14. Croatia - harmless fun

Day 80, July 2nd.  nr. Bzuljack, Slovenia – Plitvice, Croatia, 20 - 24C, sunny, cloudy

After our packed final day in Slovenia, it’s nearly 5pm when we cross the border to Croatia.  Like all other crossings in Schengen it’s just a gantry with a sign these days, and the obligatory signpost with instructions on what the speed limits and driving rules are in Croatia (i.e., identical to Slovenia).

The winding country road we’d been driving on in Slovenia immediately transforms itself into a three-lane motorway, cutting a ruthless swathe through the northern Croatian forests.  For the next hundred miles, the motorway goes through, over or under an enormous pine forest, with very few junctions.  There are warning signs for bears and wolves; it definitely feels like bear and wolf country.

Finally we turn off the motorway and drive our last 50km today along narrow, winding back roads through the forest, it’s been a long driving afternoon and we’re playing our Spotify-sharing game to keep the spirits up.  Ralph plumps for the ever-apt Telegraph Road; I follow with Castle on the Hill, deeming this appropriate for the surroundings (there are hills, and we’ve seen some ruined castles on them). Laurie goes for some early Def Leppard while Nina chooses some easy-going George Ezra.  My second track choice of Pretty Fly (For a White Guy) gets summarily canned by Ralph.

We arrive at our first Croatian campsite, outside Plitvice National Park, at 7.30pm.  It’s big, swanky, very business-like and professional, with slick, uniformed young men and women behind the reception.  We’re checked in and directed to a berth – rather like being ‘managed’ at an airport check-in – it feels very different from easy-going, bucolic Slovenia already.

Day 81, July 3rd.  Plitvice National Park, Croatia, 20 - 26C, sunny, cloudy

On the advice of our professional receptionist, we’ve set our alarm for an early start this morning, booking ourselves on the campsite transfer bus to the park entrance at 8am, to coincide with an 8am entry slot for our park tickets.

This is all more organised and group-tour like than we’d expected, as are the huge coach parks and visitor entry centres, when we get to the park itself.  But then again, we hadn’t read up properly on Plitvice, casually earmarking the park, with its beautiful series of cascading lakes and waterfalls, as just a nice place to visit.

In actual fact, Plitvice receives well over a million visitors a year – many of them on day trips from cruise ships that have moored up on the coast at Split.  Our receptionist told us to avoid entering after 9am: “10,000 visitors enter between 9 and 11am, all the Chinese tours.” 

Having heeded his advice, we still don’t have the place to ourselves – far from it – but we can at least enjoy the park’s natural wonders for an hour or two before it gets really busy.  All visitors here are chaperoned onto a selection of immaculately manicured, rustic paths – to protect the integrity of this otherwise pristine landscape. 

It’s a little irritating, as we queue patiently for our turn to dutifully take photos of the more spectacular waterfalls.  But we agree that it’s much better like this.  The alternative – having a million tourists a year trampling untethered through these beautiful, fauna-rich forests, dropping their litter, Instagramming themselves up trees and peeing in the water – would render the place considerably less beautiful, very quickly.  The Croatians have got this right.

Back at our campsite, Ralph and Laurie team up to cook us supper, whilst we’re lounging by the pool and making the most of being in a large campsite for once.  Between them, Laurie prepares an excellent caprese salad (melons are off now we’ve left Italy) and Ralph cooks fresh pasta with a delicious fried chorizo, carrot and cauliflower accompaniment.  All those years of training in the kitchen have really paid off.

Day 82, July 4th.  Plitvice – nr. Donji Karin, Croatia, 24 - 35C, sunny, cloudy

A rather more relaxed start to the day today, and an opportunity to catch up on some neglected home schooling, making full use of the camps charging and wi-fi facilities.

We’ve booked some riding nearby with Dina, hoping to see this beautiful landscape in rather more solitude that we did yesterday.  Again, the set-up is very slick; we arrive at midday at her stables (tucked away behind a neat, new house on the main road), are kitted out with hats and taken to the yard, where four immaculately groomed grey horses and ponies are waiting for us, tacked up and ready to go. 

