Category: Slovenia 2018

I find that my ability to concentrate, more often than not, depends on how well I can keep control of those thought processes that are so keen to take me away from the present moment. And when that is full of the familiar, the mundane, the ordinary, then I inevitably fast forward into the future. Never more so than when we start to close in on another MOHO trip.

I begin to itch for that other life. I become an unborn MOHO Sapiens waiting for my time to come. Then once birthed, ever eager to face the fires of Beastie baptisms once again. Like a born again Christian following the Way I long to cross over into the promised land.

It almost feels like a practice for death. Saying goodbyes. Leaving family and friends behind. Letting go of that “other life” and all it holds. Its comforts and security.  Venturing into the unknown. But always having confidence, safe in the knowledge that something extraordinary awaits. Something new and exciting. All we have to do is head towards that welcoming bright light at the end of the black tunnel . . .

 

Perched in isolation on top of this thing we call a head, our brain has a lot to answer for. It’s capable of carrying out some of the most incredible tasks in the known cosmos. However, it does have an Achilles heel and it’s also host to this thing we call a mind.

It’s Wednesday evening and we’re currently pitched up in lovely Rochefort, Belgium. It’s been a very long day. Over two hundred miles must be close to Beastie’s record. It’s pretty much chucked it down from the moment we awoke. In one sense a good day to travel. We arrived totally cream crackered.

Earlier this morning, as our crossing was coming to a halt, I put my mind to work. “Pay attention!” I told it. “Make sure what happened last time doesn’t happen again.”

And what happened last time? During the crossing Mrs S stood at the back of Beastie reading a book. I was sprawled sideways across the driver and passenger seats, feet up, playing chess on my phone. Unnoticed by either of us the train came to a stop. Our carriage emptied. We were totally oblivious. Mrs S edging towards the end of a captivating chapter. Me, edging towards an infrequent victory. I have no notion of how long we remained concentrated, heads down. For some strange reason I glanced up, not wanting to lose my current positional advantage, I needed to take a breather and re-assess. Just as well I did.

If you’ve ever been on a tunnel crossing, then you’ll know just how long these carriages are. They are huge. Each one holds a long queue of vehicles, or are supposed to. Ours now didn’t – well, at least not in front of us.

At this point my mind had lost all sense of time. All sense of where it was. All sense of its responsibilities. It had forgotten who it was, so intent was it on the game. Nothing else was of consequence.

As I gazed into the distance it seemed like I was looking down the wrong end of a telescope. Two tiny uniformed figures were peering down from the other end. Scratching their heads no doubt. A discombobulated surge of energy charged into my brain – (re-arrange the letters and you get me) as it tried to make sense of the visual confusion confronting it. Sudden realisation turned to panic. “Cheese!” I yelled, “we’ve got to get rolling” . . .

Still on the subject of our brain, this weird place where we reside. Swimming around in its fatty liquid, we assume we’re alone, with it all to our-self, locked inside its massive biological labyrinth. But what if we’re not? What if there’s more than one of us? That could explain a lot of things, couldn’t it?

Do we really change our mind or do we just let the “other” have their own way? And when under pressure why do we say things like “Come on, you can do this!” – just who is this “you” that’s being spoken to? And how come we can have supreme confidence one minute and want to hide inside our shell the next?

Maybe our brains are home to numerous “others”. How else can it perform a brilliantly difficult task one minute and then fail abysmally at doing a simple one the next? From boffin to botcher in a millisecond. I reckon there must be a whole bunch of others inside. All of mixed ability. Randomly taking turns. I reckon the Beezer and its Numskulls was on to something . . .

Take Tuesday for example. We’re on our way to Folkestone. No longer newbies. Done this before. No excuses. We’ve not even travelled more than ten miles when Mary-Ann pipes up with “Oh, I know what we’ve forgotten”.(A cheese grater) A few more miles later she adds “Oh, we’ve forgotten the bread knife too”. A little later it’s my turn with a catastrophic “Oh fiddle.[can’t you just hear me saying this?] We’ve forgotten the (wine) bottle opener”. (very few screw tops over here) There will be more things we’ll discover that are still “chez nous”, but those are all neatly listed on a piece of paper called our check list. But whose job was it to check the check list I wonder?

