It’s part of our human condition to take comfort from a belief that we are in full control of our choices but when personal history and predilection collide we can sometimes experience an overwhelming sense of having been guided to a particular place, at a particular time, for a particular reason. Sure, I plan meticulously when I travel but my approach is far from rigid because I know that if we lack flexibility it’s always at a cost of not being aware of other opportunities we could exploit, if only we saw them. I don’t have a bucket list. Depending on how we define them, the world currently has about 200 sovereign states of which I’ve only visited around 20% so the method which determines where my next destination will be is more akin to an algorithm which tests criteria to find a path to my next experience.
This time, as the dampness in the British winter weather set in, I had a strong sense to visit the mild Adriatic coast. I looked at various possibilities, unusually decided I needed to experience a more common approach and aimed for a lazy, one location ‘get away’ stay.
The port city of Split in Croatia holds a number of attractions and also played a significant part in my family history. Soon after Hitler invaded Poland my father was ordered to take his men and join the French Army. They made their way across Europe to Split, where they eventually boarded a boat to Marseille.
The late afternoon flight from Heathrow was delayed until early evening and by the time we landed in a mist covered Zagreb I wondered if I would get to Split that night. On arrival I found that the onward flight was held back for us latecomers who were ushered through onto the waiting Dash-8. With a taxi pick up waiting for me at the airport, it wasn’t too long before I hit the sack in the apartment which was to be my home for the next seven days.
My usual first activity in any location is a walkabout with camera but the morning was overcast so I left my trusty Nikon behind and went to look for a café for breakfast. Walking the main areas of interest around Split isn’t difficult and since the weather didn’t improve I explored all day without camera, noting a few places to revisit in better light of course. The following morning’s bright, crisp winter light brought much anticipation and I made my way down to the ferry terminal where I bought an advance return ticket to the island of Brač.
The clear, warm weather would stay with me for the remainder of the trip so things couldn’t have been more perfect for boat trips to the islands. The next day I boarded the midday sailing of the Tin Ujevic and relaxed under warm azure skies which kissed the top of the coastal mountains as we sailed by. My thoughts turned to my father and I felt an overriding sense to check the date. It was then, when I looked at my phone, that the significance of what I was doing at that very moment hit me. Eighty three years ago, with Europe in the grip of WWII, my father set sail from the harbour I had just departed from but this very day, as I was in some sense following in his footsteps, would have been his 112th birthday.
There are many good reasons for travelling out of season but doing so can also be restrictive in some ways. So it proved when my plans for a 10 mile jaunt around the island of Brač was stymied after a long uphill walk in the heat for a lunchtime stop off at a restaurant I had set out for. I found the restaurant, closed. Getting hungrier by the minute I returned to the harbour area in Supetar where I dined with a glass of local red wine and, as the early winter sunset took hold, so did a keen coastal wind which brought a chill to the beautiful scenery and townscape.
Too cold to stay out in the wind I found a nearby coffee bar where locals packed in to watch Croatia’s World Cup group game against Canada. Things hadn’t gone well for the team at first but by the time I left, the goal they had conceded within two minutes was reversed and they went in at half time with a 2-1 advantage. Half time was my cue to leave for the ferry back to the mainland and, once on board, I found a place inside where I could watch the second half on a TV screen. Some fifty minutes later, as we slowed on approach to the harbour, the final whistle sounded and Croatia had finished the contest with a 4-1 victory. It felt like a perfect way to end a perfect day.
Croats seem to me to be a generally pleasant people. They’re obviously proud, excited by and hopeful for their football team but not in the manic way that seems to be the norm in the UK. That sense of peaceful balance seems to be a general trait of the indigenous population who are not only easy to talk to as a stranger but who genuinely enjoy the fact that they have visitors who take an interest in their homeland.
For the next few days I experienced the delights of Split, including the healthy Adriatic diet, a cappella folk music and the 1,800 year old Diocletian Roman palace which testifies to the fact that Croatia’s second largest city is only 300km from the east coast of Italy and, with just two days left, I boarded the altogether larger Zadar Rijeka from the harbour to the verdant island of Hvar.
Being genuinely interested in other people and their lives is usually a pleasant experience and my walkabout soon linked me up with a young local who, eager to practice his English, shared an interesting hour or so with me as we walked the coastal paths before going our separate ways. A few hours later I returned to the harbour to enjoy a thirst quenching bottle of beer on the quayside before finding the only open restaurant to dine at as I prepared for my intended ascent of Glavica Hill.
The hill overlooks Stari Grad from the north side of the harbour and I duly arrived at the summit after about an hour and a half of uphill walking. As I rested and soaked up the warmth, stillness and bird’s eye views of the town, I found myself reflecting on how privileged I was to be in this place, alone and peacefully observing the unfamiliar landscape and town below. A much quicker and much less arduous descent brought me back to the harbour where another 25 minute leisurely walk around the southern coastal track would bring me to the ferry terminal. The sun soon sank below the horizon and as dusk set in I was treated to some of the most vibrant winter colours I’ve ever seen as I ambled the path for the last sailing of the day back to Split.
My last full day had a substantial football theme to it, firstly with a walk to the local stadium of Hajduk Split who I knew from European competitions in my childhood. Along the way I photographed the nearby Marina and Franciscan Monastery and, once at the stadium, I was enamoured to find the team wears exactly the same shirts as the club which occupies a central part of my identity from my years growing up in South London, Crystal Palace FC, the team my father first took me to see when I was just 7 years old.
The day's football theme was bookended with an evening's entertainment watching Croatia’s last group game against Belgium among the red neo-Renaissance buildings in the packed Republic Square, where a large screen had been set up to broadcast the match. In a tense game lacking in clear goal opportunities Croatia only needed a draw to qualify for the Round of 16, and the highlight of the evening for the locals came with the score remaining at 0-0 at the final whistle. It was good to feel part of it all, a fan for the night, but the highlights for me were undoubtedly those moments spent photographing faces which expressed just about every human emotion as a matter of their own national pride played out on the screen in front of them.
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