Pas de gâteau

On the bright side today I had a plan.

Of sorts.

I’ve been thinking about this for some time, the details were inevitably sketchy but they involved watching the sun rise over the Adriatic, breakfast at Florian, lunch at Harry’s Bar and dinner? Well I’d let dinner take care of itself, three vague details are more than enough.

Naturally this meant that I had to be up at stupid o’clock to be on the Riva degli Schiavoni whilst it was still dark. Though I had to take the short cut of not mucking about with a shower and pulling on what I’d been wearing the night before. It would be dark after all.

If you want to see Piazza San Marco then get prepare to pad silently through the streets of Venice scaring the indigenous wildlife in the first twinkling of morning light. Seeing the streets so quiet reminded me of just how close I was to San Marco, this would be no major battle through hoards of  selfie stick touting brownian tourists. It was quick, direct and pleasantly cool.

And the piazza was gloriously empty. In another 30 minutes there would be many others, predominantly people touting large cameras and slender tripods all working to capture the splendour without the masses.

Pity it was dark.

As the midnight blue of the sky gradually lightened people began to appear, not just the photographers, but street cleaners, the insomniacs and delivery boatmen expertly driving their vessels in to Rio de Palazzo o de Canonica.

And then I felt like a bloody idiot. The trouble was sun rises take a surprising amount of time and there was a lack of places to sit and watch the world go by so instead I had to stand like the elderly plank that I was. Excellent.

So I went for a wander in the gathering light.

Tourists truly are disgusting. Having just watched a Croatian throw a cigarette in to the perfect waters rather than use the ashtray is proof if I ever needed it. In Venice their are epic numbers of them so the rubbish is suitably proportioned. It’s everywhere. During the day it’s less noticeable as you can’t see the ground for the selfie sticks. Talking of which, I do wish they’d make them to a higher standard so they don’t break so easily, I lost count of how many cheap, nasty and discarded sticks there were.

49. Not out.

You might recall from previous blogs that I like to see with my ears. Now this isn’t always possible when there are people around jabbering away about absolutely nothing. Don’t get me wrong, I crave conversation but talking for talking’s sake just fills the head with none and blocks thought. This morning though it was quiet punctuated by the occasional roar whoosh of a delivery boat positioning itself. But there was something else. Like a mosquito on speed and certainly moving at a speed given the doppler shift I kept hearing. What the actual? It took me a while to locate the sound, mostly because I realised it was high above me. A drone. I’ve never actually seen one of these in the wild - so to speak - and I was fascinated to watch it scurry to a new position, hoer for a while and then scurry back. Presumably somewhere in the morning light there was a pilot standing there controlling the device and - also presumably - taking photographs of the sunrise over Venice.

From a vantage point you’d struggle to match without a drone.

I’ve since looked for people that do this kind of thing and what they achieve is quite impressive. I never did see where the pilot was.

Walking back through Piazza San Marco I stopped to watch the professional photographers on shoots with a few models and an entourage of helpers. They seemed to be all over, taking the opportunity of both the morning light and no crowds of tourists doing the brownian thing in front of a perfectly arranged scene. My favourite set were the ones working on - presumably - a shoot for something like a wedding magazine. The “bride” and “groom” were both impossibly perfect and had zero chemistry between them. Inevitably the photographer was trying to get them to do various things that owing to the lack of chemistry just didn’t work. So they did it again. And again. And again. Until he gave up in frustration and tried something else.

As I resumed my journey back to bed I had a maudlin moment as I came across a discarded rose laying on the ground. It was simply perfect in every way but was no longer wanted and left to its fate. I couldn’t help feel it was a metaphor for life.

Four hours later I was back in Piazza San Marco, showered, dressed in something suitable for morning tea and ready to set up court in Caffè Florian. Or at least sit writing. The place is reputedly the oldest in Europe having been established in 1720. The style certainly matches the reputation with faded painted panels hiding behind some kind of glass surrounded by gilt frames that have perhaps seen better days. And I really was dressed for the venue. Think faded lady of a certain age who refuses to let standards fall and you’re pretty close.

As I had the iBastard with me for writing I could drag out the amount of time taken to drink the tea - lovely - and eat an apricot croissant. Yes it was eye wateringly expensive but unlike most people I enjoyed spending an extended period of time there. There seemed to be a constant stream of people sticking their head through the open window and taking a snap of the inside of the salon, goodness knows how many pictures I will appear in, and yes whilst I guess they will have a picture of a famous place - though the ones done by professional photographers are far better - but what they won’t have is a feel of the atmosphere. Even those that had a drink and then scurried off complaining about how expensive it was wouldn’t have got the benefit of savouring the ebb and flow, the drama of the endless waiting staff in their beautifully tailored white jackets and the unhurried peace you gain by simply sitting quietly and thinking.

I headed to Harry’s Bar.

Whilst Caffè Florian was faded grandeur, Harry’s was shabby chic. There were yet more white jacketed staff quietly going about their business in the peaceful interior. Inevitably I ordered a Bellini as I think this is a local by-law before once more getting out the iBastard for yet more writing. I imagine Hemingway would have looked on in disdain.

