Lanqadoc Rousselion
N 43
E 003

Nice to St. Jean de la Blaquiere: 396 kilometres

Barcelona is a longer drive than we had expected and before we leave Nice we decide to break up the trip a little and spend a few days in a small guest house with a pool about 30 kilometres from Montpellier. Coincidently, this is also very close to the house that we will be renting at the end of September in St Frechoux. We email Monika and Ditmar that we will be driving through and ask for more specific instructions to their house.

The autroroute takes us through towns big and small as we head west and then south. We are already making mental notes about what we want to see and explore when we return in a month. We arrive in wine country outside of Montpellier, choose one of the many “caves” (cellars) and decide to buy some wine. 5 cases later (alas, they are only cases of 6), we load the car and continue the search for the guest house, quietly secluded in the mountains, surrounded by olive trees and grape vines. We drive through many quaint French hamlets and find “LaVallee aux Ours” and like it so much we decide to spend a couple extra days here.

Our unit is self contained and this gives us an opportunity to cook. We buy some groceries for a couple of days and settle in, grab a glass of wine and some pool time.

We meet a fellow Torontonian today by the name of Yvette. She is a seasoned traveller, having spent a month in Calcutta working with the Mother Teresa foundation and, like us, is heading to Spain. But unlike us, she will be doing the gruelling Camino de Santiago pilgrimage, walking with her life on her back for over 30 days. The conversation turns to our trip and how long we have been traveling. She is surprised and awed by our 7 + month journey and she asks an important question: “Aren’t you exhausted?” In some ways we are.

During our time in India I wrote about travel weariness and how that weariness affects your ability to really know a country and all its unique beauty and offerings. How this psychological weariness somehow makes you blind to the incredible wonderment that these places have to offer; how it turns humbleness into anger and bitterness about not having Western trappings and conveniences available to make your journey easier or more comfortable. It was also a physical weariness, brought on by the tough travel and conditions of both Thailand and India. Both the psychological and the physical were amplified in those countries by seeing so many tough things, things that we still speak of a little uneasily and with hesitation, even to this day,

We have only three and a half months left on this incredible journey and I find that we are having trouble filling in some of the precious time that is left to us. This pattern really started when we arrived in Vienna, exhausted after cramming so much of northern Europe into our schedule. The constant living out of suitcases; never unpacking your toiletries bag, wearing the same clothes day after day, all these things begin to burrow into your psyche and your soul, wearing you down. Of course, in the grand scheme of things, these are small and petty annoyances. But I secretly and enviously watch people checking out of the hotels we are in, jumping into waiting taxis that will drop them at the airport and their flights home; home to their own beds and towels. Knowing that they have just had a week of vacation and on Monday morning they will be “back at it”. My real thrill is when we do laundry; it is like a small gift has been given to us.

Now our conversation starts to drift to the reality of what will happen when we return home. To quote a Harry Nilsson song: ‘Summer’s almost over, the kids are back at school, time to drain the water out of the swimming pool’.

That reality is getting closer and closer

Happy Birthday to Kim George on August 30, and to Elizabeth Bailey on August 31!

Nice is nice but Monaco beckons. We met Claudia and her husband Marco when we were in Mykonos and they have asked us to lunch aboard their yacht which happens to be anchored in Monaco. This is a complete and total surprise to us but also a bit of luck because: a) we had not planned to be in France this early, b) we had not expected them to be here and c) they have a yacht! We ring them on their mobile and sure enough, they are expecting us. We spend an hour deciding what to wear and head off in the car for the 30 minute drive to Monaco and Monte Carlo. We retrace our steps from yesterday and climb the rocky hills up to the autostrada and we are quickly there. We wind our way down the curvy roads into the harbour, thinking of Princess Grace the whole time, past the casino and expensive apartments and luckily find a parking spot within a short walking distance of where the boats are moored. Now, how do we find their yacht?? There are so many, and we have but a vague description of it and where it is moored, but neither one of us is really sure what we are looking for. The sun is beating down on us even at 11:30 but it is Cote d'Azur sun and we are hanging with the beautiful people. And there are a lot of beautiful people here with beautiful clothes and beautiful cars and beautiful yachts and beautiful lives. We are just a couple of semi-tanned white boys from Canada, our eyes and our jaws dropped wide open.


From left: John searching the harbour; the Yacht! the view from the yacht

After some walking and practicing our directional French, we find their boat. It is tucked in amongst the other huge boats lining the harbour. John and I look at each other and smile. Claudia greets us grandly in the European way, big wide air kisses to either side of our heads. Marco does the same but with less gesture and shakes our hands at the same time. There is a bottle of white wine chilling on the table and olives and bread sticks are artfully laid out. Some cool jazz is playing in the background. The blue waters of the Cote d'Azur gently lap the side of the yacht. It can't get any better than this. I remove my sun glasses but quickly put them back on, taking my cue from our hosts, who as I remember, never took them off while they were in Mykonos. I sit down in the beautiful rattan deck chairs with a silly grin from ear to ear, thinking that I have died and gone to heaven or even more foolishly that I could get used to this kind of life!

We have a glass of wine which turns into two, which turns into three. All of a sudden I am aware of two other people on board: the help! A young man and woman, in white Lacoste shirts and pants, their sunglasses on, start to lay out our lunch, bringing place settings and glasses and replenishing the wine. All done quietly and discreetly, never interrupting our conversation. Meanwhile the pace of the Monaco harbour is picking up. People are coming and going. Some stop to look at us and our little oasis of luxury. Keep on looking, I say. I'm enjoying this!

Lunch is traditional Salade Nicoise, big heaping plates of it and fresh baguette and more wine to accompany the salads. Bottles of acqua minerale and coffee and chocolates are offered an hour an a half later. I have that "drunk on the sun feeling" but also am drunk on the wine and the heady atmosphere of the rich and famous. Who knew that Claudia and Marco were so fabulous? Who knew that they were so rich? I guess it pays to be open to meeting new people. The chat and the wine flow easily and we have lots of fun, mostly gossiping about travelling and the people we have met.

Suddenly we realize that it is after 5 pm and John is going to have to navigate the windy corniche road home, heading west directly into the sun. We are obviously hesitant about starting the boozy drive back to Nice when Claudia asks what hotel we are staying at in Nice. I look at John hoping that he will answer and see that he expects the same of me and I casually mention the name (a two star hotel at best). Claudia smiles at Marco, who nods his head in approval and she immediately insists that we spend the night as their guests aboard the yacht. They would even provide the tooth brushes and the robes! We could go out for a late dinner and continue the party, no worries about driving home until tomorrow. We are both speechless at this offer and.....I start from my nap, sweaty and slightly disoriented, the sound of the garbage truck loudly collecting late on a Saturday afternoon. The sounds of the street and the low afternoon sun filter in through the green shuttered windows of the humid rooms in the Hotel du Centre, here in Nice. Jeesh, what a dream I had. Must have been something in the Salade Nicoise I had for lunch earlier today in Monaco. Some weird dream about a yacht in Monaco and too much wine. Her name was Claudine or something.

