An impromptu road trip.

A public holiday meant that local transport was severely limited, so Stephen and I met up for breakfast to try and figure out how to avoid another rainy day in the capital.

“This is a bit of a pain in the arse.”
“Yup.”
“Can you drive manual?”
“Manual?”
“Stick.”

We called a car rental company, and in an hour were cruising down the motorway, windscreen wipers cranked up full blast (along with a very informative radio show about an accomplished Slovenian photographer). After an hour or so, and through the witchcraft that is Google Maps, we arrived at Predjama, a tiny village which boasts an amazing natural and architectural monument. The castle looked like something out of a Disney film. Neatly wedged into the cliff face, the cream turrets seemed utterly impenetrable (and in fact were, unless you paid the entrance fee). Having read lacklustre reviews, we decided that the most impressive part of the castle was the exterior, so we dutifully took our photos, before heading to our next destination.

It was approaching 13:00, and feeling peckish, we decided to hop over to Italy for lunch. We drove past a monstrous industrial park and a gargantuan cruise ship to reach Trieste. The swordfish ravioli and clam tagliatelle were entirely sensational (the more so, perhaps, for coming after a week of stodgy Slovenian fare), and after a quick turn round the main plaza, we jumped back in the car and carried on.

We scooched back over the border in to Slovenia and drove around the bay to Piran, a gorgeous seaside town that could have been anywhere in the Mediterranean. We climbed up to a church and scaled the city walls, looking out over haphazard stacks of terracotta roofs. A tiny alley with higgledy stone steps brought us back out to the harbour, and I tried ‘Cockta’, a Slovenian cola. It was disgusting, but the view was not.

It wouldn’t have been a road trip with a smidgeon of drama. After Piran we thought we’d drive down to Croatia, and maybe have dinner in another seaside town. This intention was scuppered by an American passport and an absence of naval permission, but refusing to be disappointed, we engaged in a measured religious discussion and sang Taylor Swift (not, I hasten to add, simultaneously) all the way back to Ljubljana.

The best moments of travelling are the spontaneous ones, and despite not ticking off all of our destinations, we added a respectable few hundred kilometres to the odometer, and managed to return to Ljubljana in one piece. Our adventure had been a success.

I spent my last day in Slovenia in Bohinj, a lakeside town close to Bled. Unlike Bled, the natural beauty of the lake hasn’t been commercialised to its full ‘potential’, giving it a different kind of beauty, and a calmer atmosphere. Feeling adventurous, I decided to go on a 16km hike to a waterfall. I traced the edge of the lake, then veered off in the general direction of the mountains, with minimal navigational difficulties. The silence of the mountain was heavy. The sheer rock was wrapped in silks of cloud, and a gentle mist rose from the ground as banks of snow melted in the sun. Tubular pinecones and a residue of brown leaves littered the path, and the air was laced with fragrant woodsmoke and damp earth. A couple of hours later, I reached the top of the trail, and watched water gush down the rock in tumbling waves. The spray dissipated, coating my face with a light mist, and cooling my skin. On the other side, I could see Lake Bohinj framed by rolling fields and snow-capped peaks. Feeling Zen, I breathed it all in, eventually tearing myself away to catch a bus back to Ljubljana.

Packing is never fun, especially when you discover someone’s thrown out your laundry bag. Whilst this would have ultimately saved on washing, I felt that it would be a slight inconvenience to go home without half of my clothes. With the help and hindrance of a crazy Arizonian lady (who had some how appropriated my cardigan) I pieced together three versions of events (yes, all from the same witness) and after a brief early-morning rustle through a skip, was reunited with my dirty clothes. I grabbed a local bus to the airport and boarded a plane home.

This trip has brought me back to my self. The lost, carefree, directionless, person that I was last year is still inside me, she just sometimes wears a jacket and reads tax legislation. It’s comforting to know that despite the disappointment I felt on seeing myself instantaneously revert to my old self on re-entering ‘structured’ life, my changeability is just as applicable in reverse. People adapt to their environment, and now I know that if I want to be the travel-me again, I just need to go somewhere new. Slovenia is a naturally beautiful country, and whilst not the easiest to explore in low season (which to my mind, is quite appealing), it’s size made it perfect for the trip I wanted.

The only question that remains, is where to next?

Subterranean subculture.