Back to reality . . .

We’re doing what we vow never to do. Munching up the motorway miles in pursuit of Slovenia. It’s boringly mind numbing. We’re getting nowhere slowly, or so it seems. Hence some of the nonesense written so far. (obviously Blogsworth is on an extended break) Signal/internet from Telecom.de either non existent, or sporadic at best, adding to frustrations.

Saarburg and Camping Waldfrieden is our home for tonight. We’re pitched up a twenty minute scenic walk from its centre. By 3pm we’re plugged in, lunched and making our way down the wiggly route. A mammoth marauder crosses our path. As large as the average golf ball Mrs S narrowly misses turning him into a Shrove Tuesday offering . . .

Saarburg is a delight. A thirteenth century river diversion now contributing to its atttaction. Basking in the early evening sunshine, as we indulge ourselves in what will be the first of many local pastries, we foolishly allow ourselves to believe the second coming of the sun has arrived.

 

Heading steadily south east towards Slovenia finds us zig-zagging across parts of southern Germany not on the Grand Tour itinerary. It’s all thanks to that one word. Umletiung.  “Detour” to you and me.

Several towns and villages cut off from through traffic – on our route. Lots of new road construction going on. Causes us consternation. Missy our Co-Pilot oblivious to all of them. She’s not been updated.

Fortunately we’re managing our days differently to previous. Lessons learned and all that. Shorter journeys and earlier set off times find us pitching up mid-afternoon latest. Gives us chance to go and explore locally. Saarburg a perfect example of what we could have missed.

Trippstadt and Camping Ausweis supplied our lakeside pitch on day 3 . . .

Camping Waldpark – Hohenstadt on day 4. Frustratingly the site is 500 metres from a huge telecom tower. Yet could we get a signal? 🙂

It doesn’t always work out just as planned though. Oberammergau is tonight’s stop-over. (Sunday 2^nd) South of Munich. Arrived shortly after 1pm. Reception closed. Unable to book in. Opens at 3pm! Lunch and route planning for tomorrow’s heave ho, up and over the Brenner Pass filled in. Aiming to steer clear of the Austrian motorways. With no vignette purchased or a MOHO Go Box on board we don’t want to face a hefty fine.

Oberammergau has a unique history and is world famous for it. Every ten years the town honours the vow its inhabitants made to God in 1633, when they prayed for his saving mercy as the Bubonic plague threatened to wipe out the town. He did spare them and so they have dutifully performed a Passion Play ever since. Even without the play the town sees a lot of tourists. Winter skiers and summer hikers. Today’s heavy mist puts the kybosh on a wander up slope, so we slope down into town. Its buildings awash with ornamental (some just mental) murals.  At any minute we were sure to bump into TweedleDee or TweedleDum.

Most shops aimed at the tourist. On offer traditional goods. Temptation nearly got the better of us at this shop, but unfortunately it was closed. Pity . . .

 

 

 

With neither of our on-board girl guides able to offer a sensible non-motorway route over and through the Brenner Pass, we were a little more apprehensive about today’s journey than usual.

We depart Oberammergau engulfed in mist. Just as we’d arrived. The earlier promise of something better gone in a puff of smoke.

Intermittent and poor mobile connection not expected in Germany. Once over the Brenner Pass and into Italy we’ll expect better. We needn’t have worried. Mrs S (AKA girl guide number 3) and her finely honed Moroccan map reading skills, steer us well clear of motorway fines. The B182 a dream. Typical Tyrol treats around every hairpin bend.