We are in the car by 10:30 this morning for our 30 minute drive to Monaco and Monte Carlo. We retrace our steps from yesterday and climb the rocky hills up to the autostrada and we are quickly there. We wind our way down the curvy roads into the harbour, thinking of Princess Grace the whole time, past the casino and expensive apartments and luckily find a parking spot within a short walking distance of where the boats are moored.....



Really and truly Monaco

N 43
E 007

Noventa di Piave to Nice: 597 kilometres

We apologize to all those Italy lovers out there: we are bypassing the rest of Italy and are on our way to France and Spain. There will be no portraits of the wonderful Tuscan countryside, of romantic castles or of towns perched precariously on hilltops. We have spent more time in Italy on our previous journeys than perhaps anywhere else in the world (no, that may not be true: California would be a very close second). Today we are on the road at 10:00, goodbyes said to Stephano, Luigi the cat and Anouka the dog. We estimate about a 6 hour drive ahead of us.

The drive is as easy as can be, the tolls on the autostrada amazingly expensive, but the roads in great shape. We drive through the lush and bountiful Po Valley before heading south into the Ligurian Apennines, where we drive through at least 200 tunnels of varying lengths and at least as many bridges. The border between France and Italy is a very short break between 2 much longer tunnels. Where did border inspections take place before the Schengen Treaty? Before we know it we are in Nice, in a small hotel across the street from Notre Dame, about 500 metres from the beach.

We walk to the beach, and along the Promenade des Anglais. We walk east for a couple of kilometres, only a part of this amazingly long beach. We are pleasantly surprised to see how much of the beach is public, true they are lacking chaises and parasols, but also lacking that 20 Euro charge for access.

Just before La Colline du Chateau, the promontory that divides Nice in half, the beaches on 1 side, the harbour on the other, we turn away from the beach and into the old town, a jumble of narrow streets crammed with tourists fighting their way around the outdoor cafes, and find a place for dinner.

The morning is leisurely. We have decided to go into Venezia in the early afternoon, and have dinner there tonight. After yesterday's slow transit, we are back to our original plan of driving to Mestre, parking and taking the train. But for once the Italian road signs, normally so good, let us down: we can't find the train station, while instead there are lots of signs for Venezia, and so we drive across the causeway. We park, and discover that there is a vaporetto stop right at the parking lot, which is at the top end of the Canal Grande, so we head down the canal, passing quickly from the non-magical modern Venezia into La Serenissima, that most beautiful of cities. We feel so lucky to have always, till now, come to Venezia by boat right to San Marco (even if the boat was a bit overcrowded).

The vaporetto deposits us at the Rialto, and we head into the San Polo quarter, a district we have never explored. We walk through the streets, not knowing where we are, but not caring. Everywhere, we see the work of the INSULA, the authority that is, finally, taking steps to deal with the acqua alta, by rebuilding the canal fronts and raising those in the lower areas to a tide level of 120 centimetres. They estimate that this will reduce the number of occurrences of acqua alta in Piazza San Marco from 220 annually to 5. As we learn to recognize what the rebuilt canal fronts look like, we realize that a lot of work has already been accomplished since the project began last year. Somebody must have learned something from the disaster of rebuilding La Fenice.

We didn't get to 1 of the churches on my agenda yesterday, the Redentore, another work by Palladio, located on the island of Giudecca. Yet another church built to commemorate the end of the plague, this one in 1576, during which over 1/3 of Venezia's population died, including the artist Tiziano. Greg is more interested in just strolling, so I leave him to San Polo and take the vaporetto to the Giudecca, where few tourists ever head. Not only am I rewarded with the magnificent Redentore, full of Tintorettos and Bassanos, but the view back to Piazza San Marco is spectacular. The church is magnificent, its space perfectly proportioned, and on the fondamenta outside the INSULA is hard at work, giving me hope that Venezia may truly yet be saved.


Chiesa del Redentore

When I head back to San Marco to meet Greg as planned, I drag him back to the Giudecca, to a quiet cafe on the fondamenta, and we sit with a few Venetians, listening to them gossip and tease each other, all of us enjoying a late afternoon rest, basking in the brilliant sunshine and drinking in this spectacular view of Venezia.


From left: la Salute and San Marco from the Giudecca; on the fondamenta



La Serenissima!

I do not sleep well in Noventa di Piave. This will prove to be a recurring problem over our 4 nights here. Interestingly enough, John, who woke very very early every morning at Neil's house in London while I slept like a baby, has no trouble sleeping here in Italy. I awake with sand in my eyes and slowly, ever so slowly, get up. John has already been up and gone down for breakfast: orange juice, fresh croissant and coffee. I opt for the pillow.

Stephano, one of our hosts, has told us of one of the many options for traveling to Venezia. We had been planning to drive into Mestre and then taking the train, to avoid the parking hassles. Stephano suggests that we drive to Punta Sabbione, the tiny finger-like peninsula which is across from Venezia, and then take one of the many ferries into the city. Noventa di Piave is already halfway there, and we quickly agree that that sounds like a wonderful idea. When we came to Venezia 4 years ago, we took the shuttle boat from the airport to Piazza San Marco and it was wonderful to approach the magical city by water. We anticipate the same.

On the road and out of Noventa di Piave by 10 a.m., we expect the 40 kilometre drive to the ferry to be fast. It is, after all, a Tuesday and who would be travelling these roads this early in the week? Stephano neglected to tell us that this is major beach country, that the lido along the coast is lined with hotels and pensions full of summer beach tourists. Our road is crammed with not only beach tourists but also all the tourists who have been told of this wonderful alternative for getting to Venezia. We are bumper to bumper for an hour and three quarters before we arrive to find expensive parking and even more expensive ferries to San Marco. We cram onto a boat with everybody else and head out for a slightly overcast trip to Venezia. As we round the point and see our first glimpse of the spires of San Marco and San Giorgio Maggiore and La Salute, the impatient and curious tourists surge to the top of the boat, cameras, video cams and squawking children in tow, blocking all attempts at picture taking. The sun breaks through, hot and intense, welcoming us to Venezia.


