Knowing there must be much 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 because this Italian carrier was supposedly retired back in 2010! Skeptically boarding the plane our confidence withers even further seeing the cockpit door ajar with the captain’s 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 into a smoky pub and receive slurred directions to our B&B. Disencumbered of backpacks we try to reset our internal clocks by taking a bus to Ban Jelacic Square in town, and wandering 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 for a soggy five hour drive to the Istria Peninsula.
Polished to a shine by use, the fishing port of Rovinj’s twisty cobbled streets host centuries-old stone and stucco buildings smothered in brilliant bougainvillea blossoms, helping justify its reputation as one of the most photogenic of all Mediterranean towns.
Respecting the ingredients of the sea, we dine at a restaurant neatly sculpted into the rocks in a sea-kissed location, 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 elderly pastel coloured buildings, a few mewling cats beneath our table dutifully guard our ankles in hopes of inheriting any remnants of our tasty seafaring meal.
On a day trip we stop for a glass of vino at a quirky little jazz bar called Kamene Price in town of Bale, before continuing on to Pula’s stunning 2000 year old Roman amphitheater. Completing today’s trifecta is a visit to Vodnjan in the famous olive producing region of South Istria. Having been 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 doors of an old house outside of town, it’s opened by a woman speaking no English at all.
We convey our message of wanting to purchase some of her oil, and she nods, leading us down steep stairs into her 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 then bottles, caps, and labels it right on the spot; making the little spur of the moment discovery a delight.
Following a fragrance of pine trees along a seaside path, we park our bums on Rovinj’s rocky wave-smashed Adriatic shoreline and share a bottle of wine as fishing boats chug back into the harbor with the setting sun beginning to bathe in the ocean.
With a pewter sky full of 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 it nothing more than a slimy vegetarian mush capable of provoking my stomach lining to hurl itself into the back of my throat. In fact, I consider the unpalatable slop a gruel and unusual punishment and would rather consume nuclear waste!
With zero road signage during our drive towards the mountaintop town of Motovun we stop in a village to ask for directions. Finding an older guy I point to the town on our wrinkled map then give a shrug with my palms turned up. He splays his hand wide to form a five and barks out ‘kilo’, followed by ‘flush-flush’ while flicking his wrist as if dispersing the foul odor of ass gas. We later learn the fellow was trying to tell us to turn 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. Fortunately for me they only weigh a few of ounces each; a most unlikely departure from her norm.
After a relaxing stay in romantic Rovinj we drive through a countryside vibrantly painted red with fields of poppies. The corkscrew anorexic roads are fittingly signed ‘Serpentina’, due to their directional pattern mimicking the path of a soused snake. About 500 km later we reach the ancient Roman town of Zadar and go for a stroll on waterfront promenade where an architect had a seventy meter Sea Organ played by the sea’s rhythmic waves built into the seawall. Quite a novel idea from a most interesting ‘organ donor’!
Having now racked up 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 sit on the bed with a bottle of wine listening on our iPad 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!
Next stop is Hvar Island where stone houses dribble down a hillside dominated by a 16th century Spanish castle. The town’s scenery is gorgeous, and just for the record, so too are the women. Peacocking about with centerfold caliber figures shoehorned into crotch-hugging spandex, the Balkan belles are visual Viagra, and appear to give bedrock solid credibility to the local Mediterranean Diet!
Now where was I? Oh yes, on a bus headed to the fishing village of Vraboska. The driver is smoking 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 the rain dilute our day, we become one with our raincoats for a wetly walk around the harbor, joined by a small pooch padding along beside. Looking like a turtle tucked into its shell, the mutt is wearing a medical lamp shade over his head, and with the pitiable little guy having only one eye we name him Cy. At odds with weather accelerating from a steady drizzle to a full-fledged nozzling, Christine and I duck into a cozy wine bar to wait for the next bus back.
Stepping outside barefoot at our pension today I accidentally perform an early morning party trick on the rain slickened and tile-covered cement stairs. As my feet slide out from beneath me, the cup of tea I’m holding launches into the air and sails over the handrail, smashing 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 catamaran (Krilo Jet) to Korchula; an island blessed with a sea as clear as vodka. Sadly however, the sun is again shy in the sky, having lost its struggle with the clouds.
Following a seaside path with the prickly glory of cactus plants flaunting a flowering sea of red we come to a pretty bay called Blue Lagoon, and stop for a picnic lunch of apricots, figs, and cheese while I soak my injured legs in the salty sea.
Walking back through town near a medieval castle, 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 at him that would leave churchgoers shaking in their pews!
Without doubt the careless clown catches the essence of my venomous tirade. 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 to Orebic on the Pelješac Peninsula we stroll past a church yard displaying a vast and vibrantly painted eight foot high egg. Christine poses beside the giant embryo of some husky hormonal hen for scale while I shoot ‘egg-zilla’ with my camera; hoping not to be pecked to pieces by any ‘cluckasaurus’ lurking nearby and concerned we’re aspiring to make a humongous omelet out of her offspring!
From Korchula we travel to the diminutive fishing village Racisce and its a whopping population of 447. The little pub reveals where the men hang out when not at sea, and Christine immediately gathers their attention as the only ewe in a bar full of rams. Whoa, easy there boys!
Back on the mainland we zigzag the roads to Dubrovnik and switch buses for the last 15 km stretch to Cavtat; our last port of call. 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 adjoining Posejdon Restaurant; both of which have been in his family for hundreds of years. As we are sipping the sun is slipping; casting a golden pathway across the Dalmation Coast towards the merrily twinkling lights of Dubrovnik.
The seaside city of Dubrovnik is dubbed ‘the pearl of the Adriatic’ for being one of the prettiest and best preserved towns in Europe. We stroll atop the massive stone walls protecting the city for over a thousand years, but as the morning lengthens, squadrons of tour buses begin to arrive disgorging their flabby albino cargo that swarm town reminiscent of a great wildebeest migration.
We make our hasty getaway by taking a bus to the residential suburb of Lapad. While Christine sits in a café sipping a cappuccino, I find myself enamored with a black chocolate ice cream cone. Dark chocolate is superb – but black is truly next level! In fact, so much so that Christine is worried that my noisy food-moans sound too much like coital vocalization, and she suggests the luscious licker and I get a room!
Back in Cavtat we join hosts Andrusko and wife Tatiana in the garden and swap travel tales over fresh squeezed orange juice and homemade almond apple cake. Christine and I then head next door for a romantic dinner at Posejdon restaurant, where the sea is 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. We are told the animal is a type of marten called a’ kuna’. Centuries ago their pelts were highly valued and used for payments, and later when coins were minted, Croatia’s currency was called ‘kuna’. This is a most unusual sighting, with kuna now so scarce that even our host has never seen a live one in his 72 years living here.
On a hike to the end of the peninsula we are unexpectedly 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, and luckily, we have just enough time to capture the Kodak moment before the 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. I instantly learn the Adriatic Sea is Polar Bear Club worthy, and after but a few nanoseconds I’m hyperventilating with my testicles having retracted up far enough to become intimate with my tonsils.
With eyes flung wide I hurl myself out of the sea like a breaching whale! The frigidity of my stupidity leaves me gasping for oxygen like a spent salmon, and needing to defrost pronto, I accelerate my quivering extremities back to the villa hoping an alcoholic frolic may do the trick!
Our last Croatian dinner at Posejden (God of the Sea) is indeed a memorable one. Seated at a table under a mammoth pine tree 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 churning school of fish furiously attacking algae growing on its top. We’re riveted by fish that seemingly stand on their heads with their tails slapping back and forth out of the water. 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, it’s 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