As my friends and regular readers know, my grasp of geography is absolute rubbish. So as we cross from Hungary into Croatia, I have no idea what to expect. I know Dubrovnik is further south and the setting for Kings Landing in ‘Game of Thrones’, but that’s pretty much it.
Our first stops are a series of truck stops on the outskirts of Zagreb. Although this means deploying the old memory foam earplugs again, it also means freedom from the mosquitos that hang around the nice, tree-filled campsites of an evening.
I’m told that being blood type ‘O’ is more attractive to the bitey little bastards, and this is both unfortunate and true: Steve and I share that group and we have both been bitten as lumpy as the Alps.
I also have another theory: using the idea that you are what you eat, I reckon that on a cellular level I am a good 75% gin and tonic, having lived in Bath for the last ten years. Furthermore, as an utterly hormonal woman, I imagine the other 25% is probably reconstructed chocolate. If I were a midge, I would bite me.
Zagreb
The capital of Croatia is a very nice little city: buzzy and interesting without being too big. Apart from the red-umbrella’d Dolac market (with its statue of Kumica Barica – the spirit of the farmer’s market) there’s also an artisan market that fills the main square. Here, among other things, one can get an umbrella made to order by the most hard-working women I’ve ever seen, and then a nice lady will paint flowers on it for you.
After stuffing our faces on samples of mortadella, cheese, fresh figs, sourdough bread and blackcurrant jam, we take a turn around the pretty cathedral. Very nice. And after more pootling around we wander into a brilliant art exhibition – the work of Hungary’s most prolific artist, Vasko Lipovac. It’s hard to put into words the wit and brilliance of his work. My best description would be imagine if Beryl Cook had just gone dogging….
His most famous work, Cyclus, is housed in a long room, and features a sculpted cycle race in all its agony and glory. Each figure is an individual, with its own expression and sense of story. Bloody marvellous.
They definitely have a sense of humour here, because we find this interestingly named ship in another gallery.
Zagreb is also home to the sweet, but odd, Museum of Broken Relationships. Each willingly donated exhibit tells a story of love and loss, or humour, or horror. Someone has left an axe, which suggests to me a relationship well past fixing. This is also a bit chilling.
I go to the loo and find that it, too, has a broken relationship – to its door lock. And although it clearly says ‘Women’ in numerous languages, a man is standing there peeing, with the door wide open. When he spots me, he carries on as if he expects me to use the gents. Er, no. So I wait, and then he makes a huge fuss of clearing up after him, which actually consists of him not clearing up anything at all. I just hope he hasn’t come back for his axe.
Just around the corner, where the road curves under the Stone Gate, someone has built a tiny church. On either side of the road. Under an overhang.
On the inner side of the curve, two wooden pews perch on the pavement, with people genuinely sitting there praying whilst motorbikes whizz past, and tourists gawp. On the outer side of the curve, an almost invisible statue of the Virgin is hidden behind huge, wrought iron gates. The walls surrounding them are covered in plaques saying thank you, mostly. In front of the pews, a lady scrapes melted candle wax into three huge tubs on the ground.
There is actually a Burger Festival happening in one of the parks, which Steve decides to avoid – more fallout from living in Bath for ten years, I suspect. Instead we head up to the Cemetery – because it’s nearly dusk and we need to be bitten some more. And, to be fair, the place is utterly spectacular, and I’ve always rather liked graveyards.
Campsites
Bugs notwithstanding, it is time for us to find a campsite again. So we look in books and on the internet, get as much info as we can, try and phone ahead if possible, and then find out that all of this has been a complete waste of our time. As usual.
And then – having turned up at another ‘closed’ sign, got stuck down an impossible to navigate road, or been met by the campsite owner telling us that, yes, he knows it’s a 35% hill on the way in, but he’s sure we can manage it, despite the hairpin as it joins the road – we find the best thing to do is ask somebody.