Approaching La Serenissima by water: from left: the spires of San Giorgio Maggiore on the left, and of La Salute on the right; the mouth of the Canal Grande between La Salute and San Marco

Our return ticket says 6 pm so we walk with purpose and knowledge of where to go. We leave all the Venetian Virgins behind to let them savour their first glimpses of the rolling gondolas and the tacky paintings, the Doges' Palace and the prize of all, the Piazza San Marco. As we pass through the Piazza, I hear an American woman say to her family, wide-eyed and full of wonder: "Can you believe that we are actually here?" We both stop and realize how lucky we are to be travelling the way we are and remember our first time in Venezia. We consciously slow our pace, trying to see this magical place through a Venetian Virgin's eyes.

John wants to see 3 churches on this trip, San Giorgio Maggiore, La Salute, and Redentore, which we didn't get a chance to explore when we were here before. We agree to do the 1st 2 today, and grab Vaporetto 82 to start with San Giorgio, the masterpiece of Palladio. The inside is a cool, calm white interior, so understated and peaceful, and we enjoy the quiet.


San Giorgio Maggiore: from left: exterior; interior; the Palladian Cloister

We join some English tourists in the lift to the top of the campanile for a spectacular view of the city and the lagoons. From this vantage point you can clearly see how Venetia is situated and its dominance of the water. It is a lovely view punctuated by a single but very loud bell clap, announcing the half hour.


From left: Piazza San Marco; Canale della Giudecca; islands in the laguna

We make our way down and back across the canal to San Marco, and walk to la Salute, the Cathedral of Health, built to celebrate and commemorate the end of one of the many plagues that devastated Venezia. We walk through familiar streets, finding our way around easily to cross the Canal Grande at the Ponte di Accademia, and so are now in Dorsodura. There are two major canal restorations on our way and we stop and watch in amazement the painstaking process of renewal.


A canal in the process of reconstruction

We walk past the Peggy Guggenheim Museum and finally the campo rises up to greet us. Soon we are inside. Like San Giorgio, la Salute is a clean, white interior punctuated with works of art by great Venetian painters like Tintoretto, Titian and Tiziano. It has a round interior and is not like a standard roman cross style of church. In fact there is no seating available to its parishioners.


Chiesa di Santa Maria della Salute

Slowly, we roam the streets and campos as we make our way back to San Marco to catch our ferry. We come across La Fenice, still not totally completed despite the reopening ceremonies held last Christmas. 4 years ago, on our last trip, the theatre was still in ruins years after it was devastated by fire, the huge sums spent to restore it disappearing into the pockets of politicians and builders, with little making its way into the actual building, until Rome took control of the project, after which it moved forward quickly.



La Serenissima!

At the ferry stop we look at the crowd and there are so many of us that we think it will be an unpleasant, sardine-like, trip home. But halfway through boarding it becomes apparent a 2nd ferry is waiting and will take 1/2 the crowd, so we end up with seats on the bow, enjoying the sun on our faces and the views of the Lido as we head home.

N 45
E 012

Trieste Airport to Noventa di Piave: 87 kilometres

Venezia beckons us and we arrive back in Trieste with not a whole lot of help from Ryanair other than the actual usage of the seats on the airplane. We have flown Ryanair twice; we do not need to go there again.

It is hot and sunny in Italy and we drive the hour to our next destination, Noventa di Piave, which is about 40 kilometres from Venezia. The hotel we are staying in is a small, family run albergo and ristorante/pizzeria that is located not too far away but just far enough away from the autostrada. We ring the bell and the pizza cook lets us in and shows us our room for the next 4 nights. We settle in, unpack and go downstairs for dinner about 8 p.m. They offer good, solid home cooked food with a fresh, slightly bubbly vino rosso della casa to wash it all down. It still amazes me that in the space of 2 hours we can escape the hustle and bustle of London and have the tranquil canals of Venezia enticing us. Ahhhhhh, the wonder of travel.

Today is our last full day in London. We sleep in, then linger over the Sunday Times and coffee. Much to our surprise, we find an article by Barbara Amiel, our own Lady Black. We ask Neil if the Blacks have been “rehabilitated” back into society since the very public trouncing of Lord Black about the unauthorized bonuses his company paid him. Neil tells us that the Blacks slunk out of London unannounced, and haven’t been heard from since.

We are out of the house by 11:30 and head to Columbia Road and all the flower and plant shops that line the road there on Sunday mornings. This seems to be a happening spot because even when we arrive at noon it is still crammed. The Blokes are loudly shouting and touting their last sale of the morning, more insistently than their competition next door. We wander a bit, poke our noses into shops, and wonder what they are planting back home for next year.


Columbia Road flower market


Some of the locals

Our walk continues over to Bethnal Green Road and into the very trendy Brick Lane area of London. Alternative and vintage clothing, cafés and second-hand goods abound. The area is also home to Bangla Town, where many of the city’s newer, trendier Indian restaurants are. We have been craving Indian food since we arrived and plan to make it our brunch today. We stroll through the stalls, past the dreadlocks, torn jeans and the tables lined with the 20 something’s and their Sunday morning papers, lingering over coffees and late breakfasts. We continue through to the Vespa store – Neil is thinking about buying one for the congested commute to work. The streets are teeming with activity as we continue the promenade towards the Indian restaurant called Brick Lane Spice, which friends have recommended.

After our brunch of good traditional food, fussed over by a courteous old man, we start the walk back to Islington and home. We head up the City Road and spend some time walking along the Grand Union Canal, which is finally beginning to be gentrified, and which leads us to within two blocks of Neil’s home. John and I finish some shopping that we had started yesterday and then we head back downtown for a beer.

We meet Neil and Robert, who has spent the weekend in Brussels but is now back, for dinner. Then Neil sees friends of his, Greg and Kevin, walk by, with Kevin’s brother and his friend, who are visiting from Scotland, so we join them for a couple of beers before heading home.

Oxford Street beckons us early this morning for a bit of shopping and sightseeing. We jump on our bus to Marble Arch, then walk back to Oxford Circus and down Regent Street. We stop at Liberty, the famous old department store, which we have heard has been “reinvigorated” since our last visit to London 4 years ago. It has – but we certainly can’t afford to buy blue jeans here, at their marked-down price of £395, let alone at their original price of over £1,000. But somebody must be shopping here.

From Liberty we head into Carnaby Street, for the nostalgia value – to find that it is now mainly shoe stores – all selling Puma and Adidas, which have the European leisure shoe market totally locked up right now.

We are meeting my Aunt Edith and Uncle Ron for lunch, and we head to their home, which is in a mews house just behind the Embassies on Portland Place, before continuing on to lunch. Greg has not met Ron and Edith before, but they welcome him warmly and within a few minutes we are chatting like old friends. Ron and Edith love to travel, and we spend a lot of our time comparing notes on places we have all been – which in fact is most of the places we have been to on our trip.

