Croatia Part 2: Froggy Fun and Cheap Wine

SPLIT

Split is a bit of a conundrum. On the one hand, it has one of the best city parks I've ever seen - an entirely forested peninsula jutting out from the harbour with beaches galore - and Froggyland, which we will come to later. However, in all honesty, the rest of it is a bit crap. The old town is reached through endless blasted industrial suburbs with pothole-ridden roads and some of the most aggressive, selfish driving we've seen yet. The old town itself and the adjacent harbour smells foul and is lined with endless tat stalls, all selling the exact same selection of checkered Croatia beach towels and other assorted shite. The people are rude and unhelpful, the ferry port is confusing, and even the world's largest collection of stuffed frogs in amusing poses doesn't quite salvage it. You might even say that I have a "Split" opinion. Ba-dum tsssh.

I realise all the below pictures make Split look nice, sadly we didn't go with gritty realism as the theme and took the same deceptive selection of old-town photos as every other Split visitor. Apologies.

We arrived in the bay of Split via Kastel Luksic, one of a chain of "Kastel" towns on the coast between Trogir and Split. We were staying in a Warmshowers host's empty apartment, to which he has left the key with an open invitation to cycle tourists. Letting ourselves in around dusk, it was quite clear that the apartment had not been occupied regularly for some time; damp was creeping over the walls and ceiling and there was a pervasive musty smell. The water had been shut off some time ago, meaning the toilet cistern had to be filled manually with water collected from the local beach, although strangely there was still electricity.

Evening in Kastel Luksic

True luxury cooking in a vacant apartment

THE ELECTRIC CHEAP PLONK ACID TEST

That night in Kastel Luksic, over dinner, I quaffed a large bottle of wine from the Croatian island of Korcula, bought for the princely sum of £1.50; naturally, it was foul. However, as with all booze, it gets better with every glass, and I had guzzled it down soon enough. Although the wine was purchased out of necessity, purchased from a local kiosk that sold little else but fly-blown nectarines, it gave me an idea. What if I were to get myself used to progressively cheaper and cheaper wine, so that a bottle costing £1.50 would become the new normal, and the previous £5 staples would become as rare and precious to me as the finest Bordeaux vintages?

The strategy seemed a sound one; I would be able to drink twice the amount of wine as before, and we would still save a hell of a lot of kitty money, which as Sarah is keen on reminding me, seems to drain away when myself and booze have one of our many chance encounters.

The next day, I began the experiment with gusto, purchasing an Italian vino rosso  (no specific denomination of origin) from the local supermarket for £1. It was only slightly worse than the Korculan the night before, which in retrospect seemed much better than it probably really was. So far, so good.

A month and a half later, having sampled the very worst Vranacs, Lambruscos, and Merlots of the southern European region, I can report that the experiment has been a roaring success. I have plumbed the depths of the Continent's cheap plonk and found to my surprise that it's not actually as bad as feared. Indeed, in Italy, where we have been for the last couple of weeks, it seems literally impossible to buy genuinely bad wine. I've had a few Puglian reds that were the wine equivalent of an overexcited five-year-old at a family wedding (lively as hell, no subtlety at all, and a bit annoying after a while), but even those were a fine vintage compared to some of the English wine I've had the misfortune to taste.

But I digress.

DALMATIAN ISLAND HOPPING

After a day exploring Splithole, finished off in true Split fashion by being manhandled and having our bikes thrown down some stairs by a belligerent train conductor, we grabbed a ferry to Vis, the most remote Dalmatian island. This tiny island has an interesting history - its strategic location in the Adriatic has meant it has been in the possession of several masters over the last couple of hundred years, including Britain, Italy and France (I think, I can't be bothered to look it up again, so don't get your knickers in a twist), and the lush pine-forested hills are covered in old bunkers and military installations as a legacy of the Yugoslavian General Tito. Its history as a military base has meant that  Vis was closed off to the world until 1990 or so (again, can't be bothered to look it up) so it has been relatively protected from the over-development of some of the other islands in the Adriatic.

Vis at dusk (or was it dawn? Is there any definitive way of telling?)

The road down to Komica

We arrived in Vis as dusk fell and struggled up the islands only main road, sleeping under the stars beneath the walls of an old church. In the night, I was disturbed by the unmistakable sound of something - or someone - quietly riffling through our bags. In the darkness, it was difficult to see what it was, but the patter of tiny feet assured me it wasn't human, so I threw a rock at the bags and turned over to sleep. However, as soon as I did, the rustling started again. I grabbed a light and shone it at the bags, and caught a glimpse of a wide-eyed fat little rodent, which promptly jumped back into the underbrush. Little bugger had been trying to get at my bag of crisps.

This is one of the blessings and the curses of wild camping; you are sharing your space with wild animals. You get to see so much nature in action that it sometimes feels you are living an Attenborough documentary, but wild animals, with their incessant hooting, squeaking and rustling, can also make for disturbed sleep. Sarah opts for a pair of earplugs to block them out, but (paranoid Londoner that I am) I feel the need to keep an ear out for stealthy forest thieves trying to nick our bags. Ridiculous, I know.

