Mystery, minarets and mint tea

Happy Ferry Face

It started in Bosnia - like most exciting, earth-shattering things do. That country has a magical draw and I need to spend more time there. Of course, it could just be the melancholic thoughts caused by too much beer and burek. But I digress already.

Many years ago I made a friend there, and on the rare occasions we meet, he still manages to challenge and expand my mental horizons; some people just have that effect. May 2016, sat in that dim* Sarajevski Celtic bar, he revealed he was from Turkey and it sowed a thought-seed. He said he was never coming back to Istanbul...but I’m happy he was here to go out for an epic pizza with me, although that’s his story.

Focus on the goat...

So even as the temperature dropped, our spirits rose. With our food supplies stashed in my trusty backpack, we scuttled back to the apartment which was gloriously warm and welcoming. After a simple supper of tuna tomato pasta with a bottle of red, we braved the delicious višnja in the bar down the road. We sat there and cackled until we froze. We moved inside and carried on cackling...as we discussed a special burek and beer diet plan with the waiter.

Seemed like a reasonable idea at the time. As did the goat pekar on the menu.

As we tottered up the stairs home, the northern wind was whistling through the trees, and howling round the rocks - I love that autumn really showed summer the door, and tried to boot it through. Still, as I currently write, summer is triumphant in its determination to hang around. The upside of bura is the clarity of air... everyone should see the stars and full moon at 4am.

We woke to a chilly morning; nothing as screamingly awful as the UK in September but it was brisk. Our hosts had mentioned a bread man van at 9am so I braved the golden morning light to await his arrival. It appeared that he had been and gone so I begged the obliging people at Mali Raj for some bread. We enjoyed a continental breakfast of bread, cheesy triangles, mortadella, tomatoes, and discussed what we were going to do.

The wind continued to blow happily. We had no plans.

The girly one put on her walking boots (with nothing more than a toothpick and a banana for support - so she said) and I put on my filthy old trainers and we headed off around the lake. If you go and read the blogs of the other contrary one you will see that we are once again on a bit of a healthy eating and exercise kick - hence the afore mentioned burek conversation. Mljet is renowned for its nature walks and was partly why I had chosen this place for a break.

Ha!

So much for a brisk stroll; the first 100m took 30 mins. We expended energy only on ooos and ahhhs as the astonishing scenery took our breaths away, and in return we took photos. We enjoyed every inch of the large lake as we stayed on the path closest to the water. We giggled as we followed the central and circle line symbols - this was obviously just like being on the London underground.

OK, it was nothing like. It was actual paradise. Hidden beaches, vertiginous green, fluttering butterflies, and total silence as we commenced our circuit.

We headed to the hamlet of Soline for a responsible coffee (me) and a cheeky pivo (her). The road down there was so quiet that a basket ball court had been set up, should you choose to shoot some rings. Or whatever you do with the goal thingy. Anyway it was a fabulous use of flat tarmacked space. Soline is an ancient spot at the mouth of the lake, where salt has been produced for many years. We returned to the beautifully engineered Veliki Most, which vibrated tunefully in the wind. We crossed and continued around the lake. Shockingly we had only done a few kilometres...

By the time we had walked around the big lake, our feet were ready for one thing. A dip in the lake! We had found a handy little pontoon from which to swim just around the corner. It was - as promised - a few degrees warmer than the sea which was very pleasant. This didn't prevent any extremities being frozen; the air temperature was still pretty chilly. Brrrr! Needed a quick shower and a hot cuppa to thaw out. At this point of the day we had walked a long way so any normal people would have decided to have a nice nap.

We went for a stroll over to Polače for milk.

The booted one complained about the mountain* we had to climb. I admired the plunging ravines and the glorious gothic qualities of the cemetery on the way up. We descended into the village and the light was just catching the buildings on the far side. The Roman villa loomed over the extremely choppy sea; bura was still in full force. Sadly its effect on Pelješac was a devastating fire, a reminder to us all about the fragility of this landscape.

No ride home here...

After checking the shop's closing times, we hit the Calypso bar for a beer. We had to fortify ourselves for the ferociously steep and dark walk back over the mountain** via the Stari Put. We decided to pay up, confuse the waiter and pop into the shop to pick up milk and dirty sausage and beanz. And wine and cheesy snacks. No Babine Kuće evening is complete without heading out to the bar for a nightcap so off we went again. We also ordered our baby goat (kozlin) pekar for the following evening and tried not to think about anyone's pet.


*small hill
**the dramatic one was determined that it was a mountain

Not that White City; the Ukrainian one!

I left off the last post just as the train was pulling into the sonorous sounding city of Bilhorod-Dnistrovs'kyi - literally 'White city on the Dniester'. The couchette lady had handed me down the extremely high steps, and there I was standing on the railway lines. No panic, nearby there was a group of gentlemen gathered on the lines having a beer and smoke.

Normal.

A few people got off the train and they looked beach ready. As it was only around midday I wondered whether I would regretting not bringing swimming stuff. I followed people into the station to check out timetables. As you can see, they were as clear as mud. After previous experience with Russian trains, I know you had to be bang on time to leap aboard. I kept in mind that there was a bus option and decided not to panic.

Ukrainian Train Journeys and other Distractions

One could really get used to travelling in a civilised way; a calm leave-taking of my apartment*, a cheap taxi to a quiet airport, good coffee and no security queues. Not that all of my journeys begin this calmly. Take my trip to Bilhorod-Dnistrovskyi last weekend for instance. My Airbnb hosts had already warned me against train and bus travel, etc. It seemed the only approved way of getting anywhere was by limo. 

Or something. 

Not being adequately equipped with 5 star private transportation, last Sunday morning saw me at the extremely grand marble clad train station. 

A Little Bit of Catching Up

To set the current scene, I’m sat in a tiny shaded park outside Odessa International Airport, which was built in 1961. It looks every inch its age and is reminiscent of a dodgy looking bus station; Ploče springs to mind - that place will haunt me forever! The weather is glorious, sunny, warm embracing heat with a light breeze to kiss the skin. There are dodgy looking concrete bunkers behind me, but not a Costa Cafe or duty free shop in sight. 

The purr of jet engines is audible just behind me but clearly there are only a few planes per day, so it’s not intrusive. The new airport opposite with its distinctive blue and white wavy roof shines under its protective wrappings, and is resolutely still under construction. It is for arrivals only and where I appeared 3 weeks ago. This period of no Internet is the perfect time to record some thoughts. 

Thermals, options...and friends

Don't get me wrong, I love it here in Split. Every summer weekend is a joy of friends, beautiful weather, lunch by the sea and living a good life. In the winter, cosy homes and glorious food warms the body and soul. And people. The amazing inhabitants I meet and admire most here are young people building lives, facing the challenging process of settling with their families.