The meal, in a cute restaurant just behind Marylebone High Street and just off of Oxford Street, is disappointing – and Ron tells the manager as much – so Ron’s lunch is
comped. Despite the food, we are all enjoying ourselves, laughing and enjoying more travel stories and catching up and it is after 4 by the time everyone is ready to move on and say goodbye.


John, Edith and Ron on Oxford Street

After naps back at Neil’s place, the 3 of us head down to Soho to meet up with friends of Neil’s for dinner. They have been to a film, and so we meet about 9:30, have a beer and then head to a Mediterranean restaurant, where we have a very nice dinner and have good conversation. Nacho is Spanish, and is full of ideas about where to head when we get to Spain. Alan is heading shortly to India, and so in turn is full of questions about our experiences there.

We head back to the bus, hoping that one of the pubs may still be open, but alas, it is after 11 and they are all dark and deserted. And so, off to home.

The sun is shining – clouds briefly flit across it, but the umbrellas we carry as we walk southwest from Islington are not used today. Greg says that he has never been to Buckingham Palace, so that is definitely on the agenda.

We stop at Exmouth Market, which like so many former derelict markets has now been rehabilitated and turned into trendy restaurants and boutiques, and have a lunch in an original sandwich shop. This doesn’t mean we are restricted to BLTs and club sandwiches – Tito’s Sandwiches has adapted to the changed demographics of the neighbourhood, and despite the downmarket look of the place is selling the latest sandwich stuffings, served by heavily tattooed and pierced young men and women.

We continue our walk southwest, through Holborn and along Shaftesbury Avenue into Piccadilly Circus, then along Piccadilly to Green Park and so to Buckingham Palace. This has taken about 5 hours in all, what with stopping here and there. We notice that the gates on the palace side of Green Park all say “Canada”, and wonder why. The gates around the palace are similar in design, but do not say “Canada”.


“They’re changing guard at Buckingham Palace……..”

We decide that the only other thing we want to do today is head to the City and see the “Gherkin” up close, so we walk to Victoria Station and grab the tube to the City. The Gherkin is the new office tower, shaped like a zeppelin with its nose tilted up. Standing under it and looking up, it looks almost flat, like an optical illusion. When viewed from a distance, it appears to be the largest tower in London – up close, however, it is startlingly small in comparison to the behemoths of any North American city.

From the City we tube it back to Neil’s, and again cook supper, this time with things we find in the fridge. Then the 3 of us head down to Soho for a couple of Friday night beers before the pubs close at 11.

The day is spent quietly exploring Islington, a part of London neither of us really knows. Our umbrellas are up, down, and then up again as it rains off and on all day long. The temperature is a big change from southern Europe, and we are glad that we have brought jackets and long-sleeved shirts.

Our friends Jacqueline and Michael were in London a few weeks ago, and had reported how shocking the prices were. We, having spent almost a month in Scandinavia, are pleasantly surprised to find that the prices in restaurants and bars are a bit lower than they were in Norway and Sweden.

We are cooking dinner tonight, so part of what we are doing is exploring the food shops for inspiration. We decide on a salad of rocket lettuce, cucumber and fresh langoustines steamed in white wine, followed by a risotto with seared tuna steak. After all the time we have spent without kitchen, it is really wonderful to be working in a kitchen. And Neil’s kitchen, wonderfully renovated a few years ago when he modernized his +150 year old house, is quite a nice place in which to be doing it.

The numbers keep changing but we are finally 4 for a late night dinner and a bottle of wine.

N 51
W 000

Porec to Trieste Airport, Italy: 110 kilometres

The last three days have been mostly about working on our tans and for those “naturists” who care, working on losing our tan lines. We have settled into a fairly standard routine, buffet breakfast over by ten, chores/writing/sightseeing by noon or 2 and onto the rocky beaches of the resort until 4ish, at which time we head over to our usual spot at the “Beach Bar”, watch the sun start its descent and sip a couple of beers. We have an excellent vantage point from our seats of the comings and goings of the resort and as always there is the natural discussion of the many different types of people staying here and what he or she is wearing (or not), what their relationships are, first date or perhaps in some cases, blind date. These playful discussions take place at whatever resort we have stayed in. Whether in the Bali Agung Village in Seminyak, The Lake Palace Hotel in Udaipur or the many and varied campgrounds in Australia, we always try and figure out who’s who at the places we are staying.

We are up by eight this morning and finish packing for our trip to London. We have repacked the big bags and will leave as much as we can behind in the car. Breakfast is dispatched quickly, and we check out and are on the road by 9:55, heading north to the borders, first the Slovenian, and then the Italian, just 14 kilometres beyond the Slovenian.

We have cheap tickets to London Stansted on Ryanair and we plan to meet our friend Neil there. He and Robert, a friend from New York, happen to be flying in from a birthday weekend in Copenhagen, and we plan to take the train into town together. He has graciously offered to put us up for our 5 days in London.

It is an effortless trip until we arrive at immigration. John breezes through, and the standard six month stay is stamped in his passport. I, however, am questioned at length about our trip, the whys and wherefores, am I working in any of these countries, how I can afford to take such a trip, how much money I have. The list of questions is endless. After a ten minute consultation with her supervisor, the immigration officer tells me that she will not allow me to stay in the UK beyond the day I have told her we are leaving, and goes out of her way to tell me that I must leave the country at that time and that I CANNOT engage in any work during my time in London. Of course I agree and tell her that I am not planning to do any work during my time here and begin to get a little testy. John comes to my rescue and I get the 5 day stamp and we are on our way.

The Stansted Express gets us into Liverpool station and from there it is a quick cab ride to Neil’s house near the Angel tube station in Islington. It is a lovely, gentrified area, the row houses dating from the 1850’s. It is the London of my imagination, and Neil’s house is the epitome of that dream. There is also a lovely private tiered garden where you can sit and enjoy the green and watch the birds swoop around the clay chimney pots at the top of the house.


Our neighbourhood

Our bags are quickly unloaded and we have a class of Champagne to belatedly celebrate Neil’s birthday and then we head out to grab some food and some Soho ambience, catching up on the gossip over a crowded, noisy bottle of red wine in one of that neighbourhood’s many bars.

It is a 10 kilometre drive into the heart of Poreč– like beach towns everywhere, this one is spread up and down the coast, narrow and long. Everyone else is trying to get there early too, to beat the heat, and traffic is heavy on the drive in. But parking is easy – there are huge parking lots all around the old city, ready and waiting for the tourists. The old town itself is a peninsula, maybe ½ kilometre wide and 1 ½ kilometre long – surrounded by the sparkling blue of the Adriatic.

Lining the street from the parking lot is a wonderful fruit and vegetable market – lunch today will be luscious peaches, apricots, nectarines and tomatoes.

