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.
