Sleepless into battle
After a drizzly few days in the mountains it was back to the coast and back to the sunshine. We stayed at a great little campsite in a town called Sveti Filip (immediately re-christened Sweaty Phillip) where we were one of just two vans staying on site. From there we cycled to a town called Biograd (which sounds like some sort of chemical waste by-product but is actually quite nice) and caught a ferry to the nearby island of Pasman. There we had a bit of a cycle round, stopped for a well-earned beer and stumbled upon a nudist camp where I had the pleasure of being confronted by a leathery German chap’s tallywhacker. All in all, a successful island visit.
For the next couple of days we drove down the stunning Dalmatian coast without seeing a single spotty dog. The shores are lined, alternately, with pretty peninsula towns and beautifully quiet little beaches of the whitest… er… gravel. Yes, for some reason Croatian beaches are completely devoid of sand and instead consist of a small white stone that can best be likened to cat litter. It’s not great to walk on in bare feet but, on the up-side, it is surprisingly comfortable to lie in, doesn’t work its way into your bum crack – and probably cancels out unwanted odours too!
Two stops worth a mention are Trogir, another old Venetian outpost with all the trimmings (fortified wall, narrow streets, lots of shutters, Unesco rating) and, of course, Split. Split is a big city but at its heart is the old town which has – you guessed it – a fortified wall, narrow streets, lots of shutters and a big thumbs up from the lovely people at Unesco. What sets this city apart is the people – they are lunatics. The first person we met was a car park attendant who also happened to be the world’s leading exponent of misogyny. We were about to enter his car park but Claire wanted to wait to take a ticket until we could see a vacant space. This simple act made the man storm out of his little kiosk, yank a ticket from the machine himself and thrust it into Claire’s hand while shouting at her to get a move on. Then when Claire tried to point out that there were actually no parking spaces available, he snatched the ticket back off her, shooed her away and gave me the ticket instead! He was a very angry man. So imagine his rage when the next lunatic turned up in a battered old Lada and drove straight through his metal barrier, bending it into a perfect 90 degree angle. And then there was the nutter dressed in an outfit that I’m going to call “Summer Santa”…
We’d decided to get a ferry across to Italy so booked ourselves on the Split to Ancona crossing. The ferry company were adamant that we should be there by at least 6.30pm to start embarkation, even though it was a 9pm crossing. We actually arrived at 5.30pm which is possibly the first time in Claire’s existence that she has been early for anything. We were really pleased with ourselves. However, three hours later we still hadn’t been loaded on to the boat. The problem, apparently, was that the cars (and campervans) couldn’t go onto the ferry until all the big articulated lorries had been put on – and three trucks hadn’t turned up. So we waited. And waited. And you know that thing where you’re waiting for three lorries to turn up and then seven all come along at once… That happened. Once we’d finally been packed aboard we headed excitedly to our room because, as it was a night crossing, we’d booked a two berth cabin. Unfortunately, due to what I assume was a clerical error, we were instead given the key to a small cupboard with two narrow shelves in it. In this cupboard, I slept not one jot. This was partly due to the confined quarters but also to the paper-thin walls, through which you could hear the people in the next cabin breathe. Let me be clear: not snore – breathe. So thin were these walls that the screws from next door’s fittings actually protruded into our side, which added an extra layer of jeopardy to proceedings. Then, as a literal crescendo to the whole hellish experience, someone came round knocking on everyone’s cabin doors at 6am with what sounded like a metal soup ladle.
So we were back in Italy, feeling unclean and bleary-eyed. And I’d forgotten just how mental Italian drivers can be. Traffic lights, lane markings and road signs are all treated as mere suggestions. Indicators have been deactivated on every single car so that the drivers won’t be distracted from their mobile phone conversations. Roundabouts are one massive game of chicken and overtaking can, and will, happen at any time – even if there is a blind bend, oncoming traffic or a sign saying “No overtaking”. What you don’t want to do is attempt to enter this melee having had no sleep the night before…
For the next couple of days we drove down the stunning Dalmatian coast without seeing a single spotty dog. The shores are lined, alternately, with pretty peninsula towns and beautifully quiet little beaches of the whitest… er… gravel. Yes, for some reason Croatian beaches are completely devoid of sand and instead consist of a small white stone that can best be likened to cat litter. It’s not great to walk on in bare feet but, on the up-side, it is surprisingly comfortable to lie in, doesn’t work its way into your bum crack – and probably cancels out unwanted odours too!
Two stops worth a mention are Trogir, another old Venetian outpost with all the trimmings (fortified wall, narrow streets, lots of shutters, Unesco rating) and, of course, Split. Split is a big city but at its heart is the old town which has – you guessed it – a fortified wall, narrow streets, lots of shutters and a big thumbs up from the lovely people at Unesco. What sets this city apart is the people – they are lunatics. The first person we met was a car park attendant who also happened to be the world’s leading exponent of misogyny. We were about to enter his car park but Claire wanted to wait to take a ticket until we could see a vacant space. This simple act made the man storm out of his little kiosk, yank a ticket from the machine himself and thrust it into Claire’s hand while shouting at her to get a move on. Then when Claire tried to point out that there were actually no parking spaces available, he snatched the ticket back off her, shooed her away and gave me the ticket instead! He was a very angry man. So imagine his rage when the next lunatic turned up in a battered old Lada and drove straight through his metal barrier, bending it into a perfect 90 degree angle. And then there was the nutter dressed in an outfit that I’m going to call “Summer Santa”…
We’d decided to get a ferry across to Italy so booked ourselves on the Split to Ancona crossing. The ferry company were adamant that we should be there by at least 6.30pm to start embarkation, even though it was a 9pm crossing. We actually arrived at 5.30pm which is possibly the first time in Claire’s existence that she has been early for anything. We were really pleased with ourselves. However, three hours later we still hadn’t been loaded on to the boat. The problem, apparently, was that the cars (and campervans) couldn’t go onto the ferry until all the big articulated lorries had been put on – and three trucks hadn’t turned up. So we waited. And waited. And you know that thing where you’re waiting for three lorries to turn up and then seven all come along at once… That happened. Once we’d finally been packed aboard we headed excitedly to our room because, as it was a night crossing, we’d booked a two berth cabin. Unfortunately, due to what I assume was a clerical error, we were instead given the key to a small cupboard with two narrow shelves in it. In this cupboard, I slept not one jot. This was partly due to the confined quarters but also to the paper-thin walls, through which you could hear the people in the next cabin breathe. Let me be clear: not snore – breathe. So thin were these walls that the screws from next door’s fittings actually protruded into our side, which added an extra layer of jeopardy to proceedings. Then, as a literal crescendo to the whole hellish experience, someone came round knocking on everyone’s cabin doors at 6am with what sounded like a metal soup ladle.
So we were back in Italy, feeling unclean and bleary-eyed. And I’d forgotten just how mental Italian drivers can be. Traffic lights, lane markings and road signs are all treated as mere suggestions. Indicators have been deactivated on every single car so that the drivers won’t be distracted from their mobile phone conversations. Roundabouts are one massive game of chicken and overtaking can, and will, happen at any time – even if there is a blind bend, oncoming traffic or a sign saying “No overtaking”. What you don’t want to do is attempt to enter this melee having had no sleep the night before…
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