No more tears - just the science of coming home

There's a thing. Mljet is a relatively easy place to get to and from...as long as you start or end in Dubrovnik, Split... or Šipan. There was a vague purpose for spending time on Mljet in the first place because all hearts must mend eventually. And it has been amazing to be here finally feeling happy and whole. In a reversal, I wondered whether it would be wise to pay a visit to my old home in Suđurađ.

When I left there in April 2017 it felt slightly bittersweet with an air of finality. Home was still home, but was no longer; I'd sadly moved on. The moment we landed in Šipanska Luka at a ridiculously early time, I had an air of melancholy unreality. Happily I must have made quite an impression during my time here, because familiar faces turned from polite disinterest to genuine recognition - in moments. This made me feel quite tearful, in a way I rarely feel.

This two faced place never fails to amaze me; despite the near end of the summer season the many pleasure boats continue to pour in, and the opportunity for people spotting is endless. On the other hand, the icy walk through the polje this morning demonstrated the beating agricultural heart of the island. Cows were being tended to; grape pomace lies in heady heaps; fattened cabbages await winter pulling; and the olives are well on the way to being ready.

Enjoying the coffee and soaking up the early morning sunshine in Teo's bar was very pleasant - watching the village come awake is a simple pleasure. Eventually hunger drove us to picnic snacks on my nearest favourite beach. There are so few people there; people from the pleasure boats either don't have the time, or the inclination to stray out of the village. Which means they miss the actual life going on but as the companioning one knows, I have very little to say about idiot tourists.*

<insert your own melancholic shit here>

Having made myself all melancholy (shit happens), my amazing friend Marija invited us to see her family and have a taste of the rakija and wine making process. Now as you all know, science and history thereof is my life and the very best outcome of science is the stuff you can eat and drink. What is cake making, if it in't science? Anyway, much of what I have enjoyed exploring is alchemy... So to see an actual still in action is pretty much renaissance science in motion.

Fascinated, I watched as the deep purple 'waste' grape material was put into a large lidded metal container and sealed with water around the top. The dried garden herbs had been carefully chopped and layered; mint and fennel were the secret ingredients here. The stove underneath was stoked to cook the mix, and we sat back to fuss the cat who was thoroughly enjoying the warmth. The smoke unfurled into the olives above and we sipped our wine and munched on home smoked bacon.

Next door's sheep popped by unexpectedly and there were shouts of ide, brzo, 'cha... and mint sauce, lamb chop! I'll leave you to sort out who said what.

The fumes from the fruit and herbs headed upwards in to a metal tube; then went through a coil to be

cooled and condensed. The tiny precious drops fell like tears into a hanky... to be collected in to a saucepan. As it filled, it was occasionally emptied into a large round flask and the odd finger managed to sneak in and test the strength. Each batch would start strong, and then mellow and dilute. The art is to mix them to ensure consistency...and presumably avoid blindness or brain damage.

Also it's getting dark and what the heck is happening in here?

It was like magic if you can imagine a life surrounded by grape fumes, goats, and pine wood smoke. It reminded me of all I had left on the island. And I have never felt so sad about returning to tech, East London and the world outside. 

And on that melancholic note, let me remind you we are currently being serenaded by Antonio and his friends. Karaoke Mljet style.That is to say all is well in the world, and there has been birthday cake.



















*the water in the lakes is NOT brackish ffs.

Swimming in October, All Saints Day, olives, visits to police...

 

Quiet Gatwick

What a week! I arrived in Dubrovnik early last Saturday in a state of nervous exhaustion. London, with a three day trip to the north, had been a whirlwind of friends, family, and general catching up. Thankfully it had been a relatively stress-free return journey, and with 16 of us on the flight, then the only person on the bus to the ferry port, it was like Croatia was trying to tell me something. London transport had been manic as usual, so it was a ridiculous contrast. My bags and I were eventually safely on the ferry - after the usual wait - but for superstitious reasons that I shall explain shortly, I decided against the usual huge trip to the supermarket. Given I was also lugging an awkward suitcase and massive backpack, perhaps it was just sensible.

 

As I sipped my welcome home cup of tea on my bright terrace, it took a moment to hear the silence. My ex-flatmate's place was actually quieter than I anticipated, and certainly more peaceful than she had billed, but that's only because the permanent white noise is turned up louder to counter the intermittent peaks. Either you stop noticing it all, or you take to your own headphones to drown out everything. This deafens everything including your own thoughts, which is scary. The overwhelming sensory experience of a big city is partly what makes it stressful. Although the senses are strained and pummelled here, it is extremity of a different kind. Artificiality v nature; people v isolation; choice v seasonal availability; grey v green.

 

This time of year is so 'familiar' at home. I only have to smell sweet ginger, clean woollen jumpers, burning leaves and green wood, damp misty mornings, and I'm transported back to the parties we had as kids; warm spices scenting the air, lit candles in dark places, happy friends and family gatherings. Our focus in the north is necessarily on damp, dark and spooky nature, and perhaps we tend to conflate US style Halloween, 5th November and later, Armistice Day. Having only briefly experienced southern European All Saints Day with the masses of flowers, and focus on remembering the dead, it nonetheless reminds me - again - how similar we all are underneath. Our different cultures, religions, ways of celebrating only serves to highlight what is universally important to humanity.