And those people on the other end of the spectrum, the mature retired singles and couples are also entering into a new life. They have their own reasons for being here and they are happy in this overwhelmingly friendly community.

Happy New Year!

New Year!!

All things considered, my travel to London from Split the went as smoothly as my recent Serbia / Bosnia border crossing. I began this blog post on the long road back west; at least I could understand signs without peering at them as if I'm an illiterate, mumbling letters under my breath. This bus is foregoing the logical main road route and instead we are heading into the green bit of google maps. Green means bumpy squiggly roads, and black ravines. On the bright side after 4 hours high-volume non-stop Spanish, plummeting to my death would be a relief frankly. How can ten people make so much noise...we need a some kind of sound barrier in here.

Oh.

Anyway back to the 28 December. As if to remind me what a spectacular day Ives and I had previously, the tiny Split plane circled over Brač as the sun rose. I felt a wrench as always when I leave this place. Or it could have been the punč. Unsurprisingly given the state of my head and stomach I was asleep before we reached altitude. I awoke on landing in the pink haze of an icy snowy Zagreb. With a mild panic I wondered how my bag knew to change aircraft. It was probably more knowledgeable than me. Transfers were directed through to passport control and we all went off to our different gates. Efficiency followed for Amsterdam, Zurich and Munich. London flights were delayed because of fog. All normal then.

Feeling slightly shell-shocked I was over London fairly soon. I forgave them the delay because I've never seen anything like it. Not even the merest tip of Canada Tower was visible, and that is how I know I'm nearly back. The only building signposting the Thames was the Shard. It cleared a little as we went up-river but remained heavy even as the sun tried to burn it off. We landed lightly and happily my bag had found its way to the same plane as me. I hoped the foggy one had been able to find a tube in this weather. Knowing her she'd end up in Cockfosters instead.

No, all was well and it was lovely being met. We rattled home, both conversationally and undergroundly. And given everyone was in a post Christmas haze, the tube was quite chatty with shoppers and holiday makers making merry. There is always a strange atmosphere of pre-New Year expectation in this twilight December time. My huge rucksacks caused as much havoc as Lou's wayward big pink and blue cases would. But unlike her cases, mine didn't bite anyone. We hopped off at bank and made the change to the DLR and headed to Contrary Towers. And it was just like I'd never been away. 

I had plans to go to Wiltshire to see family, and there was probably going to be some champagne-fuelled dancing. But apart from that I was relaxed about stuff which is pretty standard. All I wanted to do was spend time with the Contrary one. I was supposed to be doing some work so when she suggested a stroll into the office, I was a willing squatter there for a couple of days. Glossing over certain technical hitches (ooops) I spent a relatively productive time there and it was lovely to work in silence with someone you know.

We spent a giggly few hours trying to find sherry glasses for the office mid-Christmas party. But having failed on our mission and being classy types we opted to sup our Harvey's Bristol Cream from champagne glasses. This co-incided with a mildly scruffy feeling and given I had an evening out planned with a very precise young gentleman, I decided a haircut was in order. For some reason I'd not managed to fit in a cut and colour in Split, but I found an excellent and cheap substitute in Mortimer Street. He was extremely disapproving of the asymetry but acquiesed in silent protest. And the gentleman and I had a lovely evening with Andy Saltzman at the Soho Theatre. We  also had a wonderful exchange with a tipsy Irish lady who wanted to run off with my haircut. Well worth it then.

One outcome of this catchup was a plan for New Years Eve. For reasons which aren't mine to go into, the gentleman arranged for the flirty one and I to take his booking at a local Wapping establishment. Nothing like leaving things to the last minute. Still, we got dressed up and not having a clue what to expect, we opted glamour max. So designer purple lingerie as outerwear was perfect for beardy, tweedy, doggy Wapping. I'm actually now convinced that there are country pubs which are more dressy than central London hipster joints. We drank champagne, ate miniature chicken burgers and danced to 50s tunes. We giggled at people jogging past in fairy lights. Tweedy man followed us around like a lost puppy...or maybe it was his puppy, I can't remember. We left and departed into the strange new world of 2017.  

Every snowy cloud

But so warm inside...

The past few weeks has seen me in full traveller mode. As I've been telling people, 'I'm not chasing rainbows, but heating!'. Given that it was so cold at the start of the year on the island, I was happy to accept an invitation from my lovely friend Lou to go to Zagreb. The apartment there promised wall-to-wall central heating with the added bonus of access to snow. We had a perfect week with various diversions which I will write about as-and-when, so I considered hot options in other capital cities. As Lou sadly flew back to London, I caught the 1950's inspired Niš-Ekspres to Belgrade. After a wonderful week there in a snug modern flat, I needed to head back to Split. So naturally Sarajevo was a convenient half-way stopping point. After another entertaining 7 hour bus trip, here I am.

And this week has been warm and comfortable, physically. I'm back in the flat which I stayed in last year and finally met my host and his family. When travelling is going to plan, it is pleasant and unremarkable. So inevitably for February - my most hated month - there have been some difficult times. For instance, mentally and financially this week has been a perfect trial. I’m ‘stuck’ in Sarajevo waiting for a new pair of glasses. Then last weekend my computer broke, my accommodation became uncertain, I was worried about my friend in Split, suffering heartsickness from the idiot I fell for over the summer – and worst of all the anniversary of my dad’s final illness. Feb and March are usually spent in a melancholy haze when in London. So I’m exploring how I feel in this uncertain time, against a backdrop of worldwide uncertainty. Damn reading the news on a daily basis!

The heart of this blog post was taken from an email exchange with Katy of the Bittersweet Life. I had been talking about my worries. She wisely pointed out, 'and when it comes to your life -- where you are -- the in-between-- feels lonely or confusing perhaps, but you know - that is where we all are. In the in-between ...'. I had been pondering why I was in this most 'in-between' capital, even discussing it with my Split friend. Anyway my laptop drama went some way to illustrate why negatives become positives, when looked at from a different point of view.

So after a computer shop recommendation I went exploring the new part of town which, like everywhere in Sarajevo still exhibits war damage and bullet holes in tall residential buildings. Ladies sit begging for food and pennies, and everyone looks at you with open curiosity. Maybe it’s because I walk with London confidence but perhaps I don’t look as local as I feel in Split or Dubrovnik. As the streets got rougher and the graffiti more disturbing, I only felt more curious about this shop.

As an aside I find that if you have a knowledge of the language, the graffiti becomes meaningful and gives an insight into the local politics and atmosphere. This piece said ‘smrt fegotima’ – as I worked it out, knowing smrt is ‘death’, and the -ima means ‘to the’ (pl), I cringed. Death to faggots. Perhaps some parts of Europe have something in common with Trump and the far right. How can hate of difference form such bonds across continents? 