We are directed to the north end of the island of Pag, the countryside of which is known by its proper term – THE ARSE END OF NOWHERE! Seriously, we drive through miles of …just rock. But it is worth it because, at the end of the island, is the wonderful Camping Simuni.
This place has everything, and I mean everything. For a start, it’s all landscaped beautifully – lots of interestingly decorated corners, so that if you get lost you know that you turn left by the old row boat and anchor, and right by the bougainvillea covered hammock.
And as for amenities, forget a couple of shower blocks and a rarely open reception – this place has an onsite supermarket, a fish restaurant, a burger joint, a takeaway, at least three bars, a pizza joint, a traditional restaurant, several shops of souvenirs and water sport equipment, a laundry, a kid’s club, a spa and yoga room, and it is right on the beach.
Which is where we get to park – literally right on the beach. In a thunderstorm. Fantastic. Sitting there after a long drive, eating pizza, and watching it sheet down to the horizon is what life is for. The next day we buy a snorkel; that’s how great it is.
And, as it turns out, pretty much all the campsites on the Croatian coast are like this. Seriously worth being bitten for. Our next site parks us just back from the beach, but right next to the cafe. I wander out each evening and the barman lines up a gin and tonic (so that I can keep up with the deficit caused by the mozzies), and then I sit back, and watch the sunset and the swooping of the bats.
This is our view 
The Sea Organ
We pop into Zadar to check out The Monument to the Sun, only to find out that this light installation only works at night.
Never mind, there’s also the Sea Organ, which is pretty much how it sounds – an organ built into the sea wall, so that the water rushing down the pipes creates the sounds, the way that air would in a traditional organ.
Each combination of strange, mournful, lowing bellows is utterly unique.
I have a good listen despite the fact that the Sea Organ has become the place for the locals to gather and gossip. Loudly. In fact, at times, it is almost impossible to hear the town’s main attraction.
I shut my eyes and really focus, because I have dyslexic ears. No, really, it’s a thing. My doctor said I hear perfectly well but my brain can’t be arsed to translate it properly. So I struggle if there is background (or, as in this case, foreground) noise. Doc advised learning to lip-read (not much use here).
As for the organ, they got some special expert in to tune it, and although I don’t know what it sounded like before he did that, I would say that it’s possible he was overpaid.
Split
We head south towards Dubrovnik, stopping at Split on the way. The Roman Emperor Diocletian built his retirement Palace here at the beginning of the fourth century, and it is now a Unesco World Heritage site. Much of the massive complex still remains – not as series of well-preserved ruins – but thoroughly built into, and forming a good half of the old town.
Most of the houses have odd windows, arches and decorative stonework sticking out their sides. Shops, restaurants, churches and public buildings; all half Roman and half every age since, with no clear lines in-between. I have to say, I think it works in Split but, to a Brit, it is still very strange; a bit like using Stonehenge as the base for a new roller-disco.
Just outside one of the city gates we find the rather fabulous statue of Gregory of Nin, a Croatian hero. He was a Bishop who stood up to the Pope, insisting that masses should be conducted in the home language rather than Latin. Ergo, he is seen as embodying the spirit and cultural identity of Croatia. As for the statue, local folklore declares Gregory will grant your wish if you rub his big toe. Consequently, said toe is now massively shiny. I rub it too, of course: it represents hope.
It’s quite possible that some tourists only know of the superstition and not the actual whereabouts of the statue, because I notice that a lot of other statues in Split have shiny toes too.
Gregory 
Not Gregory
The influence of Split
Not too far away are the Roman ruins at Solin: a massive complex comprising baths, theatre, forum, and amphitheatre. Here they have taken on the Split style of architecture, and really run with it, oh yes: by building a semi-detached house right over the West Gate of the amphitheatre.
I am appalled. I am also getting a strong suspicion that it is not just Gregory of Nin who couldn’t be doing with the Romans.
Like this post