Of cheese, views, witches, and ice cream!

After a relatively late night, we had a slow start. But one thing was certain, we were both famished. Clearly one cannot live on bread, raw onion, ajvar, beer, and sausages alone. You could, but it's probably a really easy way to lose friends. And go through a shed load of mouthwash...

 

Teeth brushed we headed out in desperate need of caffeine and breakfast. The sunniest and most sociable of people, as the flatmate and I had discovered, become mildly growly when tired and/or hungry. Lou never lost her cool, and when faced with inappropriate breakfast choices, suggested the tiny štrukli cafe - La Struk - that had been recommended by friends.

 

Sorry, what, tangy cheesy creamy fruity baked doughy pasta for breakfast? Where do sign up to become a permanent resident here? It was truly epic. She had the more more savoury version but I really need to try making my apple and cinnamon one at home.

 

Fully charged and raring to go we continued to meander around a cold and drizzly city. We did make a stop to go up the Zagreb Eye, a stunning cafe bar at the top of the tallest modern building in the old part of two. She thought I was mental as I did the whole excited running around the outdoor viewing terrace. She sat in the warm to complete her breakfast cocoa, whilst my excellent white coffee went cold. Stunning views of colourful brollies.

 

Caffeinated and caloried up, we headed down and out towards the new part of the city. The national theatre, various galleries, the main train station and the various classical London-familiar trgovi. Though she didn't let me go arty, we found a distraction to end all distractions - all hail the bookshop! This place is bookshop heaven and we dashed in to a very large one and confused the assistant by shrieking over children's books we could actually read. Horrid Henry Croatian style - Grozni Grga! Maša and her exploits with friends, and an extraordinary diary of an ant. She decided not to buy the notorious exploits of buzz buzz the shit eating fly. But we bought some fabulously meaty tomes to digest. Cue more hysterical giggling.

By this time we were definitely peckish again and we knew we were lunching at her friend's cafe. Now this place was all soup, smoothies and salads so we were prepared for light and healthy. Delicate pumpkin soup for me, a more robust mushroom for her. We had to try the 'raw cake' for dessert. Must find out what the heck was in that - apart from ground hazelnuts and cherries! The owner lit up when he knew that Lou 'was the friend from London' and we had a lovely natter.

I won't mention anything about the waterfall I caused in the bathroom. Needless to say, you can't take me anywhere twice.

After our quite long and late lunch, Lou went back to her friends leaving me to take in some art. I opted for the town museum which was a narrative history from Stone Age excavations under the convent, to the events of the 90s. It covers everything and although I struggled at first to place the modern town on the historic versions, the effort was rewarding. Basically very little of the city you see now is particularly old. Earthquakes, fires, wars, social change and a growing population, and changing architectural tastes have ensured nothing is what it seems.

I cried over the women who were burned by the superstitious. Their names roll by on a continuous loop; I sighed at the patriarchal religious fervour which may have brought education and books but only for some; groaned at the closed 'old boy network clubs' which reached a peak in the 19th century. The pastel bland young females of aristocratic families gazed out with no life or animation.

It was an interesting insight into the disappearance of women. They appear as a threat to be eradicated, an ornament for a family, a contribution to a convent, or venerated as the Virgin Mary. There is no real sense of their contribution to the history and life of the city; surely in war, post war periods, and during communism women found their voice and value. I found its conservative take on history really uncomfortable.

I didn't actually get around the whole museum that evening and returned this morning to complete the tour. Coming at it with fresher eyes has made me feel even more dissatisfied.

Anyway museums now all closed, I had another wander around, until Lou's return. I made myself comfortable in the cafe bar up in the sky, which reminded me of the jaunt the distant one and I made before we left London, weeks previously. There was obviously confusion as I had both the entrance tickets so I had to go retrieve Lou from the ground floor. We sat and got giggly on pivo and children's books before heading out up Europe's shortest funicular to a restaurant up on the hill.

Black trumpets.

We'd seen their menu the day before and were determined to eat whatever they were. Turns out they are mushrooms (foodies and brothers stop sniggering at the back) so it was a very tasty and light risotto. The feta-that-was-actually-hallumi salad was delicious, as was the bread. The wine was passable. But we were slightly put off by the domestic vinegar...I'd carefully stressed it was interesting; Lou didn't mince words. Nail polish remover. Still we didn't alarm the waiter too much and it was another pleasant meal.

We chuckled our way down the slippery wooden steps and rather than head back to the Eye bar, as was the plan, the determined one wanted icecream. Now. It's 10.30. Dark. Cold. And I was ready for bed. I was dragged kicking and screaming like a 3 year old to one of the most well hidden, closed looking slasticarnica I've ever seen.

'It's shut', I wailed, as she marched up grey stone steps. In the dark. 'No it's not, come on, želim sladoled', she announced.

It was like a chilled and frozen dessert paradise night club. I've never seen anything like it. All the cool young kids were there, eating these ridiculously shiny sweet confections. I just had the orahovac - walnut liqueur as I was so full - but a bowl of caramel and cookie flavoured icecream placed on our table disappeared. Apparently it was delicious.

There was talk of karaoke bars but there is a sad lack in Zagreb on a Friday night. Rather sensibly we found the right tram and went home - apparently there should have been a karaoke bar called Charlie's near the flat, but he'd clearly heard the crazy English were in town and hidden his establishment. Probably for the best.