Following a second Bellini I requested the lunch menu and found that the advantage of being there at she’s-going-to-the-dogs o’clock is that I got to have lunch at my table in a prime spot. I could eat, drink, write and people watch the stream of those coming in for a quick look at the famous place - snap, snap, snap - or have a Bellini - drunk too quickly, snap, snap - or better still the smaller number of beautifully dressed and predominantly gentlemen coming in to discuss urgent matters of the day.

I suspect Harry’s is a Marmite sort of place and I can assure you that I loved it.

Being in a) Italy and b) contrary I ordered the most obvious thing on the menu. Chicken Curry. I’m sure there is a very good reason why it’s on the menu and listed as one of the specialities but I have no idea whatsoever what it might be. With the food ordered the drama begin, three staff came to me in their white jacketed glory and whilst two removed the items from the table the centre one carefully laid the table cloth before they replaced the items exactly where they had been.

Toasted bread and breadsticks joined the olives and chicken & mushroom delicacy that had previously been offered. I nibbled on olives, adored the chicken and mushroom, and savoured the now buttered toast. It was simply perfect. As the Bellini continued to wave it’s magic wand I felt at peace for the first time in an age, I felt I could stay in this spot forever. If it wasn’t for the fact it would bankrupt me, obvs. After a short while the waiters re-appeared en masse, one to set up a portable trestle, one to carry a tray and one that would actually perform the silver service.

Silver service curry. What. A. Win.

With a suitable plate-filling quantity served the food disappeared, I wrongly presumed this would be to never see again, or maybe it would be for somebody else. I ate slowly savouring each mouthful, the chicken was simply perfect, the sauce sublime and the rice perfectly cooked. This place was fantastic. As I cleared my plate I realised the error of my presumption as my food reappeared for another serving. And another. Oh. My. God. I was actually going to explode. Don’t be put off by the prices, you won’t have to eat again for a week.

In time I left and walked for a while to justify the magnificent lunch I’d just devoured. When I say walk for a while I mean back to my hotel. For a nap. A proper one.

It was glorious.

Some hours later I stumbled back in to the light. I knew where I would spend the evening now but I did have to be sensible and make sure I had a back-up plan. Just in case. With this in mind it was back on with the lady-of-a-certain-age frock for a walk with the intention of ending at the Rialto Coop for Prosecco and picnic provisions. Perfect.

Goodness did I meander, astonishingly I didn’t get lost and after reaching Campo Sant’Anzola I headed back, via my hotel to get the provisions. Now this took longer than expected and - rather disappointingly - the Prosecco wasn’t chilled, but heh, I had now had cheese and sausage for later. Oh and a deep loathing of people that are incapable of using self checkouts. Seriously, it’s not that difficult.

Finally back at the hotel I put the fizz in the fridge, showered and dressed for the evening. I’d decided what was needed was my favourite red dress and heels, if I’m going to grow old disgracefully I was going to do so properly. The interesting- or alternatively the dispelling of myths - thing is that I arrived back at the hotel at 19:31 and was out, showered, changed, legs shaved, by 20:10. Thirty-nine minutes.

I’m definitely of a certain age.

Off I wandered once more to Piazza San Marco only to be stunned by an Italian gentleman - in purple glasses - passing what sounded seriously like positive comments. Now I’d seen this chap several times over the last couple of days and been utterly blanked but now… Got to love a red dress. I talk often about being invisible. I am. But for one night Matthew I will be… THERE.

To be fair. In a place full of tourists in shorts and t-shirts with loose tops the woman in heels and a decidedly flattering dress is queen. It reminded me of Gerrad Depardieu in some film or other talking about opening a restaurant in New York. In France I am nothing, but here with my accent I am Superman.

My cape is red.

The routine was repeated many times as I crossed Piazza San Marco. In a throng of tourists my pearls glistened, the red attracted and the comments flowed. It was my moment. My fuck-yes-I-feel-old-today-but-sod-that-as-I-look-great moment.

God it felt good.

49, now in my fiftieth year and I was getting positive comments. As I sit in a bar in Lupud drinking a Casanova Sling looking at the sea, islands and my best friend swimming with her family I can tell you it’s the best feeling in the world. Who gives a stuff that it might only happen once. For that moment I shone.

And then descended in to Harry’s Bar.

Dress is a wonderful thing. It sets the context, the mood. Earlier in the day I dressed not-like-a-tourist. On purpose. I wanted to stand out. And I was rewarded with being remembered and greeted like an old friend. Inevitably the bar was busy but this wasn’t a problem as I slid on to a single bar stool - remember the advantages of travelling solo - and ordered a martini. Because *everyone* was drinking Bellinis. Of course it turns out that Hemingway would now smile. He did rather like a gin martini.

And goodness do I.

As the evening wore on I engaged in conversation with an American couple sitting to my left. They were pondering over the menu and - frankly - the cost. At which point gin-soaked-me pointed out that it if they really wanted to enjoy a meal here - and let’s face to the food is astonishing - they should come in during the day, 11:15 is a good time, get a good table, relax, enjoy the grandeur and theatre. We talked of this and that and eventually it dawned on me that they thought I lived in Venice. And you know what, I didn't want to rain on their particular belief and spoil the image. They also had gathered that I have a place in London, they talked of places they’d like to visit, and I could point them at alternatives with clear critique. It was wonderful and I hope that couple enjoyed their stay in London and have a truly happy life together.

