Home again.

I’m safely back in Colchester after a turbulent flight home, sandwiched inbetween my new brothers, who kindly assuaged my slight misgivings over our imminent deaths by offering me Starburst and Flappy Bird. This week has been absolutely fantastic, and my apprehensions at the beginning were wholly unfounded. I couldn’t have imagined the family-dynamic that would be constructed; after a week of stupid jokes, affectionate teasing, and laughter I found myself feeling like we were one big unit, rather than two groups divided by our genealogy. It turns out it was a family holiday after all.

Islands and highlands.

Yesterday we took a boat from Fazana to the island of Brijuni; a National Park on account of its natural beauty, historical significance and cultural heritage. After a fifteen-minute journey across the bay, we disembarked, found our guide Susannah, and hopped aboard a cheesy electric road-train to see the island. We passed miles of gorgeous coast, an insensitively reconstructed golf course dating from 1922, and a ‘safari park’ housing some sheep, a llama and an elephant. We then left our tacky transport behind to view a photo exhibition of Tito, who used to host dignitaries on the island (and receive animals as gifts – hence the safari park). The macabre upshot of this generosity was a taxidermic display that was far more impressive than the number of animals in the park. We finished our tour by admiring the beautiful medieval church and the carefully-tended gardens, before crossing back to Fanzana.

Today was our last full day in Croatia. We decided to visit the mountaintop village of Groznjan, on recommendation from a friend. As we made the gravelly ascent, revving the engine to its limit and coating our poor hire-car in a thick layer of dirt, we questioned this decision, however once we reached the summit, our concerns were allayed. The valley stretched out in an infinite vista around us, the undulating landscape bearing the marks of vineyards and olive groves as far as we could see. The village was constructed of charming winding alleys, reminiscent of the backstreets of Venice, all overlooked by the majestic church at its centre.

On exploring the village, we discovered a better, newer, tarmacked road leading down the other side of the mountain. We took this route, sorely feeling the needlessness of our struggle up the incline, and in doing so, found a little harbour town as yet unspoilt by the touristic ravages to which Pula, Rovinj and Poreç have succumbed – Novigrad. We ate shellfish as we watched small boats navigate their way in and out of the harbour, deftly steered by fishermen who were burnished bronze by the sun, before reluctantly returning to the villa for a final time.

Eat, heat, sleep, repeat.

The past few days have been a hazy mix of sun, water, and too much ice cream.

On our first day we drove to Rovinj, exploring the cool web of streets, taking care not to slip on the worn stone, and admiring St. Euphemia’s Basilica, majestically overlooking the sea from its vertiginous vantage-point. The touristic tat did little to undermine the beauty of the location, though it did make it significantly more difficult to return to the car, on account of the desperation of one of our party to procure a garish trilby, emblazoned with the Croatian flag. He failed in his attempt.

The following day we drove into Poreç in order to catch the water-taxi to the neighbouring island of Sveti Nikola. The wind mercifully cooled our faces as we made the five-minute passage across from the harbour. After arranging a pick-up time we made our way around the circumference of the island, past the bars and sunbeds, to a rocky alcove that trapped the sun, refusing to relinquish the slightest shadow. Joe and I subtly encouraged our burns by applying minimal suncream (not advisable) as Dad bobbed in the clear water, his shiny head reflecting the sun’s glare. In the afternoon, everyone decided to play mini-golf. I’m not a fan of competitive sport, so I cooked myself, listening to the excruciating laments of defeat and the rapturous exclamations of victory as the game progressed. After a tense sixty minutes, the game was concluded, Joe was the champion, and we made our way (some of us dejectedly) back to the mainland.

Yesterday was our most culturally-informed day thus far. We ventured into Pula to marvel at the Roman amphitheatre. After paying at the little kiosk, we climbed the steps, emerging into the pit of the ruins. Arches encircled us, symmetrical and yet imperfect, proudly displaying their 2000-year-old scars. We clambered over rows of uneven seating as, somewhat anachronistically, a soundcheck was being performed for a concert that would be held that night. The stage curved towards us, the vibrating snare rattling in my ears as the heat bore down, and I desperately sought to hide in any shade available, to placate the ache that was stretching across my temples. We finally reached the exit, and made our way into the centre of Pula, grabbing some lunch, and stumbling upon more Roman monuments. On our way back to Montizana we made a brief detour to the ruins at Dvigrad. The tumbled stone was encased by soft moss. Delicate blue flowers peeked through the cracks, and unreliable wooden supports propped up sections of the dilapidated wall. We followed the winding path until we we faced an impassable blockade of cream stone, and were forced to retrace our steps. We wearily piled back into the car, Oliver satisfied on completing his historical itinerary, and the rest of us satisfied that it was over.

So far this holiday hasn’t been nearly as disastrous as anticipated. Compromise and patience mean that most confrontation is avoided. If I sense the beginnings of a circuitous disagreement, I whisk myself away to an auditory world where the only conflict is a brief discord, soon resolved into a perfect cadence. Its really quite easy to get along with people, as long as you have an mp3 player.

The ‘Family’ ‘Holiday’.

I haven’t been on holiday with my Dad for five years, so when the opportunity arose to go to Croatia with him this year, I jumped at the chance (the fact that it would be free having little to no impact on my enthusiasm). There was a catch. We would be going with his girlfriend Jackie, and her sons, 16-year-old Joseph and 14-year-old Oliver. This wasn’t really a catch in the traditional sense at all; Jackie is absolutely lovely, and I get on well with the boys. It would just be interesting to see how we would behave in a ‘holiday’ function – something which I think is often more stressful than people like to believe.

The day started at 02:30, when, after four hours of sleep, Dad and I tore through sheets of rain, leaving a misty wake behind the car as we dashed to the airport. After a thorough drenching, courtesy of our optimistic holiday outfits, we made it to the terminal, through security and to the gate with as much ease as could be hoped for. My awareness of the potential for airport-faff derives from travelling to Turkey with a grandmother with two titanium knees, but that is another tale, best conserved verbally rather than in a written medium. Before I knew it, we had boarded, flown, and landed, in Pula, Croatia.

Despite being 10:00, the temperature had already reached 30°C. We piled into our hired Astra (after a tense game of Tetris with the suitcases in the boot) and headed for our villa in Montizana, passing fields of luscious green crops that emerged defiantly out of the red earth, reaching up towards the cloudless, cerulean sky. The villa itself is beautiful, the cool white marble offering respite from the brilliant glare of the sun. The pool overlooks the surrounding fields, with the sea just visible as a deeper hue on the horizon.

Our first ‘holiday’ challenge was to go food shopping – something that I always enjoy, particularly in weird foreign supermarkets. We marvelled at the size of the watermelons, and congratulated ourselves on our bravery for cautiously picking up unknown (and thus dubious) items from the shelves. Joe was even able to assist an old Croatian lady by reaching the UHT milk for her. She then went on to demand another five cartons. I can’t think of anything that would need that much milk, but UHT lasts forever, right?

We rewarded our exertions with a lazy afternoon spent by the pool. I’ve been working on my ‘base-burn’ for over two months now. The plan is to get a serious tan before I start my Asian travels, so that people won’t recognise me as the clueless noob that I am, but will instead think of me as a seasoned travel-bum. We’ll see how that works out.

After dinner in Poreç, watching the sun set over the sea, we have now retired to recharge before tomorrow’s adventure. I doubt that the purring crickets will hinder my repose – in fact I may already be asleep.