Our final night as unexpected and unplanned travelling companions. Back to our respective cities tomorrow and it's been a blast (on the black trumpets!).

Where did my English go?

Me: *reading the squillionth building sign of the day*
Me: Oooo department for technical listening!! *puzzled yet excited face*
Her: You mean sound. It's the audio-visual department of the university or whatever!
Me: Ohhhhhh! Sound!! There's an English word for 'technical listening'?!

See also 'pleasure harbour'. My continuation of Englishloss continues and at some point over the last few days, I've lost my few remaining marbles. The irony is, my English vocabulary departed just around the corner from Zagreb's polyglotte institute. So if anyone sees my scattered ooodabdabs lying around, can they be posted to Split? Carrier pigeon would also be fine.

This was obviously followed by another senior moment in La Struk where I was doing a Dan Brown with some mysterious codes.

 

Me: UO, er UO1, and UO2? Eh? What's UO in Croatian?
Her: That's a table number.
Me: Uoooh! D'oh!

 

Still, I wasn't the one who kept pouring bad vinegar over my dinner. Or stubbing my already sore big toe on flat pavements. Or giving us both hysterics in scholarly bookshops over books about flies liking poop. Honestly what a pair of specials.

 

The helpful owner of our rented flat had picked us up from the initial confusion of Zagreb bus station. Very much in large city mode, I'd assumed that the place was huge and required public transport at all turns. So I was dreading the solo return trip from the kolodvor autobus, so I made certain mental notes regarding landmarks. The building itself was utterly charmless and on the day it opened, I hope the architect struck himself/herself off the professional list.

 

Very shortly we were in quiet suburban streets, yet according to google maps, we were only 20 minute walk from the main town square. This was when I realised this was no ordinary capital city. The apartment was large, clean, tasteful, and perfect in everyway - I decided that this could easily become home for a month and a plan will be hatched when I have access to a computer.

 

We offloaded little and large baggage and trammed it into town, avoiding the local boys messing around at our tram stop. We touristically failed to pay and hung on for dear life as it careered off down the road. Alighting at the main square, we had arrived in the grand metropolis of Zagreb, so we went in search of beer and ćevapi. Not that we are food obsessed or anything.

 

We managed to get entirely distracted by shops and arcades along the way. But I now know where to get a full set of fake diamonds to go with the electric blue fishtail gown, not to mention tiaras, belly dancing face and body chains, and synthetic hair pieces. I can feel a new image coming on. Not that they'd have appreciated it in the large pub we found - it was all very sturdy and real beers in there. The sausages I ordered were to keep me going til the following morning!

 

Despite the drizzle, my guide gave me a whistle stop tour of the city, including tracking down her friend's new cafe, and a lovely place to have tea and cake. I had plenty to do when I was wandering around alone on Friday afternoon and Saturday morning. She had plans to see other friends in the evening so after dropping me back at the flat, she went out. I was more than happy to have a hot shower, then sit in my massive bed, reading, relaxing and catching up with people at home. The flirty one had been living up to her name in Versailles.

 

I had a strange moment that evening when i just wondered how the hell I'd got here. Thinking about the incredible journey across Europe, the avalanche of words and linguistic isolation, and just the complete randomness of stuff. A conversation with a well travelled type brought me back to planet earth - if you want something bad enough, you make it happen, with a touch of luck and a grasping of opportunities.

 

Anyway after a brief exchange with the sociable one, I assured her that I wasn't hungry and was content to be alone. I was simply glad that she was spending valuable time with her friends and their newborn. Everyone should have a taste of the special kind of Lou crazy. Truly, she has made the past few days really great - and we hadn't even experienced the ice cream parlour from heaven yet! That was to come...

Ramblings around Zagreb

Five hours on a bus there, and five hours back. I have now determinedly plodded past the town of Karlovac, both there and back. As any local knows this town-on-a-road-sign is the name and birthplace of a rather pleasant beer. Given that the landscape is alpine in feel, it seems appropriate that I'm thinking more pivo than vino. Grapes and the Adriatic seem to be far behind and in front.

 

The journey up reminded me of a few weeks ago, when the now far away one and I were endlessly commenting on the inevitable yet barely perceptible changes in the tone of the landscape. Familiar damp cold Northern European French agricultural farmland, gothic spires, giving way to warm Mediterranean palms and the Romanesque; Italian rainscapes and medieval campanile; then reaching elegant Split on the Adriatic, which is utterly Venetian gothic with a dollop of Slavic romance.

 

Despite not crossing any international borders, this new capital city had a familiarity to it which has nothing to do with any previous knowledge. Heading over the countryside around, the small farmsteads and elaborately elongated onion church domes seem to proclaim their Central European influences. Add to that the multitude of incredible cake shops and elegant cafes, wide streets of yellow buildings of Zagreb and it's almost like being in Austria or south eastern Germany.

 

Above all, my impression of Zagreb was as exceptionally quiet and unstressful city. The main shopping street was bustling but never overwhelming, and the restaurants welcoming and really relaxed. I had the absorbing yet challenging town museum to myself for the most part, and I enjoyed a good chat with the receptionist thereabout travel and London. The Croatian Museum for Naive Art was busy but a tour had just started so I was happy to join it surreptitiously. However I could have spent all my time in the Zagreb 360 degree Eye just looking at the view. Only then could you appreciate the mix of city architectural styles.