 

Not spooky

The masses of flowers in the park and market in Dubrovnik that welcomed me, were stunning. Everyone was buying a formal flower arrangement for family graves. I was asked how we remember our dead loved ones and whether a particular time is set aside to visit cemeteries. There was a stunned face as I explained that my most missed loved one isn't buried, but was scattered in a wood by the side of a reservoir. My father is everywhere and nowhere; in my heart; in the open, in the nature he loved. I confirmed that, for me, that was as close to a 'heaven' that anyone could ever wish for! I don't need a special time to remember, it's impossible to forget. The unhealthy concern for bodily remains I find the most disturbing and curious aspect of many religions, but perhaps that's why I can't be doing with Halloween - unless it's a nice piece of gingerbread, with a bonfire and sparklers.

 

Still, it reminded me that I am very far from the UK and very much out of my comfort zone. Swimming in October, fish BBQs, tractors and olives, visits to police...this life is beyond anything. The landlord worried about my wish to be cremated, and that I hadn't brought slippers back. Some people have very strange priorities.

 

I had been invited to go up to the olive oil factory on my arrival but for one reason and another, it didn't happen. In retrospect, I'm glad that I had a few days in the groves before going up for the final part of the process. Instead I was welcomed home in a blaze of sunshine, and it wasn't just the unaccustomed hills that left me breathless on my late evening run. The sunset was incredible and augured well for a sunny few days. I've even managed a final dip in the glorious sea; the chilly fresh water springs that pour into the harbour had definitely made their presence felt. The light which I'd missed for two weeks was pouring into my bedroom on Sunday, which meant I was woken up bright and early, and I dashed outside on to the terrace to see the golden sparkles on the bay. Without slippers, obviously.

 

The coffee places in the village are now very limited and I wondered if the buzzing metropolis of Sipanska Luka could offer more choice. Taking a gentle stroll in the sun to the other side of the island, I knew that I should be starting work but it was pleasant to delay for another day. I also knew that I had to face the possibility that I could be asked to leave the country any time after Monday 1 November, which is why I had held back on doing a huge shop for provisions.

 

Whilst in the olive fields that afternoon, I asked about the next day's trip to Dubrovnik for a new tenancy agreement and some police lady sweet talking. It had to be done on Monday because of the All Saints holiday on Tuesday. There were grumbles. And more grumbles. The forecast was consulted and the 6am ferry was agreed upon. Just as olive season was really picking up, I was dragging the two gentlemen to town. Little Miss Popular, I was not. Still, I made myself useful in the fields.

 

The next day I was feeling sick by the time we were due to leave. As it happens, regardless of weather forecast, we had to take the fishing boat and car into town because the amount of running around we needed to do. The police station is right at the top of the hill, a good 30 minutes walk from the port. We started with the lady at the police station, did the paperwork, got it notarised, went back to the lady...didn't have copies of stuff, got copies and went back to her. I was to come back Friday for my registration certificate. By this point, after three times up the hill, the human blood pressure matched that of the car's, which demonstrated its displeasure by expiring in a puff of evil smelling engine smoke. It refused to start.

 

If you remember, I have one other experience with this car. It had failed to start back in June and we'd needed to jump it, then we were too nervous to switch it off whilst dashing around for the same paperwork. I pointed this out, and now it seems women are banned from his car. Luckily his mate was in town and we got a lift back to the village where their boat was moored. It was an extremely wet and bumpy ride back to the island as there was a strong wind blowing. I can report that my new yellow coat is wind and waterproof. All of this on a Monday before 2pm and we hadn't even started the day's olive picking yet...

 

To be continued...

Fishcakes!

Rocket and Dandelion

In return for selling copious quantities of olive oil this week, payment has been made in the shape of fresh fish. If you work for fishermen, I suppose this reward was inevitable, but it was very welcome. They were waiting for me in the big fish fridge; four huge beautiful shiny mackerel. Before I cleaned and filleted them I admired their colours and brightness. Inspiration was needed as I wanted do something slightly different than the usual tasty oil, garlic, and hot grill combination.

The previous day I'd been out with Marija and her family. She had promised to take me to the fields to get what she described as 'grass' and I was puzzled. I was handed a knife and shown the plant that we were going to collect. Turns out that it was dandelion! We picked a bagful, and I was then handed the lot, as well as some wild rocket for a salad. She told me how to cook it and off I went with leaves that that my granddad used to curse. She said to clean and sort it, then wilt like spinach. I added garlic, oil, wine vinegar, salt and pepper and allowed to sit and cook for a little longer. I wondered how to use this rather acquired taste veg...

 

Pesto Mackerel Fishcakes

Delia had an idea which combined mackerel and pesto mash. I don't think that putting potato into fish and baking would work for me - far too much effort and perhaps a little bland. So I made a few changes using the basic idea.