Back in reality I was three martinis down and no sign of a table as frankly there were lots of groups, I’d not booked ahead and who cares about a single gin soaked old dear at the bar.

It was time to go home. And eat cheese, bananas, ham and… Drink prosecco.

I got in, kicked off my Mary Janes, put in my cute little bluetooth headphones and listened to Pink as I danced ate and solo partied my way out of this first day of my fiftieth year. I might not be able to be disgraceful but hell I could do a half decent facsimile of it. In its own way it was magical and whilst I thought too much and was struggling with the contrary emotions of being-alone-but-not-wanting-to-be-but-hey-it-was-my-choice-to-be-here-alone-anyway I received a whatsapp message from the #hotperm to wish me a happy birthday. I never did take kindness well. I broke down.

Really broke down.

It was all too much and again I know it was all my choice but goodness I was lonely. Heart breakingly, painfully lonely. I’m now sitting on a ferry from Lupud to Sudurad and earlier I talked with my best friend about this very thing. The reality is this: it’s a case of how ever difficult it gets, however painful it is, however strange and perverse a decision may seem.

It’s still better than the alternative.

Happy Birthday me. Actual happy birthday. Pas de gâteau.

Clueless in Venezia

Now there’s a familiar noise. Roooooaaaar. Whoosh. Roarrrrr. Whoosh. Whoosh. Roar. Whoosh. Silence. I must be in Venice. The hotel is near a junction and it’s a bit of a struggle for the delivery boats to get around the corner, to do it they stick the bow as far in as possible, spin the wheel, throw it in to full reverse, turn in a bit and go forward and repeat. The whooshing is the noise of the water being thrown around and hitting the buildings. Fortunately at this time of day they do this without the warning horns, later they make the entrance to Rotherhithe tunnel look quiet. At least they are doing it because they have to for safety reasons, rather than because someone has not moved to the satisfaction of someone else.

The first job of the day was to actually check-in, as I arrived after hours I’d not done the passport thing and I really could do with some breakfast. At dead on 8am I was standing at reception waiting to do my duty and hand over the €3.50 per person per night for the city tax in cash. I’ll admit I’ve always been slightly suspicious of that it has to be in cash. I handed over the €10.50 and he questioned whether I was staying alone. I confirmed I was. Oh that pitying look, I didn’t care, I had a big bed and it was all mine!

Breakfast would be delayed he said, I suspect it didn’t start until about 8:30, I’ve vague recollections from last time but I really wasn’t sure, as I explained to the owner I was happy to sit and wait, I really wasn’t in much of a hurry!

I knew that it had reached the allotted time when he finally asked me what I’d like to drink and with tea ordered, bread and croissant delivered I did the continental thing fetching ham, cheese and dirty cheese. A perfect start. Of course being a pig I had to have some cake too, I mean it would have been rude not to. However there was a lack of fruit so I made a mental note to find the Coop near Ponte di Rialto to collect provisions for a scurvy bag.

I can’t recall if I described the restaurant part of the hotel, it’s a bit chaotic, bits and pieces everywhere, clearly designed to endure you have things to look at whichever way you look. When I say designed that might be taking it a little far.

The hot water turned up for tea along with a clear cup so I set the tea brewing, sat back and thought. In fact I did more than just think, I drifted in to a reverie and wrote down what was drifting through my head.

As an old clock ticked I closed my eyes to fully take in what was around me, the men talking in the kitchen, the gentle breeze from the open door, a whirr of a refrigeration unit, a cycle being wheeled by. It all conspired to build a rich tapestry of constant changing hues. Finally I opened my eyes, poured some tea into the clear cup and holding with both hands I touched the cup to my lips to savour the warm aroma.

Finally I sipped, my eyes closed and a wall of emotion enveloped me every sense. I struggled to hold back tears as I contemplated every stand of this chaotic journey: a long road that took me from merely existing to living. As I regained my composure I realised how apt it was to be in this kooky chaotic restaurant.

I came here to think. Yes I also wanted to do something to mark the end of my 49th year and didn't want it to be drinking one Jaeger bomb too many in She Soho before crying on the underground. The irony that I've picked a place predominantly filled with romantic tourists walking hand in hand whilst I'm alone is not lost on me. If you're going to think you need things to provoke thoughts, it was a good choice.

There is a young French couple here now, they have exchanged barely a word, their lack of eye contact betraying so much. So much nothing. I have a horrible feeling there is more screeching around my head.

It was time to seek solace in movement.

And that’s exactly what I did, I set out with no particular plan. Well other than to find the post office which I thought was just around the corner. It was. You know at this point I should just stop writing. After all following on the Contrary Towers tradition I’m writing this at a bar in Suđurađ harbour having come to visit Missy for her birthday, today as it happens, and slightly fragile after a slightly bonkers night where I danced in a bar. In my nightie. I kid thee not.

Bloody paparazzi!

The rule is simple, it’s okay to delay writing a blog if you then write it in a beautiful place. And it really is quite beautiful. Even if the music is a little loud now.

Don’t they know I have a slightly delicate head after several two many rum and cokes. At least I think that’s what we drank. I blame Clare’s wonderful sister-in-law.

I digress.