This shop looked like no shiny computer superstore I’d ever been in. Bearing in mind I hate shopping and think that all transactions should be carried out as quickly and communication-free as possible. Add to the fact that I’m woman buying a computer in a totally male dominated part of the world. I was expecting horror! As I went in there was a row going on but I just looked at the shelves, wanting to see something perfect and go.

The lady sat behind the desk caught my eye and said izvolite? What could she do to help me? Leave me alone and cry... I went over and in English asked if they had any more laptops. She told me to take a seat and being English and given an order, I sat. She carried on arguing with the lady and there was a final door slam as the woman left. She turned and smiled at me, saying apparently this lady wanted a refund on a phone she had had for a year and parts of it had clearly been damaged negligently. She explained that the woman wanted to pick an argument because her husband was being difficult.

Oh.

Whilst debating laptop options with her, we discussed politics, religion, family, prices, new technology and VR and facebook, their new shop, and why I was travelling, and currently stuck in Sarajevo. We talked London, history, places, music... Her view of Trump was ‘many people here in Bosnia are Muslim, why didn’t he ban us too?’ She said her god taught us not to kill, but to love, be peaceful, and care for others. And given that it was the same as Trump’s god, what was the problem with him and Muslims?! My host incidentally has given up joking about Trump and is extremely worried about international business relations. He was also stunned by Brexit and wonders why that when he asks people about it, they are all pro-European! He wonders who voted. One hesitates to comment.

When we finally got round to sales she asked to see my old laptop. I promised to bring it in and they would see if my data was accessible. I left after a couple of hours and I walked back home along the river and through the market. I made an English chicken and mushroom pie for lunch and waited for the call from the shop. When I headed back with the dead computer, I was quite looking forward to seeing them all again. They had fixed me up with windows, an English keyboard, and took my old one apart to rescue the hard drive. Unbelievable service from three people! I finally left the shop at 6.15pm with everything I needed. And the guys thinking I was nuts because I didn’t have any games.

I walked home again thinking that if I hadn’t had this catastrophe I wouldn’t have had so much contact with people. My most interesting parts of being abroad have always been the interactions with others. Even if it is terrifying to step out of comfort zones. People value the exchange of information and views, and it's been great to use apps like Tinder and Facebook to arrange beers and cevapi. I had a wonderful couple of post-work drinks swapping thoughts last night.

Regardless of how low I feel, which admittedly isn't entirely rational at the moment, there are silver linings to every cloud. As I've written about before, it’s so full of colour and detail here, with a raw edge of reality. It’s a good place to be melancholy because you realise how little your problems are, in comparison to the suffering here. After all, the shop assistant’s father was killed in the war. It doesn’t lessen the grief concerning mine, just it comforts me that we are all in this in-between together and we all survive. And live to ponder another day. 

Advent and Events in December

Home Sweet Home

They say that Advent is a time of planning, preparation and waiting. In my case I don't think I've ever done so much of all three. Much of early December was spent working. Yes I know. This is something that I've been plotting for some time and finally reached fruition this month. More of that anon. However having some extra cash coming in meant that I could be a better friend and aunty, and get to the UK over the festive period. So my trip to Split expanded to include London and Wiltshire.

Despite my earlier decision to spend longer on Šipan, the plan was never to stay on the island over Christmas and New Year. I think that would have been an isolation too far. If circumstances had been different...still, there is no use crying over broken hearts. And my lovely friend in Split would have been rightly cross with me. As it happened another friend there was going to be away so I could happily and warmly take my laptop and work in her cosy apartment.

I was excited to reach Split because as usual I had no idea what to expect. An early start on a cold, dark ferry meant that my hugely heavy rucksack and I arrived there in bright early afternoon sunshine. The winter market on the Riva was alive to the sound of music and excited conversation. Festive aromas of frying fritule and kuhano vino filled the fresh air...I felt drunk just on the atmosphere. Wanting to dump my bags, I headed up to Maria's first but soon realised I had the wrong keys. Or the right keys for the wrong lock. Resisting an eye roll at my uselessness, I went to see my redoubtable friend to get help. Once in I was happy to relax into the swing of Split life.

I went back to hers picking up ham, cheese and wine on the way. Situation normal. And took my homemade sloe vodka with me. As we sat in the kitchen chatting about everything and nothing, it was like I'd never been away. The children were doing homework, the dog was trying to get on my lap, and we made no plans at all. There was loads of Christmas things to be done; cakes, decorations, food shopping, some exciting exam (not mine!) paperwork... so no planning really needed. Ahem.

I arrived on 16 December and that first week was spent industriously writing several January blogs so I could relax into the new year. The weather continued to be sunny so I did lots of running around Marjan park. And discovered punč - fruit tea enhanced with golden rum. There had been an announcement that our favourite bar was closing on 25th December. This place had contributed so many memories earlier in the year, so it seemed fitting to celebrate their end with the last karaoke session. Catching up with familiar faces was fabulous. It did mean that as of 23rd of December I was officially on holiday! After a working interlude, Split was back to the whirl of singing, dancing, lung and liver bashing, and general hedonism. And an Elvis impersonator, not to mention a Bulgarian clown who is also a sushi chef.

I'm not a big one for Christmas but this year's was the most perfect I've had. We baked Christmas tree cakes, decorated the actual tree, lit advent candles...and drank plenty of kuhano vino. Our shopping was completed on Christmas Eve. We had plenty of coffee breaks to enjoy the sun whilst shopping. If I had been in the UK I would probably have had a nervous breakdown. But the shopping centres were quiet and relaxed, so she and I only had to contend with my general dislike of shops. Fortunately we have very little money so apart from presents for her children, there was nothing we could buy anyway. Food is a different matter... Our trip to the butchers was characteristically unorthodox.

On 23rd Dec it was karaoke night with a Christmas hat competition. I placed faith in my good friend that something would present itself regarding headwear. Given I'd totally failed to get my hair done as is usual when I'm here, I wasn't looking my best. Still, it was glorious sunshine and we shone with the usual contrary glow of happy friends. We were heading to the afternoon Hvar catamaran to deliver a chocolate cake*, when I saw the perfect hat.

Only the images can do this justice. These conical Christmas trees were tarted up with white fur and fairy lights and turned heads everywhere. Strolling up Marmontova later on where polite Split goes to show off, we styled it out. It's fair to say our arrival was NOT low key. We dived into the hot smoky melee and sang and laughed the night away. Under Chatham House rules, I can reveal nothing about my friend. However at 3 my feet decided they fancied a dance and so I found myself in Klub Central. Though my hat chose to stay at To Je To. Apparently this club is where all the cool kids go; there were dancers in cages, fire jugglers and hot half naked ladies on stage. Perhaps I just dreamt it.