• Pat four of the fresh raw mackerel fillets dry and sprinkle a little salt on them
• Put 3-4 medium potatoes onto boil and cook until soft. Allow them to dry a little over the residual heat and then mash as usual
• Whilst they are boiling make a good antisocial pesto - one which makes even the garlic-immune fisherman here run scared. First of all, tussle with a small green caterpillar about whose basil it is...he won, as he wouldn't go down the plughole and waved at me pathetically when I threw him out of the patio door
• Mine is a large handful of basil leaves, a really big glug of the excellent olive oil, a handful of toasted pine nuts, a couple of crushed garlic cloves, salt, pepper. Whizz up with whatever blender/mortar and pestle you have, then add some grated hard cheese. Add more oil to loosen if it's too 'tight'
• Throw the lot into the mash and stir in thoroughly. At this stage I also added a rather interesting ingredient. I roughly chopped up a load of the cooked dandelion leaves and threw them into the mash
• When the cooking oil in a frying pan is smoking hot, add the fillets, skin side down, and cook until just done. Allow to cool a little and then flake into the mash mix. Taste for seasoning and add paprika, or whatever to adjust
• Add an egg and a little flour to bind. Then clean and re-oil the frying pan to heat again
• With floury hands to prevent sticky mayhem, form into burger sized cakes and fry on each side until brown and crisp

East London Mackerel Cakes

Given that I'm going home in a week, and I enjoyed the previous day's cakes, I thought I'd try a curry flavour as I'm serious need.

Melting a butter/oil combo, I fried up a small onion, curry powder, cumin, chilli, some finely chopped red pepper, and popped in the final two raw mackerel fillets and sizzle thoroughly. Once it's all cooked and soft, I flaked the mackerel into the new batch of mash and scraped in everything from the pan. Add an egg and a little flour to bind, I chopped up more dandelion and stirred it all together. Cook as above, and add more tabasco for fun.

Serve both versions with a good dollop of hot ajvar.

Another welcome visitor to Suđurađ

Dubrovnik Shoes

The island is pretty much the centre of my universe, and so my capacity for excitement has perhaps shrunk to fit a slightly smaller place. Outsiders may feel that bowling competitions, film festivals, klapa concerts, saints' day processions, tiny classical concerts, and good pizza is perhaps stretching the definition of 'excitement' too far. I notice when the local bench is repositioned, the seasonal changing of the field's fragrance and, like every other local, roll eyes at the weekly youthful Antipodean incursions who enjoy very loud music and occasionally ring the church bell at 3am.

 

So when friends visit I like to push the boat out for them. As it were. All visitors here are subjected to hours on ferries! As you've read there is usually wonderful swimming and incredible beaches, long hot walks in the fields, early morning kayaking, hours of paddle boarding, and really lovely food. Louise was no exception and I'd been planning for her arrival for a few weeks. She adores Croatia and so was really looking forward to the trip. She was coming in to Dubrovnik to see me especially, before flying up to the bright lights of Zagreb a few days later. Last time I saw her, we had both ended up there but I wasn't going to be persuaded this time.

 

I had the usual early morning start to greet my guest, with the treat of coffee and a fresh bun. We corresponded with each other from our respective modes of transport; me from the bus station, to her on wifi in the sky, and we had already starting laughing. Apparently one of her suitcase was looking forward to being pulled by aunty Clare. As her cases are legendary for their mischievous antics, I was already regretting not bringing a muzzle and ankle guards. My rucksack was already full as I'd picked up some extra essential bits from konzum. Deodorant, for instance. Not to mention crisps and wine.

 

Considering we'd had so little sleep - 3am start for her - we were surprisingly chipper and had a sunny journey back to mine. Given I have so much sun cream at home, she hadn't brought any so fair skin was already starting to glow on the ferry. The cases had already caused a commotion and were busy chasing other patrons. As we arrived into Suđurađ, and hauled everything past the bar, the big one must have caught a whiff of previous parties and ran over her toe in its hurry to order a round of Sambuca shots. Naughty case.

 

Finally with a little help from landlord senior we were soon in my little flat making a cup of tea. And checking out Jenny's abandoned beach shoes...no joy there as they were a little large. We chilled out on the terrace with some melon and peaches and just enjoyed the tranquillity. I demonstrated the local way to deal with wasps *SHOOOOO*. Then she spotted one of the best insects I've ever seen. Climbing the grape picking ladder, we watched him for ages wondering how we could help him, as frankly he was going nowhere. A ceramic plate didn't work but we were able to coax him onto a piece of paper and then on to the bamboo screen. We assumed he would head up to the safety of the vines.

 

We finally hit the town beach where, without Adriatic Sea shoes, pebbles are a little pebbly. It was good to stretch and refresh after a day of travelling. Before I can assure Marija that my guests are kayak safe, I like to see them swim! We paddled around for a bit, then diet talk made us think about food. So whilst she went for a shower I prepared stuffed peppers, which take a couple of hours to cook. In the meantime the stupid insect was waving precariously at a seagull. We left him to it. I was hazily aware that the weather could turn nasty at the start of the week so suggested we make the most of the evening sunshine. We put on appropriate footwear and went up to my favourite look out to see the sunset. The timing was perfect - the lighting effects were spectacular.

 

After swimming and hill climbing, the hearty peppers were welcome, and washed down with a glass of white they were suitably local and tasty. We enjoyed the sounds of the evening, discussed a Sunday 'plan of action' and decided on a short post-dinner stroll. We were accosted by a young gentleman who offered to buy us drinks. This place is fabulously friendly! By 10.30pm we were all falling asleep - middle aged party animals - and looking forward to an action packed day of walking, paddle boarding, food and laughter. As the weather forecast was doubtful we also had contingency plans for baking and make-up practice but that is another story.

 

Oh and we still had Adriatic Sea shoes to track down.