Although Poreè was also a Roman settlement, there is not much left from the Roman days, except the layout of the streets, which are, as always, full of shops for the tourists. What is left is the beautiful Basilica of Euphrasius, a Byzantine religious complex established in 543. The Basilica is famed for its mosaics, and the museum displays large segments of them, many dating back to the 6th and 7th century.



And then it is back to the beach for the rest of the day.

N 45
E 013

Pula to Poreč: 68 kilometres

Yesterday in Pula, Greg updated the website while I did research on various things, such as where the airport in Trieste is (it isn’t – it’s actually around the bay) and airport parking. As a result of our hotel experiences in Opatija and Pula, at Greg’s suggestion I also researched hotels farther up the coast, in Rovinj and Poreè. I discovered that the Croatian Riviera has over 100,000 hotel rooms, and that in contrast to both Opatija and Pula, a room in a 3 star hotel could be had for a last minute price of 54 Euros, including breakfast and dinner. I made the reservation, and printed the map.

We arrive shortly after 12, the smell of our hotel in Pula still lingering in my nostrils. We drive through the 1st gate, telling the guard we are checking in. He points left (there are 3 big Riviera Hotels here – 1 left, 1 right, and 1 straight ahead. This is a big complex). We arrive at a 2nd gate, and this time the guard tells us to park and walk the few metres to the check-in. It feels a bit like we are trying to visit friends in some ubiquitous American gated community.

I hand over our passports and my credit card, and get back a key, a map on which our building and the restaurant are circled, a pass for the car and a card to show in the restaurant. Off we drive, passing through the 2nd gate.

Greg reads the map, then flips it over, and asks with surprise if I knew that we were staying in a “naturist” resort. What? I ask. He says it again – we have checked into what used to be called a nudist colony. I am indeed surprised – Riviera Hotels, which operates about 10 hotels in Poreè, has a great website. I guess I clicked the specials link too quickly, because when I check back on the website after we arrive, I do indeed discover that 1 of the hotels, the hotel offering the last minute special, is indeed a “naturist” hotel. I guess they assume you will check out the specific hotels before you take them up on any last minute deals. But at $16/hour in the internet café, I wasn’t too worried about the fine print.

We decide to make the best of it, and after unpacking, we shed our clothes and head to the beach – heavy duty sunscreen already applied!

I have absolutely no idea what to expect. I try to think about what I know of naturism and come up with 2 sources. First, David Sedaris’ very funny book Naked – but I sure hope it’s exaggerated for comic effect. (It is!) Second, those 50s magazines that some neighbourhood kid was always finding in his or her parent’s room, and sharing with the rest of us – magazines that always had a somewhat clinical tone, like National Geographic talking about the African natives – to describe the rituals of the Happy European Nudists Playing Volleyball. As we walk past the (oh no – it’s true!) – volleyball court, we discover that everyone playing volleyball this afternoon is dressed as though they were competing in the Olympics Beach Volleyball Competition; speaking of which – Go Canada!

We get to the beach, which is not clothing optional. After only a minute or 2 of self-consciousness and surreptitious gawking, we relax into the sunshine. I didn’t sleep well last night (the smell at the Hotel Omir kept punching through the sleep and waking me) and in no time at all I am conked out on the beach.

When I recover consciousness and hit the water, I am surprised at how much warmer it is than the water was in Primošten – there is no need to slowly work my way in, it is warm enough to jump in without shock. And best of all, we discover as we walk around that this beach has a Blue Flag – the international symbol awarded to pristine beaches.

Sitting on our balcony after we get back from the beach we start to see people heading to dinner. Gee, what do you wear to dinner at a naturist camp? It’s a good thing we weren’t the 1st ones to head to the dining room, for dinner is not naturist – indeed, some take the dressing very seriously, and are seriously dressed up. Dinner is a nice change from the norm – a buffet with lots of different salads, 6 or 7 mains (none of them pizza or pasta) and sides, and fresh fruit and ice cream for dessert.

N 44
E 013
Opatija to Pula: 87 kilometres

We have no set travel strategy for the next few days other than a very rough plan that brings us to Trieste, Italy and our flight to London on August 18th. I realize that this puts some additional and undue stress on our relationship. As desirable as it may seem, it is hard travelling on a whim and without direction. You have to be entirely open and extremely flexible and compromising in order to make it work. Many times during a standard 1 or 2 week vacation, one always feels obligated to stretch and see everything that a vacation destination has to offer. We have said from the beginning that we would try not to feel obligated to see everything; rather to try and live as the locals do, gaining a sense of day-to-day life where they live, where they shop, where they grab their coffee.

Opatija is a lovely town but over a morning cappuccino in one of the distinctly Italian cafés on the esplanade, we decide to accelerate our plans and head to our next un-booked stop on our tour of Istria, the small coastal town of Pula. Duscha from Stara Vila has recommended this town to us not only for its interest and history but also because this is where she was born. We check out of the Hotel Dubrava and continue down the coast, heading inland and through the breadbasket of central and southern Istria.

The drive takes us through sparse corn fields and gourd patches. We see locally produced olive oil and wine being sold in small batches, the rickety roadside stalls being manned by uninterested and mopey teenage boys. We don’t see mass acreages of grape vine or olive tree, and wonder how the locals survive on this very dry and dusty landscape. This seems to be a hot, dry summer.

Pula welcomes us in the early afternoon with an intensely blue sky. The sun beats down, the occasional billowing cloud blocking its strength. Pula is known as a unique and very well-preserved Romanesque town, one of the only such towns in Croatia and its Centar is dominated by a well preserved Roman Amphitheatre right on its harbour. Not only was Pula the 2nd most important olive oil and wine centre of the ancient Roman empire, it was also the most important naval base of the Austro-Hungarian empire – what a history!

Again, we go to the tourist bureau and are referred to a hotel very close to the Centar and quite cheap at 60 Euros. We drive several blocks and are able to park right in front of the Hotel Omir, our home for an undecided amount of time. If I thought the Hotel Dubrava was a letdown, then the Omir is twice that, although a much cheaper letdown. And the room stinks, to boot (and like a boot).

We dump our bags and start to discover the town. On first viewing, the town seems dominated by an industrial harbour but its real charms can be found in its winding and narrow streets. The main town square boasts an original temple to Augustus, and has been in continuous use as the town’s main gathering place for over 2,000 years. There are several Roman sites a short walking distance and we begin our tour with the biggest of them, the Roman Amphitheatre, the 6th largest built in the Roman Empire, and the best-preserved of any. Currently used predominately as a concert venue, the Amphitheatre was host to many gladiator and wild animal games.


The Roman Amphitheatre

We do a tour of the Centar, all the sites conveniently situated within a short walking distance of each other, and then proceed to the hotel for a nap and some respite from the sun.