Once over and into Italy, these northern parts still very much German. Road signs in Italian and German. At our lunchtime stop, the SPAR check-out lady greets us in German, then changes to Italian when she realises we are English! We were making good time so decide to extend today’s journey. Head into the Dolomites. Switch back to Missy. She repays us by having a tantrum. Loses her bearings completely. Sends us cavorting up a wiggly and narrow one way one in four. You’d think we’d have been taught enough lessons by now. One day . . . perhaps.

‘Camping Toblacher See’ our home for tonight. It has to be the best ever. At 40+ euro per night the most expensive too. It’s a fantastic centre for walkers and MTB’ers. We build up an appetite with a lakeside lap.

There’s a universal rule, isn’t there? Every family has a special nonsensical phrase. Something unique to them. Something with a meaning that only they appreciate. Something they bring into play under certain circumstances. We are no exception to that rule.

Rewind to the nineties. Do you remember Gladiators? Our religion of the day would see us praying for our hero – Paul Field. Mighty conqueror of all in his path. King of competitors. British Champion. Then came International Gladiators and the International Final. Paul Field versus the US champ – Two Scoops Wesley Berry. Our boy got pipped. Since then we’ve adopted and adapt the phrase Two Scoops Wesley at any appropriate time. At a recent meet up with Laura, we parked up behind her. The first thing she uttered? “Two Jukes Wesley”. It’s flexible too. If another Juke had parked behind, then she’d have said “Three Jukes Wesley” . . .

Today’s mountainous route brings us a spectacular view of the Dolomites. We’re in Italy, but not as we know it.

The route down morphs into an Alpine wonderland.

A mid-afternoon leg-stretching stop and our last Italian town before the border. We’re in luck. Twenty ice cream flavours to choose from. For some strange reason, we choose two each.

On schedule and seven days after leaving home we cross into Slovenia and onto our two night stop-over at Kamp Koren. It’s in walking distance of Kobarid, tomorrow’s port of call with its WW1 museum. We still haven’t forgotten them . . .

The fact that I no longer take pleasure being spun around in a tea-cup may have something to do with my age. Or possibly my stomach. And although Beastie has a certain rock and a certain roll, which is especially true on the many uneven windy roads to get hither and thither, our constitutions have remained more or less in tact, even on the most uneven of surfaces.

Seven days on the trot sees us cross the border and make it onto Kamp Koren, just a ten minute walk from Kobarid. The site is perched alongside the Soca river, in the Julian Alps.  Beastie needs a rest. So do we. Two nights booked. It takes time to get our land legs back. Along with straighter backs. At times my brain is prone to a sudden retake. Thinks it’s still being rocked and rolled along. Passes the impression on to me. For a split second I’m being bounced along again. Even though I’m lying horizontal and it’s four o’clock in the morning!

The walk in takes us across the famous and now rebuilt Napoleon Bridge which spans the gorge at its narrowest part and was destroyed by the Austrians during WWI.

The aquamarine water below, a playground for kayakers.

In our short time here we’ve had to quickly get used to being dyslexic. Most combinations of letters making it totally impossible to pronounce hardly a Slovenain word. Just how would you get your tongue around a five letter word containing four following consonants? Just as well we don’t need to ask for directions!

Though still a relatively small town, Kobarid played a major part in WWI. The brilliant museum presentation is an eye opener. It’s difficult to imagine this beautiful Soča Valley was once the site of WWI’s Isonzo Front, where over one million soldiers were either killed or mutilated.

We walk back to camp in sober frames of mind. That is until a home grown Gold lifts our spirits slightly . . .

The first few moments of being a butterfly can’t be easy. You’ve spent most of your previous existence crawling around and munching anything green that gets in your way. You have a nap and zap! – you’re not you anymore. No longer a creepy-crawler. You can’t stand the sight of green. And oh, just look at those wings . . .

We’ve been creeping and crawling too. Eating up the green leafy roads into Ljubljana today. Rumour has it that the Slovenes invented the mountain hairpin bend and it feels like we’ve gone up and down everyone of them. An average speed of 24mph for today’s journey, a record we’d rather not repeat.

