Knowing there must be more to Croatia other than it was previously a part of the now-defunct Yugoslavia and responsible for inventing the glorified noose known as a necktie, a fact I’ll try not to hold against it, we are off to investigate!
With Croatia Airlines on strike our low cost replacement carrier is called ‘Livingston Air’. It’s anyone’s guess as to how this is happening, since the Italian carrier was supposedly retired back in 2010! Skeptically boarding the plane our confidence withers even further when seeing the cockpit door ajar and the captain with his nose buried in an operations manual!
Elated to have the landing gear safely kiss the tarmac at Zagreb’s airport we hoof it across the street and into a smoky pub and receive slurred directions to our B&B. Disencumbered of backpacks we then try to reset our internal clocks by bussing to the town’s Ban Jelacic Square for a wander about under the downward glare of grotesque gargoyles crouching on rooftops as if ready to pounce.
After a much needed eight hours in a bed we collect a less than opulent Opal rental car with about the same cubic volume of a Costco shopping cart, and in an exercise in compromise, somehow squash in the luggage and ourselves in for a soggy five hour drive to the Istria Peninsula.
Polished to a shine by use, twisty cobbled streets in the fishing port of Rovinj host centuries-old stone buildings smothered in brilliant bougainvillea blossoms which help justify its reputation as one of the most photogenic of all Mediterranean towns.
Respecting the ingredients of the sea, we dine at a restaurant sculpted into the rocks with a ceaseless surf shattering along the shore. According to Croatian legend a fish should always swim three times; first in the sea, then in olive oil, and then in wine. Yup, I think we are going to like it here! As a setting sun splays its golden rays across the pastel-painted buildings a few mewling cats beneath our table acquaint themselves with our ankles in hopes of inheriting any remnants of our tasty seafaring meal.
After a glass of vino at a quirky little jazz bar in town of Bale today we continue to Pula’s stunning 2000 year old Roman amphitheater, and complete the day’s trifecta with a visit to Vodnjan in the famous olive producing region of South Istria. Told the best oil is not sold in stores, we use a little persuasion to acquire directions to the crème de la crème of oil makers who only sells her stash privately. Knocking on the large wooden door of an old house on the outskirts of town, it is opened by a woman speaking no English at all.
Conveying we would like to purchase some of her oil, she nods and leads us down steep stairs into a cellar. Enormous stainless vats cover the floor and the walls are decorated with dozens of diplomas confirming her product’s quality. After a taste test she scoops some oil out of a voluminous vat and then bottles, caps, and labels it right on the spot. The place is a delightful little spur of the moment discovery.
We follow a fragrance of pine trees along a path Rovinj’s rocky wave-smashed shoreline as a setting sun begins to bathe in the Adriatic Sea. While appreciating the view we stop and share a bottle of wine while watching the colourful fishing boats puttering back into the harbor.
With today’s sky engulfed in incontinent clouds we travel to the bland town of Porec; oddly pronounced as ‘porridge’. I suppose my animosity towards the town is natural given my disdain for porridge as a food source. While it may be a perfectly suitable meal for a bear, I find the unpalatable slop to be a gruel and unusual punishment capable of provoking my stomach lining to hurl itself into the back of my throat.
With zero road signage during our drive towards the mountaintop town of Motovun we stop at a village to ask for directions. Finding an older guy I point to the town on our wrinkled map and give a shrug with my palms turned up. He points a finger then splays his hand wide to form a five and barks ‘kilo, followed by ‘flush-flush’ while flicking his wrist as if dispersing a foul odor. We later learn the fellow was trying to tell us to turn left at the river, and chuckle at his use of ‘flush-flush’ to try and convey water.
High above the vineyards in the 13th century traffic-free hamlet of Motovun, serial shopper Christine spots a store selling truffle oil and quickly scoops up a cluster of bottles, which fortunately for me, weigh only a few ounces each; a most unlikely departure from her norm!
