-centre aligning prongs. But it’s like trying to thread a needle with one person holding each. We’re not really working as a team. We keep missing. Suddenly, the jack slips and Beastie’s front axel is now being supported only by the inner rim of the spare tyre. This looks very ominous. It’s easy to understand what Mary-Ann’s face is silently saying.

At this turning point, disaster is close. The ‘Team” springs into action. Or rather, ambles into action. (They are all older than me.) We need another jack and support. Peter has a longer plank of hardwood. He also knows Jurgen, who has an identical jack to mine. Me and Heim take turns holding the spare wheel in place. We daren’t let it slip. Robbie re-jacks Beastie. Slowly but surely and with a big sigh of relief all around we do it.

I know how these feel . . .

This puts paid to our planned Scoot into Pula – that will wait until tomorrow . . .

The Romans have a lot to answer for. Their legacy lingers. Worldwide, tourists trape and trample. Seeking sought after sites. Stuff themselves with romantic imaginary visions of the past.

In today’s marketing driven era, any town worth its salt will sell its Roman connection. No matter how much or little it has. Draw in the visitor from far and wide. Eyeing and emptying their pockets. Pula is no exception. It has an Arena and lots and lots of shops and cafes!

The short and very windy Scoot in drops us no more than a caber toss from one of the best preserved Roman Arenas left standing. There is a charge to enter. Not many seen going in. Neither do we. Its position allows you to look in from all sides and snap. We walk a full lap. Do exactly that.

This port-side monument, along with a series of bronze busts, reminds the visitor of the historic struggles against fascism and those fighters and victims who dedicated and gave their lives for the freedom of Istrian County.

Mrs S recognises Tito and it’s a good job I’ve got clean nails.

We constantly quiz ourselves. Like GCSE examiners we set ourselves multiple choice questions. Where to go? What route to take? What to see? Where to stop? How many nights? How many bottles to buy? . . .  Unlike those same examiners, we get to answer our own questions and then get to mark them too. Make our choice. Put a tick in the box. Sometimes close our eyes and guess. Sometimes get it wrong. Sometimes spectacularly right.

We make tracks for Plitvice National Park and its series of sixteen tiered lakes.  A two day ‘sprint’. Highest at 636 metres; lowest at 503 metres. It’s a huge attraction. Coachloads from afar swarm around the entrances like bees to a honey pot. Luckily, by the time we cross over the first lake it quietens. There are four routes to choose from. We choose ‘E’ – work that one out. It’s a combination of stony paths and elevated wooden walkways. The intricate route that links the upper lakes has been expertly thought through. It affords us the best vantage points.

We gradually meander up and around each lake in turn. Some large, some small. Some deep, some shallow. All photogenic in differing ways . . .

When it’s a creamy yellow cuboid that’s spreadable when warm, runny when hot and solid when cold.

With a clear night, the temperature in the middle of Plitvice National Park plummets. At the outdoor line of dish-wash sinks our breath is clearly visible. We wash and dry in record time. Yesterday’s end to a good day. It’s the price we decided to pay. We’re up for it. Overnight low of 4C due. Thankfully no frost forecast. At first light our onboard thermometer imitates a freshly baked brick, that’s just come out of cold storage. Must be time to pull out the pullies.

Our 10am start sees us head south east for Sibenik, on the coast. We say goodbye to a sunny and by now 14C Plitvice. The D1 national highway a joy as it stretches out over the high Lika plateau. For most parts we have it all to ourselves. Seventy minutes without a vehicle in front or behind! Seems very strange. Where is everybody? We head up and over the Velebit mountains and onto our lunchtime stop. Our thermometer is now hovering somewhere between spreadable and runny. Temperature doubled to 28C.

Camping Solaris, our next two nighter, is a resort catering for all. Tents, cabins and MOHOs, all within a six-hit from the Adriatic. Many just a nick to slips.

We walk off the journey then make the most of the remaining blue on our nearly new spongy beach mats.

In Beastie’s enclosed space a fly can be the most irritating thing on earth. Although on occasions, I can run it a close second. (according to Mrs S). It will enter by the minutest of openings – yet shown a wide open window or door it’ll teasingly fly towards it and then do a U-turn, before skidding to a halt and resting on your nose!

At home this summer we seemed to be plagued by more flies than usual. Even sitting out was troublesome. Shortly before leaving for this trip we invested in the very latest gizmo. A battery operated fly swatting tennis racket. Those foreign flies were not going to know what zapped them. I’d be able to practise my Federesque backhand and at the same time lay to rest a few buzzers.

Although the central door along with every window in Beastie is fitted with a fly net, they sneak in. We discover we can’t swing. No room. A short fast pat-a-pat action required. Fails time and time again. A tried and trusted rolled up magazine the quicker and more efficient option.

Our current two nighter, down the coast the other side of Split, is right on the sea front at Camping Viter, in Zaostrog. Beastie is parked up fifty metres from a church that likes to keep time. We’re hoping that it too likes to nap from midnight to eight. We’ll see.

We’re giving the Croation culture the cold shoulder for the time being. Concentrating on the scenic D8 coastal road and reaching Dubrovnik by Tuesday. Intending to meet up with Paul & Kath. Paul’s the only person (exc. family) I’ve known longer than Mary-Ann. A great mate and a true friend.

On reflection, we both agree that yesterday’s bike ride is the worst ever. We set off with high hopes. A figure of eight route planned around two adjoining lakes. At times the near gale force blasts attempt to send featherweight Mary-Ann for a Burton. It doesn’t suit her.To make matters more difficult, the surface deteriorates into a rock encrusted track. It’s slow going. Not very scenic. The perimeter used as a dumping ground. Every type of household waste and builders’ rubble stacked in piles. We’re pleased to get back to base. Bikes and bodies intact.

Almost . . .

Mary-Ann’s front tyre took a double whammy.

Since crossing the border, the most commonly spoken language we’ve come into contact with is German. Our silent survey of each site indicates that 95% of campers are German; 2% Austrian; 1% Dutch; 1% English; 1% Other. Each day commences with morgen, after morgen, after morgen and ends with abend, after abend, after abend.

The norm seems to be, the further south we go the higher the percentage of German Tourists. (Croatia is not unique in this) With a resident Zoastrog population of less than 400, it’s likely that between the two sites here the German contingent equates to nearly 200. And this the quiet season! So earlier today we were surprised to hear, for the first time ever, (i.e. while touring) the dulcet tones of a Welsh couple, parked just twenty metres away. A complete novelty. It was like music to our yers.