Our mid-afternoon arrival at Ljubljana Resort, in the northern suburbs of the capitol, gives us time to get Scoot out for his first outing. We need to spread our wings too. We scoot over to Tacen Whitewater Course. It’s a small section of the Sava River given over to Kayak International competition. The local club is putting their youngsters through their paces. Like all sports it’s much better live. At one point a teenager misjudges a gate. Gets turned over. We expect her to right herself. She doesn’t. The strong currents swiftly push her down stream. The coach jumps to his feet and runs. Another kayaker closes in just as she manages to resurface. Gasping for air she tries to cling on to her upturned boat. A rope is offered and she gets pulled to safety. A few minutes later, although tearful, she’s back in. Before attempting the course again, she deliberately capsizes herself. Re-energised and with pride put back in its rightful place, she crosses over into the white rush.

No better place to master your trade than on the big stage . . .

It’s fast and furious . . .

 

 

 

 

Just under two weeks of driving, not much in the way of aerobic exercise, plus the daily addition of bread and wine, is expanding my Middle Earth territories exponentially. The sooner a swimming regime can be re-introduced the better.

Our bus trip into Ljubljana today will do nothing to fight the flab. Nor the fact that the pool here is closed for the season. Despite it being 26C yesterday. Once down town, we get chance to mingle. Get a better feel for the Slovenes. They’re friendly, quietly spoken & polite. Their mother tongue easy on the ears. With English being their second language it makes for easier times in cafe’s and suchlike. English taught from eight years and upwards.

The inner medieval town, virtually encircled by the Ljubljanica River, is traffic free. We make for our first port of call. The overlooking castle. We take the funicular. A short cheap trip. It’s not what we thought. Not a castle really. We do a lap. At one point we ease past a young suited and booted guy and trip up a flight of stairs. We’re both wearing shorts and I’m carrying a backpack. At the top we’re greeted by two young ladies wearing ‘posh frocks’. They politely inform us that we’re about to gate crash a private function. We do a 360. Then fifteen minutes later we’re riverside again.

Plenty of connecting bridges. This one in particular following the “Love Lock” tradition.

We come to heel on our favourite. The Thirteenth century Cobblers’ Bridge.

We miss the Puppet Theatre clock by a smidgen. Go for lunch.

A five minute wait rewards us with the sight of Martin Krpan and his trusty mare . . . simple things and all that – we must be real tourists by now.

 

 

 

You know what it’s like. That nagging, throbbing, spirit robbing sensation when a chronic pain gets a grip of you and won’t let go. It blunts your focus on life. It’s all you can think of. It drains you of all energy. Leaving you humourless. You can’t see the end of it. But that’s all you hope for.

Our final lakeside walk this evening reminds us of the fact that the pain of the first week’s weather has surreptitiously slipped into oblivion. Just like the ache from a tooth that’s been pulled. The sun and warmth completely evaporating any remnants we harbour from those earlier cold miserable days.

We’re currently pitched up for a three nighter at Camping Jezero. A short distance from Velenje, alongside the appropriately named Velenje Lake! With swimming, walking and biking tracks, literally ten metres away we’re in heaven.

The site’s outdated facilities are compensated by the fact that we now have wall to wall sun. This steel trough being the most crazy looking dish-washing sink we’ve been fortunate enough to come across. Bizarrely, in reality it’s very functional. 

There are in fact three lakes here. We bike a lap of the larger two. Intermingle with the many locals and families who flock here at week-ends. Start to burn off some of those unwanted calories.

Follow it with a pre-lunch appetite enhancing dip to cool down. My entrance into the water, not entirely without incident. A slip-way seemed firm under foot on an earlier flip-flop wearing try-out. However, I hadn’t realised the algae covered sloping concrete now possessed the properties of a huge bannana skin under my bare feet. As I carefully edge down my feet begin to rush forward into the water faster than I anticipate. With arms flailing and failing to keep me upright and before I can adopt my famous Patrick Swayze surfer pose I get dumped like a bag of spuds. Fortunately, no tell-tale witnesses were passing 🙂

It looks as if I have it all to myself . . . not quite . . .