From left: The Romanesque Church; the Temple of Augustus; The Triumphal Arch of the Sergians

On our way to our naps we discover an internet café that will allow us to connect the laptop. Post-nap we take the computer and all of our homework to the café-cum-art gallery and stay until after eight o’clock updating, researching and doing email. We have decided that, quaint and picturesque as Pula is, its sites and sounds have been fully experienced and John does some research on our next location, Poreè and its hotel offerings.

We join the townspeople and the tourists on the main square and have the typical Croatian meal accompanied by some excellent busking entertainment by a fire-breathing juggler, performing just in front of the town hall. The young Italian couple eating next to us reminds of Italy: they start with pasta, then carne, with assorted vegetable dishes on the side, followed by some sea food, then salad, wine, of course, a sweet, some fruit and then coffee. After seven months of travelling the world we are still surprisingly stuck in our North American ways: we have assorted salad (which in Croatia is shredded cabbage, some cucumber slices, tomato sections, and three pieces of lettuce) and tonight, lasagne. The young couple eyes us conspicuously: “Such cakes!” Ahhhhh, the Italians.

N 45
E 014

Primošten to Opatija: 338 kilometres

We are travelling along the Croatian coast line in the area known as Istria. This is a beautiful peninsula that reaches south from the Slovenian and Italian borders into the Adriatic and you can certainly feel the Italian influence here. In fact, since we left Primošten, the Italians have definitely been making their presence known.

We are not covering huge distances but the drive today takes over 5 hours, winding us around rugged coastal roads, up and down through mountain passes and hair-raising turns that remind us of the Coastal Highway 1 in California and also of traversing the Apennines with John’s mom Lois in Italy 3 years ago. We wind our way down into the quaint but definitely tourist-oriented town of Opatija. It has beautiful Italianate red and yellow villas and hotels on the water’s edge. Some are in need of some love and attention but mostly the town has a glossy, picturesque café/beach town ambience on its surface. In many ways, Opatija reminds us of Santa Margherita Ligure in Italy where we spent a night 4 years ago.

We don’t have a hotel reservation and it is Friday evening, the 13th and it is full-on tourist season in a very busy beach town. I am also demanding that any accommodation we find have a TV so that we can watch the opening ceremonies of the Olympics. We try a couple of tourist bureaus and quickly realize that we aren’t going to get a room for less than $150 CDN. We decide on a hotel that the tourist bureau tells us is an historic hotel, newly renovated but still retaining all its original charm and distinction. We bite the bullet and agree to the very promising Hotel Dubrava at $170 CDN per night (no parking!!!). We fortunately find a parking spot very close to the hotel and check in. Our room is not very quaint and certainly doesn’t “retain any of its original charm and distinction” unless the original room was in a 1960’s prison movie. It is very small and full of very utilitarian brown plastic laminated furniture and trim; but it is only for one night. As always, we promise ourselves that we will never again drive into a tourist town with no reservations on a weekend or a major holiday.


Our Hotel. Looks nice from the outside, huh?

We unearth the internet café and check some email and as always it seems they will not allow us to connect our laptop. It has now been eight or nine days since we updated and when it gets to this point it unusually takes us over an hour to update and upload all the pictures. We will keep trying.

We buy the International Herald Tribune, mostly for the news but also for the crossword, pick up some supplies for our evening in front of the TV and are offered yet another example of the lack of restaurant service available in Croatia. The first language spoken here seems to be Italian, followed by Croatian and then - a distant third - German. We are starting to get confused when we say thank you in all three languages: hvala (Croatian), grazie (Italian) and dunke (German). We are tired of the so-called “Croatian Cuisine” of pizza and spaghetti bolognese and fish, and look forward to some wonderful Indian food when we travel to London next week.

Settling into our small room with our beers and our TV, we cheer on the Canadians as they enter the Athens Stadium in their flashy Roots uniforms. A huge thunder and lightning storm starts to gather and eventually crashes into Opatija and blows the TV. This happens off and on all night, always at a particularly poignant or interesting moment in the ceremonies. Unfortunately, we have full power and reception during Bjork’s entire “I-am-mother-earth-enveloping-you” song. What was that all about?!

Here you go, Jacqueline, at long last a posting!!!!

Greg's brother Jeffrey is back home safe and sound from his tour of duty in Afghanistan. Welcome home, Jeff!

Happy Birthday to Neil Vickers on August 16th.

Like the pension in Forster’s “A Room with a View” our little villa keeps changing personalities. We all meet over breakfast and exchange our pleasantries. I find that it is either John or I that make the initial attempt at introductions. Perhaps it is so easy for us to make the first introductions because we have become so used to our journey and always meeting new people.

Today there is Klaus, Edith and Hans, and Renate and her daughter Sabrina, all coincidentally from Frankfurt and environs. We are certainly a different bunch from our first group at Stara Vila.

This is our last full day in Primošten. It has been a restful and largely uneventful holiday. We have our tan lines back that were gained in Australia and lost somewhere between Thailand and Turkey.

We have had the opportunity to sample pretty well all the major restaurants and bars in this tiny town and have found one common thread: there is a lack of the basics of customer service and how to attract and keep customers; it is worse than in most tourist areas, where normally they know at least to keep the drinks flowing. Many restaurants here keep you waiting for service, then bring your starter at the same time as your main. One restaurant took our order and then left us there to fend for ourselves for over 90 minutes. They had two items on the menu: Pizza and Spaghetti. We ordered pizza. After waiting so long, I proceed into the restaurant to inquire. Our food comes out minutes later. We then had to track down our waitress to pay the bill. This seems to be the shared complaint of all the visitors to Primošten and probably all of Croatia – one guidebook noted that Croatian restaurants have not yet recovered from the long period of isolation during the last war. Judging from all the yachts and pleasure boats lining the harbour, there is some respectable business to be done here. We have only found 1 restaurant that was worth a 2nd trip – owned by a Frenchman, with a Gallic flair to both the service and the food. We had our last meal with John and François there, and we will visit it tonight for our farewell-to-Primošten-meal.

Duscha seems to have it all figured out. Stara Vila is the nicest place to stay in Primošten, especially in the old town, and it has no real competition; every thing else seems to be winter family dwellings, brothers and sisters, grandmothers and grandfathers tossed into the one room off the kitchen for the summer, their own rooms given a fresh coat of white paint and made tourist-ready for the foreign holiday-makers, their squawking, crying children in tow, who are happy to rent these four walls for their week-long vacation. Duscha’s lovely garden, the only one on the whole island that we would want to spend time in, is the envy of everyone who walks by. All the tourists stop and stare at us over breakfast or in our early evening get-togethers. Her classy yet informal and unrushed breakfasts invite her guests to linger and get to know each other.

