S-love

Did you know that Slovenia is made up of 70% forest, 13% rocky mountain stuff and 17% other? Did you know Ljubljana had a big fence around it during the Second World War and was effectively a giant prison? Did you know Ljubljana was the capital of Slovenia? Did you know there was a country called Slovenia? If not, don’t worry, you won’t be alone. Tucked quietly away between Italy, Austria, and the Balkans, it’s a composite of Alpine drama, baroque extravagance, socialist enterprise and cabbage themed food. It’s really quite lovely.

My first few days in Slovenia were focused on mountains and the waters that run off them, basing myself in the Julian Alps at Lakes Bled and Bohinj and driving and walking my way around from there. Bled is such a show off, with an enduring appeal conjured by its beautiful mountainside waters and oh-so-perfect church adorned island and precipitous medieval castle. It’s popular on the coach party circult, but quieter spots, where the church bell echoes through the forested banks and the fish jump regularly, are entirely magical. This was a day that started in Finchley and ended in a fairy tale.

The next morning I had breakfast in Bled (yes, I’ve been dying to use that one!), and with murkiness now around there was a different charm and serenity to the lakeside. I walked the entire perimeter, stopping for a very encouraging quality of coffee half way – another plus point in the books for Slovenia.

 

A change of scenery came in the middle of the day, as murk and drizzle continued and I decided to head for a place nearby called Vintgar Gorge. This was another gem, perfect in this autumnal air, with incredible clear glacial waters carving their way downstream. Almost as incredible was the wooden walkway, parts of which date back hundreds of years and leave you wondering whether any rot has set in as you dangle off a cliff edge over furious white water.

 The watery theme expanded into the rest of the day as torrential rain hammered its way down from mid afternoon onwards and cabin fever set in, but at least I got some rest and caught up with some tedious blog writing...

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The next day was back to blue, after a mandatory misty start, and set fair for a day of driving. Short in kilometres but long in time, a circular tour of the Julian Alps, whose peaks were now dusted in a fresh layer of snow. The first stop, via narrow, precipitous road number one was to Kropa, an agreeable little place in a wooded valley in which iron was once forged but now just stands in gates and windowpanes everywhere.

From here it was a longer than expected trek across to the Soca Valley, possessing surely the bluest of bluest waters, carving there way deep into the high mountains of Triglav. Across one set of hills lay Italy, and you could sense its influence in the towns and harebrained overtaking manoeuvres of drivers around here. Kobarid felt and looked mostly Italian, and had some of its warmth as I sat on a terrace for lunch.

Heading north now towards Austria came the highlight of the driving day: the Vrsic pass. Lurching upwards and passing signs with numbers 50, 49, 48 etc, it was only until about number 35 that I realised these signified the number of hairpin bends to contend with. They also noted the altitude, which topped out at 1611 metres, and led to a land of high mountain vistas.

Thus followed the descent and chance to knock off the rest of those hairpins to the town of Kranjska Gora. Nearby, a nature reserve offered the chance to look at more fish in the incredible water, before joining merciful motorway back to Bled.

Bled was not the final destination however, as a further 20 kilometres took me to the Lake Bohinj region and home for the next couple of nights in the peaceful, rustic town of Stara Fuzina.

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After another huge breakfast involving bread, meat, cheese, yogurt and fruit, today was a walking day. Partly to offset the bread, meat, cheese etc, and partly to give the car a rest. From Stara Fuzina, the mists soon cleared as I ventured into Mostnica Gorge and towards its falls. Here, again, vivid waters thread their way through a typically Alpine valley with flower fields and happy cows.

From the falls (not pictured left, by the way), the only way was back. Or up. Up along a hunters track through a dense forest, traversing tangled tree roots and requiring a breather every third tree. I knew that because I was on it, hoping that it would finally end and bring me to the meadows of Uskovnica. The sound of a dog breaking away from its home in a pursuit to suss out who I was provided alarming confirmation that I had made the top after an hour. More dwellings, and a more open landscape, before descent into the forest again. It was a nice walk, but just that little bit on the wrong side of annoying.