We cycled down to Vis' second town, Komica, the next day, and spent yet another idyllic beach day snorkelling in turquoise waters. Due to some predicted inclement weather, we had decided to get off the island on the 5.30am daily ferry the next day, so we duly rose at 3.30am and packed by starlight under the church, catching the ferry and returning to Split just before 8.

Komica harbour

Before catching our transfer to the island of Korcula at 10am, we managed a smash-and-grab visit to the aforementioned Froggyland. Some strange Hungarian fellow, over a 10-year period in the late 19th century, had caught 507 frogs from his local lake in order to stuff them and pose them in a selection of bizarre dioramas that included mass gymnastics, frogs at school, and frogs at play. It's the strangest museum you will ever see, and 3 euro well spent, although we had taken in the whole thing in 20 minutes. 

Next was the island of Korcula. After an evening spent on the handsome port of Vela Luka, we spent a morning cycling down the island to the town of Korcula itself, wild camping between crumbling walls in an abandoned olive grove.

Vela Luka harbour

Camping in abandoned olive grove

Korcula town is a great example of a walled medieval old town, but you know what? By this time we were sort of done with walled medieval old towns. We had seen them in Koper, Piran, Porec, Cres, Zadar, Split, Trogir,  and the Kastels - to name a few - and there was no joy or surprise left in seeing yet more maze-like streets and stern bearded statues in funny hats. After a while, just as with the well-documented European Catholic church fatigue (little electric candles, Madonna and child, and skinny carved Jesus anyone?) you become immune, and wander through the old towns taking pictures with a grim and joyless sense of duty.

Korcula main gate

It's the birthplace of explorer Marco Polo, as they're keen to remind you

Only Dubrovnik had the power to shake off the creeping malaise. Speaking of which...

DUBROVNIK

The final part of our journey to southern Croatia was done by bus, after we had negotiated our bikes below decks with much smiling and wringing of hands. We had decided to forgo the cycling due to the time pressure involved - we were meeting Sarah's brother Tim and his wife Sarah in Dubrovnik in two days - and the large amount of climbing along narrow roads.

However, sitting on the air-conditioned bus watching the landscape flit past, I sort of regretted not cycling it.  The peninsula below Korcula island looked spectacular, with lush steep hills, salt flats, and fortresses galore, and I could only imagine too clearly what it would have been like. The rich good smell of the coastal pines, the quick green lizards, the dry heat; you miss it all when flying by in an air-conditioned pleasure palace. But it is what it is, and we skipped this part out. 

Dubrovnik's history is quite distinct from the rest of Croatia, having led a charmed life as the prosperous capital of the Republic of Ragusa for many centuries. It was badly caught up in the Yugoslav Wars, however, enduring a seven-month siege in which it was badly scarred by shelling. This does nothing to diminish its charm, though; it truly is a stunner and is duly appreciated by the staggering hordes of cruise-ship tourists who swarm about like ants on a dropped piece of nectarine.

Walls of Dubrovnik

Sarah with her bro

Looking back over the town

The fortress at dusk

Looking over the town

We quickly realised that cycling around greater Dubrovnik was not a good idea. The streets are narrow, steep, and crammed with tourist buses and suicidally speedy taxi drivers. We left our bikes at the guesthouse and took the bus for the three nights that we were there. 

Sarah and I were holed up in a small guesthouse on the edge of town, Tim and Sarah at the swanky Valamar President on the southern tip of the Dubrovnik peninsula. For those of you that aren't familiar, there are now two separate Sarah Bridglands involved in this account. One is my girlfriend and trip companion, the other is Sarah's brother Tim's wife. Keep up!

Anyway, the Valamar President was clearly the superior meeting point, and we spent many an enjoyable hour posing as hotel guests, taking frequent dips in the pool and hoping the staff didn't notice my trainers, which were by now truly appalling.

The three days we spent with Tim and Sarah were a delight. We walked the walls of Dubrovnik and visited the island of Lokrum during the days, and in the evenings we ate some spectacular meals. The highlight was Oi Mari, a restaurant that served truly stunning local fare. Tim and I had drank some robust Long Island Iced Teas, along with a few beers, before arriving, and I can't quite remember what I had, but I have a strong memory of unctuous, melting, meaty deliciousness. 

We took our leave of Tim and Sarah after three days, leaving them to their five-star luxury, and spent a couple of days heading south through mostly empty scrubland towards the Montenegrin border.

On the way down, we had run out of water, so I entered a local house to beg for more - it turned out to be a polling station, and when the staff had got over their initial confusion at a blustering Englishman waving a bottle around shouting "Voda" during one of the most tense election days in recent Croatian history, they were only too happy to oblige.

South we headed, towards the border of the European Union towards the thickly forested and steeply hilly Balkan country of Montenegro. But we'll talk about that next time.