So having found the post office in record time and confirmed the opening hours  I wandered up Calle delle Acqua in search of adventure and distraction. Unsurprisingly this was quite literally around the corner on Campo San Salvador… The Scuola Grande di San Teodoro had a musical evening - presumably aimed squarely at the tourist market - entitled Barocco e Opera. Kind of a medley of popular operatic pieces with the cast and orchestra in 18th century Venetian costumes. It seems to be on constantly but what was important was that it was on that evening. That’ll do.

Tickets quite literally in hand I wandered towards Ponte di Rialto as seeing as I was staying in a  place that was so close meant it was hardly a trial. Well, if you ignore the other tourists that were bumbling along the streets with a clear sense of purpose inspired by brownian motion. It was also time to think, most about what to do next. A meander along the grand canal seemed a fair bet and as it turned out fortuitous as I found the coop I'd been looking for, handy as it meant I could resort to a picnic in my room if necessary. Necessary being defined as me losing my nerve and wanting to hide under a rock.

Not that that would happen. Obvs.

As I stood watching the ebb and flow of venetian life I remembered my colleague Jane had asked my to see if a jewellery shop on Strada Nova was open. When she visited she’d seen earrings she liked but unfortunately the place was closed for lunch. Or whatever. She’d tried a number of times and the result was always the same. She even tried asking a friend of hers who was cabin crew and often in Venice. Same result.

I was on a mission.

But not until I had a good nose at the plethora of deliveries being made by boat. Other than the boats now having engines the process hasn’t changed in for ever. The boats arrive, stevedores unload and porters load barrows and trolleys with the wares to be delivered to the intended destination.

I moved on.

As I headed towards Strada Nova I passed a small chapel - Santuario Madonna delle Grazie - and headed in not as a tourist to take pictures or look around but rather because I wanted to light a candle for my grandmother-in-law Gertie who we lost a few years before. Now there was an incredible woman who knew how to live life. After a period of contemplation I headed out to continue my quest.

The thing with Venice is it looks bigger than it really is. It takes surprisingly little time to get from A to B even with the endless crowds of brownian tourists attempting to find their way from Z to Q without ever looking away from the screens of their cameras or phones. Can’t people just use their eyes and take in the atmosphere and high definition feel of reality? No, apparently they can’t. As I crossed from bridge to piazza to bridge to piazza I realised I was now in tourist hell. Apparently Strada Nova kind of goes all the way to where the majority of people arrive and the side effect of this is shown in the endless tat stalls, samey cafés and places selling glass. To be fair this seems to be the vast majority of Venice inc., a place to separate tourists from as much money as humanly possible. There is even a McDonalds…

I got to the jewellery store. It was closed. Which would have been a rubbish end to this if it wasn’t for the raffish looking chap in a black t-shirt who produced a bunch of keys and opened the door to the promised land…

Cue a chorus of angels exulting. Quite loudly.

This immediately lead to rapid text exchanges with Jane back home in Blighty to find which colours she wanted. All done with me inside the small store as let’s face it I wasn’t going to let my prey escape now I had him cornered.

Hurrah.

The deal done I wandered out again. By now Monty was grumbling about being hungry so it made sense to pick one of the samey cafés and watch the tourist world roll by. Needless to say I used my time proven technique of choosing eating establishments… I rocked up at the first one I found.

And ordered wine and lasagne before the girl even gave me the menu. Bears like lasagne. Honest.

The food was adequate and the wine perfectly drinkable. I wrote a couple of
postcards, people watched and generally felt at one with the world. This wasn’t at all bad. There are definitely worse ways to spend an afternoon.

In time I decided what I really needed was a nap, so it was back to hotel I wandered stopping briefly in another Coop I’d found to collect something for the scurvy bag. It did occur to me that maybe I should post the post-cards so I braved the post-office and thought I was doing so well until they pointed out I needed to take a ticket from a very whizzy machine. I’m sure it said this somewhere but I certainly couldn’t find any sight of any signs.

Fortunately with ticket in hand I could wait my turn before being efficiently served with a few stamps. I just hoped that I’d posted the cards in the right slot!

Naps are glorious things and should be prepared for with just the right amount of ceremony. After a quick shower I closed the shutters and curtains, arranged my pillows just so, put in ear plugs to block the sound of the delivery boats down below and finally drifted in to a deep and invigorating sleep.

Some time later I woke and was happy to see I had plenty of time to go in search of coffee, pastry and a place to write until it would be time to walk around the corner for my evening’s entertainment.

I wandered off and found myself at Cafe Lavena near Basilica di San Marco. Ridiculous expensive but quite an impressive view... I wrote, I watched the endless selfie sticks and I got the maximum use of the place only leaving when I realised I needed to make a move, head back to the hotel and onwards to the evening.

Inevitably I was one of the few people there solo. But this isn’t a bad thing as a solo traveller can find that perfect single free seat that is denied to those in pairs or more. Delighted to find that there was a seat just one row from the front I settled in quiet anticipation of what the evening would bring.

You get so used to seeing orchestras in modern dress - usually black tie - that it’s a delight to see everyone in costume. The evening was a mix of popular pieces from a variety of operas the soloists changing presumably according to their strength. The encore included a reprise of Libiamo ne’ lieti calici from La Traviata but with a difference, a lady was drawn from the audience to be the Violetta. It was all very jolly.