Life was happier in the valleys, which were now warm and sunny and verging on the idyllic. The walk back to SF was a pleasingly flat dream, taking in the pretty villages of Srednja Vas and Studor. And at SF, my bargain loft space a setting for quiet snoozing, in keeping with the atmosphere.

Not that I was passive for long, as I had determined that, given right weather conditions, I should climb up to Osojnica viewpoint, back in Bled. This is the spot for picture postcard scenes and worth the 5 euro parking and many steps. Such effort was amply rewarded later for dinner, in the pub opposite my place, with a rustic bean and sausage stew, cottage cheese dumplings, and a beer.

The next morning it was time to bid the mountains farewell and enter a slightly quirkier phase of the visit. I wasn’t in any great rush to leave however, and soaked up a few final moments around and about Lake Bohinj and the town of Ribcez Lav.

 

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And thus to the metropolis that is Ljubljana, where I spent a couple of days with an old friend who I met in Australia, Caroline. It was a chance to relive past trips to odd places and we did our best to mix it up a little, not to mention eat cake and ice cream several times for the sake of tradition. Ljubljana was rather charming in its mix of old town, communist tower block, nouveau riche style, and we were blessed with a cosy apartment in a lovely neighbourhood just south of the centre.

Given its population is smaller than Canberra there doesn’t seem to be a great deal to do in Ljubljana apart from obvious sights and eating opportunities. Therefore we went on a Sunday trip back out into the country, taking in diverse sights and towns, the thrill of a hypermarket and picnic lunch, a revisit (again!) to Lake Bled and culminating in the enthralling town of Radovljica. Scene of a great ice cream in the late afternoon sun overlooking the green hills, the sound of cowbells distant, a pastel perfect town square and probably the greatest beekeeping museum in the northern hemisphere!

It was hard for the final day to live up to the excitement of the beekeeping museum, and a somewhat dreary day weather-wise put a dampener on Ljubljana a little. An excessively informative boat cruise yielded much information but with an intensity that made it rude to doze off as one would have liked. And then a little funicular to the castle presented a strange warren of medieval fortress come convention centre. But by now I had by dober dans and hvalas down to a pat, and used them to good effect in cake eating opportunities that came my way.

The final eating in Slovenia was forced upon us by the weather. After a pleasant evening meal in our local neighbourhood, what better than to walk along the river, to take in the buildings and people milling about the squares and bridges? Cue massive thunderstorm and torrential rain, sending us ducking for cover and two chocolate milkshakes to pass time as the rain continued to hammer down.

Still, I couldn’t complain and don’t recall doing so, this being only the second time rain had stopped play during my time in Slovenia after all. Instead, a chance to pump up the heating and try to dry my washing before packing again and moving on early next morning. Glad that I had gone off the beaten path a little and seen a small corner of this lovely country that some may have never even heard of.  Leaving with warmth and a cold.

Happy and Glorious

In a rare feat of moderation I was going to tack this blog post onto the last (see below). A footnote to a few weeks in Great Britain, encompassing a small enclave of what is broadly known as ‘The North’ and peppered with some time spent in the capital, London. Or London2012 as it is fondly known these days. However, they warranted a post in their own right, not appendices to Westcountry scrumptiousness but full bodied warm ales of golden appreciation and deep-filled pies of friendship.

I really should spend more time in the North of England. I have never been to York. Or Manchester. Or all those places like Piddlyton-on-Wellyboot in the Vale of Rambunctiousness. I don’t know where it starts, but it is undeniably distinctive and full of clichés such as gritty humour and down-to-earth friendliness. In this it is as charming as a toasted teacake.

Still, I would never choose to holiday in Blackpool and cannot quite understand why, or how or what on earth would possess you. More refined and it knows it is Lytham, where I can regularly reacquaint myself with air mattresses of old, rely on fajita night, and have serious Words with Friends. There are wee nippers to contend with, and the start of a long run of 6am wake ups, but these are happy shared family moments.  

The North provided a mixed bag of weather, starting with tropical heatwave like conditions (for The North) and offering a gorgeous day to stroll along the prom, have a burger and pint at a decent pub, and head back again. It even lasted just long enough for BBQ number 4 on a Sunday afternoon.

