Since we sauntered into the Czech Republic all those months ago, we’ve got very used to being offered a choice of pizza or schnitzel pretty much everywhere we’ve been. The schnitzel wins hands down; beaten to the thickness of an atom, coated in the crispiest of crumbs, and fried in less than a nano-second, it is delicious.
But as we approach the coast of Croatia, the food suddenly changes. Now it is cheese with everything, and that ‘everything’ quite often turns out to be honey. Seriously, honey? I’m not big on cheese, anyway.
In Zadar we have a burger that is honestly a bit grim, but the wifi password is ‘David Bowie is alive’, which kinda makes up for it. At our campsite near Split, the lovely girl at the onsite restaurant recommends a Croatian speciality called Cevapcici. I say sure, as I always like to try the regional food. Apart from anything else, it gives me a clue as to what I can cook with the local (and usually only) produce in the shops. The cafe has sea-views and black squirrels jumping in the trees overheard, so I reckon compensation is plentiful if the meal is shite.
But Cevapcici are brilliant – little spiced sausages, a bit like kofta. At the supermarket, later, I find sachets of Cevapcici spice mix for about 60 cents, so I buy six packets.
I’m pretty optimistic when we head into Split, armed with the name of a good restaurant from my friend’s website, Unravel Travel. The restaurant has a queue outside (as expected) – but it’s raining. Consequently, the owner says that he won’t serve any more people after the couple in front of us, and will close for the day. Because it’s raining. Outside.
Oh, ok. Never mind. There are other places; such as Marta’s Fusion, a vegetarian restaurant that we spotted, just around the corner. It looks nice and we’re hungry. You get the picture.
For those of you who are my age, you’ll remember a time when vegetarian food had a bad rap. It was considered to be dry and tasteless and mostly lentils. Worthy is the word that sprung to mind. But then times changed and things moved on wonderfully in the veggie world. However, someone forgot to tell Marta.
We both order the black-bean burger, which is our first mistake. If we’d chosen different things, then we’d have increased our chances of having something edible. The lukewarm burger arrives – with no bun, and covered in cold ketchup of the vividly scarlet sort that usually squirts out of a plastic tomato.
It is tasteless, has no seasoning, and a dry, suck-all-the-moisture-out-of-your-mouth texture. It isn’t even worthy: it is miserable. I feel sorry for the beans.
I get the giggles and then promptly feel sick. Steve tries to give them some feedback, but I have to excuse myself and rush outside in case I march into the kitchen, grab a pan and bark, ‘look, it’s not that hard, here’s how to make falafel. And use some effing salt!’
Vrana
Wanting a day in the countryside, Steve tells me about a place called Vrana. To be honest I’m not really listening when he gives me the history of the place: something about two famous sculptors, or authors. Plus the usual – a medieval town, a place of great political and religious significance, monasteries, and Knight’s Templars, yah dee yah dee yah. Sometimes I just like to go with the flow, cos that’s how I roll.
Anyway, we set off and although I don’t have a clear idea on what to expect, I certainly envision something more than the crappily run-down little village we drive into and, moments later, out the other side. Was that it? Apparently so. Where were the plaques and history and interesting stuff? I personally don’t think that locals staring at the two puzzled-looking idiots driving backwards and forwards in their Smart car count as ‘stuff’.
But I’ve spotted a place on the outskirts that has a menu up outside. Yay, coffee time. Coffee sweetens many an abortive trip out, and if there are cakes, then it’s a spree! So we park up, walk in and get slapped in the face with history. In 1644, the commander of the Turkish Fleet started building his summer palace here, and the ruins of it have been newly restored and renovated. The Maskovic Han, as it is called, is now a lovely hotel with very nice coffee.
As we leave, the waitress asks if we’d seen the ninth century ruin over the road? Oh, so there‘s more stuff here? Great. We pootle over the road to what, at first glance, appears to be a field with a lot of fallen down stone walls. But then, after climbing up and down some dips and navigating gaps in the overgrowth, we stumble into the remains of what were once impressive buildings.
It is totally silent, apart from the occasional chirps of birdsong. The sun is beaming down, the air trembling with butterflies and it is completely peaceful: like a secret garden that has been carefully avoiding Monty Don.
I hear some rustling in the bushes (which I hope isn’t a snake), then I get distracted into pursuing a big, bright-yellow butterfly with black spots, that I’ve never seen before. Which is why I almost tread on this little sweetie as it wanders onto the path in front of me.
A tortoise! A genuine wild tortoise! My ignorance again, but I had no idea that they lived here. This pretty much makes my week, let alone my day.
