Before we left, we took a day trip to the island of Hvar. With hindsight, we should have stayed longer instead of making a day of it. I don’t think we did the island justice. We just saw the harbour, one side of the town of Hvar, the countryside from the bus to Starigrad and the mall next to the ferry point outside Starigrad. We missed seeing the Franciscan monastery and a whole stretch of quaint streets in Hvar town. I did get to see the inside of the Hvar fortress, which N missed out on. He stayed outside and sulked – I mean worked on his laptop – due to the fact that we were in the throes of a disagreement at the time, about whether or not it is ok to secretly stash the butter in your partner's backpack without telling them, leading to melty butter all over the place. And then eating up almost all of the butter, leaving said disgruntled partner with plain bread for lunch.
The Town of Hvar:
The Town of Hvar Seen From The Fortress:
The fortress was interesting. The prison cells were definitely the top attraction for me. I am intrigued by prisons and dungeons and the like. Is this normal? I seem to have a morbid fascination with the terrible things that people do to each other and I spend a lot of time wondering whether or not we’ve actually improved with the advent of “civilization.” I tried to imagine being shut up in one of the stone cells, wondering what my captors would do to me – which of those horrific implements they would use on me to extract my confession. (Has anyone else noticed the unnerving similarity between a rack of medieval torture instruments and the tray of tools that lies next to your dentist? Freaks me out no end.)
Prison Cell:
Your Dentist Wishes:
The other highlight of my day was the notice on the ferry, outlining the emergency procedures. One is instructed to dress warmly and (not my emphasis) "DON'T FORGET drugs if you take them." I must say I thoroughly agree with this sentiment, it sounds very sensible. I am sure that enduring a sinking ferry would be a whole lot more pleasant if one had a gigantic joint clutched in one's paw. Titanic could have been a comedy instead of a tragedy if Kate and Leo had just lightened up a little and lit up. God knows I certainly needed a joint halfway through that movie.
Our Ferry. Better on Drugs:
After a pleasant day on the island, we returned to the mainland. The ferry trip back took much longer than the one there and by the time we got back to the campsite we were tired and looking forward to a lovely chilled evening. We snuggled up to watch an old movie on N’s laptop. Halfway through the movie a tribe of disgusting Spanish men pulled up in their camper van and pitched their tents loudly and noisily about half a metre away from ours. Despite the tracts of empty space all around, they decided that they needed to be RIGHT on top of us. They yelled, they shouted. They stole our pine stump chairs. They cooked supper less than 2 metres from our tent entrance, to the accompaniment of loud inane conversation and attempts to pick up every woman that walked past. They smoked. They left their spent lighters, their cigarette butts and their spilled pasta all over the floor right next to our tent. They kept bumping our tent. It was horrible. And they kept it up until way after 1am. Inconsiderate prats. So much for our cozy, relaxed evening. So much for our night of decent sleep before checking out.
The next morning I dashed out of bed before 8 (super early for a European life style, I’ll have you know) and set about making as much noise as I possibly could by way of revenge. To my absolute fury, my plans backfired. The rude, inconsiderate Spanish slobs rocketed out of bed, packed up with record speed and left. Clearly they needed to be somewhere else in a hurry. Bugger. I should have let them sleep and be late. I was only mildly consoled when one of their crates broke in the packing rush and spilled their food all over the road. Hopefully it was my bad vibes that made it happen.
N and I packed at a slightly more leisurely pace and then undertook the bus journey from Stobrec to Makarska. After the requisite travelling disagreements and moments of mild tension bordering on homicidal urges, we found ourselves on the outskirts of Omis (say “Omish”) sitting next to a concrete blockhouse of a bus stop and wondering whether the bus to Makarska stopped there or not. N proceeded to declare that we were in deep trouble because there was no ways the bus stopped there, and we must immediately shoulder our packs and walk to another bus station. There was, however, not a snow flake’s chance that I was doing that. I was equally sure that the bus would arrive but had no idea how long we would have to wait. Trying to argue with N in full flow, though, is hopeless and so I blew up my cool new plastic cushion and sat lumpishly on it, refusing to move. Eventually the bus arrived and we had our ride to Makarska. My ride was none too comfortable because the long legged creature in front of me had reclined his chair until I could almost inspect his nasal cavities. I couldn’t figure out how to recline my own chair and refused to ask anyone for fear of looking stupid.