Another swimmer spotted as he searches out some lunch too.

Our afternoon amble allows us to enjoy the stunning scenery.

The following days see us go castle crawling. Velenje with its African collection.

And Celje with its torture collection. This fireside armchair being both our favourite. (If indeed you can have a favourite – but you know what I mean).

The views from on top give us typical Slovenian terrain.

We were surprised to discover that IKEA have been around much longer than we thought . . .

 

 

 

 

 

Your state of mind can have a powerful effect on everything you do. What can be a delight one second can turn into a drudge the next. It’s like receiving some really bad or sad news. It darkens and dampens the moment. Weighs heavy and brings you down. Clings on like a limpet until you find the means to shake it off.

Today we leave one lake in search of another. (search being the operative word here). Lake Bled our destination. The 162K journey I select is the slightly longer, but more scenic route. And it certainly is. Every direction filled with the familiar sight of ruffled hills. Like a turmoil of giant green Toblerones that have had their pointy bits smoothed over with a Surform.

At Kranj we make a wrong turn. We don’t realise we have until 27K later, when we reach a “multi” junction. Missy has gone AWOL. In fact, the tablet she resides in has run out of juice and powered off. No wonder she’d said nothing. The tiny roads we’re traveling discourage us to select one on offer for fear of making matters worse. (I must be losing my sense of adventure [or is it nerve?]) The obvious choice seems to be a single lane one in three. We backtrack to Kranj. We are not happy bunnies. Especially as we have to pass though the centre of several villages where the width of the road is no more than a foot wider than Beastie. Blind corners thrown in as a matter of course. On two occasions we attempt negotiations at exactly the same time as an oncoming lorry. Sadly I was too busy to take photos and Mary-Ann too busy praying.

Needless to say, the scenery as we backtrack takes on a different ambiance. We’re not interested in it anymore. Ignore it like the plague. Avert our eyes. It’s ageless beauty has shrivelled. Time being the only elixir of life now.

Once back at Kranj our mood lifts – helped by this crafty cone lifting invention.

It’s almost five by the time we reach our planned site. It’s full! The last spot taken by Mr Patel. He’d phoned them just twenty minute earlier. Another lesson learned?

They say things happen for a reason. Meaning all’s well that ends well. That maybe true in some instances. But I’m sure many can also testify against this falsehood. Fortunately we don’t have to.

Although our re-routed stopover is only a ten minute drive, it’s away from Lake Bled, where we want to be. We are compensated however by a massive and beautifully laid out site – Sobec Camping. If it had been closer, we’d certainly have stayed here longer.

By 12noon we’ve left Sobec and pitched up a stones throw from Lake Bled. Here for a three nighter. We’re given the choice of any vacant pitch. There are loads. Not all give enough room to unload Scoot. The one we choose does. In all probability it wouldn’t have been the case yesterday. So, thank you Mr Patel!

The images across Lake Bled delay our stretch-out as we constantly stop and snap. It’s almost fairy-tale-like. We walk the 6K circumference.  Build up a head of steam. It’s hot. Finish the day off with a sun-bathe and swim.

This little fella keen to get in on the act too . . .

At times it feels like we’re traveling around a huge outdoor play-park. Chock-a-block with wall to wall nature. Today’s excursion no exception.

We’re spoilt for choice. Choose Vintgar Gorge. A short Scoot into the hills. It’s just over 1.5K in length. On a previous outing we bump into a Belgian girl, over here competing in a Masters swimming event. She advises to go late afternoon. Miss most of the crowds. Good shout.

The elevated wooden walkway leads us down alongside the fast flowing Radovna river. It’s been gouging out this ravine for eons. Fabulous views around every twist and turn.

At a couple of sections downstream it’s apparent that one became two, became three and so on. Looking like miniature skyscraper cities. Constructed from blasted remains of an end of the world battle. Teetering rock cairns leading the way to nowhere. Signifying nothing. Other than ‘Kilroy was ere’.  