 

Seeing Zagreb has been a fulfilment of yet another dream. On my first visit to Yugoslavia in the late 80s, it was fairly unthinkable - not just because of the political situation, but I don't think my dad could have driven much further from Herefordshire in the two-three weeks we had available. I have never yearned more for a time machine to compare how it was then, with now. Thankfully the city reassured me that its mystique which I'd carried around for so many years, was utterly justified.

 

Don't tell me that the bear I saw in the service station on the way back was a hallucination.

The last day

The last day. I woke to the near silent buzz from my wristband telling me it was somewhere within 20 minutes of 6am. It was time to go home. I showered, dressed and clattered around as much as possible to wake Clarissa. Fortunately it worked.

Breakfast was a slight variation on the theme as I saw they had raw eggs and an egg boiler, no bread suitable for soldiers though, but I could live with that. With an egg silently cooking for six minutes I demolished a fruit salad with yoghurt and brewed tea. I needed the fuel. There is nothing quite like the simplicity of a boiled egg, though I can’t think if we’ve even got an
egg cup at home in Contrary Towers, no doubt I will find one when I am sorting out for the move.

The move. Urk, I’ve not thought about that properly for 24 hours, something to look forward to. Or something.

Anyway, egg lovely, tea lovely - okay acceptable - and whilst the range of cake was, well, cake singular it was perfectly moist and acceptable. Back to the room and after one last email had to be sent - not by me - bags were grabbed, Monty got in his travelling pouch and the keys were returned, payment having been organised the night before and we were off in to the early Versailles sunshine. And as it turned out patches of fog.

The route from Versailles - or Paris - to Le Havre is an irritating one, regular peagé where you have to pay every so often. Now this is nominally fine, you rattle along at 130KPH, you whizz in, you pay, you roar out. It can be a giggle. But you also have to have payment ready or every advantage gained by sitting on the limit is lost *massively* when you stop and watch every single vehicle who knows what they are doing whizz by. I was not best pleased. Time was tight even after my insistence we started early and losing several minutes checking coins was not doing my sense of humour much good.

I knew I should have insisted we be gone by 08:30.

The planned stop up of wine didn’t happen as there had clearly been a misunderstanding and a suitable place hadn’t been researched so it was a case of finding any old supermarket to get a few bottles that I’d promised to bring back. It also meant I got to see bits of Le Havre I didn’t wish to see though there was the bonus that I could refill the Contrary Clio before heading back to Blighty.

Back at the ferry terminal there was only one vehicle in front of us as we reached the entrance. A *long* time later we finally moved forward, the problem? It was a van with a few lads in it and there was clearly some kind of problem. We shot through. And then stopped at the passport/police checkpoint. Cue waiting again. We did get to see the contents of the back of the van, it looked like a house move, that or very eclectic French burglars who know there is a market for house plants and mattresses in the UK.

As the police were being thorough the handsome young policeman attempted to see through the dirt of the back windows to see what we had, he then asked me if he could look at my boot. I was shocked, we’d only just met! Oh, I see. I opened. He looked, I’m sure I heard a snigger. Yes, a little untidy back there. You have wine? Yes, I said and lifted the duvet and backpack stopping them from rattling about. Another wry smile.

Yep, I was in the only english car crossing the channel with half a dozen bottles of fizz and a similar number of red. Totally letting the side down. I’m surprised I wasn’t directed to the nearest - unfindable - hypermarket to load the car down properly.

We moved forward, stopped, switched off the engine and before you could say [insert favourite phrase here] I had to start the engine as loading was beginning. That’s how much time we’d lost we were there and had zero wait, mind you by now I was desperate for a pee and no time to look. The Contrary Clio would once more be on the top deck, which meant struggling over the bumpy bits and a very steep ramp, fortunately this time there was no one tiddling at the top so I didn’t have to attempt a very steep hill start whilst the wheels were effectively in chocks. On the deck the usual dance routine was going on with cars being placed or told to turn and placed in the opposite direction, finally it was our turn and I moved forward only to be told to reverse, maybe I was positioned incorrectly, but no, I reversed all the way back, not even in the lines and the loader man indicated that this was fine. So everyone else is packed in nose to tail and the Contrary Clio was sat all by itself looking suitably plucky. That or he could see I’m really bad at parking and it would be easier this way.

Cabin bags were grabbed and we went off to get our access code. Of course I managed to go the wrong way as I misinterpreted the sign pointing to the right for reception as meaning turn right. It obviously meant through this door and then look left. Idiot. It really had been one of those journeys and made me think all I want to be now is home.

Fortunately this time there was no all pervading stench of vomit so it was in to the cabin, shoes off and sit on the bed sending a last few messages before we disappeared off. By the time Clarissa returned from the WiFi area in the bar I’d shed my dress and was snuggled down, the rocking motion of the ship having sent me straight off to sleep.

I woke. I went for a cup of tea. I uploaded my blog for the day before, though without any images as the WiFi was rather limited. It certainly looked lovely out there and I wasn’t about to complain about having a few minutes in the sun on deck. I also deposited some keys in
Davy Jones Locker by request, hopefully they didn’t hit any passing submarines meaning I inadvertently started a war. As you do. But it lacked the excited scampering of the previous ferry crossings so after a pensive walk along the deck I returned to the bar area for more tea. A girl can’t live on words alone.