But quite quickly summer ended, the wind emerged to blast all the harshness of the Irish Sea onto the land, and a trip out to St Annes-On-Sea provided me with a taste of the summer that so many had experienced on their British holidays this year. As I battled the forty five degree rain that little ‘oh we do like to be beside the seaside’ ditty lodged into my head, amplified by the tuppeny bit games and jingle jangle machines on the pier.

Still, I must make more time to see other parts of The North.

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Possibly the best thing about Preston train station is it only take two hours and a quarter to get to London. From a Lancashire drizzle it seemed that London was still beaming and was it me or did Euston and the Northern Line seem incredibly smooth, clean and efficient? I made it to Finchley which is like memory lane big time. The odd change of shop and pub, but still Victoria Park and Tesco and the number 82 bus. And more entrenched bonds, added with more sprogs and, ahem, 6am starts.

Most of my time here remained in The North (of London) but I did manage a half day jaunt into the city and even south across the river. It was wonderful and I can only imagine how such meanderings would have been full of joy during the Olympics. I started at London Bridge and crossed the bridge for the first time ever, noting a giant shard like building beside the water – ah, the Shard! On the other side, through wanky banks and city schlicks, appeared a big monument or something – ah, Monument! 311 steps it takes to reach the top of this obelisk, and I got a certificate to prove it.

From here I stayed north of the river and ventured onto St Pauls, which was more gorgeous than I remember. For me, this is London’s Sydney Opera House. I’m thinking the grounds and greenery around this iconic landmark were rather spruced and fancy, but, in a great and British way, still open for anyone to meander, laze, catch a bus from, have a larf, eat a packaged sandwich beside, have a knees up in jellied eels at, or bum a fag.

Back to that river, which, escaping the Olympic magentification, remained steadfastly brown. Even on sunny, colourful days like this, London is at heart a black and white kind of city.

South Bank was all hip and happening and I detect a greater celebration and use of the riverside as an asset, with fine dining, casual cafes, pubs and food carts providing distraction aplenty. Gentrification with attitude, as obviously they keep the graffiti walled skate grunge concrete-park and encourage random entertainment featuring moonwalking, giant bubbles and steel drums.

By now we had reached the latter part of Friday afternoon, the sun was out, and Britain’s economy was losing 1% of GDP as people knock off early for a pint at Snail and Cabbage pubs everywhere. And why not, for the money only goes to fund more Mercedes Tractors for bankers to drive around Hampstead, probably. So, for me, off to the Slug & Lettuce in Clapham to have a beer and chat to some treasured former work friends. Friday night memories.

More memories were awoken over the next few days, including a ride on the number 82 bus to enjoy a sumptuous sunny Saturday at Golders Hill Park. What a lovely spot, with animals, play areas, ice creams and an unsurprisingly overpriced pub nearby for golden lunchtime burgers served on wooden boards instead of more practical plates. Another striking memory was the meringue and cream cake from Sainsburys, reincarnated now as an individual pavlova, but still packed with fresh cream. And then there was a trip to Tesco, where little had changed apart from the presence of freshly cooked barbecue ribs and salted giant pretzels. Food, my ever constant companion.

And so, despite a dubious belly forming and a run of eleven consecutive days with child waking regularity, it was a happy and glorious time. My last endeavour in the UK was to survive Essex, which I managed despite being visually assaulted by fake tan and blonde peroxide. Lifting off from British shores at Stansted, saying goodbye to the Thames estuary, it was over the hills and far away to Europe, and the start of a holiday within a holiday.

Traditions

In the south west of England it doesn’t take too much to make me happy. Ideally, all I ask from such a visit is a wander around the seafront of Plymouth, a trip to cliffs and coves of North Cornwall, and a jaunt across the rocky and barren expanses of Dartmoor. With each comes another gut-busting treat involving dairy, sugar, pastry and / or all of the above. A bit of good weather helps (in the 2012 rendition this surpassed expectations), and, of course, some time with the family, usually involving more eating.