We left Bled at 8:30 the next morning and made the short bus journey back to Ljubljana. The sun had melted all remnants of snow, and we were later plagued by gorgeous photos from the group who had decided to stay another night. I’m on a bit of a schedule, so wanted to see something new. In an exercise that demanded military precision, Stephen and I dropped our bags at our respective hostels and reconvened at the train station, four minutes before catching a train going to Divaca. The small train whizzed silently through the landscape, until we got to a random town somewhere in the East. Slightly confused, we disembarked and hopped on to a rail replacement bus which drove us a few kilometres before setting us down to catch another train. I’d heard that the Skocjan caves were difficult to get to, but this section of the journey was slower than anticipated. Nevertheless, me, Stephen, Tiffany and Solène, (two French girls we met on the way) eventually arrived at the right station and began the desperate search for a taxi to get to the caves. We’d missed the last minibus, and a taxi was going to take twenty minutes, so we decided to try and hitchhike. This turned into more of an amble along the motorway, but the sun was warm, and as soon as we turned off into the national park, all that we could hear were chortling birds and squealing school children as they played in a field. We arrived at the caves, and were ecstatic to find that our 3km stroll hadn’t been in vain; we hadn’t missed the last tour. We basked in the sun and played with the happiest dog in Slovenia, until we were called by our tour guide to begin the first section, stepping down into the valley to see the point at which the Reka River starts thundering into the caves.

Echoes roared off the cavernous walls as we entered through the mouth. It felt like being in the throat of a whale, the walls reaching an impossible height before moulding gracefully into a ceiling. We descended smooth steps to trace the bank of the river, following in the footsteps of the earliest explorer, who had to be rescued in 1884 after his boat capsized. We turned a corner, and natural light from one of the five natural openings burst through the darkness. We emerged into a valley caused by the collapse of another cave 12,000 years ago. Dappled sunlight dripped down the cliff-face, tickling ferns as they gently unfurled and dancing across carpets of lilac flowers. We crossed under the ‘bridge’ of rock formed by the collapse, and the voice of the river reached a crescendo as it was forced through a narrower opening. We passed to the other side, and took the graceful funicular back up to the entrance.

After another brief bask we followed our second tour guide down to the ‘classic’ caves.  We descended in to Moria, the dramatic dimensions of the cave arching above us as we were swallowed by the earth. The Silent Cave was webbed with stalactites, stalagmites and curtains of molten lime. Formations sprouted like mushrooms, forming bulbous columns and pointing gnarled fingers to the ceiling. The whisper of the river got louder as we came in to the Great Hall, the black void opening before us. We crossed a bridge 45 metres above the chasm, channelling our inner-Gandalf and listening for the Balrog with our hearts in our mouths. It was breath-taking. Despite being 110 metres below the earth, the air was fresh, the movement of the water acting like a lung, breathing life through the cave. After a couple of hours we blinked back in to the light, awestruck and humbled by the beauty of what we’d seen. Dasa went above and beyond her tour-guiding duties and kindly dropped us at the station, where we just managed to catch the train and begin our journey back to Ljubljana. We spent the evening in an African restaurant, lingering over Algerian specialities and listening to soulful live music. It had been a big day, and I (shockingly) couldn’t quite summon the energy for a beer, so went back to the hostel to crash.

The next day passed at a much slower pace. I lingered over coffee, sat in the sun, and watched the Slovenian world go by. In the afternoon I joined a graffiti tour, which was marketed as giving a whole new perspective of the city. Prior to the tour I didn’t know a thing about graffiti, apart from that it was generally considered as an anti-social nuisance. Sandi met us at a fountain in the old town, and over the next two hours led us through the alleys and back passages of the city, pointing out the works of different writers, describing the ideologies of the crews to which they belonged, and explaining the hierarchy of tags, characters and pieces. Having the chance to hear the stories behind the interventions gave them a whole new dimension, and the number of hermeneutic levels wrapped up in the dialogue of the art form was something that I’d never previously appreciated.

Later, I met the others at a rooftop café. We passed through a number of bars before ending up in a club in Metelkova which only played the music of ex-Yugoslavia. This is a genre that I hadn’t been exposed to before, but it was something like a mixture of the Clash and Chumbawumba. It had been a day of subcultural exploration, which was both enlightening and bemusing. Either way, I felt closer to understanding the soul of the city, and that was hugely rewarding.

Bled it snow.