I still didn’t fancy eating much, especially not being in a restaurant alone at this time of night, so I picked up a half bottle of prosecco, some crisps and headed back to my hotel room for an impromptu picnic supplemented by the scurvy bag.

I know it was a little irresponsible but it was to be the last meal of my 49th year and I didn’t want anything fancy or filling. After all I had to be up early as I still intended to watch the sun rise over the Adriatic.

And my fiftieth year…

Once you're here, you can never leave!

There was a day to kill whilst waiting for the 6pm katamaran to Split. For this I was grateful because I was secretly dreading city hustle and bustle. To be honest I wasn't sure I was ready to leave this tiny world of quiet greens and blues. After an early walk around the smaller lake, a ramble into the village of Goveđari, I was desperate for a coffee and natter with my new friend. We had arranged to meet at konoba Barba Ive and as promised she'd brought her own gorgeous dog out for a stroll. He had the broadest smile and was happy to be fussed over. It was strange talking about stuff with a stranger, and we took turns in listening, offloading all our worries with no fear of judgement. I really hope we meet again.

 

As we talked, the weather was turning darkly interesting. And weather means serious business here. The promised storm was brewing. Sailing boats were hastily making an exit, whilst other boats were making themselves more secure. Still, I wasn't too concerned, after all the katamaran had come through Mljet a few weeks ago in terrible conditions. I paid my bill, left my rucksack, and ambled off to the beach for a pršt sandwich lunch, to enjoy a 10min nap, and finish my book. There was also an encounter with a noisy chicada.

 

The waves were now definitely alarming as I meandered back to the café a few hours later. With perfect timing, the rain arrived with my pint of beer, and it started to dawn on me that there was a distinct possibility I wouldn't be able to leave the island. I had another beer, watching sailing aficionados lash their yachts tighter to the jetty, turning them to face the storm. A Finnish couple played tug of war with the wind, whilst the white horses frolicked...

 

Putting as many clothes on that I had available, I left the bar and quipped to Dažen that I might be back. He agreed calmly *gulp*

 

The local large hotel acts as a ticket office for ferries and the first problem was my ferry was sold out. The nice receptionist doubted that it would arrive in any case, but no one could be sure. The atmosphere was getting more tense as it got closer to the arrival/departure time. It came and went with no katamaran in sight. The rain lashed down outside. I joined a panicked Spanish and French couple who were anxious about accommodation. Hm. I wondered if there was still space at Barba Ive's - logic would dictate that if I couldn't depart, people couldn't arrive.

 

We all gave the ferry up as a bad job, departing to various places, and taking advantage of a lull in the rain, I hurried back to my konoba. The usual group of people were there and unsurprised to see me. Yes, I could have my own room back! There was nothing I could do apart from have another beer, chat to the intrepid Finnish couple, sing happy birthday to the resident dog, and order a massive dinner of grilled pork and vegetable with chips. Which was presented to me 'on the house'. What a place!

 

Sadly it also meant contacting my friend in Split to tell her the bad news. There was nothing I could do, and I was told that even the famous Ultra festival had been delayed due to the rain. As the evening went by, it got colder and quieter, and the contrast to the previous night couldn't have been more marked. This island was growing on me. Then world events intruded again...this time Turkey erupted. It's hard to contemplate such a crazy man-made world when you are watching the tail end of a perfect storm, leaving only natural chaos in its wake.

 

In an unusually decisive fashion I opted to head home instead of Split. I have family to prepare for next week and perhaps the forests of Mljet and chance dog encounters was what I needed; the circumstances had perhaps read my mind. To my relief I was allowed on to the packed Dubrovnik bound katamaran, and meandered quietly back across the sea. I knew I was home when I opened the biscuits and had a cup of tea.

Retreating to Mljet

Some occurrences probably deserve and need no words, so I've been putting off writing about the past few days. They go to prove that 1. all plans are bunk, 2. I can be just as stupid here as I can be in the UK, and 3. home is definitely where the heart is. However the incredible island of Mljet has been a perfect retreat, and as usual the unexpected has made the trip worthwhile.

 

I decided on this trip on Monday partly at the invitation of a gathering in Split at the weekend. Ladies cackling about life, love, friendship, and universal truths over red wine, grilled meat and chocolate soufflés was irresistible. After a week of unmitigated self-inflicted heartache I needed my lovely friend in Split. So what could be better than recovering poise in calm Mljet for a couple of nights, then continuing on to Split on Friday for a change in pace?

 

It started off rockily. I missed the bus from my village to the port, forgot to confirm my accommodation reservation, had no clue where to get my catamaran ticket from, was clueless as to whether there was bus from Sobra to Pomena late at night, I'd omitted to check where I was going if I even got to Pomena, hadn't downloaded Google maps of Mjlet, and despite being aware of the crap weather on the way, didn't take my coat or a pair of jeans. Still, whether it was the havoc I'd wreaked, or just my new sheer couldn't care less attitude to travelling, I remained utterly calm amongst the wreckage. Technology in the shape of a £5 3 Europass suggested a location of my room at Barba Ive's (recommended) in Pomena, and it allowed friends and family to tell me how stupid I'd been. Situation normal then.