Your keys are here.

I also didn’t feel particularly comfortable with the attention I was getting from some lorry drivers and as I was by now better at being disagreeable than flirty it was best I left the area. I found myself by the ferry reception from where I could see the Contrary Clio sitting in the middle of the deck looking like I can’t park. I
realised that when it came to leave every single passenger would see her sitting there, badly parked and alone.

Embarrassing.

But I saw something else, something I couldn’t quite capture with a camera, in her back screen there was a reflection of the Tricolore in her back screen. The tears welled up again as I thought of this incredible journey through five countries and over 3000 miles and all along this little French car proved utterly reliable, comfortable and plucky. She’s acquired the sort of identity that can only be given to something special. I don’t think I’ve mentioned it before but early on when I was trying to work out how to remember the registration number in case of being stopped by the police I came up with the acronym EXcellent For Contrary Expeditions. The number didn’t fit in which meant when we were asked for the registration in Volterra - as we’d driven through the medieval town - Clare had to provide it as I had no clue.

Let’s face it, I have no clue full-stop.

As one of the lorry drivers had switched allegiance from the bar area to hang around and has now hanging around a little too close to me for comfort I returned to the cabin to freshen and collect my belongings. As we entered Portsmouth the gods had decided that maybe they should be kind and the sun was definitely shining. It was fascinating to watch some fragments of our navy tied up having various works carried out. I even saw a number of boats that would have been built in Swan Hunter’s shipyard when I was but a babe in arms, the HMS Bristol being particularly significant.

Finally we gathered in the reception area so everyone could look at the now legendary Contrary Clio in pride of place alone on the deck with the lesser cars all being nose to tail at the sides. I don't think Binks of Beccles could have got better advertising if they tried! You could almost hear her say “I am the Contrary Clio, hear me growl”. She could also do with a wash. And the floor emptied of sweet wrappers. Oh and you remember the bulb I had to replace 3000 miles ago in France? Gone again, FFS. It wouldn’t be so bad on the passenger side, no air conditioning hose. Not that this works as I found in Nice. I shall add that to the list of things that need addressing at her next service.

Bloody cars with personality.

Anyway. I strode out on to the middle of the deck wishing I’d worn heels so I could have done so with attitude. Unsurprisingly it took a while before we could leave as we would be the last off as they needed to lower the ramp. On the bright side it gave me time to compose myself, I really wasn’t sure how I felt to be back in Blighty given that I really was now in uncharted waters with no emotional support. This will be fun.

Finally the ramp began to lower. Oh. So. Very. Bloody. Slowly. When it reached six inches I reckoned we could jump the gap but the killjoys insisted we waited until it was all the way down. Finally we vibrated down the very vibratory ramp. Wait a minute, why does the iBastard accept vibratory as a proper word? Half the words I’ve typed in over the last few weeks have been squiggled red or changed but not that!

Questions need to be asked in parliament.

We cleared passport control. We managed not to look guilty at customs. We scuttled out on to the big road with me incanting “drive on the left” repeatedly and… We saw a traffic jam. After 3000+ miles I saw my first proper traffic jam on the A27 and it was quite epic. Mile after mile after not moving. Fortunately the other way.

Welcome home.

And there’s the other thing. After said 3000 miles of driving around Europe the first time I felt in fear of my life, other than in the rain in Florence, was here with the most ignorant bunch of selfish fuckwits in the world. If you want to look at the worst drivers in Europe I present the English as a prime candidate. Well, after Parisian 75 plate drivers, obvs.

I particularly enjoyed the M25 as we sat. And sat. And sat. Poor Clarissa was supposed to be going to the country music festival at the O2 after we dropped her bags off at her home and with every pause the arrival time crept forwards. It was horrible, I hated it and to be honest it did nothing for my sense of well being.

So let’s cut a long and tedious story short.

We arrived, bags were deposited and finally Clarissa was deposited with the relief I imagine that I was no longer there in full harpy mode. I reset Tom for one last time, chose a playlist I’d picked weeks ago and headed north of the river.

As I rolled over the last mile the Moody Blues accompanied me. A fitting end though the lyrics did leave me looking at the world through a tear blurred veil. The playlist had one last perfect moment, as I entered the underground carpark at Contrary Towers Simon and Garfunkel serenaded me with the Sound of Silence. One line in particular hit home:

People talking without speaking

But it wasn’t quite all over. Being incredibly contrary there was one last diversion. You may recall that three weeks ago we ignored packing, pulled on posh frocks and decadently said goodbye to London. Well I was invited back to say hello and after a delightful meal and conversation in St Katherine docks I sat in Sky Lounge and raised a glass to my best friend a few feet from where we’d left.

But a lifetime ago.

A walk in the park

According to Google it’s -1° out there. Brrr.

A slight contrast to yesterday though - as was pointed out to me - not only were we in t’North we are also quite high, roughly 1000’ ASL. No, not Age, Sex, Location. On the bright side it is just that, very, very bright, the rain has clearly scrubbed the air clean in this heart of ancient Gaul.

I showered so I wouldn’t look out of place.

Breakfast was yet another variation on the continental theme, as we ate it was decided a quick scoot around town was in order making sure we could get to Versailles in daylight and have a look around there too. Proper tapas tourism. Needless to say my French is starting to come back just as I’m about to leave the country again, irritating but expected, I’ll have to come back soon… On the bright side it did make checking out somewhat easier.