Seasons, seasoning, reasoning

Pinch punch first of the month! September is one of my favourite months; a few more weeks of ever lengthening golden light, squidgy purple berries and honeyed Russet apples, warmer clothes and a snug duvet, as well as exciting new lectures and exhibitions to brighten the dark evenings. In Northern Europe, September primarily exists as an apology for a terrible summer and is the only time, weather-wise, that I wish I was home. Even rain and mist is appealing as seen through the rainbow of falling leaves.

This year I'm greeting September with incredulity because this means I've been here seven months. It seems incredible that we arrived on a dark March morning with a long summer in front of us. Strangely it is partly the weather that has truncated time - by having mostly warm sunshine since June, days have disappeared in a languidity of pleasure and colour. Only the occasional storm has offered punctuation marks in time; a difference to mark the passage of summer, and most recently the appearance of dewy mornings to announce an Adriatic autumnal turn.

Which has necessary got me thinking about plans. I'm officially here on Šipan until the end of October leaving me with two months to decide what to do next. Some things are yet to be confirmed but are certainties nonetheless. A trip to London for blood tests and medication has to happen before the end of November. It's not life or death, just means there won't be any hormone based meltdowns over winter. This ensures I'll also be properly equipped clothes-wise for winter because I possess nothing thicker than a jacket and fleece jogging top. I also need a trip to Split to retrieve a duvet and my miniature library!

The other certainties include travelling more. Someone has suggested they fancy seeing Barcelona in October (subject to a million responsibilities) so I'm open to suggestions regarding interesting places to stay there. I've seen a boat on Airbnb that could be interesting for a week although it specifies 'no number 2s in the toilet'. Given my digestion on a week long diet of churros and manchega...but I digress. I'm mildly regretful that I haven't used my time to see more of this country and its neighbours, but height of season isn't conducive to cheap, quiet, comfortable getting-about. And frankly I've enjoyed an anxiety free life. At the end of September I am considering resurrecting the carefully mapped Balkan odyssey, and taking in Albania, Macedonia, Serbia, and Hungary. Using the February road trip as inspiration, it would be interesting to just book the first couple of nights to be secure, then wing it from there and fly back to Dubrovnik from whichever Eastern European city I get stuck in after a couple of weeks.

Did I mention regrets? A conversation yesterday about whether I had any has prompted a few thoughts. If I went with one of my options and returned to London in November I would regret nothing - despite the travel mentioned above. Although this could be remedied by shipping stuff home and back-packing leisurely to the UK via Austria, Czech Republic, Poland, the Baltic states, Scandinavia and the North Sea. To be honest I could do that anyway. There is only one event which to this day makes me shrivel with dismay at my stupidity. Although in reality the reawakening of true lingering conscience and care for others is to be embraced rather than easily shrugged off with regrets. Croatia has given me a sense of domestic peace which I've never experienced before. Although cooking contrary style meals for locals terrifies me! I hadn't realised black pepper or mild paprika were classed as ljuti.

When you've finally let go of neuroses and realised that nothing but loved ones are important, it's easier to let go of other desires and pulls. Instead of trying to constantly chase and expand to fill an entire universe, my universe has found and shrunk comfortably around me. I have caught my own precious falling stars, no longer having to reach unsteadily for those always out of reach. I am finally content with my abilities and what I have, so there is no further need for obsessing.

This place has made me a better, less-superficial person because I have time to stop and consider what would be better for other people. I'm never going to be perfect (who is!?) but I'm not finding myself so distracted and disconnected as I used to be. The road - or ferry - to recovery is still long, requiring patience. A few months here is just the start. It is easy to be content with scrubbing toilets when your head is preparing an article, a short story, or thinking about the next freelance writing job. Perhaps this is who I truly am. Let's hope September continues to bring forth a harvest of ideas to welcome the olive oil. Hours on the Elafiti ferries to restock my flour and baking powder once again provoking homespun profundity; or perhaps I'm simply being profoundly domestic.

Bank Holiday on Šipan and Lopud

It was Summer Bank Holiday in the UK, so I thought I'd take a break from the old work routine and go on holiday for a bit. You know, have a lie in, read a good book and generally enjoy what would inevitably be a rainy day. Then I woke up and realised that I was still here, and I could pretty much do what ever outdoorsy thing I wanted because sunshine! There was stirring outside as someone decided that nets needed bringing in so, instead of being cross about being awake,  I decided to embrace the morning.

The village was bathed in golden morning light as I quietly launched one of Marija's kayaks into the glassy water. The bottom of the sea was bluely visible until I was well beyond the protective stone harbour walls, and I enjoyed the sensation of easy silent paddling. There were no power boats to worry about and I was keeping an eye on 7am Hanibal; he didn't mind and we didn't come to blows because I was exploring the watery caves of Ruda Island by the time he chugged past.

I struck out for Lopud, with fond memories of the last time I did this. It had been my birthday and the night before the contrary trio had hit the rum badly. So the hangover had been ferocious - my brother had set the spanking pace and we had blindly followed him, hoping he'd find coffee and cake somewhere. We struck gold at our destination and the resultant caffeine, sugar and cold water hit us beautifully. By the time we had got back to Šipan, we'd felt almost human again!

Anyway, there was no head cloudiness on Monday and it was a lovely morning to have coffee and fresh doughnut by the sea. With a flash of inspiration, I picked up an extra bun for a man-who-might-appreciate-it back home and popped it in my bag. I then thought about wine for later and took a detour to the tiny market. As I was in a kayak I thought better of the huge 3 litre bottle on offer and sensibly only bought a couple of normal bottles. Imagine developing a leak and losing the cargo?! Or what if I was boarded by pirates? Who knows what might have happened.