Last abend’s hope of a quiet night did materialise. The clock’s bell ringers must have been sleeping on the job. That is until their alarm went off 7.45am. Que?

In hindsight, perhaps we should have parked the MOHO a little further away . . .

We start the day’s activities with a bike ride along the coast. Mary-Ann’s inner tube repaired with a couple of bulls-eyes.

Every small bay down here a replica of its next door neighbour, like fairytale facsimiles. A few houses. A few apartment blocks. The odd hotel. Loads of shore-side eateries, though many now closed for the season.

Afternoon sees us lying out on the pebbles. We’re one couple among a dozen. All prostrate on their backs. Still and lifeless. We resemble a line of browning corpses after a small town massacre, waiting on bodybags.

We spring to life. Leave the others to their dreams. Time to cool off.

It’s easy when you’re an adult to think that the vast majority of rules apply to children and other people. Never to your-self – of course. In an adult world you tend to expect rules to be more like guidelines. Stretchable,  providing they’re not flouted. Under normal situations, when the application of a rule is taken to its extreme, intransigence by the rule maker can cause supreme irritation; disbelief; frustration; even anger.

Our route today continues down the 643 km long D8. It hugs the coastline tighter than Marilyn Monroe’s red and black corset. Squeezes and lifts the rocky hills and mountains to our left. Allows us fabulous views out to the Adriatic with its flotilla of green islands. A couple of short sections bring us inland. Glimpses of a different type of landscape revealed.

Our meet up with Paul & Kath happens a little earlier than planned. It seems their ‘Adriatic Dream Apartments’ block is only 100 metres from our Solitudo Camp entrance. They’re delighted with it. Keen to show us around. We both need a few things from the local shop. Agree to meet at their place, so they can show us how great it is. As we walk towards their door entrance, the owner, her partner and her mother step out, like three ‘Who goes there lookouts’.

“They can’t go in there. This apartment is only for two” the owner says abruptly. (we presume she thinks Paul & Kath are trying to pull a fast one and that we’re intending to move in too – even though it’s broad daylight and we’re carrying empty Tesco shopping bags) –  “No, it’s alright” Paul responds “we just want to let them have a quick look inside” – “You can’t do that. It’s not permitted” – “They’re not going to stay here. We just want to show them our apartment. Our friends are staying on the camp site opposite.” – “It’s not allowed” – “What do you mean it’s not allowed?” – “It’s in your terms and conditions. This is private property.” – “What, you mean we can’t even sit down with them at that table on the veranda and have a cup of tea?” – “No, it’s against Croation Law. If I get found out I will suffer a big fine”. Our incredulity is written all over our faces. She doesn’t like it. We’re feeling it’s almost a throwback to the tiny minds of the 60s and 70s, when you had to beg for a hot bath, or the use of an iron, when staying in a UK B&B. We mutter to one another things like “Well, I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous” & “This is just bloody stupid” – but obviously directed at the owner. The tension builds. It’s a stand-off. Paul & Kath control a mixture of frustration, disappointment and rising anger. “This is the same rule that applies all over the world” – “No it isn’t” I say – “Yes, I have been to London hotels and you have to meet with friends in the lobby. Never in the room”. Our combined responses to that nonsense tips her over the edge. “You’re trespassing, this is private property”. (to Paul & Kath) “You can’t stay here. I’m going to call the police”. The three of us move away. Paul is left to try and calmly pick up the pieces and salvage some sense from the last few minutes. He is very apologetic. She is having none of it. She can hear our typical English sardonic laughter. That does nothing to aid Paul’s pleas. They get ‘chucked out!’. She intends not to give them a refund. (but does)

Just over an hour later Paul books another apartment just down the road. They move in. First question they ask? “Is it OK if we invite our two friends round for a meal?” – “Yes, of course it is” . . . nuff said

With yesterday’s shenanigans fading quickly, we plan a full day in Dubrovnik to help erase them from our memories. No point in wasting precious time and energy. Some things and people are just not worth it.

The backdrop to many of the coastal cities, towns and villages along this coastline is stunning. Like a wildflower scratching out its life in scrub, their beauty is enhanced by the harsh landscape. This suspended crossing into Dubrovnik no exception.

The number 6 drops us right at the ‘Pile’ (gate) entrance into the old walled city. It’s heaving. Nationalities from all over. Herded in. Ocean liners, coaches and buses all filled to overflowing. Spill out their contents like split sacks of grain. Clusters cluster around in their own groups. Ears glued together intently by their local spiel. Eyes focus, follow their personal guide’s special flag. A raised red hankie on a stick. A multi-coloured brolly. An old tiny teddy, hanging on grimly – never for one minute thinking this would be how he’d end his days. All enter through the same gate. Like Confederate soldiers. Armed and ready to take control of the city. There will be no prisoners taken today. We join the throng. Four ruthless mercenaries in search of booty.

The city wall, at sixty metres short of two kilometres, is a medieval wonder, keeping out invaders for centuries. Including the short lived Serb/JNA bombardment in 1991, during the War of Independence. It lends us superb views of its inners . . .

– and outers . . .

After about seven hundred metres we are politely informed we’re walking the wrong way around. It seems there’s a one ways system in place. With well over two thousand people per hour doing a lap they probably need it. We are confused as to why we’re the only discombobulating ones. Think about staying non-conformists, but then comply. Like four little puppy dogs we turn tail.

Some soldiers walk the wall in uniform – dressed to kill . . .

We agree to return later. Call a truce. Wait for the armies to retreat. We want to take another look in the dark. This is the prize we came back for . . .

The memory of an event is a strange thing. It gets stored. Then often, secretly distorted. Then restored. Pretends to be the original. When on closer inspection it’s clearly not.

We allow Paul & Kath some space to go exploring the Babin Kuk peninsula that we’re both staying on. Arrange to meet for dinner again. We charge off in the opposite direction. It’s been fifteen years since Mary-Ann and Laura holidayed in Cavtat. We’re curious to visit – for different reasons. A short water ferry’s ride away, Mrs S informs me.

I’m good in water. I’m not good on water. I can just about cope with a fifteen minute trip though. I’m up for it. However, fifteen minutes turns to thirty, then to forty-five. We eventually dock into Cavtat fifty-eight minutes later. It’s choppy and the engine’s diesel smells, mixed and shaken with the rock and roll, do nothing to whet my appetite, even though it’s lunchtime. In fact quite the opposite. A short breathy sea-side walk cures my queeze.