Further along it’s clearly become a competition . . .

Then we receive our prize. The end of the line. Šum Waterfall.

Is that really what the first explorer said when he discovered this spot? “Wow, that’s some waterfall” . . .

Earlier in the day we’d Scooted down to Radovljica. One of the prettiest local towns. Like many we’ve visited, traffic free. (OK – so not quite!)

They love hanging baskets over here and are expert creators.

We go in search of the Ginger Bread man. He’s busy inside this living working museum. They make ginger bread in the traditional way. A hundred year old tradition.  They know all about our Ginger Bread Man’s children’s story too.

We leave Radovljica, but not before Mary-Ann has collared this geezer . . .

Gate-crashers, like streakers, have this knack of giving you no warning. They take you completely unawares. They hardly ever sneak up from behind. So during this morning’s shower I wasn’t even given the courtesy of a knock. The above said gate-crasher simply walked straight in, his beady little eyes looking straight at me. His croaky voice feebly uttered something, which I didn’t understand. Then he proceeded to slowly eye me up and down, as if trying to draw a reaction.

Today, we move on from Kamp Bled to Camp Danica, Bohinjska Bistrica. A short skip south west. Not every pitch is pitch perfect. i.e. not level. So, we carry around a couple of angled wheel chocks, that Beastie rolls up onto to get us level. Unusually, we needed just the one at Kamp Bled. It wasn’t until reaching our new site did I realise that we’d rolled down and off it and left it in its place. Oops. Blooper number one! We’re hoping whoever is now in our place hands it in and doesn’t roll off with it.

It’s Mary-Ann’s birthday today. Is it my imagination? Is she getting more gorgeous as the years go by? We spend the late afternoon walking out from camp along the winding path and into the stillness of the valley that stretches down to Lake Bohinj. No cooking or washing up on this evening’s menu.

Now, where was I? Ah, yes, in the shower. At first I thought it was an insect. Then, a bird’s claw. Then, as more came into view, I could make out a webbed foot. His brazen gait edging ever closer from under the shower door. Hoping I wouldn’t notice him no doubt. No chance. He was huge. Down there I guess he couldn’t notice the red “occupied” sign. He caught my look of indignation and slowly backed out. His portly profile easily filling the width of my hand as I moved him to a safer hiding place.

 

 

 

 

 

 

With no need to tog up in our running spikes, we take an amble down to the western end of Lake Bihinj – we hope it’s going to be worth it.

Directly from the site we catch the Hop-On-Hop-Off bus into Bohinj. It nestles alongside its namesake lake in a large plateau beneath the Julian Alps. Neither of us must have paid attention at the time of asking, or we would have known that a second Hop-On-Hop-Off bus would then take us down to the far side of the lake, where we could meet some cows. Both operated free of charge. We walk the second leg. We’re off to the Cow’s Ball! (a bit of a contradiction, if you ask me) A unique Slovenian event, celebrating the end of grazing and tourist summer season. It’s in its 61st year.

It turns out to be a huge food festival, with a parading of cows the main event. A couple of MCs are providing an entertaining commentary as the cows are walked through. At one point the crowd bursts into infectious laughter. We can’t help but join in, although we have no idea what’s been said. The other MC expands a little, but in English. Seems the beloved cows all have names and some nick-names. Shitty-Arse being the butt of their humour. The best looking ones even get presented with a garland . . .

Mary-Ann reckons it’s about time I was put out to pasture . . .

Then it’s time for some dancing . . .

And the star turn . . .

