Clips from village life in Autumn: Grape jelly, caterpillars, and dubious trucks

Three recent snapshots from September 2025, just little sketches to remind us to laugh at the ridiculous. It doesn't get more ridiculous than too many grapes, unknown baby plants, and a really dangerous truck!

Why moving house moved me in many ways

Due to circumstances beyond our control, we have recently moved from Žnjan to Kaštela Lukšić. It’s been a long time since I moved anywhere. It is easier to write and think about this latest move now because the stress has receded into last week's brainfart-chaos and I can now laugh at some of my absurdity. I wanted to reflect on why it caused me such drama, in comparison to other moves I have undertaken.

Is it sentiment?

Is it because I’m stuck?

Is it a control issue?

Let’s address each one in turn. 

Writing. Beer. Perfection

It is a truth universally acknowledged that being in possession of a regular income is a 'good thing'. Since February I have enjoyed a full time job with all the benefits that brings. Like being able to afford cocktails, cars, dinner out, or even the odd vacation. Contrary to popular belief when you spend two-thirds of your time working from your place abroad, it doesn't always mean that you are on the beach.

Oh. Well not all the time. Sometimes you have to do your chores like a normal person.

Anyway after a relentless few months of 40 hours per week, I was exhausted. Taking a few days off was probably best for all concerned. My 4 weeks in the UK were pretty bloody awful and I needed space. But where to go in late September? I live part of my time in one of the most beautiful parts of the world, so it is tempting just to stay put. However island life remains in my blood, so I booked a week in a green and blue paradise. I have been to Mljet before; it had been late Summer and comically bad weather meant I got stranded.

What could go wrong, I thought, as the Split summer seemed to drag on endlessly?

A drunken evening meant that the Quiet One finally caved, and booked return flights to Split. She'd never actually seen my Varoš eyrie and hasn't had a holiday in about a million years (she never mentions that). Although I don't mind spending time alone, where I had booked for my week of quiet was truly special and it needed sharing. She would appreciate it, and I really want her to rediscover the writing mojo.

So a few weeks later and here we are sat by the stunning lakes of Mljet's National Park. Writing. Beer. Perfection.

Writing. Beer. Perfection.

My holiday had already started with a perfect weekend; sun, sea, strolls in the forest park. Saturday lunch time had been an exquisite meal of light salads in my local restaurant. The semifreddo which arrived gratis was clearly calorie-free. It was inevitable given my general levels of tiredness that some timings would go to pot. I thought the Essex one would arrive midnight on Sunday. Turns out she was leaving at midday Sunday, arriving at 4pm.

Ooops. The Melting One arrived off the aeroplane dressed for autumn. Split was 20 degrees warmer than in the UK.

Some other friends from the UK were here and given the balmy evening we dressed up and hit the bars. Espresso martinis, plum liqueurs, laughter, and a very cute gentleman made the Sunday evening fly by. The early wake up was interesting, as was the holiday packing and repacking. Did anyone remind me that I had left watermelon in the fridge? The forecast was showing promises of inclemency, but Monday morning continued with the sweltering theme. We dashed sweatily to the 7.40am catamaran, and enjoyed the aircon. Ok, to be fair I enjoyed the heat and vroominess of its rather large engines as we scooted across the perfect blue.

Tiny golden Korcula made me nostalgic, and the ominously cloud-topped majestic mountains of Peljesac left me speechless.

We arrived on Mljet and had no idea where we were going. Crying with laughter, she resembled the newly appointed, overtly English detective from Death in Paradise; complete with posh little wheeled suitcase and a lost, sweaty look. We did the only thing possible, we stopped at the first bar, had a beer and checked the map. I contacted the AirBnB people to confirm where they were in the park. We continued to marvel at the astonishing high definition colour, and noted the big white clouds coming from the north.

Hm.

We set up off the road and turned off to enter the national park. There were steep steps, a crazy paving path, and the first major incline caused minor consternation. The wheelie case got an entire quarriful of pebbles in its wheels and protested as much as the Visiting one. Once on tarmac, we proceeded a-pace and found the Mali Raj konobar in Babina Kuce. Our little place was obviously up more stairs, and our hosts were happy to see us. We abandoned our stuff - including the sulking dusty wheelie case - in favour of a slab of plum-cake and some refreshing mountain tea.

We both changed into something more summery and set off for a gentle walk into Pomena, ostensibly for something to eat. By the time we got into the village, we realised that the clouds had really meant business. We scuttled into the Studenac for supplies and Bura blew us back home.

Looks like the Mljet weather has struck again!

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.

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!!