On my shopping trip, I'd clocked a poster advertising a concert of classical music in the church.I had a small splash around on the sandy beach, giggled again at the memory of an ex-flatmate's ability to clamber into a stationary kayak, and headed home. As I paddled back I thought about the music and was determined to try to make the concert...this would mean a begging of a favour and I wondered if it was possible. Does a bun count as pre-emptive bribery?

The appreciative one was having a coffee after a unsuccessful bout of net reeling. I think he was touched, frankly I was ready to go get out of my wet shorts, so I had scooted off as he was mid-munch. I had a relatively quiet day and after making myself useful, decided to mention that I wanted to go to Lopud for a concert, and please may I have a lift back. Looking up from the plateful of sardines that I'd prepared, he fixed me with an exasperated look.

Problem.

It is now dark enough for night fishing so they were going out. If they had a boatful of fish, they were not going to wait for me, and if they were out until 1am, then I would just have to wait. Therefore no guaranteed lift from the landlord. The best offer I could get on a water taxi was 250 kuna and I had also checked AirBnB for a room overnight. Basically, going out here is as inconvenient as going out in Bristol if you live in Yate/Chipping Sodbury. Except that there you're paying £25 for a theatre ticket and £50 for a taxi...scratch that. I'd rather be here. So bravely setting off on the 5.50pm ferry I took a leap of faith, trusting that I'd get home somehow.

I arrived in Lopud in dry clothes, which made a change from the kayak soaking from earlier. With a small amount of foresight I popped into the Lafodia Hotel lobby where I happen to know they have a library of books for guests. I nabbed the only English one available - seriously, people, do you not read on holiday? - and scarpered to the nearest pizza place for a quiet couple of pre-concert hours. It does seem criminal to eat pizza on an island but I do get endless amazing fresh fish at home, so I never feel too guilty. On my evening stroll, I chuckled at the outlandish ways I could get home; perhaps a wheelie bin and paddle; a tractor engine powered pallet raft; a plastic sunbed contraption?

Some lovely friendly English people were sat nearby and we had an excellent natter which was an excellent way to pass the time. *waves*

In the event the concert was spectacular and there was no fault to be found in the fluting, cello-ing and piano-ing. I could happily have listened to them in St John's Smith's Square, or similar intimate venue in London. There is something very special when you get a talented cellist and flautist together, and the instruments just sing. Again, the piano makes an uneasy third in such a trio but it seemed to have a rare understated delicacy which didn't dominate.

Moment of truth. I wandered up to the far end of the harbour and pondered the wisdom of a glass of wine. I decided against it, and bought a bottle of orange pop instead. I had no idea how long I would be waiting. There were no messages, which was both promising and not. Boats came and went, my book was read and finished, and I ambled back to a comfy looking park bench. It was gone half 11 by then, and then I saw the musicians walking past...as a final act of desperation, shyness overcoming lunacy, I wondered if they were going my way. Maybe English subtlety is truly unknown here, as I said;

'Hello, thank you for the lovely concert tonight. I wonder if you are going anywhere near Suđurađ as I appear to be stranded here?'

They were going back to Dubrovnik. Oh well. Perhaps a Croatian would have got a better response with a more direct question.

A few more centuries went by and cafes were closing. Then finally I saw boat lights. It was my now extremely cross landlord who had dashed back from a mediocre fishing trip, got in the other boat, and come out to collect his errant guest. He wasn't as annoyed as he was when I punctured his bicycle tyre, but he was definitely not amused. Still, he flung a coat round me and we powered back to Šipan in few minutes. To top it all, when he asked me to throw out the fender, the rope wasn't attached to the boat. Well done Skipper. Least I remembered to hang on to the end.

*sigh*

I reminded him that there was wine in my fridge. He brightened a bit. The problem he has is pretty much the same the world over. Responsibilities, stress, exhaustion, and needing to work in a dangerous and low paid, uncertain industry, when other people are out having fun AND then expect a free taxi service. This is enough to make any person slightly snappy. Helpfully pointing out that classical music wasn't his bag, 'jebeš klassikal music!', I topped up his glass solicitously. I pondered when the next concert on Koločep was. Apparently as 'his most troublesome guest' I'm definitely swimming back from there. Jebem ti majku!

Of Bakes and Cakes

For the past two weeks I've had visitors and it's been marvellous fun. For the most part their holiday involved exploring my island home by foot, bike and canoe, with the odd emergency use of the tiny bus, as well as relaxing on the beach and messing around in the sea. My brother had built himself a fishing rod, Roo had a million questions, and the Contrary Ladies Trio had plenty of conversation about life, love and poetry. Inevitably there was a lot of wine, rum and beer at various stages of the visit...not to mention a bit of dancing. They also seemed to appreciate the sunny weather after the summer back in the UK. I hear it's quite bad.

Domino's? No

As regular readers will know, the contrary team and various associates can sleep, dream, and conjecture about food for hours. Kim and I trod-water for about an hour just talking cake - my perfect idea of aqua-aerobics. And we had an officially qualified chef to bamboozle with recipe jiggling and fridge specials. My brother is a massive foodie and enjoyed working with the many wonderful ingredients available but there were times when he just wanted to nap, so left me in charge. He did teach me some cheffy things like what a  beurre rouge was, and the posh term for cubes of tomato.