We go in search of the hotel they stayed in. It’s round the next bay. Everything looks slightly different to how Mary-Ann remembers. Live streaming images not quite tallying with those stored ones. Nothing matches anymore. It’s the same, but somehow not. We stop off for a selfie on a short jetty. Run out of time. Leg it back. Make it last on board the returning ferry. Where’s it off to? This isn’t the way. It makes a detour. Back to the jetty we’ve just left. Picks up two final passengers . . . doh!

We travel back on a different boat. Larger and more open. Take a smoother course. I relax . . .

They say that seeing is believing. Yet we believe lots of things without actually having witnessed them ourselves, but on the testimony of others. There can be many factors that determine what and what we don’t believe.

A short six mile section of the Croat coast is actually part of Bosnia and Herzegovina. The D8 takes us through two sets of laborious customs. Then we turn right and head inland for Medjugorje. A small Bosnian town that became famous in 1981. Since then, it’s estimated that over thirty million Christian pilgrims have visited.

Our curiosity to visit is fueled by many friends who’ve been. They reveal it’s a place of tranquility, renewal and love. And the occasional miracle . . .

The tiny camp site has room for about twelve campers. We’re four of four. It’s near the end of the camper season. It’s basic, but good enough for a one-nighter, especially as we’re right in town. We pitch up then head straight for ‘Cross Mountain’ – 1K away. The lady in information says it’ll take us two hours up and down. We’ll just have time before it gets dark. We change course a short way up. A returning group say it’s at least a three hour hike. They point out we’re not wearing the right footwear. They are all in mountain boots.

We head for ‘Apparition Hill’, where it all began thirty-seven years ago. It’s a tricky forty five minute steep obstacle course. A funicular would do a roaring trade, or even the odd donkey.

It’s clear many making the climb have difficulty walking. Their perseverance is admirable. Many dressed in everyday clothes and shoes. Like us, not expecting such harsh terrain. We pass two people – they’re barefoot! All lends gravitas to their prayers.

It’s dark by the time we’re down. The cross at the top of ‘Cross Mountain” is clearly visible. It’s lit up. “It’s miles away up there, we’d have never have made it back down in time” Mary-Ann says. I agree.

Later that evening I’m intrigued to find out more of what’s been going on here. Google Wikipedia. Within the info I’m surprised to discover that there’s no electricity on Cross Mountain . . .

If patience is a virtue, then we’ve certainly moved up a notch or two on the ladder of hope. We’ll see. Time will tell.

Yesterday, we break our journey into Split. Stop off at Makarska. Wake ourselves up. Walk the horseshoe bay. Pay a visit to St Peter’s statue. He has the best view in the house. It’s another stunning tourist hot-spot. Supposedly one of the warmest in Croatia.

When Plan A gets scuppered you always need a Plan B. So it was pointless watching this scene we woke to this morning. Why waste four solid hours feeling sorry for ourselves. At least we didn’t need to revert to Dave’s Gouda remedy during the night.

We should have expected it really. This view below, that greeted us a short way south of Split, dissipated. Only to return with a vengeance this morning.

Cooped up inside, it’s amazing how many little jobs can be found to occupy four hours. We do just that. Gain some satisfaction – at least. Not prepared to let the weather get the better of us. Then we break free. Gain ourselves a vantage point looking out across to Solta Island. The storm has moved westwards. We watch in awe and anticipation as a funnel cloud forms a finger. Bit by bit it grows. Reaches for earth. Changes it’s mind just before touchdown. Gets caught up again in the mass. Disappears. Goes in search of tornado alley.

It can be easy to not understand a conversation, even when spoken in your own language. Mrs S is often left flabbergasted when I don’t comprehend her spoken words. Likes to remind me that she thinks I’m from another planet. Mars?

Yesterday I was in reception. Waiting behind a French couple who are checking in. The Croats (along with the Slovenes) are highly fluent in a multitude of languages. They slip in and out seamlessly from one guest to another. As if it’s completely normal. French is my second language (Ha!), so I like to think. Love the chance to practise what very little I know. Welcome the opportunity to eavesdrop too. They ask if there’s a bus service into Split. “Yes, you take the number 60. The stop is over the road from the site. It runs on the hour and every half hour, even tomorrow which is a holiday.” Something else is said, but I don’t catch it.

So we get to the stop ‘over the road’ at 10.55am. By twenty past a bus had not been seen – in either direction. I’m not too fussed, oddly. That’s because a clay court tennis match is going to start fifty metres away. I watch them knock up. Dreamily imagine how I would assess each of their strengths and weaknesses if I were on the other side of the net. A bygone time now with my useless knees. Both men look as if they can ‘play’. Mary-Ann is being very, very patient. Trusts my linguistic skill. By the time it’s coming up to noon I’m doubting mine. Dash back to reception. Discover we’re waiting on the number 25 route. It runs every couple of hours. The 60 runs along the road at right angles to this one!

The 6o drops us within curtsying distance of the palace’s Golden Gate. It’s fourth century. Built for the roman emperor Diocletian. Gregory of Nin’s shiny big toe invites us to make a wish and enter. It’s not really a palace. Never was. Just a place to hang out. Have a beer or two. Do a bit of shopping.  Grab some lunch. Seems it’s not changed much.

Our first stop is going to be the top of the bell tower. Its narrow steps are ginormous. Mary-Ann feels like a Lilliputian as she treads upwards

The existing enclosed old town feels cosy. Touristy, but a working one too. Lots of narrow alleyways to explore.  Lunch taken in one such place. All on our own.

Then it’s time to visit the only other building of note. The tiny cathedral. We pay our money and are in and out before any one of these hedonists drop a spinning plate. As Brucy would say “Good game, good game” . . .

We all love surprises. Or to be more exact, surprises that delight rather than disappoint. Moving on from one site to another brings a sense of anticipation. Like that feeling when you’re ripping off the wrapping paper and eager to open the box. Remain positive. Expect the best, but always ready for the worst.

Having ticked off seventy per cent of our must do’s in Croatia, we leave Split. Continue north on the D8. Head for, according to the book, a Holiday Resort. This time of the year they often offer the best value and best facilities. Our expectation levels are high. The forecast is wall to wall sun for the next ten days. We’re going to make the most of it.

On arrival it’s plainly not a resort. That’s on the other side of the road. Shut up for the season, along with many others. We can’t be picky. There’s less to pick from. So it’s in for a penny. We’re just outside Zaton. 250 metres from the beach (pebbles) and within striking distance of Nin and Zadar.

We fall on our feet. We’re allocated a large and lovely pitch with open views.

We have our own private pool . . . well not quite. Nobody else seems interested. We decide to stay four nights! Take time to swim off the day’s drive.