I sensibly moved the Contrary Clio when leaving as it had been slightly abandoned owing to the car park being quite full when we arrived last night, on doing so I noticed rings set in to the wall where presumably in years gone by horses would have been tied up. That or they got up to some kinky sexual practices here in the long winter nights.

The route back to town was the same as the night before but this time we could see something of the old architecture and crucially could see the blackish volcanic stone used to build many of the older buildings. It was also clear that a section of the town around the railway station had presumably been cleared during the war by external developers. Sadly when the new buildings were put in the stark concrete look became the thing which rather clashes with the classic French feel.

On the way we passed the restaurant from the night before and on the opposite corner I noticed a tattoo parlour with a design on the wall that looked incredibly familiar. I put it down to being maybe part of a chain. If they have that sort of thing. We headed up the cathedral and entered a square that again looked amazingly familiar, in fact it looked exactly like another I’d seen on the road trip. What a coincidence! The statues, the cathedral, even coincidentally it was the same name in the same name square.

Or not.

I then checked in on Hive - what was Foursquare - and saw I’d become mayor. Of a place I thought I’d not been before. Oh.

I really am an airhead. So it was familiar because after Clare got married in an auberge we visited Clermont-Ferrand on the way *to* Croatia, this was on the long leg that ended in Montpellier, whilst I’d managed to write about it at the time it had obviously not stuck in my memory. I truly am an airhead.

Still it was lovely to sit in the cathedral again and after lighting a candle and some quiet contemplation it was time to move once more and head further north to Versailles. Obviously with me now able to point out various things in the town as it all came flooding back to me. Ditz.

The roads were much better to day, a distinct lack of torrential rain and I even managed to not get lost in the service station when we stopped for fuel and coffee. Admittedly it was a touch and go thing as the layout was a little confused, but no renovations to confuse me even more.

Between the second and third stops, just south of Orléans the plucky little Clio passed it’s 3000th mile of Contrary Roadtrip, an exciting moment. This was followed 14.1 miles later by the miles on the overall trip meter being exactly ten times the Contrary Miles. An irrelevant moment that matters to those that like order in the world. And an excuse for another carefully timed photo.

Once again we shot past where my family are from, we couldn’t stop as the aim was to get to Versailles with plenty of light to make like tourists and, more importantly, earlier enough to avoid the joy that is rush hour around Paris and Versailles… Something that I was grateful we achieved.

For once I had been organised and I’d checked out the hotel we were staying in on Google maps, more specifically where the entrance to the courtyard is for the car park, I know the streets around the centre are a PITA and wanted to get there first time. Which we did.

And found the gates closed. Oh.

But all was well, we pulled in to the entrance to the courtyard with the intention to scurry in and check-in and get them to open the gates when we noticed an entry-phone hidden away. All became clear and with a press of the button the gates scissored to one side we rolled in. Phew.

Once safely in the room for the night it was time to quickly freshen before heading out to make like tourists for a while before I could tidy myself ready to meet up with an old colleague that I’ve not seen in ten years, the soul reason that I was in Versailles at all!

*tourist face*

It transpired that we were about two minutes from the marketplace at the heart of the Notre Dame district so we were greeted by a cacophony of colour and sights as the market was in full swing, we  passed through with no intention to stop and browse and continued are march towards the big house. Which really is huge. It makes Buck House look tiny but that’s nothing compared with the gardens. You may recall that last summer I was at Lizzies place for a garden party to commemorate 100 years of the Women’s Institute and I took the opportunity to have a good look around what felt - as it was central London - like extensive grounds. Compared to the Château de Versailles it was like a patch of grass behind a two-up, two-down. 800 hectares compared with the 17 hectares of Buckingham Palace. Crikey.

We walked around, looked at the shiny railings, were swamped by French school kids en masse and then wandered in to the gardens themselves. A coffee and snack stop presented itself where I saw the best outside loos ever, constructed with raw timber in the neo-classical style with columns reminiscent of those at the temple of Athena in Athens. Bonkers.

Netty...

After the break it was a walk through the parkland by lake but as after what seemed like a very long time we had only made it to the first cross of the lake it seemed like walking around it wasn’t going to be possible. At least not before it got dark. Walking back we tried to guess the length by measuring the tree gap - about 5m - and then the number of tree gaps - about 75. So quite long then and it seemed like there may be a few missing. Still it was an impressive avenue, one of many and I did wonder at the sanity of the poor worker that spent their days pruning a bush to keep the topiary perfect.

Bear. Woods.

Along the way back I pondered the statues that were either covered up for protection or were the most pretentious modern art ever seen. More to the point I pondered the purpose of the lights now illuminating the statues. Hmm, maybe they really are supposed to look like that. Or not.

As we left the gardens it was clear something was being set up as sound equipment was being unloaded from a van in t’backyard, meanwhile out front there were a number of horses and riders in full colour, finally being joined by infantry again in full colours. No idea why and would have asked if not for the fact that the proper tourists were massing and it didn’t look safe.