No I can't remember what it was. And in return he made me promise to write the recipe for the Dalmatian inspired meat and polenta bake which he had four helpings of. So here goes:


Clare's Dalmatian Bake (serves 4 - 6)

First check the fridge for random items of interest and make adjustments. Sniff the open bottle of chilled red wine and taste a glassful just to make sure it's ok. Take half a large onion and chop finely. Fry off in local olive oil with plenty of garlic and some cubes of smoked cooking prsut. Add 500g of pork/beef mixed mince and brown off thoroughly. Add a glug of the wine, plenty of pepper, a bay leaf or 3 (if you have any left over from the experimental burning bay leaves to see what happens trick) plenty of Dalmatian mixed herbs, and a tin of chopped tomatoes,a rinse of the tin with water, a squeeze of tomato puree and a beef stock cube. Mix thoroughly and let it bubble until it is thick, tasty and making everyone's mouth water.

In the meantime, take the 8 pale green peppers that you were actually going to stuff with the mince mixture. Realise one of them is dodgy, 2 are too small, and the other one went in a salad so decide to chargrill them instead. Heat the grill. Deseed, rinse and dry, and cut into quarters. Place on a tray skin-side up and drizzle with olive oil and place under the heat. Shut the oven door and proceed to forget about them until smoke is pouring out. Turn them over. Once they are fairly black but deliciously soft, leave to cool slightly and gently peel off the crispy skin.

Preheat the oven to 200 degrees.

Polenta is still a bit of an alchemical process - I blame the wine, bay leaves and golden colour. I googled it wanting the ultimate recipe and found a hysterically precious blog on the perfect polenta. Apparently forget everything you ever believed about it being a quick dish and start making it the night before.

Oh.

I poured about 250g of sunny loveliness into a pan, added an amount of cold water and milk, with a sprig of rosemary, salt, and more bay leaves. Stir and abandon til it starts to get warm and demanding. Stir more. Boil the kettle and add more hot water as and when it looks a bit firm. Eventually - about 35 mins -  it is a smooth, thick paste. Taste, add more seasoning, a load of grated cheese and some crème fraiche and Dijon mustard. Stir and it should be the consistency of a good soft mash. Remove rosemary and bay if you remember.

Then panic that your glass dish is too large and ask the opinion of the chef. His sceptical face says it all. Panic some more and have a glass of wine.

Pour the meat into the tray and spread out - it was about 2 inches deep in the end. Spread out the peppers across the meat. Top with the polenta mix and spread out evenly. Top with more cheese, breadcrumbs, paprika and pop in in the oven until the polenta is soufflé-like and ragu underneath bubbly. If you can wrest some basil from the naughty cricket, tear some leaves over it as you bring to the table; serve with a salad you forgot to make, what's left of the red wine.

It's pretty good.

The other recipe I tried today was very successful. My cake making is definitely improving but only because I'm not limiting myself to the usual butter, sugar, flour and eggs with which my gran used to miraculously conjure into fluffy sponges. Mine are always disastrously greasy and crunchy .

Mediterranean Upside Down Fruit Cake

Whisk - and I mean really whisk - together 3 eggs and 100g of sugar until they are foamy and creamy. Use a machine if you have to, or just enjoy the hard work. Once you are sure, keep beating and start adding 70ml olive oil as if you were making mayo, one dribble at a time so it turns glossy, whilst remaining aerated. The recipe I adapted suggests using a light olive oil but I prefer the rich fruity flavour of the extra virgin single press local stuff. I want my sponge impolite and gutsy. Add 90g of flour, a teaspoon of baking powder, and a good pinch of ground sea salt. Fold in until smooth. In future, I would also add a dash of almond essence to this.

Slice a ripe peach and arrange on the base of your oiled baking dish. Sprinkle over a sachet of vanilla sugar. Again, I would add flaked toasted almonds for extra crunch. Pour over the batter and place in the pre heated to 160 degree oven. Bake for about 50mins - a skewer will come out clean. Turn out so the peaches decorate the top. The texture is incredibly light, moist yet robust.

Who's coming here next?!

Chunky Dunking vs Skinny Dipping

So, having lived a young life of being a "super modelesque" type build, putting on weight was a hardship I never thought would effect me so much. From silly contraception to amazing food, my body disappeared from its Marilyn Monroe figure to a more Nigella curvaceous beauty.

I started to become slightly unhappy. Instead of doing something physical and diet wise about it, I found myself looking at yet another devilishly delectable dish to feast my eyes and feelings on! Oh, yeah then I became pregnant! That was an invitation to eat what you want right?

Oops apparently not! So a size 16 and I have now a babe in arms!

I know a size 16, that's not so bad right? But when you have spent your life with lavish compliments and desire, to now almost disappearing out of sight from the roving eyes of anyone, and the compliments of "oh my god your body" with the undertones of desirous torment, now to the "oh my god your body" with bitter tone of disgust.

I became a shell, I hid behind leggings and baggy tops, I ignored my appearance in the windows, in mirrors and even shadows. I ignored the further weight gain! My weight ballooned, now a size 22 I stopped swimming... I love swimming. Diving was my thing; I would elegantly run, touch the side and disappear into an abyss of heaven beneath the surface. Now if I dived, it felt like a watering hole for an elephant, who could no longer dive from fear of the water disappearing and leaving the hole of a pool behind.