 

I can confirm that, yes there is a little bus which meets the ferry, and even if you are staying in the most out of the way place, tell the driver and he will make every effort to get you there. Two lost looking people showed him where they wanted to go on Google maps and he dropped them off as requested. By then I was the only person on the bus, and I got off when we pulled up in a tiny village. I stopped to consult the map and blue dot. A worried local gentleman was convinced I was called Natalie and asked my name several times. Apparently she was his missing guest and she was supposed to be on the bus. She wasn't. Oh. Perhaps I should have become Natalie as her life seemed quite interesting.

 

Walking around the harbour, it was alive with the sounds of boats, water, people and the atmosphere was party-like. In a daze I found my konoba and asked for Dažen. The poor guy was single handedly managing the busiest place I'd seen at the busiest time of night. He hastily showed me up to the room and left me to it. The room was perfect; spartan, clean, with a view to die for over the sailing boats and harbour. The windows shut out the people noise and I was cocooned in cool quiet.

 

Assuring my brother and the exasperated one that I was safe, I ventured out for a late snack. It was after 10pm and restaurants were definitely winding down. Luckily I found a quiet place - konoba Herc - which didn't mind serving me a mixed plate of salad, excellent fish pate, olives, cheese and ham, and bread with which to mop it all up. The waitress and I compared hair styles and we had a giggle, lovely lady. I headed home to my room and crashed out into happy oblivion. Until 4.30...

 

What is it with this time of the morning when you are feeling miserable? I lay there uselessly willing my brain to stop whirring. I gave sleep up as a bad job, laughing at the memory of a recent Facebook conversation about the unreasonableness of early risers who shower, flush and stomp about. As I headed out for a morning walk, there was no particular direction in mind but packed a bag for all eventualities. The fragrance and peace of the dim forest flooded through me.

 

The small lake is impossibly deep and was invitingly calm; two dogs were playing in the shallow water on the beach and when they saw me, they greeted me like a long lost friend. Running out of the water and showering me with cool salty water, they made it their job to be my guide. They would run ahead, stop, check I was ok, then carry on excitedly. I was spellbound and pathetically grateful for their doggy companionship. One worry was that the lady dog was holding her paw oddly and not putting weight on it. Perhaps a bite, or sharp object, or an old injury? I had no idea. I felt for any heat and she was happy to let me touch it but, being cautious, and not wanting to upset a strange dog, there was nothing much I could do. Still, we carried on... And her kind eyes just made me melt.

 

By 7km and three quarters of the way round the two lakes, one of the dogs had decided he had more

important business to attend to, but the other was happy to limp along with me. Occasionally she would jump in the lake for a dip. Probably should have joined her! We had shared my water and I was getting quite concerned. There were also more people around, and one of these joggers stopped to greet this new friend of mine. She asked me in Croatian why the dog was limping and I felt so guilty! Turns out she was a (non practicing) Slovenian vet and dog owner, on holiday with another vet! We gave the dog more water, she felt the paw and then we both worried. She ended her jog and we fell into conversation and laughed about the coincidence of a vet meeting a poorly dog. We nattered and we exchanged numbers, promising a coffee later. We had more in common than just animals it seemed. Broken hearts, in need of quiet, work stresses and generally being overwhelmed by life. All very familiar.

 

We took a shortcut back to where I'd picked up my doggy chums to see if there was anyone there. A conversation with a forest ranger set our minds at ease. Nelly (Neli?) was a dog of misfortune and had been badly hurt by a car, hence the paw. She was also a drama queen and enjoyed acting for the attention. I love this dog! She followed us both back into the village and collapsed knowingly at the local smoothie/ice cream joint. It had been a pleasurable morning and it was still only 9am!

 

Coffee and wifi achieved I sat down and read the news about Nice. Once again the sad words are meaningless and nothing can be said, merely felt.

 

By midday I went foraging for warm fresh bread, pate, crisps and peaches. It was time to head into the forest again, but what a difference 12 hours later makes! So many people, the day so warm and bright. A little boy and I nattered in French, he explained knowledgably that these lake weren't the sea but it was still salty water! I asked where he thought the sea was, and he looked around, so sweet. After, I lay on a sheltered bench to read in a beautiful spot. By the time I decided to move, the sun was about to put on its best pyrotechnical show, so I watched until the sky was dark, and then collapsed into bed.

 

After all, Split the following evening was going to be a late one! And my friend and I were getting really excited.

What goes up...

Even in paradise, sometimes the starfish are unsymmetrical and the sharp rocks unforgiving on the feet. Today finds me off kilter and desperately prickly, leaving virtual lacerations on every poor unfortunate that comes into contact with me. I'm the human equivalent of a sea urchin, though whether I have the equivalent desirable squidgy orange female bits which cause them to be cruelly bashed open, is up for debate. We all have our stupid off days, in my case caused by the usual oversensitive overthinking, overexcitment and overindulgence. And now it is probably all over... Still on the bright side, over impetuousness has galvanised me into action. I'm going to Split with a stopover in Mjlet. 

People keep telling me how beautiful Mljet is, and due to ferry timetable snafus last year, I missed a visit then. So with this and that in mind, I've booked a couple of nights in Pomena, which should allow a quiet day or so to explore the national park. I can then continue to Split on Friday. Someone said that there was a gathering with the usual chaos, as well as a trip to Hvar on Saturday. With family and friends on arriving Wednesday, next week looks to be shaping up nicely with lashings of positivity. 