Strolling home later, I bumped into my friend. Given there is a tradition of raiding the bakery in the early hours, we headed up the road to Varoš. The butcher was standing outside his shop taking in the morning air, and he watched with interest as we cackled noisily up the street. She decided then was the perfect time to order beef for Christmas Day pasticada. He is a sweet guy and I decided his morning could be improved by asking to kiss his cheek. He seemed keen. He blushed. With promises to pick up his meat later we continued to wobble up the hill. For hot jammy bread.

Hot jammy bread at 5am is the best.

Christmas Eve is traditionally a fishy sort of day. There is a communal lunch in Split where they make a cauldron of bakalar and serve everyone. Those that haven't been out the night before had finished every last morsel so we arrived too late. Never mind. We went on a wander around the bright sunny city taking in the sights, scents, sounds...ah the sounds. The gentlemen struck up hymns to Dalmacija just off the main square. Tearful and transported, we gathered for a moment in time. Just being. We carried on with festive meeting and greeting as people just enjoyed their holiday. We picked up our last ingredients for the following day.

So I'd be less tired for Christmas Day I decided a nap was in order. My hat was still in the bar so I called time on its shenanigans and went home via the sunset. By 8am I was back at her's where we prepared potatoes for njoki, a platter for breakfast and made sure everything was perfect. For once that week I had an early night and was back in bed for midnight. Enjoying yourself is exhausting!

Christmas Day. It had its family dramas. Don't they always? I even spoke with my mum where I arranged my trip to Warminster. I finally had a rough plan for the UK. By midday we'd eaten and were out taking in the sunshine on the Riva. The day passed by in a haze of food, good wine, and friends. The greatest gifts you can possibly get.

As this day was the final night of To Je To, the plan was to help them clear stock. 50 kunas all you could drink. They wanted nothing left by the end of the night. So letting her have a nap, I popped down there for 9 to see what was happening. It was full of the regulars and we passed a lovely evening. There was gin and lemonade, vodka and vodka, and finally vodka and red stuff. I have no idea. By 3am a cheer went up at the bar. We were dry. What to do now? The owner had a craving for Mexican food so opened the restaurant opposite to refry beans. Guys brought their guitars, and I sat and pondered the meaning of life. The sheer weird fun of it all - what a start to Boxing Day. After an impromptu party we parted, wishing everyone a happy Christmas.



*everything from oranges, suitcases, 'things' in Croatia get delivered by bus or boat. You give it to a man, they pop it on, then your friend or contact goes to pick it up when the transport arrives. Simple. Imagine National Express doing this!

Unconsciously Uncoupling from London

Places are so important to me. But it turns out people are too...

It's strange how I always start these ramblings with a geographical and temporal moment. I'm currently in a traditional British London pub, as far away as you can get from the Riva cafes, or seaside kiosks, or buses/ferry boats that have been the birth place of many a blogpost. Still, I continue the Croatian tradition of drinking a coffee in a bar, despite the fact that the British guys are drinking a beer. I'm not sure saying where I am is really important, but it acts like a type of mental pause or new 'life' paragraph. More a confirmation that I am still here and alive, and coping wth whatever is going on. In a satisfyingly circular way, this pub was where I celebrated the leaving of my old job back in February. Events of that evening came back to me as I was strolling up to the Brunswick Centre earlier, and I recall it continued my usual leaving-do tradition. This explains why I've only had around 5 long term jobs. I just can't take my gin.

Today has been a mending sort of day, where London and I have tried to set aside some differences. I've always known my year off was to give me and my favourite city 'some space', you know, to take a break from each other. But as any person knows, if someone says this in a relationship, it's utter bullshit. It's actually a cowardly way of ending it. To be fair at least a city isn't going to throw your stuff out of the window, or post nasty things about you on social media... So even though I've experienced tears of horror, and utter culture shock about being back in this great metropolis, there have been some watery smiles of remembrance.

I class the day I mentally 'moved' to London as the day on which I had my first successful job interview. In mid September 1995, I found myself in Moorgate, the heart of City of London, terrified and elated at the same time. And on the brink of the longest relationship of my life. It's been a love affair which has transcended many others, and for twenty years I've been proud to call myself a Londoner. Even when I was away this year, I often had a yearning for the variety and atmosphere which would regularly carry me home joyously when I was truly emotionally, mentally, and physically exhausted. But as I sensed at the time I started seriously preparing for this trip, there was clearly something coming to an end between us. 

This feeling has developed into certainty over the travelling during the past week. First of all there was a brief trip to Split to round up the rest of my Croatia belongings, and then an unavoidable trip to London where I have dealt with some essential finance and health matters. In each place there was an important reconnection with some very dear friends. Seeing the contrary one in London, and the kaotic one in Split leaves me in no doubt that the personal spirit is far more valuable than the cold heart of the cities. And how I felt when I arrived was nothing short of horror at being back.

I was strangely disengaged when I was planning my time here. The change in how I am is immediately evident because as dutifully scrolled through my favourite 'what's on' sites, I found myself overwhelmed and suffering a certain level of anxiety. I stopped looking because ultimately I just don't care. I've already had a quiet meltdown in the peaceful surroundings of the Limehouse flat because of the sheer mental strength required just to face the outside world - there had also been a minor incident at a train station which had shaken me, and given me the first taste of adrenaline in many months. 

This was a shock. It served to remind me that I had been living on this drug for years, and related panic attacks were a regular part of life. These not normal, and neither should they be. As I've gone through the week and had the time to assimilate and observe the physical and mental changes, I'm succeeding in keeping my heart rate down, and ensuring my newly found calm-centre is generally anxiety knot-free. The peace has come at some cost, but I think ultimately it has been an incredible thing to capture, and I'll be damned if I lose it again. To continue the place-as-partner analogy, I'm happy to snuggle up quietly on the sofa with Šipan.

Lecce - and the return to Šipan

I hadn't really considered the reputation of Bari before deciding on a day and night there, but it certainly struck me as cleaner and more tidy than Naples or Rome. People tell me that it should have been filthy, scary and a place to avoid. Which is why I'd seriously consider going back there for another visit. I've now experienced many Italian port cities and this one, along with Ancona is probably my joint favourite. Bari's old city is a warren of tiny streets, with people living their lives outside on them; from noisy shop keepers conversations and football exclamations, to hushed musical Italian gossiping and lovers' seafront murmurings. The golden buildings were colourfully adorned with painted Madonnas, bright plastic flowers, and clean washing. The low stone archways between buildings framed the scenery like monochrome rainbows, picture perfect and a photographer's dream.

As I headed out of the old town into the new on my way to the train station, the atmosphere changed and suddenly I was in a shopper's paradise. I sat in an ice-cream bar waiting for a morning coffee but I didn't feel at ease. After the natural beauties of Macedonia and the uncertain dirtiness of Albania, the likes of Prada, Gucci, and other labels didn't sit right with my jeans and rucksack so I got up and headed through town to find something more suitable. The little portable espresso bar in the public park was perfect - 2 euros for a chocolate bun and an excellent caffe latte was just the job. I was inevitably joined by a gentleman who was compelled to tell me about his marital difficulties. In Italian. It's not my strongest language to be honest. I was torn between annoyance at having my musings interrupted, and compassion at his loneliness, after all, making time for people has been my biggest lesson of this year.