We slowly start to move some things over to the car, which is parked across the island. We had been running back and forth to the parking lot and retrieving what we needed when we needed it. Now we begin the same process in reverse. I remember packing up from our summer cottage at Orford Lake in Quebec, filling the big wooden wheel barrow with our luggage, games, books, sleeping bags and whatever groceries were left over and rolling it past the other cottages to the railroad tracks, where we could roll no further. Dad would back the car down the hill and we would pack up the first load and this process would repeat itself for as long as it took to fill the car and head for home. We only have one small load to transport to the car today. We do some re-packing and head back to the villa for our bathing suits and some beach time.

Yesterday we agreed that today’s the day – we are going scuba diving. There are dive centres up and down the coast, and one is within walking distance of Stara Vila. We have been promising ourselves a dive here in Croatia, but so far have not made it. We arrange with Duscha to have our breakfast early so that we can be there by 10.

The day is perfect for diving – clear blue sky, not too much wind. We will do a wreck dive today – an Italian ship, the Murano, that was carrying coal for the Germans during WWII and that was sunk just off Primošten by a cannon on the mainland hill that rises above town. After 30 minutes on the boat, we are in position, and in we go. This is our 1st dive since Turkey and I am surprised at how comfortable I feel immediately on entering the water.

The visibility is amazing – we can see forever down here the water is so clear. We go to the 30 metre depth, and it is so clear that looking up you can see the ripples on the surface – amazing. There are some fish – not like in Bali or Thailand, but certainly more fish than we saw when we dove in Turkey. This is not a coral area – the water is too cold for that.

The wreck is interesting – more for the fish than the wreck itself, as most of the coal, the propeller, and the anchor have been salvaged. We see scorpion fish, lobster and shark eggs (but no sharks) today.

After 35 minutes or so, Greg signals that he is going up and rises to the top, and I can see him getting onto the boat while the rest of us are hovering at about 5 metres in depth, using the rest of our air. When I go up, exhilarated from the dive, I find that he has not enjoyed his dive nearly as much as I – he didn’t take enough weight on his belt, and so has had to fight to keep from rising the entire time, using his air more quickly than the rest of us. Too bad – diving is so magical when you can relax and enjoy it.

Greg: I had been struggling since we got in the water, adjusting the air in my BCD to make me more buoyant, dealing with the cold water, generally feeling rushed. I realize how important it is to trust your dive master and the group you are diving with. The two other divers in our group were somewhat maverick – kicking up and standing on the bottom, letting their second stages and gauges drag on the bottom, disturbing the sea life and our visibility. They seemed completely unaware of us or anything else that was going on. Our dive master, Goran, never confirmed my air levels during the dive and when I ran out of air, which I did, he was far too ahead of me to give me any direction what to do. I panic slightly, my breaths becoming shorter and shorter. It is rather frightening being suddenly aware that you can’t breathe completely and even those short breaths of air are running out. I make a couple of kick strokes towards John and signal that I am out of air and heading up. I don’t wait for his reaction. I don’t have far to go, 4 or 5 meters at most and I try not to think about the rest period I should have had before coming up. I break through the surface and quickly realize that I have to manually blow up my own BCD to keep me afloat. Five or six big breaths later I am buoyant and start to swim towards the boat. I am a little angry and get angrier later as Goran avoids bringing up any concerns with me. As he surfaces, he pulls his off mask and still in the water, asks “How was the dive?” Biting my lip, I sarcastically answer, “I’ve had better”.

The rest of the day is back to normal – relax in the sun, nap in the room, dinner by the sea and early to bed. New guests have arrived at Stara Vila and replaced the friends that we have made here. We will have to wait until breakfast tomorrow to meet them.

Irina and Davor leave very early tomorrow morning so tonight they have invited us all for cake and coffee to celebrate Davor’s birthday. Two different types of cheese cake are served and we all linger over coffee before John and I head to Francois and John’s room for some home made pasta salad (A Home Cooked Meal! Wow!) and a glass of wine. An hour earlier we watch from the patio as sweeping washes of lightning began to bathe the twilight sky in white; now we begin to hear the far-off rumblings of thunder as well. Our “dessert-before” dinner progresses as does the lightning and thunder grow more and more assertive and energetic. We gobble down our last bite, say quick goodnights and head around the corner and up the hill to our room just as the rain starts to pelt down. Tourists are running down the slick pavers leading from the summit of this small island, their panoramic rooftop restaurant dinners interrupted by the blowing storm.


The Blue Adriatic

The storm blows in, the thunder and lightning crashing just above our heads. At the height of the tempest and over the din of the rain and blowing, I hear church bells. Someone or something is ringing all the church bells in the old town. It is an eerie sound coming through the storm – strangely comforting yet somewhat unsettling at the same time. The bells are ringing with a frantic urgency that is usually associated with fire or disaster, calling the local fire brigade or ringing for some other help. We discover in the morning that the locals ring the bells every time an electrical storm blows up - to draw the lightning and its potential devastating effects away from their lightning "rod-less" houses and instead, up to the pealing bells, high in the belfry. We somehow don’t think that the ringing, swinging bells will attract the lightning away, but this local superstition must give the residents peace of mind during major thunderstorms. And just like that the storm is over, leaving only the sound of the dripping eves to ease us to sleep.

We decide to drive to Split today to see the city, and if we can, to try and update our website. It has been 8 or 9 days since we updated and I am feeling a little guilty. We have been able to pickup and send email, but nothing else. We ask François and John to join us for the drive and we head south along the coast for the hour drive to Split. My brother Jeffrey has been to Split before and had sent us some email about what to do and see. We head into Split via the suburbs and frankly are less than impressed. Industrial and unattended, they are not a very welcoming sight to first time visitors. We negotiate the car to the “Centar” and find some parking that is metered, but the meters aren’t working. Parking all along the Dalmatian coast is somewhat of a problem – too many cars, not enough spaces. We have already been towed from our initial parking spot in Primošten and now park on the other side of town in a pay lot, 15 minutes walk from Stara Vila. (As best we can figure, given the cars that are continually parked in the spot we were towed from, we were towed because of the French plates on the car.) Here in Split, we watch all the Croats park, try to put money in the meter, realize it is broken and walk away. We decide to take our chances, and head into the walled old city.

Once we get into the old town, we find a crazy mishmash of styles: Venetian Palazzo beside Roman ruin, beside Napoleonic Empire – reflecting the long history of Split, and the many countries that have controlled it. Thankfully, there is little in the way of Cold War era Yugoslav architecture in the Centar.

