Jumping on the Band-Dragon

Our race to escape Bosnian blizzards brought us back to the safe haven of the Dalmatian Coast and to the Pelješac peninsula in Croatia where a slower pace of life was extremely welcomed. Connected by a small land bridge and sharply jutting into the Adriatic, Pelješac has all the bays, beaches, and nauseatingly expensive bars one would expect of a Croatian island but with the ease of being connected to the mainland. We traversed high, hilly passes and along cliff-edged lanes until we reached Orebić where the road goes no further. Given this was now mid-December, the town was quieter than a mime with laryngitis although that didn’t bother us one iota. We parked up in the only open campsite and had our pick of the spots, unlimited use of the faulty table tennis table, and endless access to rabies courtesy of the town’s large stray dog populace.

A five-minute ferry ride from Orebić lies the island and town of Korčula. As I was teaching throughout the day, Lowri went to explore its storm-laden shoreline on my behalf. Returning several hours later exceedingly sodden and having hidden in a coffee shop from what she described as a world-ending typhoon, I didn’t feel like I missed too much. However, she did inform me that the streets of the old town are arranged in a herringbone pattern to allow the free circulation of air while also giving protection against strong winds, fantastically designed!

We remained and relaxed on-site for the rest of the week before continuing our journey southwards along the confounding Croatian coastline to a city famed for bloody battles, royal beheadings, and fire-breathing dragons (at least on screen). Dubrovnik’s streets, famously, are absurdly narrow and it is frequently classed as one of the most unsuitable cities in the world for van living. This is always our excuse when we book ourselves into a hotel with a swimming pool, sauna, and ample parking for Vishnu but in this case, it was most certainly needed. Perched high above the newer part of the city, our balcony afforded views of the handsome bay and millionaire yachts far below, although it was not the modern part of the city that we, and over ten million tourists annually, came to visit.

A short taxi ride down lanes that brought back painful memories of getting stuck around every village in Italy, we were dropped off at an imposing gatehouse and headed straight to the top of the ramparts to get our bearings, which we weren’t allowed to do without paying an excruciating €30. More expensive wall-walks one probably won’t find, however, none offer anywhere near as many jaw-dropping sights as those from the top of King’s Landing’s ancient parapets. Almost deserted but for a few basking cats, and given a balmy winter temperature in the mid-twenties, Dubrovnik in December appeared far more suitable for the casual tourist than the height of summer when fighting star-spangled hordes is inevitable.

Once we began exploring the city at ground level, we did our best to tag on to the back of as many different tour guides as possible without raising suspicion while learning a thing or two about its pre-televisual history. Our stop-offs comprised plenty of churches, monuments, plazas, and basically anything that didn’t involve making some form of financial transaction, which was always extortionate. The highlight of our free activities came after sundown when a legendary, or so I was told, Croatian rock band took to the stage in the main square and blasted their seemingly endless classics down the central thoroughfare waking up all, including the dead, within a two-mile radius.

In desperate need of yeasty beverages for less than the price of a family saloon we decided to embark on the thirty-minute stroll to Lapad, an area more frequently visited by the local Croats. As we got closer, the sound of honking car horns increased exponentially, as did the number of Croatian flags being held aloft by screeching teens hanging from the sunroofs of cerise Citroen Saxos. We soon discovered that the football team had beaten Morocco to finish the World Cup in third place and if our previous experience of Croatian sport was anything to go by, they wholeheartedly celebrate their victories. Greeted by flairs, fireworks, and flummoxed police officers unable to manage proceedings, the main bar street was more boisterous than a Boris lockdown booze up and we soon found ourselves at its heart. Despite fearing for our lives from several stray fireworks, it was certainly a memorable way to complete our Croatian crusade as we finally abandoned the country for the final time and went in search of our festive destination…

J