I ticked off many of the above on my first morning with a very traditional tour de Plymouth. From a grungy, slightly grimy town centre, the air purifies itself all the way up to The Hoe and that marvellous vista. Always enjoyed with an ice cream (+ raspberries, + clotted cream) in hand. From here, onward down to the Barbican and its warm sunny reflective rays glittering off the water, enjoyed all the more with a pasty. And then on into the city centre for a nosey and occasional spot of retail.

Dartmoor beckoned the following day, though disappointed a little in its typical gloomy drizzle. The bright spot again came via food and the cream tea / treacle tart / clotted cream combo at Buckland Abbey, where the gardens were also quintessential English loveliness. This continued with a drive, where I was not lost, merely exploring, through single track lanes with ten foot high hedgerows for company. Rather miraculously we ended up by the luscious River Plym, where I had intended to go all along!

 

After the drizzle came – well, I suppose it was, yes – summer. Embracing life and deciding a temperature nudging 20 degrees was good enough for shorts, I did what most people do in the Westcountry in summer, and headed for Trago. Not for useless bits of living room decor or cut price rugs, but an opportunity to be a big kid with my nieces on the steam train and other such rides. This couldn’t last all day though, and a refreshing ice cream spurred me on to cross back to Plymouth via the moors and climb up to Haytor for wonderful Devon loveliness.

 

 

From here, more ten foot hedges and breathe-in-to-squeeze-through stone bridges beckon, with super views up and down. Down they lead to Dartmeet, where the car decided to stop by the river and make us walk up to a place where each year gratuitous shots of clotted cream unfold. I was good, semi-good, only taking on one scone (less bread; more cream), and resisting up-close cream porn photos. Instead I took a nice picture of refreshing cider by the river, a prelude to tea and scones.

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So with a ramble around Plymouth, and a dreamy creamy Devonian Dartmoor day, the gluttonous triumvirate was capped by a magical, heart-warming, simply unbeatable day on the North Cornwall coast between Boscastle and Padstow. On days like these, Boscastle is without doubt my favourite place in the whole wide world.

A half decent coffee by the sinuous harbour, all stone clad with window boxes and buzzing bees, a fine starter on the way to the tiny quay. And then you hit that point. That point when you walk up along the coast path, turning towards the almost impossibly sculpted heads of the harbour entrance and out to sea. That point where you remember a similarly good day a few years back, and you once more question why the hell you don’t just stay here and never go anywhere else ever again.

 

But you do go elsewhere, and there is motivation enough in the fine form and shape of Pengenna Pasties, just down the road in King Arthur’s Tintagel. Not only do you have the mountainous mound of pastry and filling to contend with, but there’s also the stop at Granny Wobbly’s fudge pantry, just to ensure that you do have a heart attack before crossing back over the border to Devon...

At Rick Stein’s Padstow there are no doubt some very fishy treats that could also be had, but Mum and I didn’t make it across there. Instead, to finish the day we gazed from afar, on the wide, flat sands across the Camel estuary at Trebetherick, which is as Cornish as it sounds. Mum managed to sunbathe, Neil managed a short walk, and neither of us managed to get an ice cream, despite this being on both of our minds.

 

Criminally, but on behest of our bodies, we had salad for tea back in Plymouth that day. The next day was my final, for now, and brought about BBQ number 3 at its end. Before that I had a reasonably gentle morning, cruising on up to Tavistock and then the rocky church of Brentor, which was all suitably mystical and atmospheric and stuff.

 

More views were had at Kit Hill and then back to Plymouth over the Tamar to Ernesettle, for a lunch in the heat trap that is Aunty Pat’s back yard. Three different types of cake seemed to become a part of the lunchtime session. Many more different types of meat seemed to feature on the BBQ, so expertly cooked once again my Mr Charcoal Stafford, oh yes.  

Devon, and Cornwall, had treated me good and proper. It didn’t want me to leave, as Friday morning fog delayed the onward journey to the North. I will no doubt go back again in October and do very similar things, and then do very similar things a similar time next time, again and again. Some traditions are worth keeping.