Most fascinating are the Palace and Mausoleum of Diocletian, the Roman Emperor, These buildings are halfway through a restoration, and will be quite magnificent when done. Much of the palace is able to be renovated only because a bomb exploded on the site during the war (the 1991 war) and destroyed the houses that had grown up over the ruins of the palace. It was an archaeologist’s delight – tons of garbage dumped into the palace over the years.


From left: Diocletian’s Mausoleum; the entry to Diocletian’s Palace


Diocletian’s Mausoleum

We find an internet place that will let us plug in our laptop, François and John sip coffee in a café while we update the web, and then we head back to the car, fingers crossed. It is as we left it, and we head back to Primošten through the 5 p.m. rush hour traffic of a typical Croatian Friday afternoon.


Back in Primošten - François, and John; Greg and John

We awake to rain this morning which forces our courtyard breakfast into Duscha’s kitchen. The cloudy rain blows away around noon and leaves a sunny, warm day. We begin to do a little research concerning the next leg of our journey which will include a rendezvous with our Toronto neighbours, David and Kathryn, in Spain and Portugal in mid-September. Monika, our German friend, has rented us her house near Montpelier, in the south of France, for the end of September. We hope to meet our friend Rose there for a week or so of exploring the countryside. John and I have both agreed that the next few months will be less hectic and schedule driven. We hope to spend a minimum of 3 days in each location and not push ourselves too hard to get around Europe, even if that means skipping places we would love to go – memories of Vienna (or more accurately, the scarcity of memories of Vienna) haunt us.




Around Primošten

Our breakfasts continue long and leisurely here in the courtyard at Stara Vila. Duscha serves up lovely food starting at 10 and unless anyone has anything pressing to do, we all linger until 11:30 or so, discussing, chatting or simply relaxing. Sometimes Irina and Davor linger longer over their tea and Irina’s one cup of coffee. The German and Italian tourists, on their pilgrimages to the church on the hill, enviously spy over our fence and seem to wish to join our conversation in this special garden. Inside the garden, everyone is falling into an easygoing, relaxed vacation mode. It’s not too hard to do.


Primošten


From left: entrance to the garden; the sun terrace at Stara Vila


From left: garden seating; the sun terrace; the breakfast nook, with the door to our room behind

We meet our fellow guests at the villa over a long and leisurely breakfast in the garden and we truly are an international crowd: Francois and John from Paris (John via the US), Stefan from Frankfurt, Franco from Rome, Irina and Davor from Frankfurt and of course, Dusha, as Stefan puts it; “the boss”, our gracious hostess.

It takes no time to navigate the island. You can walk around the circumference in about twenty minutes. There are no sand beaches here; mostly rocky outcroppings with pebble beaches for the children (and there are a lot of children) and rocky beaches for the adults. Everyone seems to have diving or beach shoes to protect their feet from the jagged rocks and scree on the beach and as you enter the water. The other necessary beach accompaniment is a pad to go with your towel. This makes the lounging much more bearable. Swimmers and sun bathers have grabbed every conceivable inch of the island to spread themselves out. In the harbour, luxury yachts abound.

Nothing, nothing, nothing. I try to accept and apply this mantra to our time here. The crossword puzzle, books, the hammock in the garden or the sun chaises on the roof top will be our familiars over the next week or so. We are in the old town and the pealing from the old church bell on the hill is a recognizable reminder of where we are. Narrow slated walkways take you steeply up or down. Many tumble down buildings with some neglected, overgrown gardens. Some tended houses have small kitchen gardens, their tomatoes and bay leaves and thyme producing bumper crops. There aren’t any major hotel chains here, just family run businesses that reap their successes during the heady summer months of Italian and German tourists. It almost seems like the unspoilt Greece of 15-20 years ago.

Everyday life is evident on the local lanes. We can hear the cries of the baby across the small lane outside our bedroom window. Newborn kittens grab the attention of passersbys; old men silently police the lanes from their hard, wooden benches. The aged women of the old town, black-scarved and black-stockinged, make the pilgrimage up, up to the church cemetery, visiting loved ones long since gone. It is difficult to catch the eye or even a smile from these silent ladies. The last forty or fifty years of their lives have been incredibly difficult. I wonder how they must feel now as the German, Italian and other chubby, sleek, under-dressed and sunburnt tourists invade their town and take over the fleeting summer months.

We connect with some email at the Tourist Bureau, the only internet in town and receive two emails from Eric in Sydney and Derek in Berlin, asking if we were still in Prague and commenting on the small bomb that had gone off in Wenceslas Square. We reply that we were well out of harms way at that point and look for a Herald Tribune to get caught up on the news.

N 43
E 015

Vienna to Primošten: 713 kilometres

Like seemingly everyone else in Northern Europe, we are craving some sun and warmth, and like seemingly everyone else in Northern Europe, we are heading to Croatia to find it. We are heading to on the Dalmatian coast, halfway between Šibenik and Split, where Stefan, who we met in Frankfurt, has a small guesthouse. Once a small island only metres offshore, Primošten was connected by bridge to the mainland 500 years ago.

Traffic is heavy on the Austrian autobahn as we head out of Vienna early on this Sunday morning. The drive through the hills is easy – we note that the Austrian autobahns wind through the hills, gently rising and falling, unlike the Italian autostradas, which are much straighter and which use tunnels and bridges far more extensively.

We make the Slovenian border in excellent time. We continue on the autobahn for another 30 kilometres, then it heads off to Ljubljana, and we, like most of the cars on the road, take the narrow local road for the 60 or so kilometres to the Croatian border. We get through quite easily, but the line of cars heading north waiting to cross back into Slovenia is kilometres long.

A few kilometres into Croatia we hit the motorway to Zagreb. Our road atlas, dated 2003, shows us that from Zagreb south, about 350 kilometres, we will be on local roads, but we discover that in fact the new southern motorway opened on July 1 – and we zoom down the road, except for 1 short interval where we drive over a mountaintop because the tunnel through the mountain won’t open until next year. We see hundreds of cars with German, Dutch, Polish, Czech, Slovak, British, Italian and of course our French license plates, all heading south, all fully loaded with gear. We go through a long tunnel and emerge on the other side to views of the ocean – we have passed from the valley to the coast.

We leave the highway and drive the last few kilometres on the coast road, bumper to bumper and moving very slowly. (The tolls for the motorway, about C$25, seem well worth the price.) We find Primošten, find parking (harder than finding the town itself, as it is overflowing with people), the bridge connecting the island to the mainland is no longer recognizable as a bridge, but in aerial photos, the island still looks like an island, albeit an island connected to the mainland. We meet Stefan, and start the winding walk up to Stara Vila.

When we get to the villa, we find a charming place. Dusha, our official hostess, shows us our room. It is a wonderful white bedroom off a treed courtyard. On sight I fall in love with the place, and contemplate luxuriously lazy naps in the stark white coolness of this chamber.

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