The drizzle only became more persistent as I sped along the road to Bled. Rugged mountain faces loomed behind manicured fields, stubborn clouds clutching on to their peaks. In just over an hour I arrived in the small lakeside town. I checked into a very friendly hostel, where I was immediately accosted by other travellers asking where I’d been and where I’m going. My little holiday is not comparable to an epic world tour, but I’m all too familiar with the feeling of being on the road, and can already feel myself sinking into the mindset.

Permitting the rain to dampen my body but not my spirit, I went out for a ramble around the lake. On one side, boxy hotels leered over the water’s edge, but as I got further from the centre of town, the cars navigating the road that cut into the mountain side became fewer. Birds chirped an endless commentary, and raindrops pattered rhythmically on the canopy above me. The Church of Assumption peered out from the island in the centre of the lake, and though the scene wasn’t quite like the picture on the front of my guidebook, I could still appreciate the beauty of the church, framed by its idyllic setting. I got about half way round the circuit, and realised I was tired and hungry. To remedy this, I sat in a cafe and tried the cream cake that the town is famous for. The dessert rose from the plate like a monument, and the tiny fork that I was furnished with in order to attack it’s battlements felt somewhat inadequate, but at least it made it last longer.

I got back to the hostel and made more friends, then went out for a pizza. This quickly escalated to the consumption of wine and beer and wine, in that order.

I woke up the next morning to a thick blanket of snow wrapped around the chimneys and steeples of the town, dulling the thuds of the church bells. To escape the elements, TJ drove us up to Radovljica in her tiny red Kia. We ducked into a huge building in a quiet cobbled square, and were met by baskets of vegetable props and life-sized balloon figurines. We later discovered that a Milka advert was being filmed, an event that seemed completely incongruous with the sleepy atmosphere of the town. Edging past the production crew, we climbed a sweeping staircase  and found ourselves in a museum dedicated to the history of Slovenian bee-keeping. Whilst we initially suppressed sniggers at the absurdity of the situation, we were soon silenced by a genuine interest in the exhibits. We learnt about the life cycle of the bee, how they communicate the location of pastures through dance, and the development of apiarian cultivation in the country. After a quick coffee, we wound back down the mountain before the snow got too thick, and holed up for the afternoon, amusing ourselves with The Fellowship of the Ring and The Hat Game. We cooked a massive family meal with the rest of the hostel, and at 01:00 decided to take a quick hike up to the castle to see it lit up in the snow.

The snow was still the thick the next morning, but we couldn’t leave Bled without seeing Vintgar Gorge. The air was crisp and fresh, and the light reflected off the white fields in a blinding haze. The road through Podhom was gentle and winding. We fell into single file as cars squeezed past, clinging to the side of sturdy barns filled with firewood. Eventually we crested the hill, and started our descent in to the gorge. Cars rolled past, winding down their windows to tell us that the gorge was closed. Politely thanking the passengers, we continued along the path undeterred, ducking under a rope and lunging over a gate, we reached the water. The rapids roared through the valley, the turquoise water rolled through playful currents, swollen by the recent snowfall. We slipped down a wooden walkway, and it was only then that we were turned back by a couple of maintenance workers, who told us that the bridge had been destroyed by a tree, and we couldn’t go any further. Satisfied by the beauty of what we’d already seen, we turned our steps towards Bled, taking a short detour to make a snowman, before curling up at the hostel to watch Two Towers. The evening passed much like the previous, but tinged with the sadness of knowing that our fellowship was soon to be broken.

My time in Bled has not been how I anticipated. I didn’t see the lake and island in all of its splendour, and I spent more time than strictly necessary watching Lord of the Rings, but I did make a lot of friends and have some time to chill out, which I guess is the whole purpose of a holiday. If anything, what I learnt last year was that travelling is as much about the people you meet as the places you go, and with that in mind I’d say that the snow was more of a blessing than a curse.

Where Slov you beenia?

It’s been a while since I’ve posted because it’s been a while since I’ve been abroad. For the past few months I’ve been fostering a new life in the city, and trying to convince people that I know what I’m doing. Adulting is as dull as I expected it to be. Topics such as council tax, pensions and house prices  surface in conversation, before being guiltily shut down as evidence that we’ve become boring. But thankfully I’m able to temporarily extricate myself from this mundanity by the grace of a magical little concept called annual leave.