After an uneventful ticket purchase, a quick trip to a supermarket for sundries, and clambering on the right train, I was smoothly making my way to Lecce. It's a sign of how immured I've become to travelling under difficult circumstances. As much as I love Croatia, train travel in other parts of Europe is something I've missed - efficient, cheap, clean, convenient, comfortable. Balkan buses are certainly cheap and relatively efficient, but I'm a bit fed up of them and the roads. So I just sat back and admired the Italian scenery; dramatic clouds, blue seas, green olives and vines, and towns with romantic names. Brindisi, I am determined to return to you....not to mention Monopolis!

I arrived in Lecce just under two hours later, calm and unruffled, with back symptoms under control. I can definitely recommend the loos at the station and after a quick tidy up, I was strolling into the quiet town. The weather was stunning and there was a photograph around every corner. Unexpectedly for an ordinary southern Italian city, it felt cosmopolitan and the population there is very diverse; I haven't seen ethic clothing like that since leaving east London. The supermarkets reflected the foods of the people and it made a change from the predominant Mediterranean flavours I've been used to. It helped that I was sharing a house with a young Argentinian and we compared travelling notes over a brew of yerba mate. I later shared my mushroom risotto!

Italy is very expensive after Albania etc, but despite this I quite enjoyed making myself at home there. I went to the hairdressers, indulged in a bit of clothes shopping, and wandered around many of the churches, parks, museum grounds and the incredible cemetery. The latter should be on everyone's list. It's like a mini-city of tiny desirable properties; it makes London's Bishop's Avenue look a bit cheap. I particularly loved the Egyptian temple with the sphinxes. I probably should have gone further afield but I was happy just to relax in the town and catch up with my rest. Such a party animal! Sadly, the contacts that I had in Lecce didn't materialise so there was no socialising.

I was happy to experience yet more interesting weather conditions but it was polite in comparison to Albania. The sky threatened to really throw a tantrum but just ended with a some rain and a dramatic double rainbow. The following days were generally settled and I was happy to compare yet another Roman theatre. I wasn't planning a Roman architectural trip but it had been a delight to find these classical gems in each town - what a wonderful part of the world this is!

My break now thoroughly wound down, with nothing unexpected on the horizon, I was gladly thinking about heading back to paradise. The journey was a dream. It was almost too easy getting back; train was on time, pizza and beer demolished and a slow stroll along the sea to the port. Although the Jadrolinjia office in Bari port decided to give me last minor panic by remaining determinedly closed come check in time. I had clearly missed the memo about needing to take a bus a few kilometres down the road to another terminal. A kind lady there took my money for a private cabin and I have never been so relieved about having guaranteed access to a private space the size of a wardrobe, in the bowels of a ferry. I was waved through passport control quickly.

As soon I was on the ferry, I couldn't believe the contrast with the Durres-Bari experience. That same ship happened to be moored nearby, and I looked at it and the same harbour-side in disbelief, remembering the chaotic scenes of immigration. The Dubrovnik was an ordinary car ferry but somehow it felt civilised - probably something to do with groups of ladies sipping wine in the bar, and signs pointing to a 'children's snug', and the excellent looking restaurant. Oh, and the fact I was clutching a key to my own private bunk. I ignored all of these social gatherings, and I was undressed, in bed and asleep before we even disembarked at 10pm.

I've already said that I was in tears on reaching my favourite port of Dubrovik café but it honestly felt like I'd returned home. The friendly welcome from passport control, the flirty Croatian exchange with a local taxi driver, and the sight of the little Postira - not to mention the fact that I was looking respectable, showered, refreshed and no longer tired and in pain. It was an epic trip and it had turned out to be a lot more arduous than I expected, but as usual difficult trips leave more of a mark and it was definitely one to remember.

Down and out in Bari

It seemed apt the the sun was behind us; don't get me wrong Bari glistened in the golden light and the port looked truly beautiful. But I just didn't feel ready for Italy. It turns out that Italy didn't really feel the love either as the queue for passport control didn't move. For 2 hours. When it finally got going an hour later, people were trickling through one-by-one. Some of the guys around me yelled out to the officious numpty that I was an EU citizen. I was eventually squeezed through the crowd. I asked simply 'perché?' of an official guy, shrugging, he suggested that I should have shown my passport earlier in the process. 

Just how, precisely? You're at the back of such a thick mass of humanity which couldn't even get a sick child through, let alone a privileged EU passport holder. Bags went through the x-ray, keeping in mind that as I left Bari, bags weren't checked! By this point, if it hasn't again for a wonderful gentleman, I don't think I'd have been queuing upright. Once outside the port, basically I wasn't. I lay collapsed on a bench watching some black-clad elderly women moving bags - they were still the other wrong side of the barrier, I wondered about their stories. 

I lay there chatting to Petrit; he was off to Germany, and I admired his strength - I was dreading the 20 minutes just getting into Bari town centre. Still, things were looking up, I remembered my Albanian cake from the previous day. It was squished, sweet, sticky and utterly delectable. Finally as the ibruprofen was kicking in again, it was time to leave the port and head our separate ways; me to my overnight stop, and he to his bus north. I ambled over to a promising looking local bus stop and I was soon heading the wrong direction into town. Excellent. 

Airbnb decided to further test my endurance and ingenuity by sending me to Via Carduzzi, rather than a Corte of the same name. I looked up at the modern office block and sighed. This wasn't it. Thank goodness for technology and booking.com having the right address. So more accidentally rather than any map reading skill, I headed in to the right part of the old town. I asked a cheery gentleman where this place was, and it caused a conversation which can only be described as heated. One way was directed, then an entirely opposite one was shouted; a priest was consulted, and soon several shopkeepers and a waiter was involved. 
 

Oh. My. God. 

'Go back, down the way I'd came, and it was third on the left'. This was the short answer and I said hvala and was on my way again. Wrong country. Wrong language. Tears and hysteria welling, I arrived in a pretty little court yard - only 5 hours after the ferry docked. The place was still being cleaned but the lady on seeing my condition brought out a chair, and I sat there vacantly examining my boots. They, like everything else, were filthy. What was I thinking coming to Italy dressed like a hobo!? 

Finally I was in! I stripped, scaldingly showered and thoroughly soaped, and lay clean and fragrant on the gloriously comfortable bed. The place was beautiful and the curved vaulted ceiling like a wine cellar. Wine! Food! Of course, I fell asleep and missed the Italian lunchtime window. By the time I was smartly and appropriately dressed for an Italian dinner, it was raining. And by the looks of it, it was Durrës all over again, settling in for a second bout of Thunder v Lightning. If I didn't know better, I could be forgiven for thinking that this trip was really doomed! 