In time-honoured fashion, the ponies are like barrels and Ralph and Laurie are given specific instructions to keep a tight hold of the reins, so they don’t snack on grass and bracken on the way.  Dina – a friendly Croatian from Split who speaks English with an American accent – is keen to keep Laurie on a lead-rein. We diplomatically poo-poo this idea swiftly. 

Our animals are complete plods, we don’t get anywhere beyond some reasonably pleasant woodland and common land near the stables, and we don’t get out of a walk for the duration of our hour’s ride – but nonetheless, it’s a relaxing and welcome alternative way of seeing the country.

We drive onwards, south, towards the coast – and hopefully – to a wilder camping ground tonight.  En-route we grab some lunch at a local bakery in a little town - circular, meat and apple-filled doughy affairs which are tastier than they look and easy to eat without major crumb fallout in the car.  We also stop at a rustic looking road-side stall to buy some local honey, fresh cow cheese and a small bottle of olive oil, and are slightly staggered when the bearded local – asleep on his deckchair when we arrive – asks us for 40 euros.

It's late afternoon but still 35C when we arrive at the rocky track (having missed it twice) which leads up to Tomas’s land.  It’s a scruffy small-holding nestling in a tinder-dry pine forest, complete with redundant agricultural junk, three goats and two donkeys, just above an estuary which leads into a narrow coastal inlet, near the little village of Donji Karin. 

Tomas is also asleep when we arrive – but soon jumps up and proudly shows us round his land. He’s retired and has handed over his apartments in the town nearby to his sons, and now he lives out here, off the land, making a few quid from campers. He hands me a beer from somewhere and shows us down a track to the estuary, picking herbs and wildflowers for us to smell and taste on the way. 

A swim at the bottom is most welcome – it’s still sweltering, despite being 5pm.  We paddle in, noticing how the fresh river water forms a refreshingly cool layer above the warm-bath sea water below, which, being salty, sinks below the surface of the fresh water.

Refreshed, we walk back up the track and set up camp, under the shade of a few pine trees.  We noticed three other large tents under the trees on the way in; Tomas explains they belong to a group of young Belgian campers.  They’re obviously still out and about but their kit is strewn everywhere, including their food and dirty pots, all over the ‘kitchen area’ which Tomas has fashioned out of some scrap wood, an ancient tap and sink and a near-antique gas stove.

As we’re preparing our supper, one of the donkeys and a few goats escape from their field (not difficult, given the makeshift pallet fencing).  The donkey walks purposefully towards the ‘kitchen’, spies a large canvas bag of food on the table, pulls it on to the floor, picks up a bag of spaghetti, expertly forces it open by smashing the packet against the table, and proceeds to eat the spilt contents from the floor, contently. 

Tomas is nowhere to be seen so we move in and rescue the remainder of their food, placing it out of reach of the donkey, which steadfastly refuses to budge as it munches its way through 400 grams of dried pasta.

At dusk, the Belgians return – all 30 of them, plus their music. It’s a Belgian youth movement, on an outward-bound course – 28 sixteen-year-olds plus two ‘minders’, Victor and Mo, who politely come over, thank us for rescuing their food and explain that, try as they might, they won’t be able to keep this quantity of teenagers quiet for the evening.  We agree with them and decide our best course of action is evasive.  We conduct a rapid mini pack up, folding the roof tent over with all our kit inside it, and drive 200 metres further up the track, deeper into Tomas’s pine forests.

A wise decision.  The teenagers can continue to make as much noise as they wish, unhindered, and we can go to sleep, listening to their distant banter and the soporific sound of the crickets in the trees overhead.

Day 83, July 5th.  nr. Donji Karin – nr. Krkovic, Croatia, 28 - 37C, sunny

The crickets are deafening and wake us early, but no matter.  We’ve slept well.  A modicum of time this morning is spent digesting the UK’s election result, but it feels a long way away from the arid, sweet-smelling pine forest that we’re eating our breakfast in. 

