Three months around Europe

Before I bang on about my travels north from Dubrovnik, I would like to crave your indulgence for a digression. No you say, well tough because I am going to anyway. I have a “friend” who sang in a band which for a nanosecond enjoyed some fame. Indeed , he was interviewed by then pop prince, Peter Sinclair and was amongst the first band members ever to wink directly at the camera on a local TV pop show. Actually , he was so taken by Peter Sinclair that he went to a barber asking for a similar haircut. He came out with a number one , because the barber thought Peter Sinclair was the bald guy who did the gardening programme.
When we were younger he used to talk about all the fan letters he received. Letters, he boasted, stating their undying love for him and how they wanted his children . Anyway as time progressed, the letters were whittled down to just one. One. And the postmark was, suspiciously, from a town his mother lived in.

Well Mr Celebrity of the North Shore, since starting this blog I have had two letters saying how I have inspired the writers to start planning a similar trip using my travels as a guide. No one wants any babies from me – yet - but I content myself that I am a template. With twice as many fans as you.
Digression ends and back to my travels.
Dubrovnik – so good the Yugoslav Army shelled it twice. They bombed and bombed and bombed. A syrupy city guide told me “ the sense of awe and beauty when you set eyes on the fort never fades. “ I hit here at the right time , early morning , not to hot, the tourists from the American liner were just finishing their third snack of the day so it was uncrowded . I rode my bike around, found a park and spent of couple of hours enjoying the marble streets, walking the ancient wall and was not jaded by the baroque buildings. Just as the guide said.

I rode up the Adriatic coast- a narrow twisting road which reminded me so much of the Coromandel loop. Azure Adriatic on one side, bleached stone hills the other. Give me a few pohutakawa trees and a hokey pokey ice cream and I could be home. As I crested a hill I saw a sign saying , learn to windsurf. Hell, that is an idea. I imagined myself scudding across the sea , wearing budgie smugglers with a windsurf harness, zinc cream on my nose, fan letters from budding windsurfers. I could already taste the headlines “ Pensioner on windsurfing mercy dash up Adriatic Coast.”

Renata , the co owner signed me up , said in 6 hours I would be up and away and because I was a New Zealander she would give me the prettiest instructor. Nothing sexist or PC here. I think that might have been a con , because I cannot imagine her saying “ Oh you are Australian, you will learn under Igor the ugly .”
She arranged accommodation at her father's house. Euro 15 for a room, shower and kitchen.
Minko was a local ferry boat captain, recently divorced and once I was settled he invited me to his house for dinner . Did I like Calamari and fried potatoes?- just simple fare. Well it was a delicious meal, I bought some wine and a few beers and listened to Minko talk about his divorce. “ she took everything – my money, my car , my heart.” In that precise order? , I asked. After the meal, he suggested we go to a local bar for a nightcap as his other daughter Marina worked there and he needed
to see her.. The first thing Marina asked after I was introduced was has he been talking about his divorce. Minko looked at me and shook his head. No, not really, I lied . Good ,he deserved what he got . I got the impression that Minko had a girl in every port - and he was a ferry captain with 8 ports of call..

I am not a natural windsurfer. On your fiftieth birthday exactly – you lose your flexibility and you need flexibility. Also trying to co ordinate your brain and your feet – I think it is called multi tasking – was an effort. Eventually it came together and off I sailed and sailed and sailed into the middle of the channel and beyond. I tried to tack back but the wind dropped and there I was in the channel, ferry klaxons wailing, bobbing in the wash . The rescue boat brought me home. Caya my Slovenian instructress, and partner of Igor the ugly, yelled at me when I got back to base. With her hands on hips, jaw thrust forward and a Balkan sneer on her pouty lips asked “ What was I doing going for coffee on the other island.?
“ Yes of course, “ I replied. “They have my favorite blend and I was going to get Minko's ferry back.”

The pout turned into a smile , she gave me a squeeze on the arm and asked could be my friend on facebook – so perhaps she was inspired by my windsurfing prowess. And I wasn't even wearing budgie smugglers.

I went to bed early that night, sore, stiff and with bruises all over my body .Most importantly I now had a Slovenian facebook friend. Even my friend on the North Shore doesn’t have one of those!!!

After four days of windsurfing I left Minko, Caya, Renata and Igor in the village of Viganj. Rather than track back along the peninsula I rode to Tripanj and caught the ferry to Ploce.

I had decided to make an alteration to my journey and travel in Bosnia Hercegovina. I bought insurance at the border, followed a winding road alongside a river and in 4o minutes I was in Mostar.

I have never understood the war which followed the breakup of Yugoslavia. A general with a surname
ending in vic would fight a general with a surname ending in vitch. In turn they would be attacked by a dyslexic general who did not know his vics from his vitchs. But flippancy aside, it was a cruel war with ethnic cleansing, neighbour against neighbour , colleague fighting colleague. Bill Clinton brokered peace by getting the leaders and their wives together at Dayton and putting the hard word on the wives : “ I did not have sex with that Bosnian, Croat, Montenegrin, Slovenian.”

Mostar is the home of the old bridge which stood for 427 years until the Bosnian Croats in a senseless act, which underlined how pointless and cruel that war was destroyed it. Most of the town was destroyed and even today you can see bullet and shell holes, and abandoned ruined, blackened buildings. One of the main attractions in Mostar is to view men in budgie smugglers hurling themselves from the bridge into the River Neretva. Luckily, It is the only world heritage site where you can see this spectacle.

Till next time

Safe Riding