Which inevitably still leaves me pondering this rather mixed week. On Saturday I lost an opportunity for dancing due to vagueries in an address, and music clearly not being loud enough. I've moved apartments due to my landlord's accomodation logistics - although the large terrace is a plus, especially with a birthday party to organise - I've now got noisy upstairs neighbours. Admittedly I shouldn't complain, I've had a lot of restful afternoons and runaway naps which culminated in an astonishing 5am run on Tuesday. With photos as proof of this madness! As for the reasons for the other malaise; it will pass, it always does. 

Moments of triumph include many culinary delights - finally creating the perfect olive bread after weeks of tough buns! I also enjoyed flavoursome stuffed peppers, as well as creating an orange and basil polenta cake. Less tasty, I had a couple of brushes with officialdom, one intentional, one accidental. I obtained my police certificate of registration, and then later in the week tutted impatiently at Croatian dignitaries when they interrupted my evening run. Finally, the other light this week was the daily revelling in the sheer beauty of the turquoise seas. A fabulously generous invite to Lopud for pizza took me out of my reverie for a spell, only to send me back with more dark thoughts; hurtling over an inkly oily sea with a golden moon for illumination - as temporary and illusive as any search for wisdom. 

And then there were the stars. 

Sumptuous abundance of natural beauty is becoming almost unbearable here. Everything is too majestic; colours too vibrant; sounds of the cicadas deafening; the balmy air and comfortably gentle sea cocooning and suffocating; the night sky too vast and awe-inspiring to contemplate. I've tried taming it with knowledge and a phone app, but that only serves to stress the impossibly large number of zeros around time, distance, and unknowns. Despite my rational insight, this had me reaching into my Renaissance history and the Greek philosophers. Finding analogies and reflections to suit human scale and informed wonder; crabs in cancer, stars in starfish, fleeting movements of surfacing fish firework with atmospheric singeing of rocks and space debris. Always returning to 'as above, so below...'

So what has today's exceedingly tongue in cheek conclusions been? After a day on an exclusive beach with mojitos and wine spritzers, I make no apology for the bitch within because she's making me feel a hell of a lot better. 

The fatter the wealthy men, the skinnier the women accompanying them. The hairier the man, the longer the ponytail on the women. The skinnier the women, the deeper the tan and bigger the sunglasses. The more tattooed the man, the more sunburned he is. And some of the guys here have been wearing the same tiny speedos they were given as 10 year olds.

Watching expensive white fish being cleaned, descaled, and rendered  palatable reminds me irrepressibly of the sleek, perfect 'class 1' women in this madly expensive bar. Their tiny pointed noses, high bone to selectively plump flesh ratio, downturned pouty mouths, grilled to perfectioned tans, and reflective sunglasses giving them as much personality as dinner. I guess some people would find them tasty... 

Personally I prefer a nice flavoursome mackerel. Cheap and cheerful with a patchy tan. See I'm feeling better already. Paradise, with scratched legs and bedraggled hair, needs the prickles and insects to prove I'm here and not dreaming.  

Three Diets, Two Countries

There has been a pact made today. Three ladies, three diets - the cautious one reminded me this weekend that it has been a year since we embarked on a determined health kick.

 

Well, if you can call weekly clubbing, slow roasted chicken, diet prosecco/vodka and slimline tonic, walking to work, and reduced portions of pie and mash a healthy life style.

 

To be honest I was sceptical, having only once before stuck to a diet, but we managed to lose a stack of weight in our haphazard contrary way. My loss of 8-10kg - mostly boobage sadly - was achieved by eating a monumental 1100 cals a day, combined with running 15km and walking about 20km a week. Ridiculous when I look back but the results were astonishing. I think I had help from the metabolism boosting HRT, and lifting of spirits with the added huge doses of vitamin D, as recommended by my doctor. Which I can recommend if you're feeling inexplicably low and tired, especially in the winter.

 

Sadly, with my departure from British shores, the English contingent have lost focus, and seams are getting increasingly tight. Not only that but Croatian and English wobbly bits need firming. Turns out pootling around the rocks in search of fish to wave at isn't really classed as vigorous cardio exercise. And given my track record with cycling - the bike is still in hospital - I'll stick to my own two legs. So in my case, given my lack of scales (nisam sirena), I've redone my exercise plan for running with extra toning, and there will be fewer kobasice and smaller portions generally.

We've already conclusively proven that regular small portions of tasty healthy food and massive amounts of walking is the key. It's not difficult. Hahahaha!

 

Hysterically the weather in its extremes has caused a hiccup. For me, running and walking when I'm at optimal energy (11-3) isn't an option; it's just too hot. I could get up early...but I'm finding late evening runs relatively satisfactory but that limits the distance I can do. On the other hand London is preparing animals for the ark they are building on the Thames, so walking to work is an unpleasantly damp experience. I get why you would want to avoid that.

 

This past year has been a massive achievement for all of us, but life flings a lot of comfort eating causing shit around. Even so let's not throw it away. We need to remember the healthy dancing glow at 4am, the glee at fitting into new underwear, and sexy clothes, and the inability to move away from the mirror!