As we passed the statue to show off himself Louis XIV the full horror of Versailles rush hour traffic was building. As ever a static image couldn’t do justice but I was reminded why not driving at that time was such a good idea…

Back in the hotel it was time to do a little writing. Final arrangements had been made with my friend and we were to meet in the Notre Dame market square at 8pm before heading off in search of a nice place to eat, drink and compress ten years in to a few hours. Fortunately I talk a lot. This was a perfect plan until…

…I got a message asking if I’d seen the whatsapp that he’d sent! Of course not as my phone was charging on the other side of the room by the sole pair of power points whilst I was writing. So instead of choosing something to wear, brushing my hair and making myself look vaguely presentable I shrieked, pulled on my pashmina, coat, hat, shoes, grabbed my bag and shot out leaving Clarissa to fend for herself.

So glad I was only about two minutes away!

We met, we talked and well, that was pretty much it for the next few hours. We did though manage to eat in the first place we went to which was rather fabulously called Le Cheese Club. Was this okay he asked, seriously, cheese, what’s not to like?! So we sat at the window and the waiter arrived several times and each time was sent away as no we hadn’t looked at the menu yet. Couldn’t the man see we were talking.

Years. Catch-up. Simple.

I can’t remember what I ordered *exactly, but what it was both looked amazing and tasted divine. What more can you ask for in a place? The company of course was exceptional and - unsurprisingly - the conversation never stopped. As the place emptied and we were the last left the waiter brought the bill in a bid to drop a hint. I opened the pot containing it…

Oooh, sweeties!

The ones that taste like pear drops, I really like those. And of course said. It turns out that being flirty with waiters pays benefits as he gave me more sweeties. Who knew. Of course one should never accept sweeties from strangers but I felt we were old friends as we’d discussed at length dessert wines. As you do.

We walked up to the bus stop as Ash now lives on the far side of Versailles the conversation showing no sign of abating any time soon but as his bus drew up it was time to finally call it a night with promises of a longer visit soon to have a proper catch-up.

On the way back I watched a police car which had been parked in a very odd place be connected to the back of a tow truck and dragged away, aww.

Back in the hotel it was time to sleep, I would like to have written but it was now late and I had set a 6am alarm so that there would be time for one final breakfast before we got in the Contrary Clio and drove to Le Havre.

And home.

* update...

Entree: œuf cocotte a la vache qui rit, pain grille. 

Plat: Escalope de veau panee au parmesan. 

Dessert: Petit pot au chocolat au carre frais

Contrary Baggage

I'm writing this on the bus to Zagreb. Of course, for the end of this week I'd planned to do some study, and enjoy a small weekend trip to Šibenic to see the cathedral, but we all know what happens to plans. Yesterday -Wednesday I was expecting a visitor who was making her way back to London via Split so it was a perfect opportunity to be contrary. 

Turns out she is PhD level, to rival the flirty PhDitz in fact. She hadn't booked a way back to Zagreb. As you all know, direct flights to London from Split don't start until April so you have to change. You have a choice; you can fly, train, or bus it to Zagreb. So after sitting in the sun on the Riva with a beer, we discussed options and whether I fancied a trip up north. She had an apartment booked for a couple of nights and it has two rooms. 

Easy. After the bloggage of the other two, I wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to see more of the mountainous hinterland, nor a taster of the capital city. So here we are on a Promet Markarska bus for 5 hours with chocolate croissants and Croatian radio for company. 

I'm getting ahead of myself as usual. Yesterday was too entertaining not to write about. Class had once again proved a challenge and I have a tonne of homework, but that is something to which I can look forward - given it's work on the future tense, apt! The waiter at the posh Luxor cafe high-fived me as I walked through Peristil and the blue sky did its celestial equivalent, both of which left me massively contented. 

I had until 2pm before she arrived so I scampered home to have a snack, tidy up, and to change my footwear into something more sun appropriate. It was truly lovely out. I ambled out towards to bus station, via the man fruit and veg market, exchanged pleasantries with the usual bus station types 'ne hvala i ne razumijem' and very quickly, there was my friend. It's quite something when you think that a short time ago we were strangers in a classroom, but we've been brought together a thousand miles away by a love of a country and its language. 

After dumping a wayward suitcase, which took delight in skittering across the marble, we went for a wander around town to find food. An odd lack of choice left us faced with the sunny vistas of the Adriana on the Riva. We dazzled our first waiter of the day with our stunning Croatian efforts. Well, she did. I fell apart as usual. He was helpful and patient as we failed to make a food choice - my current favourite is njoki. Just because of the way it's spelt. Obviously. 

So sustenance provided by two massive plates of njoki with ham and rocket sauce, two beers, and a sample of the local walnut liqueur, and a definite flirty twinkle from the pleasant waiting guy, we were ready to face the bus station for Zagreb tickets, as well as a trip to City Centre One. 

What's City Centre One? Despite the name it's an out of town shopping centre which looks like it could be in any suburb in any part of the world. My friend's friend had asked her to get a refund on an item of clothing from a shop there. 

But first there was a giggly moment with an extremely hot bus ticket man at the station. I'm still at the 'needing to look up and write out what I want to say' stage, but Lou assuredly walked up to the counter, and was away with a vaguely comprehensible request for a single and a return (for me) to Zagreb. Unlike the usual surly ticket counter employee, he was really impressed and, with a wink at me, replied in Croatian to let her bravely continue. 

There was a hitch. The bus we had seen on the timetable didn't exist. 

Reverting to English they had a discussion about the relative benefits of all the different routes and buses. I let them thrash it out as she was the one with friends there, and time commitments. There was no queue and the chap was really happy to talk to her. As it was progressing to the date stage, sadly we paid for our tickets and headed out into the evening. 