More food
We’ve had some surprisingly wonderful meals in shopping malls, of all places, including a terrific curry and some great Chinese food (I worry what tourists in Britain think when they rock up and are faced with a choice of Burger King or KFC). So I was happily encouraged by the sight of Soparnik under the counter of the cafe we end up at, a few days later.
Soparnik is a Croatian speciality, and is basically a flat pie made from flaky filo-like pastry with a filling of chard and a white cheese. I like chard. We’ve often been served chard and potatoes, the spuds being boiled, but golden, and the chard, rich and iron-y. So a chard pie, with some cheese: how wrong can you go with that?
Now, perhaps I should have been worried when I heard the microwave ping. Hands up who’s over-microwaved pastry before now, and turned it into an un-chewable, rock-hard slice of sweaty brown stuff? I think you know what I’m saying.
But it is the cheese. The cheese! I don’t know what animal’s milk this has been made from, but I’m guessing a really pissed-off Tasmanian Devil, or a dead Yak. It leaves a taste in my mouth that is beyond-words-awful, really rank. And then I realise what it reminds me of. You know that taste that is left in your mouth just after you’ve just thrown up? Bingo.
Now, I discovered Parmesan when I was in my late teens, and I remember being surprised that it smelt of vomit but tasted of cheese. However, this one smells of cheese but tastes of vomit. Steve is hungry and chomping it down so I decide not to expand on the theory at this time.
Dubrovnik
Driving down through Croatia is certainly an experience. For a start, my knowledge of geography is so poor that I genuinely have no idea that to get to Dubrovnik, from Split, you pass through a bit of Bosnia. I just hadn’t zoomed in that much on Google maps.
So it’s a bit of a shock when we fetch up at a checkpoint. At first I imagine that Deirdre the sat-nav slut has taken us down a wrong road again, and so I just follow Steve into Bosnia assuming he’ll sort it out.
After a while we approach another checkpoint and I get my passport ready to show. But, to my surprise, Steve just drives straight on to the last kiosk and is then waved through by a chap standing outside it. Strange, I think, but oh well – I’ll just do the same. I can’t see anyone in the first kiosk anyway.
And so I drive mindlessly past the lady with the out-stretched hand in kiosk number two, don’t show my passport to anybody, and just sail past the confused-looking standing man. When I realise what I’ve done I frantically call Steve on the walkie-talkie.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says, ‘if there’s a problem they’ll just send the police after you.’ Thanks mate.
The Croatians like simple campsite names, such as Camp Martin, Susie, Petar or Antonio – which to choose? Not Camp Bozo, I think, or (given that a ‘j’ is pronounced as a ‘y’) the untrustworthy sounding Camp Dunja. We settle for Camping Kate. On arrival we are told that it is due to close in a couple of days, but if we want to stay longer, then they’ll stay open longer too. Fantastic. We suggest a week, and they say that’s fine.
It is nestled on a hilltop amongst olive, orange and persimmon trees. There’s a tiny chapel overlooking the sea, and stairs that take you down the hill to the beach at a sweet little place called Mlini. Bit of a climb back up, but so worth it.
And yet more food
The nice lady at Camping Kate suggests that we go over the road to a restaurant called Flamingo’s if we want a decent meal. It is fairly unpretentious and a little bit basic looking inside, but we’ve learnt never to judge by appearances. We order The Flamingo Platter, which is a sharing plate for two, and stops us having to spend ages thinking about what we want and get down to the wine.
In the corner, three guys start playing an Argentine tango on a guitar, a double bass, and an accordion. When they sing, their voices are rich, melodic and harmonious; they’ve clearly been performing together for a long time.
They finish their set and then move over to the first table.
‘Where do you come from?’
‘Hungary.’
‘No problem.’ They launch into several songs that the chaps at the table can sing along to, and so on around the room. Then they reach us.
‘Where do you come from?’
‘The UK.’
‘Where?’
‘Er, England?’
Blank looks.
Britain?
‘You’ve heard of London, maybe?’
‘Ah, ok’.
They get in a huddle, have a little chat, smile, and launch into What shall we do with the drunken sailor, followed by a Scottish reel, and Fly me to the moon.
Bit surreal, but then the food arrives and it’s humungous. The plate (which is larger than my bathroom sink) is piled with roast chicken, steaks, two sorts of kebabs, chips and potatoes and a vegetable rice, roast Mediterranean vegetables, chard mixed with some other veg, and fried breaded cheese.
Plus eight homemade bread rolls, and a soup bowl full of mushroom and cream sauce. It is all delicious. We take a lot of it home in a doggy bag and it lasts us for three days.
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