 

• Put that chocolate cake down! And get back on the turbo tea! I see you doing that plank baby!!
• Do not have second helpings of pork and Yorkshire pudding! Yes, madam, I'm looking at you. I'm also loving the black tights, white socks and walking shoes ensemble!
• Clare, you do not need to demolish the entire newly baked loaf of bread with half a pack of butter. With honey. Or cheese. And paprika crisps are the work of the devil!! For every beer you drink that's 10km you need to run...and yes you probably look like a dick sprinting through the village.

 

Who cares!?

 

Bring it on.

From Devon With Love

Another week, another day, another 5am start, but this time I'm going further than Dubrovnik. As if on a piece of elastic I find myself going back to Split; no island too remote to prevent such wonderful continuations of friendship. My lovely Ives had her birthday yesterday, and her daughter's is Saturday so I promised ages ago that I would come back this weekend for laughter and celebration. It is the only reason, I think that she let me get on the ferry the last time I returned to Šipan!

 

I ended my last piece of meandering reportage pondering what would happen this week. There was a plan to meet a friend in Dubrovnik for a quick drink. A. Plan. Surely by now we should have learnt that they are mere 'helpful suggestions'; a doffing of ones cap to normality and order, if you will. This is why on Sunday evening I found myself on a friend's sailing boat with only the clothes I was wearing, with not an item of toiletry to be seen, and a bunch of new drinking buddies. Experience has taught me that Devonians are some of the best people in the world and never have I felt more welcome. Or more drunk! Normal.

 

Still, given I was stranded on the mainland after a splendid champagne supper, they kindly offered me a lift back to Šipan, in return for a little local knowledge. After breakfast and a monumental hangover the following morning, with a beer based supermarket sweep - they were determined to redefine 'booze cruise' - we were heading down the channel and underneath the magnificent Franjo Tuđman Bridge towards the open sea. I was entranced by the grace and quiet of the sailboat, and when a motor boat gave way and went behind us in true textbook 'power giving way to sail', skipper-style I was beside myself. They were all sailors and answered all my daft questions patiently! Due to Devon school days I was also able to act as interpreter as the Croatian Skipper was utterly at sea... When Dalmatian meets Devonian.

 

After a cheese - meat - beer based picnic lunch, we headed out to anchor off the island of Lopud for an afternoon of swimming and general larking about. I've not laughed so much, nearly drowning with mirth, watching two idiots go off to buy icecream in a tender, both rowing in opposite directions. Before realising they had no cash, because the communal wallet was bobbing about merrily on the sea.

 

Makes my own chaotic travelling style look like a military operation. Tell me, with merry Devonians in charge, how the hell was the Spanish Armada repelled?

 

I borrowed a snorkel and mask and was mesmerised by fish feeding on bits of bread. I've never seen that from below - a stunning display of acrobatics. I joined them in their diving display, not quite as elegant but I've already demonstrated to a naked German, I'm not a fish!! We finally pulled into Šipanska Luka at about 6.30pm and it had been a treat to see the south-west side of the island from our vantage point of the sea. Sadly the lack of wind meant we had to be engine powered, but still, it was glorious.

 

At this point I showered and wished I had clean clothes. The best I could manage was some manly deodorant. After a number of refreshing mojitos, I was mint and lime scented. Our organised skipper had called ahead to reserve both a berth for the boat and a table for dinner. I can unreservedly recommend Kod Marka - no menu, no wine list. Just incredible meat or fish of the day with whatever dishes the chef has dreamt up to start with. In this case, little fish in oil with grilled bread, then peppery octopus cakes. The rare steak, veal, and meaty potato sauce was incredible. The marzipan scented medlar fruit liqueur to finish this feast was utterly divine. The Orsan Restaurant in Dubrovnik the night before had been breath taking but in a completely different way. By midnight I'm sad to say, I was exhausted...and pretty much collapsed!

 

Some idiot the next morning decided an early morning dip was in order. He thought it was 7am...and to his horror two hours later, it really was 7am. Waking up on a boat is the weirdest experience; like all the best bit of camping. Except the water is generally outside your porthole, and not in your bedding/shoes. Feeling much better after many hours sleep, coffee and fried eggs, I sadly waved goodbye to my new friends. They had a date with some wine tasting in Korčula; if anyone is there, can they make sure the place is still standing.

 

My life after Croatia remains a bit hazy, but these guys reminded me of my time in Devon and why I am still friends with many people from that period of my life. Just was just like been 19 again; they left me exhausted, boggled, hungover, with laughter muscles aching from use. The journey back to mine on the little local bus was uneventful, and involved a conversation with someone about Simon Stylites. Obviously.

 

The rest of the week was fairly quiet, with a trip to a deserted beach on the mainland as the highlight. Nothing to see here, but oh, boy, was I sunburnt! The pizzeria just down the coast was pretty good too, they did a mean ice coffee.

 

There was a moment on Thursday when I thought about going to meet the sailing guys on Korčula, then head to Split from there on Friday morning. But owing to me not knowing what day of the week it was, I got my ferry timing knickers in a twist. So I had to forgo the pleasure of another drunken night on water; instead I spent the evening looking at the stars and nattering about nothing much. I think night club regulations were discussed given the local bar's usual Thursday night pulsing drunken Aussie beat. Inevitably it was a late night because I had to be on this 6am ferry, bound for more Split adventures.