It’s a long shot. But one we can make. Belgrade gets locked in on our cross-sight. Pinned down by a red laser beam. A dead cert. No escape. We can’t miss.
This eastern side of Croatia a mystery to us. We’re following Macca’s long and winding road, that leads to . . . well an almost deserted MOHO stop over. Halfway between Zagreb and Belgrade. Zlatini Lug, just short of Pozega. We seem to be the only Brits in this neck of the woods. In fact, feels like the only MOHOmers too. Not one other MOHO seen out on the road today. So it’s a big surprise to find another, already parked up. He’s German, with a Croat mother. He was born 40K away, but lives in Germany. He looks a bit of a loner. All beard and whiskers. Somebody you wouldn’t be surprised to come across panning for gold in the Klondike. Drinks his coffee from an ancient red metal mug with an extended handle. His three local grandchildren with him – his golden nuggets – for company.
Earlier, we steer clear of the A3 motorway. Our route maintains a healthy gap. We catch sight of it from time to time. Laden to the brink with lorries. Ours predominantly free wheeling with no such hindrances. The slightly slower B-road performs a more profound task. Its invisible adhesive properties keep the thousands of houses running either side of it permanently fixed. Stuck along its twisty, but relatively flat path. Mile after mile of houses, one deep either side. Linked only by what divides them. No visible sign of when one village ends and the next starts. A real mix. Some up together. Some, like many in Croatia, seem as if the owners are happy just to let them stay as they are. Unfinished, un-rendered and unpainted. Proudly flaunting their terracotta red basic building blocks.
We pass a church. It’s different. Half of its roof caved in. One wall barely standing. All its windows blown out. The remains of the front door hanging lopsidedly on its one hinge. Parts of the perimeter walls lie in sad solemn heaps. Mourning the passing of better times.
We wonder if we’re seeing a remnant of the recent past. Our suspicions soon confirmed. Now, many of the houses, some occupied others clearly deserted, exhibit their tell tale scars. Bullet pot marks left exposed. Open to nature’s elements and time’s healing balm. Cruel reminders of a cruel time.