Makarska - One Decidedly Cute Town:
At Makarska we were attacked by the usual tribe of Sobe Grannies. Sobe meaning “rooms” in Croatian. The Grannies tout their sobe every time a tourist bus hits the station. (Same thing at ferry terminals.) The Sobe Grannies are intensely annoying. You can’t make it two steps without one popping up and touting. The fact that you have just refused the last seven Grannies is irrelevant. Each one is sure that she and her rooms are irresistible. We fended off swarms of the old creatures. I refused the same one twice. I left N unsupervised for two minutes and she moved swiftly to accost him behind my back. What the little munchkin lacked in height (she was about four foot high, due largely to the hunch) she made up for in enthusiasm. By the time I turned around she had N cornered and was stabbing vigorously at the map and jabbering wildly in Croatian. N was looking totally nonplussed. I moved to join them. We engaged the munchkin in conversation. The pack scented blood. A horde of Grannies rushed over and began to try and poach us. Our munchkin was incensed. We were backed into a corner with Croatian, German and Italian flying at us. Just no English. Prices were yelled in Euros and Kuna. It was Babel revisited. It was mayhem. It was chaos. I was seized with an insane desire to laugh. I’ve never been cornered by a pack of lunatic grannies before. Our munchkin eventually won the day and dragged us off down the road babbling incomprehensibly. We followed her avowing sternly that we were “just going to look.” My tiny, four foot high, aged, hunched munchkin tried to relieve me of my day pack but good grief - how could I possibly contemplate letting her carry it? It’s close on as big as she is.
To cut a long story short, we are now staying in her sobe. For a slightly higher price than the Stobrec travesty of a campsite (thirty rands a day to be exact) we have procured a large room with a comfy double bed and clean sheets, a balcony, a (shared) bathroom and kitchen facilities. We are content.
Makarska Harbour:
And Makarska is a delightful town. I thoroughly recommend a visit if you ever have the opportunity. It has a pebble beach (most of them are pebbled in Croatia) and it has pine trees for shade. On the beach! So you have a choice of sun or shade on the beach, which is a great treat for a Ginger. The water is relatively warm. I can swim for ages, which is unusual for me. There are no waves. I have developed the habit of going for a long swim every morning, paddling up and down the coast in an attempt to exercise the ankle a bit. Ok, maybe you can’t call a habit of two days a habit, but I intend to make it a habit.
Beach Complete With Pine Forest:
Me On Pine Beach (suitably blurry and tiny so that you can't see me in my bikini - hahaha):
Boat In Makarska Harbour:
The only negative part of Makarska so far is that I have managed to disable my other foot. Yesterday N and I went for a long walk along the coast line to hunt for some climbing spots. At the end of the path we found the most perfect beach in the whole world.
The Perfect Beach:
So Perfect That It Warrants Numerous Photographs:
The last people had just left and dusk was falling. It was a stuning setting. We leaped into the water with delight. We frolicked. It was wonderful.
The Wonderful Waters:
It was wonderful right up until I kicked a sea urchin. They say that if there are sea urchins around you should be happy because it means that the water is really clean. Urchins (belying the name) only hang out in pristine surroundings. Well I was not happy to discover the urchins. Give me a bit of filth over a toe full of urchin spikes any day. I’ll wash. I can shower. Dirt is underrated.
Who Knew Such Tranquil Waters Harboured Such Evil:
Deceptively Stunning In Order To Lure You In And Bite You:
Needless to say, I could not remove any of the spines by the light of my cell phone torch. I had to put my shoes and socks on and trudge home, trying not to walk on the second biggest toe on my left foot. My injured right ankle also complained all the way home, since it now had to do the lion’s share of the work. The walk took an hour. By the time we got back to the sobe both of my feet were sore to buggery. N did not earn himself any brownie points when he enquired, halfway through that long, slow, miserable trip, “So are you walking so very slowly because of your ankle or because of the sea urchin?” If I had been able to manage a turn of speed I might have caught up to him and smacked him with a pine cone. I spent the rest of the night Googling how to treat sea urchin injuries; poking about my toe with a needle and digging out fine black spines. I’m sure there I still a fragment in there somewhere and I have a red streak up the toe. Dodgy! I will be watching it closely. I am glad, however, that I was not forced to do this doctoring in a tent. The rest of the night was similarly disgusting, as the only food I had was a tin of tuna. I tried to open it but the stupid opener did not work. (This is what happens when you buy a cheap cheap opener.) I had to admit failure and eat some muesli for supper at 22:30. And of course, for its last trick of the evening, the Universe had turned the milk sour. I had to pinch my nose closedand gobble it up really quickly. Levels of self pity peaked at an all time record high somewhere about 23:00 last night. They have stabilized somewhat today, but are not quite back to optimal levels. Watch this space….
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