I had a fitful night of sleep, my consciousness intermittently blinking on to ensure I didn’t miss my alarm. Benefitting from a mercifully central location, I walked ten minutes from my flat to a bus stop and at 04:15, squished into a minibus headed direct to Luton Airport. Luton unfortunately (and perhaps unjustly?) suffers from a reputation as an industrial slab that’s just a little too far from London. However, there are advantages to using a small airport; namely not having to trek for three days to get to your gate. I boarded my flight with Wizz Air (nope, I’d never heard of them either, but seemed legit), with unexpected ease, and in a couple of hours I was swooping beneath the clouds to my destination.

The first thing that struck me about Slovenia was the mossy green of the trees thickly carpeting the mountains, and the neat, ordered emerald of the fields. Living in London means that the only greenery you are exposed to is in the form of avocados, Edamame beans and ‘Wicked’ posters. I later discovered that Slovenia is the green capital of Europe; an accolade fairly won. This landscape was alive, fresh, thriving, breathing. As soon as I’d passed security, I broke into a semi-urgent trot to grab my bag as I caught sight of it on the carousel, then hopped into a minibus that would take me to the centre. Sherbet-coloured houses clustered around churches; lime, orange, rose, lemon. Oxidised-copper spires spilled into shapely bulges, before reaching up into fragile spindles. The mountains were curtained by a light mist of rain that whispered on the windshield as we sped along, and all too soon, I arrived at a hostel.

A lady with short brown hair and electric eyes checked me in, profusely wishing me a happy birthday as she noticed the date. Feeling welcome, I dumped my things, and set out to explore the city, undeterred by the drizzle. I wandered through a flea-market on the bank of a canal, making an effort to slow my pace so I could appreciate the wares on display. All manner of treasures were available, from tattered books and tarnished war medals, to bronze effigies, depicting Jesus, the Pope and a crocodile. Managing to resist the urge to make a purchase, I wound through the cobbled streets aiming for the castle.

The view from the top was a little dreary, utilitarian flat blocks occasionally reached higher than the churches. Nevertheless, the exhibits were well-presented and amusing. I was taken on a dragon’s-eye virtual tour of the castle’s various incarnations across ages, and enjoyed an interactive game entitled ‘Help Tito to capture as many Yugoslav Republic flags as possible.’ Once I’d exhausted my interest, I stumbled back down the hill in search of some respite. I found this in the form of a Cat Café, whose residents embodied the quintessential aloofness that makes humans so anxious to obtain their favour. I was unable to persuade any of the cats to let me tickle them behind the ears, so instead found comfort in coffee and a book. After an hour or two the rain withered to an acceptable level, and I wandered back to the hostel. There I met Nuria, who willingly agreed to have a cheeky pivo in honour of my birthday. Maybe we didn’t need an excuse.

After a little hesitation, the sun emerged as I walked down to the Botanic gardens the following morning. Large stucco houses lined the leafy avenue as I headed south, emanating grandeur despite their cracks and bare plaster. Crossing the river, I narrowly avoided an erratic train of preschool children, who were gabbling excitedly as they left the garden. I admired my timing, and then wandered through the fragrant wildflowers and shadowy glades. Catkins were strewn across the gravel path, softening the crunch of my slow footsteps. The dense air of the greenhouse felt comforting and soporific, the heads of orchids hung heavily on their stems. The earth smelt rich and woody, and there was even a tiny pineapple hiding in the undergrowth.

I then went up to the triple bridge and ordered a decadent peanut hot chocolate so that I had an excuse to linger and watch people strolling past. The sun was by this point warm on my face, and my sunglasses no longer felt excessively optimistic. I passed over the Dragon Bridge to the market, bought some strawberries, and sat on a bench in Trivoli park to watch more of the world. Having walked the length of the city, I returned to the hostel and met up with Nuria. We went for a beer by the river, and watched the shadows lengthen.

Ljubljana is the most chilled out capital city that I’ve ever visited. Both days felt like Sundays; people weren’t in an absent rush, but instead took the time to linger over coffee, ignoring the inconsequential drizzle. Everyone here has been friendly and helpful, and I felt at home from the moment I stepped off the plane. I’ve been to Poland a few times, and I see a lot of similarities in the landscape, the architecture and the language. Maybe that’s why I feel so comfortable. Or maybe it’s the rain.