Nina wanders down to use the facilities by the kitchen, before the teenagers surface. They’ve left all their food out again; this time she finds a goat, contently munching its way through a loaf of bread.  She leaves the goat to it.  Perhaps one day they’ll learn?

We pack the truck up swiftly after breakfast and Laurie's last call with school as it's the last day of term, keen to get going before the heat picks up.  First stop today is the little coastal town of Zadar.  It’s actually not that little; we battle for nearly an hour through its congested outskirts before parking up next to the sea, in search of a little stretch of pebbles to call our own for an hour or two. The place is packed with bathers – locals, Polish, Italians, Germans – but with a little walking we find a suitable spot for swimming, rock skimming and a little bit of sea urchin killing – there are a lot round here, and the coastline is all the poorer for it.

We head into Zadar’s Roman-era old town for lunch.  It’s well-preserved – well the 20% of it that survived WWII bombing is anyway – with imposing city walls, smooth cobbled streets and bustling squares, filled with locals and tourists enjoying their lunches.  Tucked away at the back of the fruit and veg market, a friendly local runs ‘Streetfood Seafood’ out of a portacabin.  We enjoy his grilled and fried calamari and whitebait on little plastic tables and chairs, shaded from the searing midday heat under a market awning.

Nina’s put together a little walking tour for us – a climb up the ancient minaret / belfry attached to the cathedral, a couple of little museums and a walk down the recently refashioned seafront promenade, complete with funky modern art installations – but it’s so hot all we can really think about is ice cream and air conditioning.

The ‘sea organ’ installation is worth a mention: the waves crashing against an offset series of steps cascading down from the promenade create uneven, horn-like noises – rather like an organ – that emanates through circular holes in the paving slabs above.  “We’ve given Mother Nature an instrument and she’s playing beautiful music” as Ralph said.

Back in the car, air conditioning on full, we head back inland to the ‘Robeka’ agritourism campsite, tucked away behind a vineyard amongst the rocky scrublands which dominate the Croatian interior this far south.  Mercifully – and unexpectedly – this little place has a pool.

Ralph cooks us a new starter tonight - grilled cheese (the expensive roadside stuff from yesterday) with honey.  Delicious – and a welcome change from the usual caprese or prosciutto with melon.  Main course is pasta with a fresh vegetable sauce again – we’ll need to liven that up soon…

Day 84, July 6th.  nr. Krkovic - Trogir, Croatia, 28 - 38C, sunny

Very warm last night.  Distinctly sweaty in the roof tent.  Nina and I go for an early morning run together – the first of the trip – and come back to find Ralph having breakfast and Laurie still asleep.  By 8.30am, we’re marvelling at how Laurie’s ability to sleep in appears to be reaching new heights – the roof tent must already be like an oven – when I climb up the ladder and realise he’s not there. 

Ralph casually informs us that Laurie got up some time ago to go to the loo.  Usually not hugely important knowledge, but helpful this time.  I walk up to the loo block, primarily to get his pyjamas so Nina can put a wash on, and find he’s actually locked in the loo.

Most campsite loo doors are relatively flimsy affairs – open at the top or bottom or both, and generally unlockable from the outside.  Not this one – it’s a solitary cubicle, in a concrete building, with a solid metal door, traditional key lock, and only the tiniest window above it, with a mosquito grille screwed over that.

Cue a hastily improvised rescue mission. There’s no one around, and the other cubicle keys don’t fit, so we have to do it ourselves. We empty one of our plastic storage boxes so I can stand on it, grab a screwdriver from our tool kit, and unscrew the mosquito grille.  I figure that if Laurie can get the key out of the lock on the inside, and throw it out to us, we should be able to unjam and unlock the door from the outside.  Nina suggests he shuts the lid on the loo seat before he starts throwing the key…

Keeping impressively calm after being stuck for half an hour, on his third attempt Laurie gets the little key through the window, and we can unlock him from the outside.  Poor little chap is relieved and shaken up, but otherwise no harm down.  Suffice to say we don’t bother to replace the mosquito grille…

We follow the coast road south today, stopping at Sibenic for lunch, aiming to reach and stay on the island of Trogir tonight. 