Bretajarnay

 

Can I expect anything more from an arrival in London than dank grey clouds, pork pie and people swarming ant-like in every direction? I love arriving in a bleary-eyed stale-odoured state and snatching little reminders of the life here, like The Sun (as opposed to the sun), buy one get one frees, and clipped British announcements over the PA system advising you to stand on the right, watch out for the end of the escalator, keep your luggage attended, and beware of this vehicle which is reversing. Then there was unexpected jauntiness and warmth from at least the first three people I interacted with at the airport. Olympic afterglow.

There wasn’t so much time to soak it all up, with a day of recovery before a trip onward to France (with underpants). Here they were cursing the British for their underhandedness and inexplicable superiority in, like, everything. I endeavoured to grow a pair of Bradleys. And eat their food and drink their wine and avoid their toilets. I started eating their cake on one of their ferries, following a brief homecoming of sorts in Plymouth, then onwards across La Manche to Brittany, Bretagne, or the newly crowned region of Bretajarnay.

It was a week of walks and whacks, reunions and religieuse, based around Ploudeaumezeau in the far northwest of the far northwest. Rugged and remote, sharing ties with the western fringes of Britain, including its weather. Highlight had to be the stunning coastline, offering miles of white sand interspersed with rocky coves, windswept headlands and convenient bakeries. And when the sun shone, a setting for joyous play.

Rainier days came and mercifully went; the ever-present wind at least meaning clouds would never linger for too long. Brighter highs emerging beside the seaside, up lighthouses, along coast paths, and down patisseries.

 

 

 

 

 

Back at our home for the week, and the chance for Gorreblue barbecues and cow patch footy. Shaun the sheep offered a distraction from more gateaux, balloon play, cups of tea, glasses of wine, or all of the above. It was often hectic but always warmly embracing. And the daggy decor and warren-like space of Gorreblue turned out to be rather charming.

 

The final few days continued to revolve around the elements, and a cool and cloudy day sent many of us to the biggest town – Brest. Brest: a bit like Plymouth, only with the chance of much more innuendo. It was pleasing to see a bit of Brest, particularly the perky part encompassing some massive tanks. The aquarium – Oceanopolopolis – brought us the South Pole, the Barrier Reef, and a duller bit of the French coast in a thoughtful and entertaining way. On top of these three climatic zones, there was the very popular gift shop atoll.
 

 

Back on the Finistere coast and there are so many coves and bays and rocky platforms that you could spend years here and still find new nooks and crannies. Tuesday morning saw Dad and I point the car in a general direction, try and circumnavigate road closures and take in some random points on the north coast. We found Porz Gwen, a combination of sandy beach, fishing cove and rugged headland, bathed in a glorious, salty atmosphere. It was such a serene spot, it was no surprise that others soon appeared.

 

 

 

On the way back from this particular amble I got a divorce, and it was a pretty reasonable settlement. Considering this divorce comprised two choux buns, one filled with chocolate and the other coffee cream, I would definitely advocate for a higher divorce rate. And like most who have just been through a divorce, soon after, it was off to the park to spend some time with the kids.

It was great to spend some time with the nieces and nephew, along with their parents and grandparents. Though, me being me, it was also very satisfying to spend a little time away, going walkabout on windswept beaches and taking a few pictures in the hope that a small percent will be of sufficient quality to feature on a blog that no-one reads. A little jaunty escape at Portsall, a pretty little place near our rural retreat, a forerunner to evening sundowns treading the beautiful and untainted sands further along the coast.

 

 

 

 

 

The sun, so here one minute and gone the next, never quite made it into the Atlantic during our stay. Out in force on the last day in Roscoff, it offered some final glorious warmth in what turned out to be a pretty Breton seaside town; a contrast to the somewhat grimy enclave of Millbay Docks waiting at the other end. It bathed the French coastline as we left, and offered outside solace on a much too lumpy crossing of the waves. And it finally dipped into the Atlantic Ocean as we neared the coastline of Cornwall, leaving the lights of Plymouth shimmering, welcoming in their security, a glowing embrace of a homecoming from the sea.