Next stop. Another bus. It's so good being with someone who knew which bus we should be getting on - and more importantly, which stop we were getting off at. As we crammed on to the local yellow bendy bus, I had a flashback to London. Someone asked me yesterday whether I was missing the tube, and was, right up until I got on this bus with what felt like the entire population of Split. For the princely sum of 11kuna we went to the edge of town. 

It was just like Brent Cross. Or Westfield. Only less shiny, less busy, and with fewer shops. Can you imagine, it was 7.30ish on a Wednesday evening and it was a pleasure to stroll round, in a bland musak kind of way. There was a large Spar and a C&A. Oh and more knicker shops than even the flatmate could go through. Does this mean I need to up my underwear game whilst I'm here?!

Speaking of which...Calzedonia to get a refund. Not possible, only exchanges. This let to a protracted long distant discussion about legless feet, tightless bottoms...and a very confused shop assistant. Queue more giggles. It didn't help that that the price on the packets of tights were in euros. So thinking she had 300kuna, she wondered how many packets of 5.99 tights she could get. Confused?! Turns out about three. 

Anyway I have an exceptionally short skirt which requires leg coverage, so I got some too. Business transacted, we departed, only to return to retrieve the bottles of water that had been forgotten. We are truly special. Apparently it was the assistant's turn to laugh. 

We had a meander around, and we chortled at the 'wild horses', made rude comments about the fashion in C&A. There was also another clothes shop, where should I need an electric blue lace fishtail confection, I know where to find one. We found some shoes each - she has currently got a toe issue so bought something comfy; and I got a beautiful pair of platform sandals to strut down the Riva in. 

Back outside and on the bus into town, it had turned slightly chilly, and the njoki had been burned off ages ago. So we thought we'd take our bags back home and then go find another restaurant. As we were heading up to my place, we walked past Trattoria Tril, a neighbour to the excellent Konobar Marjan. During the day this place is a haven for the local guys to discuss important world events, then put money on them in the betting shop opposite. Perfect. 

We went in and the restaurant's two pet spider crabs waved at us cheerily. They know they are safe despite being tasty...the waiter was happy to reassure us they weren't on the menu. Once again we entertained another guy with our witty repartee and mangling of his language. He was extremely happy to help, and by the end of the evening, a bottle of Postup down, he taught us some really rude Split words and made a couple of locals blush. We've been invited back for classes whenever we like! The food was also excellent and ridiculously cheap. I'm starting to like my part of town very much.  

Enough for this blogpost, I need to write about what feels like Roadtrip part 2, or is it 3. Talk about wayward, contrary baggage!!

Heading North

According to my phone it was 5am. Stupid body clock, we hadn’t gone to bed until way after midnight once we’d finished blogging and sipping the Chateau Plonk. At first I thought that the wind had got up and it was blowing a real hooley out there. But then through my drifting consciousness it occurred to me that may, just maybe, that it was actually waves on gravel. The sort that was on the beach outside. Oooh, beach outside! I looked out of the window. In the distance I could see the twinkling lights of Nice dancing like fireflies that are too scared to travel far.

All I could see of the sea was the brilliant white foam of the aquamarine water crash on the shore. It wasn’t a bad sight. I drifted back to sleep and woke once more at first light, the view had improved but as the sun has still lurking behind the hills it was all a bit grim. Grim is a relative term. As the sun began to clear the hills at 7:30am the blue of the cloudless sky beckoned. Tell me again why I’d decided that instead of doing a bonkers 8+ hour drive to Versailles and stay an extra night in Nice had I decided that we needed to get closer at Clermont-Ferrand.

Damn my sensible streak.

I showered and then flung open the windows to drink in the view. Over the last few weeks we’ve stopped in a huge range of places, but not one with a sea view, though that was tried at Krk just failed owing to the whole not being available thing! It was worth the wait as this time it was the complete sea, sun and sky combination. Obviously it was missing sand and the other S but still, can’t be greedy. Needless to say as I stood there wearing nothing more than a towel and a string of pearls I decided to troll all of Twitter with pictures of the view.

I’m an evil cow and I deserve my comeuppance.

Mind you, it will be the last time I can do this for quite a long while! Anyway, I finally dressed mostly because my lovely friend Mazza called me a trollop. Seemed fair. Needless to say I then went back to watching the world drift by. It was a view that was hard to ignore.

We bimbled down to breakfast, as it was going to be a long driving day I thought I’d best make sure I eat plenty, not that I ever need much encouragement. A range of foods, apple juice and two cups of tea later I was ready to go, it was time to up sticks and head North. Leaving the Côte d’Azur behind, I really am stupid.

First things first. We were pretty much out of sucky sweets and there was no water left in the car so we set sail for the nearest Lidl to replenish stocks. Ah the joys of driving in Nice, I know it’s far worse in summer but goodness was it entertaining skipping from point to point and being in the wrong lanes because the locals had double or triple parked because there were no proper parking spots. And because they could. Mind you I did see the municipal police expressing their displeasure at two cars parked on yellow zig-zags près de l’école. Very naughty.

We found the Lidl. It had a carpark next to it that looked like a quagmire of cars so I sadly decided to keep going, I wasn’t going to get a ticket - as I would as I’m British - simply because I needed a few bottles of water and wanted to say I’d been to Lidl. See, sensible!