Before we know it, it’s time to watch the sunset. A simple pleasure. Not to be taken for granted. As I was reminded in Dubrovnik. A polite exchange with a young shop assistant urges her to remark “It’s the small things that bring happiness”.

We drink in the view. Gulp down the rays. Quench our thirst. Start a photo competition . . .

There’s an old and true adage that says “By failing to prepare you are preparing to fail.”

Touring during the low season, as we do, gives us wrong impressions. Relaxed and sleepy towns and villages appear at their best. Picture post-card idyllic. Never more so than when the sun is shining.

Our bike ride over to Nin proves the point. Nin – famous for its natural salt production, Queens Beach and Gregory of Nin. We go exploring. Take the long route. Use the quiet lanes. (Not that the main roads are that busy). Our fifty five minute ride takes us through the less visited areas. Hardly another vehicle passes in either direction. Gives us chance to amble. Go behind the scenes. Take it all in.

We can see there’s a secret army at work.  Like fairies who only come out at night when there’s no chance of discovery – these armies wait until the huge influx of foreigners have gone back home to their jobs. Nin and its surrounding villages, not unusual. The length of the Croatian coastline already a sea of camp sites, hotels and apartments. A dictum must be in place. Double, no, triple the available apartment accommodation. Do it sooner. Not later. An annual invasion is being encouraged. Nearly all welcome . . .

The Roman Legacy is evident throughout Croatia. Like a medieval fair it helps to draw in the last of the season’s trade. Even when there’s not much on show.

Tours of the famous salt works are at an end. We make do with cycling through the salt fields. Not a single grain in sight.

Our carefully planned route sees us back at camp by 4pm. We take up our well deserved slightly angled almost horizontal positions. Emulate a couple of solar panels. Endeavour to keep our mouths shut tight. Try not to snore too loudly. Then, when we do, take it as a reminder to cool off and go swim . . .

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. So it stands to reason that all play and no work makes Jack very interesting. Or at least what he gets up to.

Looking like a couple of Highway Patrol Officers on vacation – helmets, black out sunnies and T-shirts, we Scoot into Zadar. We’ve put out an APB. The search is on for a bit of culture, a lot of humour and some soothing water music.

We leave Scoot outside and enter through the ancient city wall. Immediately lose track of our first target. There are no broken twigs or droppings to help. No visitor friendly signs either. Not for the first time we’re clueless. Pace up and down, then round the block. Eyes squinting furtively. We look as if we’re casing the joint. Getting ready for a stakeout. We find it. Staring back at us – The Museum of Ancient Glass.

It’s beautifully laid out. The workmanship from way back quite astounding. These 1st century local finds our favourites . . .

We’re given a glass blowing demo. It’s fast. Every second counts. The molten glass needs to be kept and worked at just the right temperatures for each part of the process. I fail to capture ‘the blow’. He’s faster on the draw than me. Mary-Ann manages some blow-less stills.

Our lunchtime sarnie spot is out front. We’re the old side of the inlet. Gives us a great view of the new. Scoot’s in view too. Not quite hiding.

The Museum of Illusions is just across the street. It’s just gone 2.30pm. We’re today’s first customers. Peak season can see one hundred people crammed in. We have it all to ourselves. Lose our inhibitions. Mary-Ann starts with a touch of growth therapy . . .

Then I fail to watch my step. Be on my best behavior. Put a foot wrong. The now Super Size Nanny lays down the law. Sends me to the naughty seat . . .

But not for too long . . .

I get the last laugh. Time for dinner . . .

The kaleidoscopes amuse . . .

We finish the day with some water music. The Sea Organ pipes built into the side of the sea wall create a continuous harmony of unique chords. Orchestrated beautifully by the lapping waves.

Such a pity the Chinese and Japanese parties were only interested in taking photos and chattering on and not listening.

It doesn’t matter whether you’re eating your favourite pudding. Watching your favourite film. Listening to your favourite piece of music. Hanging out in your favourite place, or being with your favourite person. Time moves on. Changes things. And so must we.

There are few places we come across on our travels where we want to stay a little longer. This is one of them. Aided and abetted by the warmth and sun of course.

We’ll be sad to move on from this little piece of paradise. So, we make the best of our last day. Get the bikes out again. Go in the opposite direction. Tootle around Zaton and its environs. See what we could have missed. Come across this pretty little backwater for one. . .

On our way back we stop off for our lunchtime sarnie. We do a Paul Simon. “Old Friends . . . sat on their park bench like bookends” . . . though not quite seventy – yet!

Back at base we arrange to meet up in ninety minutes by the pool. I’m off biking again. Want to take a look at what’s over the other side of Nin’s Queen’s Beach. End up on the far side of the bay. Run out of road. Only the forest behind left to explore. Check the time. Go do it.

By 3.35pm I’m horizontal and warming nicely. Like a browning marshmallow waiting to be dunked in cold custard.

Each evening’s walk to watch the sunset takes us past the familiar. Greeted by the same cat on our return. Ever eager for a chin tickle. Follows us for forty metres. Then gets bored. This time decides to hold up the lone car. Waits. Slowly and deliberately walks directly into its path. Comes to a halt. As does the car. Thinks about, as my mum would often say, “Playing the bagpipes”. The car honks. Makes his mind up for him. He saunters onto the verge. Tunes up. We can see what’s under his kilt!

A little farther on, this kenneled dog remains stoically on duty. Has he moved a muscle since yesterday evening? Uncharacteristically, he never gives us a second look. Not interested in scaring passing grokels. Has more sense. Interested in one thing only. His master’s voice.

Then before we know it, it’s 6.24pm. Another sunset sinks solemnly below. It’s on its way into tomorrow. Just like us . . .

It’s amazing what you can actually sleep through. The phrase ‘dead to the world’ wasn’t coined for no good reason. Babies do it all the time. It would come in handy for us too while on tour. Early am thunderstorms, fireworks, motorbikes, trains, church bells, barking dogs, screeching cats, loud campers, bin lorries, thumping parties, P.A. testing , snoring . . .  these are not a few of our favourite things.

Our favourite place is history. Now spinning out of reach. We’re turning Beastie’s head northwestwards. Time and back management takes our priority. With a little under 2,000 kilometres to Calais we need to do some simple maths. Divide our time and days. Come up with the right answer. Make sure we don’t leave a remainder. Ensure our remaining plans are not Pi in the sky. Don’t want to be going round in circles.