Thankfully by 8pm the storm had passed over and Sunday was obviously late opening for every restaurant there. I was told to come back in 30 mins, an hour,  so meandered around the city quite happily, if hungrily. I kept meeting a colourful and noisy band which was rather random; they seemed to be playing to every Virgin Mary shrine in the place. I hope she appreciated it, I certainly did. Heading back to the first place I had tried, there was a warm welcome. Cheese, wine, meaty ears - there was a calorie explosion of the best type. And for the first time since Macedonia I ate heartily. 

I quite like Bari and, as I shall continue, the small city of Lecce. Bari has a relaxed, civilised charm, with glorious designer shopping for those that way inclined. I'd definitely go back. But Italy has really lost its charm for me - I've never really thought about Italian warmth because when you're going round Florence, Rome, Venice, centuries of tourism has taken its toll. You're just another visitor, no matter how friendly you are. Croatia easily beats Italy in terms of friendly acceptance. Croatia, your people are gems. 

Addendum. I've just arrived back in Dubrovnik told the passport man I loved him and burst into tears! Now the cafe is playing klapa - Daaaalmacija!! 

To Durrës and beyond

Some travel posts are harder to write than others. Words flow when you relive incredible experiences because they have enriched your view of the world. But sometimes when you've been challenged it takes longer to process what has happened and perhaps you just want to forget some stuff! I started this from the comfort of Trenitalia's regionale service Bari to Lecce - without back pain - a comfortable train which departed at a time convenient to me. And I'm finishing it lying in bed after a restful time in Puglia. 

So Durrës. Despite being unable to hobble more than a few kilometres, thankfully I managed to see some of the town. My first afternoon I got as far as the port to check out where I'd be going the following day, and more importantly obtained some money. Again - same in Macedonia - I failed to check the exchange rate so stood at the machine looking blankly at the numbers. 3000 seemed low-mid range. Pizza and a coke turned out to be 200 lek, so I felt quite rich. I shuffled back to the apartment to eat on my balcony and enjoy the warmth. Sadly, that afternoon and evening I did nothing more interesting than read, have a very hot shower, and retreat into sleep. What can I say, I had been invited out by my hostess but my back had defeated me. 

The next day I tentatively tried again. There was a little improvement but I remained cautious as I was already anxious about the 10 hour ferry journey later that evening. It was a glorious day and remembering the bakery I saw the previous day, I was suddenly famished. Once again, I ventured out of the apartment block, which was having serious amounts of noisy building work done, and slowly went down the hill towards the main street. This time I was happy to admire the impressive remains of the Roman forum, and then get distracted by a coffee shop with a beautiful sunny garden. 

I joined the locals enjoying their leisurely Saturday morning, and ordered a coffee, it was a perfect hour or so. Finally hunger drove me across the road and I got drinking yogurt, cheese burek, a small cake and some focaccia for later on. With my picnic I meandered down to the sea front so I could take in the air. 

Oh. 

Another distraction before consuming breakfast with the discovery a huge amphitheatre. Although bigger than the one in Ohrid, it wasn't in quite the same state of repair. As it happens, and purely by accident, this trip could have been billed as a Roman entertainment odyssey, as there was another incredible theatre in Lecce. Like Ohrid's, Lecce's was also set up for events. These elegant buildings are extraordinary and I really hope that Durrës gets around to making use of the space there. 

Finally reaching the large expanse of concrete which constitutes the parade, I perched on a wall. Not because there were no seats, just I didn't want to aggravate my already complaining nerve. I munched my salty pastry and pulled faces at the yogurt. Fruit or plain are the only acceptable options, and this one was salty. My breakfast was like a bucket of sea water. Still, at least the architecture was something to behold. The ugly rawness of this place has to be seen to be believed and I'm actually keen to go back there and relive it. The beach was covered in evil smelling brown residue, and the abandoned dismantled summer attractions provided a suitably macabre colour. 

Frankly it suited exactly how I felt. 

I watched the men hauling in their fishing nets, thigh deep in the murky water. The comparison to my other Adriatic fishermen was profound. How can this even be the same sea? What the hell are they thinking, why is this place in such a state? The islanders spend so much time protecting and worrying about their environment, and yet a few hundred miles south, they are dragging nets through filth, catching plastic and unidentifiable detritus. 

I turned sadly away from these workers, via a surreal square containing bronze statues of Tina Turner, Bob Dylan and Mick Jagger. What!? There was also a real man in too much denim sat there but I don't think he was a rock great. I continued on and went in search of non-salt based snacks for later.  Peaches and bananas were perfect antidotes, and I spent an afternoon resting and dozing on the sofa with the radio. Pain is such a helpless feeling, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. 

Four hours or so before ferry check in - yes, my confirmation said I had to be there - my lovely hostess came to consult me about a lift to the port. She was so disbelieving of this timing, she called and spoke with her friend who also scoffed at it. We decided to wait another couple of hours. Excellent, I had time to go sample food at the nearest restaurant. After all I'd not eaten properly since Macedonia - the pain from my back had kindly referred itself to my stomach. 

The weather had other ideas. By the time I had got myself ready to set out, the storm had arrived. And the rain was lashing down; for the next two hours I had prime amphitheatre style seats for a gladiatorial tussle between thunder and lightning. It was terrifying and awesome in equal parts, terrifying mainly because 1. I had to go out in it later and 2. Was it going to be a repeat of the Šipan no-electricity-for-12-hours drama? Would the port shut? When my hostess turned up she looked concerned. The traffic was spectacular, she said, and the main roads had turned into rivers. 

Why me?

Heroically she got me to the port, the town square was now essentially a water feature. Security on the port gate weren't interested in us, and we drove straight in and immediately we joined the hellish queue of traffic. Everyone was trying to get to the terminal building to avoid the rain and it was chaotic. She abandoned the car with all the others and came into the building with me. The check in had been affected by a power cut and we were on emergency generators. If I'd thought to panic, I might have started... 

With a hug from my last friend on the planet, I went through security and passport control. I didn't think to get a stamp for my passport, sadly. So there I was, painfully stood with a mass of people, some just clutching small bags, others with what looked like entire households. Actually including their carpets...this is surely what Armageddon feels like. I had no idea what was next, as people were heading in random dribs and drabs through the rain to the ferry. I wasn't even sure I had a ticket at this point, let alone which of the two ships it was. 

After about an hour, no one around me had moved. Drastic action was needed. I weaved through the crowd, out of the shelter, avoided the articulated lorries, and braved the ferry ramp. When I was finally noticed, I was told I was on the wrong metal tub. Biting back tears, I went back out into the rain and over to the other one. I was waved up the steps and up into the dry safety of the passenger decks. 