To get the best view, you need the best seat. When it comes to the great outdoors, then there’s no better seat than on top of a mountain. The aptly named Vogel waiting to give us a bird’s eye view

We drag ourselves away from the Cow Ball. Cross the road and up the short, but steep, two hundred metres to the cable car. It drops us off at 1537 ears-popping metres later. We’re not done though. We’re on one of the biggest ski centres in Slovenia. One ski lift is operating. We jump on. Joined by a fellow Brit. She leaves her vertigo-prone hubby at base camp. He’s done well to get this far. On top, we jump off, she stays on and does a U-turn. I scramble up further and put my new toy to good use . . . just click on the circled corners near the right edge to go to full screen 360 view.

When you’re higher than a kite and looking down from such a position, you get to understand why God might have felt rather pleased with himself on that sixth day. It all looks rather ‘good’.

The ski-lift back down gives us a second chance to enjoy . . .

Then, with head straining out of the open window, like an excited seasoned car-traveling dog, we have the best seats in the house. As Richard Llewellyn may well have once written – “There is good, there is” . . .

We don’t walk much further today. Mary-Ann’s Fitbit clocks up 21,000 steps. Two HOHO’s ferry us back.

 

We’re not accustomed to it. Our normal “WotNexDo” touring regime has been laid to rest for now. With Ljubljana under our belt and Maribor (Slovenia’s second city) not on our radar, we have time to spare.

With fewer than seventy towns in Slovenia, all smaller than Christchurch’s 40,000, it’s easy to see why there’s so much green space here. Our walk and cycle ways being simple connections from one village to another. In fact, more often than not, we come across no more than a few houses. Randomly linked together settlements. Peppering the hillsides like shotgun pellets. View enhancing man-made fractals adding to nature’s own.

Today, we cycle down one such path. Accessible directly from our site.

Some of the cows still wear their prize garlands.

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin . . . the following morning sees us head towards Postojna and its world famous cave system. We have a halfway site planned. This turns out to be just as well. We leave at 10.10am. By 11.55am we cover a fraction under 27 miles – almost all in the wrong direction. Doh! You may have already guessed the reason why. That often repeated phrase ‘circumstances conspired against us’, not really a good enough excuse. It starts within 2K of leaving camp. Our route takes us straight through the middle of Bohinjska Bistrica. The road is up – all of it. We carefully circumnavigate the narrow back streets. Head towards where we think we should be heading. We’re not exactly sure how, or where we go wrong, but we do. Missy, doesn’t inform us. Silently recalculates a new ‘extended’ route. I’m aware we’re heading east and not west. Due to the very hilly landscape I assume we’re simply going up and around a particularly big hill, with no other option and will soon re-orientate on the other side. At this point, oblivious to the fact that at precisely 11.55am we are going to end up lost. Unperturbed we continue. We climb higher and higher in never ending spirals. We feel like the itsy-bitsy spider. Then the tarmac runs out. By now the road width is no more than three metres and becomes a wide gravel track in the middle of a massive forest. The sort I favour when out on my MTB. In hindsight we seem to have overlooked a number of clues. Although Birmingham born and bred, Cluedo was never a game I excelled at. Unperturbed we continue. We expect the tarmac to reappear soon. It doesn’t. Then out of nowhere a huge heavily laden logging lorry looms around a bend. It’s not going to stop. It could have had Beastie for lunch. Somehow we squeeze past. Mrs S is having kittens. Beastie’s a right hand drive. She’s in the firing line! She wasn’t expecting a white knuckle ride. We pass orderly pile after orderly pile of felled trees waiting for collection. We’re in dread of meeting another lorry. Unperturbed we continue. “If a huge lorry that size is up here, then the way down and out can’t be far” I suggest optimistically. It falls on deaf ears. Suddenly Missy wakes up and ‘invites’ us to “Turn around”; we wake up too. Come to our senses. Realise she’s no idea where we are.

Eventually we make it to a confusing T-junction. Confusing only because we are confused. There is no road out. Just single gravel tracks. We are coming to grips with the fact that we’re high up in loony lumberjack land. I step down. Adopt my famous (and familiar to Mary-Ann) confused look. Load an offline map of Slovenia on the tablet and walk 50 metres along one of the tracks as I scratch my head. Watch for the magic marker to move. There’s only one sensible way out. Hate to do it, but that’s back to where we came from. It seems the track in is considered one way by the truckers. We meet no trucks. Join the 403. We’re safe. It’s got real tarmac and white lines . . . onwards and upwards?