Today’s Adriatic accompaniment would have benefitted from having a chauffeur on board Beastie. Non stop head-turning stuff. I have to ‘keep my mind on the drive, keep my hands on the wheel and keep my snoopy eyes on the road ahead’. Wait for a perfect stopping place. They’re few and far between.

This one, one of the best . . .

The D8 coast road is definitely a favourite. We’re heading back to Camping Selce. Unbeknown to us we stayed there for one night on the way down. Let me clarify that sentence. We knew we were there, when we were there. It was only when we entered reception for the second time, to be greeted by the lady with the ‘pug nose’, (not sure if that’s very un-PC?) did we realise it wasn’t a case of deja vu.

From Selce we move out of craggy Croatia, back into silky Slovenia, then on towards tiresome Trieste, Italy. Our few weeks in each barely scratching the surface. Scratching has become a bit of a habit these last few days too. It seems we’ve been unknowing accomplices. Subjected to a nightly clandestine ‘ménage à trois’. And not just from one extra female bed partner, but three! Silent savagery the nature of their game. We, like innocent sacrificial lambs stretched out on an altar, provide an endless supply of blood. Our comatose collaborating with their desires. They have their way with us. Know our weak and tender spots. Each female’s skills honed to perfection, as is their ultra sharp stiletto. We remain oblivious to the attack. We can do nothing. That is, until morning . . . scratching time is over! It’s pay-back time.

Mrs S is on a hat-trick – two down one to go . . . SMACK

And we didn’t even get offered a cup of tea and a biscuit . . .

Entering Trieste is traumatic. It seems we have arrived on the final day of the annual Barcolana Regatta. We’ve never heard of it. Unlike the quarter of a million spectators who are here, there and everywhere. The bay is awash with white sails. Over two thousand racing the fifteen mile course. The sight  a marvelous  manic menagerie. They have perfect weather. We are unable to park up anywhere sensible to even get a decent photo 🙁

The only camp site in Trieste is full. Surprise, surprise. We move on. Another site thirty minutes outside of town is willing to allow us a two night stop. Although they will officially close tomorrow. How kind is that?

Perched at the top of Istria and against the odds it is quite obvious that Trieste is an Italian city through and through. Not quite what we had been led to believe while we were in Slovenia.

We’ve been puzzling for weeks. Curious to know what these plastic floaters are.

At first we thought they indicated safe channels for the boats to pass through. Or perhaps were designated mooring places. However, it seems they serve a different purpose – we think. Our D8 route into Trieste gives us a better viewpoint. Zooming in it seems that this boat may be some sort of miniature fish/lobster/crab processing plant. We are non the wiser. Any suggestions?

We bus into Trieste. Tickets only available from selected places. Bus drivers unable to issue tickets or take money. Once down town, a Barcolana clear up is under way. A couple of the old town Piazzas still a mass of wires and empty stalls. Even so the Treasure Trove that is Trieste architecture still delights – even without a clear blue sky.

The gold leaf detail on the face of this building simply exquisite . . .

We move on to an out of town attraction – 19thC Miramare Castle. Camp site lady told us we just need the number 6. Man in the tobacconist, where we buy the tickets from, tells us we need the number 6, then the number 36. Young girl at the bus stop tells us we only need the 36. Confused? We will be . . . Forty minutes pass. The number 36 doesn’t show. When a number 6 arrives the driver informs us that it takes us all the way! Good job we’re on our hols.

The castle would do our National Trust proud. It’s stunning and in a stunning location.

No sign of shorts and T-shirts today. There’s a nip in the air. All gone summer? We’ll see . . .

Scroll up too, to see the full view of this staircase

By the time we’re ready to leave, the coastal park gate through which we’d entered is closed. We make our way up to the main road. Opposite direction. We have two options. Catch a number 6 back into Trieste then the number 44. A one hour minimum trip with no walking. Or just catch a number 6 away from Trieste to Sistiana. Then walk the 2K back to our site in Aurisina. Probably less than forty minutes all in. We go for the latter. As we approach the stop a number 6 whizzes past. Turns out that at 5.40pm it’s the last one today! A young lady, also waiting, tells us the number 51, due soon, stops at Sistiana. We thankfully board. The driver takes one look at our tickets and says “These aren’t valid. They’re for a different bus company!” Then he looks at our forlorn faces. Relents. Lets us on. Now how kind is that! . . .

It’s dusk by the time we get back to camp. The gate is locked. Reception closed and in darkness. It’s then we remember. As we’re the only ones left on the site, the lady gave us a key to get in. The key is still in Beastie. The gate and side fence has sharp spiky tops. We don’t like the look of them. Mrs S not interested in a bunk up. I go undercover. Come over all 007. Go stalking alongside the perimeter fence. On my side it’s 8 feet high.  Look for a weak point in its defences. Find one. Another fence meets it at right angles. Allows me enough purchase to get on top. Now I’m standing and facing in. Should be facing out. Need to perform a 180 pirouette. Make sure it doesn’t turn into a Nutcracker Suite. A too-too painful thought. Rudolf would have been proud of me . . . .

Beastie’s like our personal traveling cocoon. (Some might think circus) We’re wrapped up and cotton wool protected. Safe and sound inside his big fat tum. Our time and space craft. Suspended in a free-form state of animation. Allows us a different type of freedom. We decide when to unhitch our invisible cords. Climb  out. Go take a look at what’s going on in the visible world nearby. Then re-hitch when we’ve seen enough. Move on. Like spacemen visiting alien planets. Not always realising we’re the aliens.

There comes a point on every trip when we ask the question “Just where is home?” It usually occurs after we’ve been on the road for about four weeks. Is it there or is it here? The fact that we may stay in a different place each night not part of the equation. It’s so easy to adapt to a new set of routines. They become the norm. And norm the new home. As Paul Young famously sang in ’83 “Wherever I lay my hat, that’s my (our) home”.

Dealing with our own little day to day dramas, it’s easy to block out the rest of the ‘news’ of the world and it’s ongoing melodramas. Even when they could impinge or have an effect on us – if we were there. But we’re not. Ours is not that world. So we shrug. Ignore – most of the time. At best they become conversation starters. News of family and friends the exception. WhatsApp keeps us informed of WhatsUp.

We can tell we’re back in Italy. 172 kilometres traveled today. 37 roundabouts negotiated. (They don’t believe in T-junctions.) Add half as many speed cameras and it’s all slow going. Leaves us an hour or so to stretch our legs at journey’s end. Revine Lago, our half way house on the road to Torbole at the northern tip of Lake Garda, our home for tonight. Even though it’s in a pretty location, we wouldn’t dream of taking our hats off to it. Rustic, basic, and in need of drastic modernisation.