It wasn't until my sister in-law came to see me having started a diet and a regime of exercise with a
fellow friend, did I see an amazing difference in her confidence, appearance and general well being she oozed goddess qualities, those that I missed and suddenly had a craving for!

I soon began a slow process of bringing exercise back into my life, I avoided swimming: A. I was huge and again watering hole didn't seem appealing, B. I was terrified and C. I had began to accept that this weight was only going to disappear if I helped it.

So a little regime of weigh-in each week with an aqua fit class and Pilates, soon turned into to an addiction of boxing, 20-20-20 (20 minutes aerobics, 20 minutes strength and 20 minutes cardio) twice a week as well as a swim, yes, a swim.

In 10 months I had lost 3 stone! 8lb off the weight of my five year old.

I had slowly gone from a size 22 to a size 14. My mission isn't complete yet, but it sure as hell feels great to be able to stop in a window and admire myself, hear my inner self desire me! So when a holiday was booked to see my sister in-law in Croatia, I reluctantly went bikini shopping! I found out I had also dropped three breast cups; my Goodness Gracious girls had now become, Fabulous!

The moment of truth came when "we" (my girls and me) made our first debut as what can only be described as heavens door, a greenish blue hue of transparent heaven. The sky shone below as the water shined above, an almost upside down world in this Adriatic sea.

The other women here were immaculately presented for the roving eyes of men; and young boys, as we were to find out, after my 5 year old had his first look at nudist bathing! I felt awful!! But persevered I did! And two weeks of bathing and diving, I had a risen as my own version of a bronzed goddess, my own desirable. The last night there and of course my little one suggested "lets all get in naked!" So we did. All that remained on my body was my knickers! My "ladies" bobbed ceremoniously together, free from restriction!

I was "skinny dipping". The natural beauty of being in this heaven like pool, to lie back and feel the stars wash over you in the darkness touched me. I was becoming me, again. I had lost myself but, with my own perseverance I was finding me, as always!

Packing

Packing

      /ˈpakɪŋ/ 

            noun

            the action or process of packing something.

            "she finished her packing”

As opposed to packed. Which seems frightfully final.

I’d made a list which was good, right? And this list had stopped morphing so it must be complete. Not only that but I knew where everything was and, naturally that any clothes fitted. Needless to say my laissez faire approach was driving a number of people slightly nuts as I stubbornly refused to move from my current stage 2 of packing to the final stage.

I really wasn’t in the mood. And I’d only end up unpacking to find something that I shouldn’t have packed yet because I actually needed it.

If you’re wondering the stages are

1. Thinking about packing. This is a whimsical state of mind where we consider what is going to happen and hence what you might need.
2. Writing a list. Now this bit can go on for some time and as it was the unexpectedly summery weather that struck the UK in the latter days of stage 2 meant that I had refined what I felt I needed
3. Actually packing
4. Weighing the bag
5. Deciding what you need to ditch and then going back to 4 until you can move on
6. Getting dressed and rushing to stop LK just in time to catch the bus for the station.

Obviously that last step needs altering for those that don’t live in Limehouse Basin.

So when of the main why-aren’t-you-packed-yet protagonists suggests having a bon voyage drink by the river you accept, there is after all a serious point to be made here…

A few hours and strawberry ciders later I was feeling very mellow, giggly and really not in a fit state to do stage 3. However that wasn’t a problem as my flatmate had remembered to turn off the oven that contained the sausages I’d chucked in before heading to The Narrow so I proceeded to hash together dirty beenz on toast with sausages. The perfect meal.

This helped immensely.

By now it was way past 9pm which was good as I’d already decided that if I wasn’t sorted and in bed by 9pm I wouldn’t be going to sleep. As it turned out this was an excellent plan. With my flatmate wishing me a good night I slowly leapt in to action gathering together all of the items on the list and placing them on my bed - thus preventing me having just a moment - whilst I also decided what to actually wear and showered. The showering was because I’d not actually checked everything fitted and I didn’t want to try things on with a disgustingly sweaty body. I know, too much information.

By midnight I had reached stage 4 and fortunately was underweight even with the iBastard in place. Ladies and Gentlemen: I. Was. Packed.

And running out of time.

According to Google there was a bus in twelve minutes and another in about 45. I was still in my underwear.

Oops.

I elected to go for the later one. As it was I was leaving very early as I intended to meet Clare’s brother, sister-in-law and nephew at Gatwick at 02:30 so they could collect some things she’d asked brought back which needed to go in the hold. Easy.

I even had enough time to take my things off the clothes horse and carefully dump them on my bed. Because I’m classy like that.

I stood with my handbag, flight bag and hat and mentally went through the list. Actually I checked that I’d left nothing on the bed and knew where my passport, Oyster and purse were. To be honest I didn’t need anything else. In fact I could have done with just my passport and purse. Such is the modern world.

I was off!

Fortunately it’s just a few minutes to stop LK and I waited patiently until a number 15 rolled up to take me to Ludgate Circus and then a quick walk to Blackfriars. As I was earlier than originally planned it was yet to become a night bus. Which has to be a bonus.

The weird thing with London is you might look at a map and have no idea whatsoever what to do but on the ground you know exactly where you are and with a flood of memories you march off in the right direction. To avoid recent escapades with buses I’d checked something I thought I saw on my last trip and sure enough I could use my Oyster to get to Gatwick so no more faffing around with the wrong train, just turn up, touch-in and get on.