Leaving the romantic town of Rovinj the countryside is vibrantly painted red with fields of poppies, and anoresic corkscrew roads are fittingly signed ‘Serpentina’ due to their directional pattern mimicking the path of a soused snake. About 500 km later in the ancient Roman town of Zadar we chill out with a glass of wine on a waterfront promenade featuring a 70 meter Sea Organ built into the seawall and played by the sea’s rhythmic waves. A novel design from a talented ‘organ donor’!
Having now racked up over 1,100 road kilometers we abandon our bug splattered roller-skate in Split and bus to the World Heritage site of Trogir. Unpacking in a room sized for sardines, we open a bottle of wine and sit on the bed with our iPad listening to Bob Segar’s good old rock and roll tunes reverberating off the stone walls. Two puzzled pigeons suddenly appear on our propped open window sill and inquisitively peer inside, apparently loving the a-coo-sticks!
Hvar Island is dominated by a 16th century Spanish castle and the island’s scenery is gorgeous. Just for the record gentlemen, so too are its glamourous gals. The well-tanned Balkan belles are visual Viagra, and peacocking about with centerfold caliber figures shoehorned into crotch-hugging spandex, appear to give bedrock solid credibility to the local Mediterranean Diet!
Anyhoo, where was I? Ah yes, on a bus headed to the fishing village of Vraboska. The driver has a pipe attached to a cord hung around his neck, and dangling religious crosses swing back and forth from the mirror as the bus careens around the corners of a squiggly road reminiscent of a conspicuous varicose vein.
Not letting a stubborn rain dilute our day we become one with our raincoats for a wetly walk around the harbor. A pooch with a medical lamp shade over his head decides to pad along at our heels, and since the pitiable little guy has only one eye, we name him Cy. As a faintly falling rain accelerates into to a full-on bucketing, we say bye-bye to Cy, and park ourselves in a cozy wine bar to await a bus back to town.
Stepping outside our pension barefoot today I accidentally perform an early morning party trick on the rain-slickened tiled cement stairs. My feet slide out from beneath me and the cup of tea I’m holding launches into the air, and sailing over the handrail smashes to smithereens on the lower level.
I admit to some less than heroic yelping while awkwardly tumbling down half a flight of the unforgiving stairwell. I’ve wrenched my back and my shins look they just lost a knife fight with a midget. Aaargh, I need this stair mugging about as much as a giraffe needs strep throat!
Our B & B hostess Ivanka is worried about my leg, and in a lovely gesture brings us Band-Aids, a baked cake, and a pot of homemade soup. Smiling and pointing to my legs she says ‘you vill allvaise remember Hvar’. Four days later we take a futuristic looking Krilo catamaran to Korchula. The island is blessed with a sea as clear as vodka but sadly the sun is once again shy in the sky having lost its struggle with the clouds.
Following a seaside path lined with cactus plants flaunting a flowering sea of red, we arrive at a pretty bay called Blue Lagoon and stop for a tasty picnic lunch of apricots, figs, and cheese while I soak my wounded legs in the salty sea. Walking back near a medieval castle in town some schmo blindly opens his car door and introduces my already painful leg to a horse named Charlie.
The blunt force trauma causes me to yank the pin out of civil, and I hurl verbal grenades that would leave churchgoers shaking in their pews! Without doubt the accidental asshole catches the essence of my vocal eruption, as his face crumples and he cowers as if I have pictures of him with the neighbour’s goat. Fook me, I’m beginning to wonder if there may be a knight around willing to part with his suit of armor!
Ferrying across the strait to Orebic on the Pelješac Peninsula we stroll past a church yard displaying a vast and vibrantly painted egg about eight foot high. Christine poses beside the giant embryo for scale, while I shoot ‘egg-zilla’ with my camera; hoping not to encounter a hormonally enraged ‘cluckasaurus’ at the top of the pecking order concerned that we’re aspiring to make an omelet from her offspring!
From Korchula we travel to the diminutive fishing village Racisce and its whopping population of 447. The little pub reveals where the menfolk hang out when not at sea, and Christine immediately gathers attention as the only ewe in a bar full of rams. Whoa, easy there boys!