A carbon copy of yesterday finds us pitched up at Camping Europa – with direct access onto the shore of Lake Garda. The next few days forecast fine. We book three nights – then go and make the most of the remaining daylight.

We’ve all got at least one, haven’t we? That little unbreakable habit. Or perhaps a certain compulsion that overcomes, given the right circumstance. Nothing can prevent it. Like iron filings in the grip of a magnetic field. There is no other option.  It becomes the default state.

What’s mine? It’s anything that’s high. Impossible to resist. This top end of Lake Garda is surrounded by high. Mrs S notices I’ve come over all twitchy. Gives me the nod. I can go ‘ride-about’. Decide to tackle this near part of Monte Baldo that towers over much of the eastern shoreline. Follow the ‘Piste Ciclabili’ sign. Head up towards Battaglia di Malga Zurez – part of the WWI Austro-Hungarian defensive line cut into the rocks. After forty minutes no sign of a flat bit. I remove a layer. All zigs and zags. Nothing less than a 15% incline. Take a photo. 

Thirty minutes later and I’m still zig-zagging the zig-zags. A couple of walkers spring out up ahead. Is it my imagination or are they going faster than me? I put on a spurt. Nonchalantly overtake them as if I’m out for my usual Sunday st-roll. Suddenly realise I have to maintain this speed for fear of them overtaking me!

At this point I start to question my sanity. Or maybe lose it? Still no sign of a flat bit. Do I give up? Can’t.  Imagine I’m leading The Tour peloton. But wait. As I’m on my own perhaps I’m trailing it. Need to rethink.  My OCD kicks in. Finds the key.  Got it. It’s the red polka dot top I’m after. (not to be confused with its itsy bitsy yellow counterpart – that was a different Brian – and wouldn’t suit me) My legs no longer my own. Become two self-operating clockwork automatons. I’m sure I’ll enjoy this ride at some point. Like at the top – maybe.

I wonder if this shrine was placed on-route to give a heavenly push . . .

Then I wonder if this is how a bike riding sinner spends eternity – on an infinite incline like this? With no more easy gears left I start to despair of ever seeing the Flamme Rouge. Am I that much of a sinner? In fact the only thing that’s rouge around here is my face. You could poach an egg on my forehead.

At each hairpin I think ‘Is this the one’. Then it is! I’m OTT. A short way past this sign it’s flat. I turn around. Perform a polka dotted imaginary strut. King of the Mountain.

Curiously, underneath this sign is a small ‘No Entry’ plaque. Forbids cyclists to ride along the very narrow ledge on the right, that tops a sheer drop. It goes into part of the old look-out post that was built into the mountain. How crazy. What cyclist in his right mind would want to go there? Down is never an option . . .

Well, if you want some lunch it is. Twenty six minutes later I’m refueling. Mrs S gets the urge to go ‘up’ too – but by foot. We take the Busatte – Tempesta trail. Brings us stunning views of the lake and opposing mountains.

On our way down we stop off at the Busatte Adventure Park cafe. Hope to get a cup of tea and a slice of something. Problem is Polly’s escaped. Not interested in putting the kettle on. Left Percy in the lurch on his perch. She won’t be coaxed. We make do with water . . .

As if that wasn’t enough exercise, we’ve discovered a decent table-tennis table. That rounds the day off nicely.

Lullabies not required tonight . . .

What do governments, dictators, communists, fascists, capitalists, nationalists, politicians, royalists and religious all have in common? Is it fear? Fear that theirs is not the only way? Fear that theirs is not the right way? Fear that anarchy will rule without their intervention or jurisdiction?

Fear, like measles, can spread like wildfire. We were fearful before we ‘joined’ Europe and now we’re fearful of exiting it. Like spots before the eyes, we don’t seem able to see the trees for the woods. Is the UK really like the proverbial leopard and unable to change its spots?

Our limited time touring just a little of Europe gives us a limited experience. True. Yet so far, a consistent one. Develops our opinion. Enables us to see things with a new perspective. We’re not the ones in sheep’s clothing, pretending. We’re not the over-protective ones. We are really not the one’s to have anything to be fearful of. It’s ‘them’. Those. Fearful that their nationalistic tendencies are perceived to be more than just skin deep. Fearful that their spots might return. Or even worse. Replaced by another’s. ‘Sacré bleu!‘

The MAG museum is a good reason to leg it into Riva del Garda. The town is crammed into the extreme north western tip, between lake and mountain, like a last minute holiday ‘must take”. An earlier morning’s bike ride enables a reconnoitre. Isaac is playing. Like many, I get rooted to the spot. A welcome interruption. Virtuosity on display. Creates his own unique interpretation of Carlos Santana’s Samba Pa Ti. His sound compensates for the traffic’s roar in the lakeside tunnels I’d passed through.

The MAG turns out to be a disappointment. Lots on display. All information in Italian. No audio available. Why are we surprised? Good job we paid half price for seniors. 🙂 🙂

The old quayside town a delight. The nearby mountain shortens the day. It’s three-thirty. We hunt down the last remaining sunny seat. Splash out. A little over two euros for coffee and cake. We’re in the perfect spot.

“Don’t make me angry. You won’t like me when I’m angry”. David Banner was forever getting angry. A gamma agitated mis-timed state that transformed him into a raging green giant. 

Time is all in the mind – isn’t it? When falling out of control, that one split second can feel so much longer. Just like a slow-mo movie clip. Your mind runs at a faster pace than time itself. Creates an invisible time and space interval. Just for you – or rather itself. Applies a frantic fast-forward in the vague notion that you’ll be able to park up ahead. See the danger coming. Reach out. Rescue it and save your-self in the process too. More often than not you get fooled. Fail and fall. Crash to the floor.

Why is it that when we want more time, there isn’t enough? And when we have too much, we often don’t know what to do with it . . .

Time and again, we tend to judge a camp-site on four criteria: cleanliness; hot water; toilets; showers. All other facilities, not part of the picture. Considered enhancing add-ons only.

Our Camping Poncione two-nighter at Sorico is in a beautiful location. A stone’s throw from Como’s feeder Fiume Mera and a five minute riverside walk from the lake itself. The view from our pitch, pitch-er perfect.

We discovered on arrival that to shower will cost one euro. “How much time do we get?” – “Five minutes”. Later that evening we compare after shower notes. “That was a quick five minutes. Felt like three and a half at a push” – “More like three I’d say”. So this morning I time mine. I just about get through the final rinse. The temperature plummets and the power cuts out. Three minutes six seconds, excluding a twenty-four second warm up period. I dry myself. Look in the mirror. All I can see is the colour green . . . . later, the owner’s shrug and apology do nothing to water down my anger. Only our afternoon lakeside bike ride does that.