I am completely awake.

Except that the bloody train stopped about ten miles from where I was waiting. Goodness knows how long those trains usually are! I, along with a mostly bunch of others, scampered down the platform to catch up with the train.

Now all I had to do was not fall asleep.

Finally at Gatwick I waltzed through to the Norwegian desks, checked in, got my ticket and waited. I knew the others were en-route as I was getting a constant text update from Clare’s sister-in-law but frankly it was boring. There was a moment of “oh jeez” as I saw a particularly bawdy bunch of lads hanging around in the same area so I was grateful to see that they were heading to Florida.

Sorry Florida.

In a bid to stave off the tiredness I went in search of a chilled coffee. My first attempt was Marks and Spencer. Waste of time, they had none whatsoever. I headed to WH Smith, they were bound to have some and they did! Unfortunately it - as was the fridge - was decidedly warm. There was only one last option without actually going to a coffee place… Boots.

As Goldilocks would have said, their’s was just right.

Cold and coffee like.

I headed back to my waiting spot. And waited.

Finally they turned up, checked the luggage and we all headed off in search of a cup of tea as it was too early to go through security. This was definitely the downside of turning up early for an 05:35 flight.

Surprisingly I waltzed through security, no bings, no search, no problems with my bag. Id even had an easy time of getting things in to the transparent bag! The problem came at the far side. I’d lost the others and I had no idea if that was because they were behind me somewhere or had already gone through. I decided that I’d wait until the either they turn up or the flight was called…

It wasn’t necessary. Eventually they turned up and apparently there had been much searching of bags and persons. Clearly I’m a very honest looking packer. We wandered through passing the shiny things in not-quite-duty-free and found the flight board to see when the gates would be called.

We were the first on the board. We also wouldn’t be called until 04:45 so enough time to wander and find a bottle of water for the flight. By now I’m starting to feel decidedly tired, I’ve been awake nearly 24 hours and the lubricating effect of the strawberry cider was now a distant memory. But I knew that I had to wait until the flight  before I could even consider having a snooze. Oh well.

Finally we were called to gate 10 so off we trotted to be - as it turned out - very early in the queue. Which isn’t a bad thing as it meant I was sat right by the door for the plane, important as it was a full flight and I really wanted to make sure my bag was stowed with the minimum of stress.

All went well except for one minor detail, when I got on the plane all of the overhead lockers were open and I put my bag in to what looked like my seat area and sat down. I’ll admit I’d struggled to read the numbers properly close up and had managed to confuse myself and sit in 28 instead of 29. There’s a reason why I usually sit at the front. As the plane filled I was fairly sure I was going to have to move. Awkward. Even more awkward was that the two lads in the row were I should have been had decided as nobody was there yet they would take the seat. Ahuh. They moved. I strapped myself in. Closed my eyes and…

…woke up to see the Austrian Alps down below.

Well that was a bonus. It did mean that I’d missed my usual drink of champagne, but seriously I was tired enough to sleep on a flight. Me! As the rest of the plane snoozed I connected to the WiFi and began nattering with the travelling one who was en route to Dubrovnik airport to meet us.

As we slid into Croatia I could see places I recognised to my right, first the island of Krk where I’d been in March, then Split before with a pause the engines slowed and the plane began its descent. We were nearly there!

Once landed we re-grouped and I left the others waiting for their luggage as I went to meet Missy at arrivals so we could have a few minutes catch-up before the task of getting us all to Šipan.

The plan had been for us to get the shuttle bus to Dubrovnik harbour. The problem was the queue for tickets was almost as long as the distance we needed to go. In the end we decided the best thing to do was get a taxi as with there now being five of us it wouldn’t work out too expensive. Still more than the bus, but better than waiting in a queue and we *did* have a ferry to catch plus we needed to buy food.

On the plus side the taxi driver said he would drop us at the Konzum so it all worked out nicely.

We split in to three teams, one would watch the bags, two would go and buy food for the main party and I would get snacks etc. for my room as I was staying somewhere else. Inevitably I also found the fizz so loaded up on that, picked up what I needed and headed to pay and then swap places with the watcher. 

With the last of the supplies sourced we grouped outside, loaded bags and headed for a bar near the ferry for refreshments. In the form of beer. There are worse ways to do a shopping trip.

The beer flowed nicely, food was sought for the youngest in the party, hats were found and bought and the clock ticked slowly as we awaited for transport to the island. It turned out that the usual ship was a bit broken so we were on an older model that had character galore. A proper diesel clunker that had seen many, many days. It didn’t matter if it got us to our destination. And had a loo.

We had to stop at a couple of places en route which gave a good flavour for the area. Though I didn’t really take it in as by now exhaustion was winning the war and I kept drifting to sleep. Needless to say I was grateful to arrive at Sutured harbour so I could head off and find my billet. And sleep.

The fly in the ointment was that I was utterly ignored by the waiting staff in the place one of the people ignoring me turned out to be the owner. Not a great start by any stretch of the imagination. Eventually the young girl serving deigned to talk to me and then went wandering off to find the one I suspected of being the owner.

To add insult to injury he said “ah, you must be my guest”… It’s great being invisible.

Oh well. The room was nice, the view great and I fell in to a deep sleep for several hours.

As you do.