It turns out that people had already boarded and there were no banks of seats on which to lie down. No, I hadn't booked a cabin because I'm stupid. To my horror, more people continued to pour on, and every available piece of floor space was filing. Not giving a damn now, I collapsed between some chairs, and claimed my 5 foot spot. I lay there and drifted in and out of sleep until about 4am, exhausting my comforting stash of podcasts. The bright lights, wooden floor and hubbub made for an interesting night. 

I gave up, staggered upright  and went to get a drink. I forgot the word for coffee in every language. A kind gentleman at the bar who was clearly a more seasoned traveller than I ordered a caffe latte for me, which baffled the barman. I think he was only used to doing espressos for Albanians. I headed out on deck with my perfect coffee to join the chain smokers, to watch the sun come up. 

The beauty of which made the entire exhausting trip worthwhile. It was a new day 

Bussed and bust!

In true British style, I would like to apologise to the people and city of Durrës in Albania. It turns out that you can't travel all night on a bus with a dicky sciatic nerve without some serious consequences. Either that or I'm out of practice at being up all night. After nearly 15 hours sleep and some serious bed rest yesterday, I realise now that getting off at the wrong bus stop in Durrës was probably the least dangerous thing that could have happened. I was certainly in no fit state to run away from trouble, let alone try to explain where I wanted to be! But the exhaustion and pain does mean that I've missed some of the city's classical architectural highlights, evidence of recent struggles, and certainly not done it justice. Once again it's tapas tourism, with a promise to return to this incredible European/non-European country, preferably with company. 

I left Ohrid reluctantly; mostly because of its beauty, but partly due to the 3.30am start. Yes I know, again no rest for the wicked. Sensibly opting for a taxi to the bus station, I had already checked that there was an actual real life bus. Balkans and the Internet are not necessarily reliable witnesses and I was assured that there was a 4.30 bus. I arrived and the taxi driver assumed I was off to Skopje. Dumping my bags I waited. And waited. The ticket office opened and I asked for a ticket for the bus to Durrës. 

What 4.30am bus?

Suppressing an eye roll, I enquired if/when it went. 4.50am. Ok, that I can live with. Carefully stowing my ticket, I went to the waiting room and joined the diverse bunch of people there. Someone asked me when the next bus to Skopje was...another lady asked if I was going to Tirana airport. It must be the air of resigned painful calm on my face that screams 'librarian'! I got chatting with the lady going to the airport because she was on the same bus as me. Finally a minibus/people carrier turned up and the two of us got on board. 

The red neon and gold glittery bus interior barely registered as I collapsed across the back seat. The lady was horrified, and immediately offered paracetamol and ensured my bags were on board. Every. Single. Bump. From Macedonia to Albania went through that nerve and I was pretty much shrieking inside. As I relaxed into the pain and the tablets kicked in, I was able to hold a slight conversation with her. She was heading back to Istanbul after a holiday travelling around the region without her family. Blissful, she said! We talked about London and life, and the unwise judging of people by nationality. 

The border crossing happened, and she held her breath, anticipating issues due to her Turkish passport. We could have been there 3 mins or 3 hours, I think I fell asleep again. All must have been well because we reached our Albanian coffee/loo stop, and I eased myself out of the spangly red cocoon. There was discussion as to where this bus was going and it turns out we were diverting miles to Durrës because of me.  Otherwise they could have gone direct to Tirana. 

Oh. 

As we clambered back on, there was rapid discussion and I was told to get off. The other van at the stop - which happened to belong to the company that I'd emailed the previous day - contained passengers that were going to Durrës. So I was hustled aboard this one, bags popped in the back, yelled at for a ticket, and I waved, boggling, to my friend. This bus was definitely not glistening, it was thoroughly basically and had seen many many miles of mountain road. We took off in a cloud of oil, and I closed my eyes against the dubious overtaking, radio fiddling, and left it all to the hands of fate. 

I think I'm now done with buses for this trip. There will be a train in Italy but my next mode of transport is ferry, so I only have a couple of massive international ports to negotiate. What could be more simple!? 

Overwhelmed in Ohrid

I left you in Kotor wondering if I was going to get out of there, and whether a bus would arrive. The suspense was maintained for at least another half hour, before it turned up; clearly late because it had come straight out of the 1970s. Comfort, style, fashion - all of those buses were going elsewhere. Still, there were no annoying chaps, it was quiet, clean and I was on my way. I'd actually had a very pleasant time in Kotor, a lovely lady called Tracy had given me use of her shower so I was fresh for the 10 hours. We'd shared a beer and compared Balkan notes so it just goes to show that delays whilst travelling aren't necessarily all bad. 

All things considered the journey wasn't bad. Not for the faint hearted, delicate, or easily tired. Which is why I arrived in Ohrid feeling like a teddy bear which had been through a spin cycle. My first experience of Albania was endless curling mountain roads, a bright moon, a dark sky and cold which froze the breath. On a 2am comfort break, one touching episode was the kindness of people on the bus to a polite dog; clearly famished, quivering and nervous he hoovered up every crumb of bread offered. The other memorable episode was the kind Singaporean promising to hold the bus for me as I was last in the queue for the loo - the sympathetic look he gave me when he came out of there told me everything about the cleanliness. Character building...and germs are good, right?! 

My presence on the bus was clearly a matter of some debate and I'm not sure if a bet was won or lost. A lady, who was returning to Ohrid from a holiday in Montenegro asked me where I was from, and a number of people said 'aaaah' in that relieved 'we would never have guessed' way. My new colouring is confusing everyone, not to mention an ability to be friendly. Not a normal Brit apparently. Ok so my warmth didn't extend as far as hugging the guy at an Ohrid garage/service station, but the open and clean toilet was incredibly welcome. 'Gdje je WC' is pretty much the best Croatian/Macedonian I've ever learnt. 

Where was I? Ah yes Macedonia.  Don't be fooled by the Albanian excursion, it's better than coming to Macedonia via Kosovo, so I'm told. It was 5am by the dark deserted bus station, on a wide main road in a strange country. I had no idea where I was going and I was being pestered about a room by an elderly man on a bicycle. Armed with my best 'ne hvala, imam sobi' and google maps I headed into the old part of town. Inevitably the winding roads on the map translated into a steep climb, and a walk through a quiet park. I paused at the top; the pink light was coming over the hills and a call to prayer sounded up from the new town. I was later to discover that these three-hundred-year old mosques were mere new comers to the religious mix of the town. The dreamy atmosphere of the place would have been very much in evidence, even without the sleepless high I was experiencing. 