Apart from straggling pedestrians the ride holds some other interest as we head down towards the lake proper. It’s not all plain sailing . . .

We never know what we’ll find waiting around the next corner . . .

At Domaso we about turn. But not before finding somewhere to while away forty minutes. Chill out in the late sun. The time passes far too quickly . . . naturally.

This tour has had a common thread running throughout. It’s been woven together with lakeside stopovers. Interlaced with a colourful array of locations. Pieced together like appliqué to create a timeless tapestry of sights and memories.

So it’s no surprise that Beastie’s pitch at our two nighter at Campeggio Plein Soleil is just 50 metres from? . . . Lago di Viverone. It’s small by comparison, but none the less, still beautiful.

The chill from our late afternoon walk reminds us it will soon be time to pack away the shorts and t-shirts. Coupled with the fact that we have the walk virtually to ourselves, there are other reminders too . .

The string of small villages, Piverone, Viverone and Roppolo, run parallel to and overlook the lake. Our chance to unwind. Give Scoot his final run-out. Nothing particular in mind – other than to have a nose around.

The streets are quiet and deserted. The ancient scenes around every corner give reason for the dwindling populations. Locally produced wine and kiwi not likely to encourage 21stC youngsters to hang around.

The plain exteriors of the buildings lend themselves to a bit of paintwork. Many use pumpkins as a means to add decoration.

The run down exterior of the local church belies its well preserved and elaborate interior. But for how much longer?

In Roppolo a lucky find sees us Scoot up to check out its Castello. We’re the only visitors. Get treated to a ‘1-on-1’ guided tour. Valentina fills us in on the French wealthy owner, who passed by one day and decided to buy the place – as you do. He’s been renovating it ever since. Keeps many of his own personal treasures here. Occupies the place for three months each year with his Chinese wife.

It’s steeped in history – well it is old! Even Napoleon stayed for a couple of weeks. We spend a delightful ninety minutes as Valentina tells us everything of importance.

The view from the terrace is stunning, although it seems something more interesting is going on below . . .

Further down we visit the wine cellar. It seems some of the newer wines are on sale. We stock up ‘our cellar‘ with Eurospin wines costing no more than three euros. Valentina shows no sign of amazement on hearing this. Simply informs us that any wine bought for less than eight euros is good for cooking only . . .

It’s just as well none of us ever knows what today will bring. Most of us with ordinary lives, living in ordinary times. We treasure those special moments that make us human. We plan. We dream. Hope for the occasional extraordinary. Wanting the best that’s possible for ourselves. Even more so for our children and theirs. The future can be a beautiful place to be, but also a very cruel place too . . .

The sun has already brushed his teeth by the time I’m lakeside. His dazzling smile disperses the golden mist as I get ready to click. Creates puffs of latent clouds that hover just above the surface, as if they are not sure what to do next.

Mornings like this make you feel good to be alive. The natural becomes super-natural. A mystery unfolds. It’s not the how, nor the what, but the why – that makes it so special.

We have one of our longest days ahead of us. Grenoble here we come. Hate to travel on a blue day, but needs must. Missy, as usual, programmed to ‘avoid’  all non-toll motorways. The local terrain can dictate though. Very occasionally, like today, it’s unavoidable. She takes us westwards across the top of Turin. We’re happy. Average mph is at a peak. Then suddenly we’re in the land of warning indicators. A blinking barrage of orange slows the flow to a halt. Prevents all but the adept bikers. They slip through. We hold on to our frustrations. Time slips by. Sirens scream by on the hard shoulder. It goes quiet. Everyone’s engine cut. Curiosity calls. Drivers step down. Peering. It’s a bad one. ‘That could be me, but for the grace of God’. A reality check experienced by all. Injects a calm and sober patience.

Forty-five minutes later the last of three air ambulances fly off. 

It’s not a pretty sight. Cruelly, this motorway stretch ends just a few hundred metres farther on.

Lunchtime sees us park up alongside the last Eurospin this side of France. We lighten numerous shelves. Beastie bulges. We utilise every and any space that will accommodate our favourite Italian food! As we head towards the peaks of the Rhône-Alpes it turns into one of the hottest days of our tour. 30C.

With our extended lunch and motorway hold-up we are now way behind schedule. We head up to just over two thousand metres. The RN91 passes through the Col du Lautaret. Stunning scenery draws us to a halt numerous times. We’re fast running out of light. Hope to capture and preserve a little of the awe.

Mrs S not too happy about getting close to this super-steep gorge . . .

As if that’s not enough, here’s a high waterfall. We’re having a ball. Whatever will we come across next? . . .

We were NOT expecting this. Route Barrée. The déviation does not permit any traffic over 3.5 ton. We’re 3.65 ton-ish. Probably more with the liquid Beastie’s consumed. Do we head back and round the bottom of the Alps? Not likely . . .

We decide to risk it. This built up ledge not meant for the likes of Beastie. A couple of temporary Bailey-Bridge like structures raise our pulse rates. For once I’m not sure we were wise. It’s obviously meant as a one way deviation, but one or two know-all locals are also unwilling to do what we should have. Cause us acute consternation.

Relief is more than a four letter word. Once back on terra firma we get a glimpse of the ridiculous reservoir ledge.

It’s dark by the time our nine hour journey comes to a close. We pull up outside the camp gates. They are closed . . . a push of a button and a “Bonsoir monsieur etc., etc.” into a microphone does the trick. We’re in.

Hello Grenoble . . . zzz

It’s just a small technicality. We have to get to and from Slovenia and Croatia someway. Almost forty per cent of our tour is in neither. “Pas de probleme” as they say over here. Gives us the opportunity to visit previously missed places – such as Grenoble.

With GB’s wet and cold heading our way on Saturday morning, we time it just right. Coincide our Thursday and Friday with two days of glorious low 20s autumn sunshine.

Since 1934, visitors and home birds alike, have been flown up to the Bastille Fortress. For over four hundred years it’s dominated the growing city spraw below. A higher than usual crow’s nest that we visit today.

Technically it’s now winter. So it’s four ‘bulles’ rather than the summer’s five. It seems the locals don’t come out to play until after lunch. As the second couple in the queue we get the second bulle in the queue. These must have seemed ultra-funky when they replaced the old cable cars in 1976 – in fact they are still ultra-funky. Like true icons – obviously the ‘Bulles is here to stay.’