So, the route was reset to Clermont-Ferrand and we were off. Slowly. Twisting left and right. Stopping at lights, playing guess the lane and generally marvelling at how anyone new how to get around. Near Nice airport it became particularly entertaining when we were suddenly driving on the left instead of the right owing to some mad road system designed to play with your mind. I was a mouse to the town planner cat and their were having a giggle. At one point Tom’s lovely assistant started to tell us something and then she shut up as she realised that maybe we didn’t want to hear. It wasn’t looking good.

An attempt was made en route to find another, but that would have been peeling off to Cagnes sur Mer and back in to traffic, sod it, we would get water etc. at a service station, if nothing else we head to stop for fuel, the distance was predicted as 385 miles with the Contrary Clio telling us she was good for 325 miles. Oooh I think we can make it…

At the first stop about 90 minutes later I managed to get lost in the service station. There were renovation works going on and it wasn’t clear how we could get to the café, mind you it also appeared like the fuel pumps were off limit. We drove on a bit. Then went in to another bit where a grill was, then realised that really was closed, so tried to double back, but couldn’t so we headed out, went round two or maybe three roundabouts and ended back at the filing station. Where the hell do we go?!

Enter one attractive frenchman that liked helping damsels in distress. He pointed out where we’d gone wrong and where we needed to go though he didn’t mention that THEY COULD HAVE SIGNPOSTED THIS. Still, it’s all part of life’s entertainment. And he was really lovely.

The next two stops and endless miles went reasonably well, at least if you ignore the slight worsening of the weather. It wasn’t great. At one point the temperature plummeted to 2°, the world disappeared in to a cloud of spray and the windscreen wipers worked overtime.

I looked at the pictures I took a few hours ago.

Like I said earlier, I’m an idiot. We went up, we descended, in the hills not far above us we saw snow, sometimes we drove through the clouds. All the time we were slowly but surely moving in on our destination . Finally we reached Clermont-Ferrand and following Tom’s instruction, the boy gets about. By some miracle we found the place first time and only overshot the car park entrance by a few feet, so adopting local techniques I pulled the car back and turned in to the private car park before abandoning the Contrary Clio on a corner

Once checked in it was a simple matter of collecting our bags and then going off for dinner. Except that I suddenly became obsessed with how best to combine the where-we’ve-been maps in to one. This was a genuinely interesting thing as the maps are simply fascinating. Owing to limitations in Google maps I could only do the going there or returning in a single map but I have a cunning plan for getting around that, something to do at the weekend as I’ll no doubt be bored without a flatmate to troll. Still, the maps were good and give an insight in to how far things are.

You see the trouble was we’d spent best part of seven hours driving with maybe an hour or so resting with coffee at service stations and we’d barely scratched France. So the combined maps give a view of how far we’ve actually been. But that is still without context. Against France the journeys look like a walk to the shops. But in reality? Well, if you put Nice and Clermont-Ferrand in to the directions thing in Google Maps you get about 386miles. Allowing for it being in KM. This is the about the same distance as London to Dunbar. In Scotland. Scotland!

That’s a long way.

Tomorrow, point to point with no Contrary deviations it’s 259 miles. Or about the same distance as from the centre of London to Durham. This we consider a short hop. Anyway, I digress. So I was sitting on the bad fiddling with visualising the data when I realised Clarissa was maybe hungry as she was tweeting about it. I finished what I was doing, pulled on a coat and we wandered off to see what delights this place had to offer.

Well… Beggars of course, and a disturbing number of n’er do wells seemed to be hanging around. We marched quickly from our adequate hotel opposite the railway station in to the old town where she’d assured me there were many restaurants. I didn’t mind. Inevitably the question came up about where to go, to be honest I really wasn’t in to the idea of looking at endless menus in windows for the right place so I said as much and that if she wanted me to choose it would be the first place we came to that didn’t look like their served up pies made from murder victims. That may have not been exactly how I phrased it but you get the idea.

So we looked at a menu at the first place we came to and… Went in as the pie was off. It was an interesting little place, with vaulted ceilings and an understated subtlety. As with last night the menu was on a blackboard and presumably changed regularly. It was also an interesting selection which is always a good thing, though with a few predictable items that made it easy for people to choose if they didn’t feel too adventurous. Plus an interesting wine selection. Choices made the conversation turned to food and the making there of. Always a favourite subject for me.

My starter was an ouef coulant à la carbonara, it was pretty much perfect with the poached egg being beautifully cooked and a fabulously yellow yolk. My main was medallions of cod - I think I didn’t make notes - with slices of potato, carrot and what looked suspiciously like romanesco broccoli. And finally to finish there was crème brulée which was as good as any I can recall.

And the wine? A 2012 Graves Auney Hermitage. Lovely. I think Clarissa summed it up best when she said “that was a very good meal”. Bit of an understatement, whatever the weather through at us during the journey the meal actually made it seem worth it.

So if you happen to be in Clermont-Ferrand then do visit L’instantané Restaurant.

We wandered back to the hotel which didn’t quite live up to the blurb but at least the rooms didn’t have a hint of tobacco smoke in them and I suspect I won’t be peering out like a loon in the morning to see the sights. Tomorrow is the last stop of the Contrary Roadtrip and will see us heading to Versailles, after that it will be off to Le Havre.

And the ferry home to Blighty…