I entered the town through the ancient and very narrow stone gate, and the fortress rose up to the right of me. A man sweeping the streets looked as if he knew the area and I asked him the whereabouts of 27a ulica ilidenska... again I thanked the language fairies for being able to understand his answer. My host was thankfully waiting for my message as I was arrived and he welcomed me and made coffee. This was the start of a firm friendship, once again, the warmth of people was to leave me totally charmed. After promising me a tour of the city, and pointing out the 4th century basilica mosaics unearthed at the end of his tiny street, he left me to fall face down on the biggest bed I've ever seen. 

The sciatic nerve which had been brewing a storm for a few days finally broke that morning and it has made anxiety of the non-arrival of buses fade into the background. In short, it's been agony for the past 24 hours, leaving me enjoying ibruprofen inspired sofa rest all yesterday morning. I was supposed to be in Durrës but frankly I was going nowhere. My kind host wouldn't let me stay on my own in misery, and after a trip to the colourful food market for fruit, invited me to make myself as comfortable as possible whilst he mended a load of iPhones. I chortled at him as he performed delicate operations on dead technology, saying he was destroying my illusions of what was inside my phone. Surely it's all witchcraft, not shiny odd shaped parts?

However for that first day, it didn't stop me from enjoying a slap up brunch with mandatory homemade rakija, walking all around the captivating little town, getting a proposal of marriage from an elderly guy in speedos on the beach, climbing King Samuel's 10th century fortress, talking opera and Prodigy in the ancient amphitheatre, admiring the truly astonishing newly cleaned frescos in St Mary Peribleptos, and boggling over the recently unearthed mosaics from the early Christian era. 

All I can say is, if you enjoyed Pompeii, Macedonia has its very own smaller version and it's just as impressive and well worth a visit. Finally hunger and thirst caught up with us, and over beer (for me) and Italian brandy (for him) I said I felt guilty for keeping him out site-seeing all afternoon. Apparently he doesn't have many guests that are art history- music- archeology- culture- foody- nuts  so he was just happy to see someone fall for the town he also loves. 

That evening was unwisely for my back  - in hindsight  - spent on a high stool in a cool bar. However nothing can detract from the feeling of this place; the ancient spirits of nature have been here for thousands of years. The classical mosaics whispered of the wild and domestic animals that lived here and were a part of everyday life. The goats, pigeons, pheasants, wild cats, horses, deer, and of course, the fish. Although the landscape has seen such terrible human struggles, still the mountains and water teem with life that is as familiar today as it was then. Everyone should experience the sun setting over Lake Ohrid just once in their lives, and just say thank you for the experience. That's clearly why there are so many churches here... 

Homeless in Kotor

So one of my worst fears realised, I was homeless in Kotor. It was as if the calm I'd imbibed of the island was being tested - how long would it take before my heart rate increased? Heading into town, I saw a sign for rentals and apartments and popped in. A lovely lady offered me a place for €40 which would make this the most expensive place of my trip. 

Damn. 

I was directed to the office at the town gate and she said there were cheaper options available. The annoying man on the bus - there is alway one who talks loudly, takes phones calls, and tells strangers his life story - was in front of me. He rented a place for €45 a night which didn't reassure me. Luckily the woman got my measure and marked on the map a hostel in the Old Town. 

A hostel!

I went to investigate. There was a dorm bed at €13 + €6 for dinner. The guys at reception were helpful and confirmed there was no way into Macedonia that evening. Using the wifi I investigated carrying on to Budva but, you know, it was so tempting to consider sleeping in a dorm. I haven't done that since I was on a school trip to Germany. What could go wrong? So I opted for a top bunk, dumped my stuff, realised I had no nightie, shrugged and wandered into town. 

It was beer-o-clock. As I was wandering through the town I came to a pretty square containing the Cat Museum. Over lunch today I've discovered that there used to be a girls' boarding school here so it was completely closed off at one time. The name of the cafe - Ombra - is a reference to the beautiful plane tree in the middle of the square. It was planted in 1667 to commemorate the devastating earthquake. The sun is currently greenly shining through the leaves and brightening the grey stoned buildings and pavings. 

After a soothing beer I was ready to meander down to the sea to work up an appetite for dinner at 8. The weather was looking a little uncertain but it was nice to be out and about with time to kill. I stopped to read a boat trip sign and was accosted by a gentleman. Apparently there was a speed boat waiting for me...I hate to disappoint, so I joined two French people on a ride around the bay. Given I'd saved a fortune on the room, €15 for a couple of hours seemed OK. We went out to St Mary of the Rocks and it was suitably somber and quiet, made more atmospheric by the storm rolling in from the mountains. It was given colour by one young American who was waxing lyrical about a white chocolate/strawberry magnum which is only available in Europe. She talked about it non-stop for all the time I was in earshot. Oh to be young and vacuous again! 

We jumped back in the boat and headed back over the darkening sea; skilfully the pilot skirted the clouds and drove us under a rainbow. We waited for the storm to pass around us and he apologised for the speed he was going to have to do to get home. The rain felt like darts on the skin - it was brilliantly invigorating. The mountains above the town truly showed their majesty. And we weren't too wet thankfully. 

I headed home to a remarkably quiet dorm and made my bed ready. Turns out you have to make a list if you're on a top bunk and mildly forgetful; water, phone, charger, bathroom. After I'd climbed up and down several times, I was happy to just chill before going down for dinner. Potluck was roast chicken, vegetable rice, cabbage and bread. Very tasty it was too. I was joined by a cat and two lovely German ladies and we nattered happily until it started to get noisy in the dining room. 

The gentlemen were in full swing and had started a loud drinking game. Frankly this was our cue for going to bed...the jollities of the town, combined with the music downstairs meant that the hubbub in the first floor dorm was fantastic. It was at that background level which I find it easily to be lulled to sleep by. Odd, but better than sudden loud noise in the quiet. That was to happen later when a couple of very drunk guys came in, and when two persistent morning alarms went off. I was inwardly chuckling at what the Furious Bad Tempered One would do to the inconsiderate pissheads. But overall the sleeping experience wasn't that bad. Maybe that's the island calm? 

Over lunch today, I was briefly joined by an elderly Norwegian man and I told him about my stranded night. He was a hostel veteran because they are generally more convivial to solo travellers. He queried a mixed dorm but it hadn't even crossed my mind. It had felt perfectly safe; at midnight I'd been chatting to a local guy who the hostel employed as a guide. It seemed normal to have the usual 'pub' chat about the history of the place, politics, seasonal lifestyle, lack of opportunities for young people, then say good night, and go to respective bunks. People were remarkably relaxed, and I would definitely stay here again. 

I could say this place left me climbing the walls. And it truly did! After visiting this place for the third time, I finally climbed up to St John's Fortress, and it was incredible. In hindsight I wish I'd gone up there earlier to avoid the crowds and see what would have been an incredible sunrise but, still, next time! As a reward for lunch I ordered some fries, and whiled away the afternoon on a sofa in the hostel living room. I'm actually looking forward to getting on this infernal bus just to get some sleep! 

Let's see what happens..