Sibenik is a delight – a little port (by Croatian standards), hewn from pale limestone, with just a handful of snazzy yachting restaurants, plus a handful of smaller, more local eateries.  We lunch at such a place, looking out over a peaceful, deep blue harbour, trying to ignore the irritating inanities being spouted by the trio of English and American tourists nearby – the only other clientele.  It’s so much easier to ignore facile conversations when they’re conducted in a foreign language.

We give the boys a gentle baking through Sibenik’s sun-scorched, steep and often stepped streets which wind their way up and around its little harbours.  We call in at the cathedral; Ralph is now fully expert on the architectural nuances which differentiate Croatian Catholic churches from their Slovenian, Italian or Spanish counterparts and he’s keen to take every opportunity he can find to expand his knowledge.  Like Nina and I, he’s questioning and not remotely religious, but recognises the architectural legacy that religion has left behind all over the world.

Another hour’s drive further south to the attractive promontory village of Primosten leads us to conclude that the Dalmatian coast is probably best seen by boat.  The mainland coastline is built up – not Costa del Sol standards, but even the tiny places are busy, and the larger towns are heaving.  But watching the flotillas of yachts and cruisers meandering their way through the – frankly stunning – Dalmatian archipelago that we can admire from the mainland, we wonder if the islands are any different. 

We’ve booked ourselves into an apartment in Trogir tonight – there are no small campsites, or wild or semi-wild options, and Saturday night typically equals party or wedding night in Croatia’s big campsites. 

Having found our apartment, 200 metres up a steep hill on the island of Trogir, we head to the beach.  In true Croatian style it’s about ten feet deep, pebbly and almost every square inch is covered in local Croatian flesh. But we find a little spot to nestle in, and the boys spend a happy half hour bouncing around on the inflatable water park which is moored just off the beach, in the flat calm waters.

Later, we cook chicken curry in our flat, enjoying using someone else’s plates, gas supply and dishwasher.   Ralph nobly agrees to sleep on the sofa when we find out the ‘two single beds’ in their bedroom in reality translates as ‘one double bed’.

Day 85, July 7th.  Trogir, Croatia – Blagaj, Bosnia & Herzegovina, 30 - 40C, sunny

We’re back down at the pebbly beach by 9.30 this morning, renting paddle boards.  They only have two, so Laurie and I head out on one; Nina and Ralph on the other.  For the next hour we have probably the most fun we’ve ever had on a paddle board: jumping into the warm and super-buoyant water, pushing each other in, capsizing each other and generally arsing about. It’s impossible to have this much fun doing this in the UK – the water’s just too damned cold.

Our final stop of note in Croatia is a visit to Trogir’s tiny old city – probably the highlight in terms of the towns we’ve visited.  Nestled just on the mainland and separated from its island by two tiny stretches of sea, Trogir is a quintessential pale limestone, smooth-cobbled ancient settlement, which has changed hands numerous times over the past 1,000 years.

Trogir was ruled by the Venetians from the year 1000 till they submitted to the Hungarians in 1105, then destroyed by the Saracens, then rebuilt again by the Venetians in the 13th century who ruled it until 1797 when the Habsburgs took over and held it until 1918 (barring a short stint under Napoleonic France in the early 1800’s).  Croatian-ruled from 1918; Trogir was again annexed by Italy in WWII before finally becoming part of Croatia, then Yugoslavia, then Croatia again in 1991.  Straightforward?  It shows in the architecture.

We wander round Trogir cathedral, admiring Moorish, Ottoman, Baroque and Romanesque influences, then climb its belltower (of course) to enjoy the view across the town.  We eat suitably excellent seafood in one of the town’s many restaurants (it is renowned for its cuisine) before buying a few provisions for tonight’s camping. 

We’ve decided that we’ll leave the rest of southern Croatia – and Dubrovnik in particular – for a January, out-of-season trip.  We make our way to the motorway inland, headed for Bosnia, where it feels that our real adventure might restart, after a civilised – albeit undramatic – European sojourn.