Up-top we take an audio tour of the Museum of Mountain Troops. It adds another important piece to the ever growing World War picture jig-saw in our minds. Earlier we spot some young troopers on guard. Their head worn ‘Tartes’ create quizzical and comical comments between two passing plebs. (i.e. us). The tartes resemble the standard French beret, but look as if they’ve been flattened, like navy blue Jus-Rol puff pastry. Post visit, these same jaunty berets proudly bear witness to the 150,000 comrades ‘lost’ in conflicts.

We tram back into town on Friday. Our bottomless brains happy to cram in our last bit of culture at The ‘Art’ Museum of Grenoble. Like yesterday we’re practically first in line. Nobody about. There are many fine paintings on display that grab our attention. We while away the hours. They also have a contemporary section. We take a gamble. We’ve been taken for fools before. Been disappointed. This time however, we get our reward. We never thought we’d live to see the day . . .

You can keep your Pablo, Vincent, Monsieur Monet, Rembrandt, Caravaggio, Rubens, Goya, Botticelli, Salvador, yes, and even your Jackson Pollock . . .

You can wait a lifetime, sometimes longer. You can pay millions, even billions of dollars and fail to find another like it.  Yet for a mere five euros each, we are able to actually stand and admire. We can boast – we were just inches away.  Overwhelmed, we stand in front of THE greatest work of ALL time – past, present and future. Would we dare to touch it? Maybe a small kiss? Or should we simply bow down to venerate this Royal Master-piece. This genius work. It takes all of our energy to hold back the sobs . . . tears slowly form in the corner of our eyes then gush down our cheeks. Two flowing foolish fountains. The security man on the corner chair can see we’re cracking up. His eyebrows raise in concern. We can see he’s trying to restrain himself too. But then he cracks up. He understands our emotion. He has to go through this umpteen times every shift. How does he do it? Then Mrs S ‘advises’ me to control myself. Reminds me where I am. This is a place of serious art. Brings me back down to earth. To my senses. But it’s useless. I’m lost. Words can’t express what I feel . . . .

ONLY LAUGHTER DOES . . .

As Mark Knopfler brilliantly penned during his Dire Straits days . . . ‘Then you get an artist, says he doesn’t want to paint at all. Just takes an empty canvas. Sticks it on the wall’

What a load of balls . . .

Our outward journey never takes too much planning. We decide which countries to visit. Once across, decide on a rough route. Then just go with the flow. Usually letting the surroundings, local attractions and weather make our decisions for us. Simple really.

Coming home is different. Timing each day’s journey just right so that we arrive in Calais on time for our crossing, presents more of a problem. We have to be more disciplined. Time management not our forte.

Leaving Grenoble on Saturday is no big deal. With both arms twisted behind our backs, the severe change of weather wrestles any plans we consider making away from us. We’ve had a good run for our money. Now we’re running for home. Into more of the same no doubt.

Our conumdrum? At the moment it’s purely governed by the weather – whether we should change from slow to fast. Scenic to boring. Two opposing sums. Fewer days + motorway tolls – overnight stop charges – versus –  More days + scenic routes + overnight stop charges. We need to consider this contingency for future. To be constantly rained in on site, is not what we do this for.

Our route home takes us via the countryside, towns and villages of France that endear us so much. There’s a certain ‘je ne sais quoi’ about the way things just are – it resonates with both of us like a religious mantra. We have never heard of the walled town of Beaune. Set in the centre of the Burgundy wine growing region it brings us satisfying respite near the end of today’s journey. The rain holds off for one hour . . .

The ancient arched town entrance gives us a smile. His mate on the other side of the arch, in a similar predicament.

Our route in and out of Beaune takes us along the “Route des Grands Crus”. A sixty kilometre stretch that’s home to their ‘raison d’etre’ – billions of grapes. A fitted carpet of vines. It’s an edge to edge grapescape.

Today, Monday, we revisit an old watering hole. Out of pure necessity. It’s the only site still open in the vicinity. 15th May last year saw us bike out alongside the beautiful Lac d’Orient – remember this scene . . .

Of course, when we think back, this is the image that springs to mind. Our return springs a shock. Like a diminishing African waterhole all is transformed.

Again we strike lucky. A small break in the weather allows us a welcome autumn stroll down the path we cycled last year, before night sets in.

This morning, Tuesday. 0°C and sleeting. Our conumdrum is solved. We decide to take a Thursday instead of Saturday crossing. I nip out first thing to try and capture ‘the moment’! The sleet doesn’t show. The great expanse of the missing lake does  . . .

They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. But maybe that old dog can be taught to do the tricks he does know, better.

Firstly – our ‘on-board’ navigator. Our alter-ego. Wherever egoes, wego. Even if ‘he’ is a Missy.  We’ve eventually seen through her God-like pretence. A know it all, who doesn’t. No longer afraid, we no longer hover on her every word, like a couple of star struck groupies. Feel able to call into question her seemingly divine wisdom. Don’t consider her quite so pretty.  Sometimes just pretty dumb. Even a real map has been consulted when deemed absolutely necessary. Yet despite this, we still mistakenly maintain a residue of blind faith. Allow her to lead us up the garden path, or off-road dirt track, designated for lumberjack’s juggernauts only.

Secondly – on maneuvering Beastie. I now tend to adopt the carpenter’s approach. Measure twice, cut once. The only occasion I didn’t do this, resulted in the bike rack smacking into a concrete fence post. In fact, this was a better outcome. If we’d have missed the post, it’s likely that the rack would have become unknowingly entangled in the fence. And even more likely that Beastie would have then yanked, pulled and dragged the whole fence out from its fixings. That wouldn’t have pleased the MOHO dealership, whom we’d just purchased our new Beastie levelers from.

Thirdly – when faced with a situation where one (me) can call a man in to get one (me) out of a sticky hole, then do it. Without question. No more wheel changes for one – or even five.

Fourthly – breaking out Scoot shouldn’t, but it sometimes does, feel like a pain. It takes thirty minutes. Involves clearing everything from the garage. Re-securing and re-loading, takes another thirty minutes. We are going to look at another simpler solution before our next trip.

And lastly, but not leastly and certainly most importantly. We have discovered that God is definitely a man. And how did we establish this fact? Simple. On day four there is no way that he would have been seen out, creating stars and heavenly bodies. He would have stayed in and washed his hair . . .

If you’ve been one of the few that’s persevered reading this blog to the bitter end, then congratulations. Welcome to the crazy club. Thank you for your company. It’s been fun recording and sharing with you some of the more interesting places and events we’ve either witnessed or unwittingly created . . .

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