Having visited Somerset’s Cheddar Caves a couple of times, Wookey Hole in my teens and the Glacier Cave near Baumes-les-Dames on our French trip last year, I wasn’t really up for going down under. A cave’s a cave. Right?

We time our visit to the Postojna cave system perfectly. It’s a short distance from our site. Early afternoon, so we have enough time to stop off. It’s two hundred years of tourism has seen almighty changes. It has the feel of a Disney resort. Huge car parks. Pretty watery walk-way towards the entrance. Hilton style hotel. Cafe’s. Souvenir shops. Museum. Plus it’s expensive. It comes highly recommended. I fear the worst.

It’s a guided tour. Starts 2pm. There’s probably about 50+ in our ‘English’ group, although it’s mainly made up of those with English being their second or third language.  As we walk down and inside, a couple of photographers start clicking away. (Ha, it is just like Disney). We board a couple of waiting trains. Small ones. Open carriages. It’s like being back at Disney’s Magic Kingdom on one of the kiddies’ rides. As we start to move off, two more photographers snap away. Oh no!

At this point any resemblance to a Disney ride dissipates. The series of caverns we pass through are awesome. The train takes us down and two kilometres inside. From there we have a 1.5 kilometre walk. We’re underground for almost two hours. It’s mind blowing. All this incredible beauty hidden for millenia. Taking it’s time. Getting itself ready. We get to see only a fraction of its total 24K.

We come away agreeing it’s been worth every penny . . .

It doesn’t matter where you are. It doesn’t matter what you may be doing. It doesn’t even matter if you’ve done everything in your power to protect your-self from the inevitable. If your name’s on that bullet, then there’s no escape.

Life’s like that isn’t it? You can eat the right stuff. Keep your-self super fit. Exercise your mind. Be in tip-top condition. Yet still fall foul of the totally unexpected. Like the football fan who was killed by a flying toilet. Or the one who died a few days after being struck down by a flying lawnmower. Both incidents strange but true – if you believe everything you read on the www of course. Best to step around that ladder? . . .

Scoot takes us on a short journey today. Opposite direction to the fantazmagorical caves. Predjama Castle in our sights. Remarkably built, high up in a cave. Thought impregnable with its four foot thick walls, rear facing and overhanging  cliff face. That is until some wise guy discovered its weak point. The small outhouse extention on the left. The loo! It had thin walls. After over a year under siege, the owner, Erazem Lueger was doing what comes naturally. Minding his own business, so to speak. A direct hit from a cannon ball caught him literally with his pants down.

Inside is a fascinating combination of cave and construction. Could this have been the earliest example of a cavity wall? If so, it was centuries ahead of it’s time.

 

There are no secrets anymore. Google, Wikipedia, Lonely Planet, ‘Professional’ Travelers’ Blogs – they reveal and recommend all. Big mouths leaving no quiet and quaint corner unexposed. Pave the way for modern day world wide explorers. Everyone urged to not miss the ‘must see attractions’. Tourism tykes poking their noses in any backyard they can find.

Our last day in Slovenia plonks us a short and free HOHO bus ride from Piran – number nine on our ‘must see’ list of ten. Why? On-line the Guardian describes it as ‘Little Venice – an undiscovered gem on the short Slovenian Adriatic coastline’. How do they know about it if it’s undiscovered then? Was I wrong to expect canals? Just one would have been nice! Hyped hyperbole create unrealised expectations. Seems its current misnomer is due to the fact that for five hundred years it was part of the Venetian Republic.

As towns go though, it is pretty.

A locked gated entrance prevents us from entering a couple of its churches. A local artist commissioned to create a different kind of focal point. This one our favourite.

Tomorrow we move on into Croatia and a new ‘hit-list’ . . .