Slovenia Part Two: Caves and Waves

Next was Ljubljana, the capital. A handsome little town, it's more like a provincial outpost than a capital city, with white stucco buildings and cafes baking in the hot sun alongside the Ljubljanica river. We had read that the town had a thriving creative scene, and whilst we were only there for a few hours we did spot some elusive signs of its fabled youth culture in the many cheery blackboards advertising art exhibitions and craft beer - a sure sign that groovy young people are just around the corner.

The road to Bled, heading towards the capital

Another torrent of turquoise

Dragon Bridge, Ljubljana

Looking up towards Ljubljana castle 

"Look! Something is growing!" A pathetic pomegranate takes pride of place in Ljubljana's botanical gardens

Handsome buildings in central Ljubljana

Ljubljana also has the dubious distinction of having the worst botanical gardens either of us had ever seen - they made Wyevale garden centre in Altrincham look like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon by comparison. Indeed, the upper part of Slovenia is so lush you would be hard-pressed to find a square inch of wilderness that is not teeming with life, but the gardeners at the Botanical Gardens appear to have created the region's only desert. Skeletal straggly plants poked pathetically out of patches of scorched earth with little plastic signs informing visitors, with no trace of irony, what it was they were supposed to be looking at. 

We moved on from Ljubljana soon after, but not before being spotted by some fellow cycle tourists and swapping routes - Jeff, an American in his sixties, provided us with a cycle map of the country, and we met a younger couple who were doing a Europe tour on a tandem. Being a cycle tourist is a little like being some sort of weird cult member; the heavily laden bikes mark you out as a convert and send a signal to other members to seek you out and enter into geeky conversations about Ortlieb luggage, leather saddles and wild camping spots.

After camping in a field outside the city, in tall grass infested by grasshoppers and fearsome-looking wasp spiders, we made our way up a winding road climbing the side of the sun-dappled Ljubljana valley towards karst (cave) country. The south-west of Slovenia is comprised of forested steep hills with limestone bedrock. As limestone is soluble in water, the many small rivers carve out enormous caves under the rock, some stretching out for hundreds of kilometres.

The most famous of these is Postojna cave; if you ever visit Slovenia or northern Croatia you can't miss the many billboards advertising it. A cheery man waves out the cabin of a garish tourist train, with said tourists packing the train behind him  like a bunch of gormless chumps. The whole thing looks like a totally crap kid friendly money spinner, but the guidebooks raved about it, so we duly headed towards the forgettable Postojna town to take in the caves.

That's the one!

On our way to Postojna we had met a Slovenian cyclist travelling the same road with his two teenage children. Pulling up alongside us, sweat - drenched, he invited us for a drink at the nearest bar that came along and kindly bought us a couple of beers. "I am very stupid!" was his constant refrain, as he wiped more sweat from his brow and cursed his lack of English. We spent an enjoyable hour with the three of them, learning that the youngsters he had brought with him were two of a brood of six kids, and that he was the proprietor of a Catholic souvenir shop (which explained the six kids). 

Taking our leave of our amiable travel pals, we arrived in Postojna and headed towards the caves just outside of town. Whilst the experience was the slick money spinner we expected, this takes nothing away from the fact that the caves are completely jaw-dropping. They stretch on for hundreds of kilometres and the 90 minute tour only scratches the surface of their true extent. Said tourist train takes 15 minutes to reach its destination through an artfully lit network of yawning caverns festooned with stalactites and stalagmites to emerge deep under the mountain in an enormous hall. This hall is so huge it takes 10 minutes just to climb the top of the hill inside it, and still that is just the beginning. I can't really do justice to how incredible these caves were, you have to see them for yourself, but suffice to say it was worth the eye-gouging entry price.

We also headed to Predjama castle, 10km away, set in the yawning mouth of another limestone cave and boasting a network of hidden tunnels that would allow its occupants to sneak out for fresh supplies in the event of a siege. It was impressive from the outside, but we didn't have the time or money to explore the inside.We waited out yet another thunderstorm in a field nearby and the next morning set out for Slovenia's small stretch of coast on the Istrian peninsula. 

Predjama Castle

ISTRIA 

The cycle to Istria was long uphills and sweeping descents, as the lush wheatgrass and heavy wet pines of karst country turned into the brittle faded scrub of the Mediterranean Coast. Cresting the top of a huge ridge, we spied the Italian town of Trieste far below and the deep blue of the Med itself - a blessed first sight of the sea after six weeks chomping our way through the endless main course of the Continent. The twisty descent was a delight and we soon found ourself outside Koper, one of only three towns on the 35km stretch of coast belonging to Slovenia. 

Cycling towards Trieste

About to begin the descent

Streets of Koper

Main square, Koper

Comparing the two main Slovenian domestic beers in Koper, making tasting notes. Lasko is more full-bodied and distinctive and probably wins out overall

We had reached the Istrian peninsula, the largest peninsula in the Adriatic. Istria's history of Italian occupation - the Italians really, really like it here for some reason - still looms large, as every town has an Italian alternate name and the language is spoken by all the locals in the region. Koper and Izola had charming medieval old towns with narrow winding streets, markets and peeling shuttered windows, but the outer suburbs of both towns had a tinge of that garish, grasping, piss-smelling seediness that seems endemic along southern European coastal towns. 

View from wild camping spot looking over Izola

Towards Piran

In contrast, Piran, the last town before you cross the border into Croatia, was an unmitigated delight. After a morning sat on tumbled rocks watching boats drifting by on the deep blue, drinking grapefruit Radler and listening to Balearic ambient music, we enjoyed our first meal in a restaurant since Munich. 

Piran

And what a meal it was. We had two mixed fish dishes at a restaurant called Pri Mari on the way out of town and everything just worked. It was 10 euro for a litre of crisp local white wine served in a white enamel flagon beaded with condensation, bloody brilliant. But it only got better; the bread was soft and warm, greeting the palate as a long - lost friend would, if that friend was also soaked in olive oil and balsamic vinegar. The achingly fresh fish itself dissipated beautifully in the mouth like the memory of a good dream, and the bill was brought alongside a bowl of freshly picked figs in ice water, so soft and sweet it felt as if we were supping on the ambrosia of Mount Olympus itself. It was the perfect addendum to a near - perfect country. Solid work, Slovenia. 

Main square, Piran

Pastel paradise in Piran

Utter joy at Pri Mari