Back on the mainland we bus switchback roads to Dubrovnik and find a second bus to take us the final 15 km stretch to Cavtat. The magical Croatian location enjoys a sapphire sea and a promenade fringed with palm trees whispering in the Adriatic Sea breeze. Another plus for us is the teensy town is totally pedestrianized, meaning there’s no concern of a carbon monoxide entrée at the plentiful outdoor eateries.
Andrusko welcomes us to Villa Andro with his homemade grappa, and offers a brief orientation of the villa and the adjoining Posejdon Restaurant, both of which have been in his family for hundreds of years. As we are sipping, the sun is slipping, and casting a golden pathway across the Dalmation Coast towards the merrily twinkling lights of Dubrovnik.
The seaside city is dubbed ‘the pearl of the Adriatic’ for being one of the prettiest and best preserved towns in Europe, with massive stone walls protecting it for over a thousand years. However, as squadrons of tour buses arrive and begin disgorging flabby albino cargo swarming about reminiscent of a great wildebeest migration, we make a getaway by bus to the residential suburb of Lapad.
A slave to the froth, Christine stops at a café for a cappuccino, and I find myself enamored with a black chocolate ice cream cone. Dark chocolate is superb, but black is truly next level! Worried that my noisy food- moans sound too much like coital vocalization, Christine suggests the luscious licker and I get a room!
Returning to Cavtat we join our hosts Andrusko and his wife Tatiana in the garden and swap travel tales over fresh squeezed orange juice and homemade almond apple cake. Afterwards we head next door to Posejdon Restaurant for a romantic dinner with the sea licking the shore just inches away from our table.
Leaving the restaurant we’re startled by a missile in furry trousers hurtling past our legs. The animal is a type of marten called a’ kuna’, which centuries ago had their highly valued pelts used for payments. Later when coins were minted Croatia’s currency was called ‘kuna’. This is a most unusual sighting as they’re now so scarce that even our host has never seen a live one in the 72 years he has lived here.
On a hike to the end of the peninsula we are suddenly paralyzed with awe witnessing the rare sighting of a waterspout tornado spiraling down from the storm-stained sky. The eerie sight looks like a giant grey squid doing ballet pirouettes with tentacles reaching for the sea. Luckily we have just enough time to capture the Kodak moment before the extraordinary enigma evaporates.
With my leg still too sore for chasing pavement today I opt for a swim. However, with perception and judgement not a particularly strong suit, I just strip down and dive into the sea without testing the water. Instantly I learn the Adriatic Sea is Polar Bear Club worthy, and after mere milliseconds I am hyperventilating with my testicles retracted far enough to become intimate with my tonsils!
With eyes flung wide I hurl myself out of the sea, and the frigidity of my stupidity leaves me gasping for oxygen like a spent salmon! Needing to defrost pronto, I accelerate my quivering extremities back to the villa with whatever dignity I can muster, hoping an alcoholic frolic may do the trick. It’s probably my age that tricks people into thinking I’m an adult.
Our last Croatian dinner at Posejden is indeed a memorable one. Seated at a table beneath a mammoth pine tree while savoring a meal of chicken breasts smothered in a sauce of gorgonzola, we suddenly find ourselves disbelieving what we see in the sea.
Only a few feet from our table, a large boulder lurking just inches under the water’s surface has a school of churning fish furiously attacking the algae attached to its top. The spectacle is riveting as the rambunctious fish seemingly stand on their heads as tails slap back and forth out of the water while feeding.
Christine and I enjoy a great chuckle as it appears the finny fellows are aware of our upcoming Cavtat departure and have come to wave goodbye!
So there you have it, Zagreb-Rovinj-Bale-Porec-Pula-Motovun-Zadar-Split-Trogir-Hvar-Korchula- Vraboska-Lumbarda-Vodnjan-Sej-Racisce-Dubrovnik-Orebic-Cavtat. Nope, not a stuck keyboard nor any type of spectacular vernacular, simply a list of towns visited during our wanders through a charming country called Croatia.
Did we enjoy ourselves – you bet your kuna!
Mark Colegrave June 2013