ITALY!!

Italy was another of the growing series of countries in which we had spent time across separate occasions. First of all, we entered from the North, dashing across the Austrian border to the mountainous Dolomites region of Italy (staying at Cortina D'Ampezzo).

When the weather turned sour in Cortina, we shifted the schedule ahead to take in Venice early, and then returned to Cortina for two nights so that we could accomplish our aim of walking along the famed hiking trails the Via Ferrata. Following this phase were our adventures through Slovenia and Croatia, the tales of which you'll no doubt have familiarised yourself with above.

Sailing from Dubrovnik to Bari (the 'Achilles heel' of the Italian 'boot' concept), we made our way quickly over to the Amalfi Coast. Then it was to Rome (via Pompeii), to Florence and over to Cinque Terre for a couple of nights before departing for France.

Italy was for me an amazingly evocative place - there was so incredibly much to see and do, and such a great deal of content matter to take in that I couldn't help but feel as though I'd been swept into a cyclone.

Our first port of call, Cortina D'Ampezzo, was a beautiful little town tucked away in the midst of the Dolomites National Park, land which used to be owned by Austria but which was re-distributed post-WW1. It is known now for its high fashion visitors, especially during ski season.

However, clearly the best of this fashionability was not saved for winter only, as we discovered on assessing the fact that everyone there (other than us of course) was wearing high end designer clothing brands, including children. It was quite amazing to see them strut around with their walking poles and gear for hiking while trying to maintain a high-fashion look, marked particularly with white see-through pants, linen shirts and designer sunglasses.

The rain set in heavily (essentially non-stop) on our first two nights' stay, so we did not get an opportunity to undertake the walks we had planned to do originally. Taking a time-conscious outlook, we drove early to beautiful Venice, which certainly exceeded my expectations and memories of visiting the place years back. To me, Venice was a city which had always seemed overrated, a place which for some reason had gained fame for no doubt smelly and tainted waterways, and which was sinking slowly into oblivion.

Although the crowds were at peak thickness in Venice (particularly across the narrow pedestrian bridges, where tourists were perched like expectant seagulls waiting for photograph opportunities instead of chips), the nature of the city is such that you can lose yourself quite quickly and easily down the beautiful winding back alleyways.

What we got was something completely different to my expectations. As described again and again you could feel the romance of the city, which turned out to be a truly special and charming network of surprisingly clean and blue coloured canals. We explored all of the major tourist sights, and took the water taxi across to Lido, a beach side area on the 'mainland'. Upon returning from Lido, the sunset across the centre of Venice was simply breathtaking, and set me off like a piece of foil would a magpie, if that magpie was a keen photographer.

Ripping ourselves away from Venice to return to Cortina, we still had unfinished business to conquer; namely, walking the Via Ferrata trails, or 'Iron Ways'. I knew I had arrived back in Cortina immediately when I spied a female cyclist out on the road with see-through white bike pants, a white g-string and a tanned butt. It was certainly eye-catching if not vomit-inducing.

The 'Iron Way' trails we sought so eagerly were originally blazed by the Austrian and Italian armies during WW1, with astonishingly significant amounts of rock being excavated and moved to form full underground tunnel networks, to build perfectly camouflaged fortresses and decoys. Today, you get to walk the paths built by these armies, who used to use ropes and harnesses to clip onto iron cables and staples set into the rocky hillsides.

Armed with helmets and harnesses of our own, the weather cleared on our return journey to allow us up to the 3,000m mark of Mt. Cristallo to explore the tunnels and fortresses set up all those years ago. The walk, which took us 6 hours, guided us around the pathways and down to 1,200m, before the arguably most difficult part of the walk; a 6km, 600m ascent to the final destination (a chairlift back down to the bottom). The very final part of this was a walk up what must have been a blue rated ski slope, which was so steep that I was almost delirious by the end of it.

This possibly explains my untempered eagerness to get to the more relaxing confines of Slovenia and Croatia, and certainly explained why my legs ached considerably for several days afterwards.

After Croatia and Italy, we instantly knew that we had returned as we entered the ferry (a boat perhaps a little smaller than the Spirit of Tasmania, but certainly larger than the HMAS Shithouse). The boat trip over turned out to be a curious example of Italian culture. As we first of all took a couple of seats by a window I observed hoards of Italians consuming their brought-on-board lunches. I also couldn't help but observe that we were the only two people aged under 40 and the only ones who were not Italian.

Then, all of a sudden it was announced in Italian that the buffet had opened. I never saw a room clear as quickly, as they essentially clambered over each other like sheep dogs over sheep to get first go at what was on offer. But the effects of this were significant, and formed the impetus of a rocky journey ahead.

As the dust and shredded clothing from the group of cyclonic Italians began to clear in the direction of the buffet, another rival gang moved in to take their seats, headed up by an old grey-headed man in a black polo shirt. All of a sudden, arguments broke out like spot fires until a fully raged brawl was taking place over seating, with spittle flying, bags being thrown off seats and dramatic 'sit-down' protests and arm crossing taking place. I thought the gentleman with the black polo shirt would explode or suffer some form of internal overheating, as his face swelled and became blood-red.

Eventually, the invading seat marauders were overthrown, and the 'goodies' won the battle, as they all caught wind of trouble, dumped their salad bar appointments and swept back like waves of armed forces to reinforce their positions. To this point, the boat hadn't even left the dock at Dubrovnik. Nicola and I sat blatantly staring with our mouths hanging open.

But then the boat DID begin to move, and thus we entered phase two of the journey. As we sailed out of the heads at Dubrovnik, we hit some rather large waves (especially for Mediterranean standards) and it all very quickly turned to shit. Within 10 minutes, the floor of the entire ship was coated with clammy, vomiting old Italian people, clutching their rosaries and singing 'Ave Maria'. Nicola and I must have looked like clothing store mannequins sitting in our corner of the boat simply shocked, eating chips and ice creams while they were physically ill like a poorly conducted and composed orchestra.

It turned out that we were the only two people left untouched by the no doubt harrowing movement of the boat, and we were left considering how we would survive the remaining 8 hours on a boat full of sick people. We took walks to assess the damage, and on one such sojourn I stepped over countless bodies to get to the top deck. The restaurant looked like a war hospital, and as I passed by a flattened boat security guard, his radio crackled eerily with static as it would in a movie which detailed the effects of a deadly killer virus with no known survivors.

Needless to say, the buffet didn't open at 9:30pm as promised, and we couldn't help but feel a little pissed off as we stepped over the seemingly lifeless carcasses which were strewn across the floor back to our seat.

The delay in travel had us arriving hungry and bleary eyed at a rather impolite time of midnight and thirty. It meant that accommodation options were limited, so true to my nature I found myself resolving to drive as close to our final destination (Minori on the Amalfi Coast) as possible that evening. The consequences of this were stark - a night was to be spent at a roadside stop, sitting upright in our seats as in medieval times, although we weren't warding off the devil, but simply too stuffed to be bothered unloading the car to get to the mattress in the back.

The crick in my neck had me looking slightly left for a few hours next morn, however an Italian coffee and an achievable destination set me straight as it were. We were soon in the breathtakingly picturesque little village of Minori, which is known for its lemon groves, wine making, beaches and traditional Italian community feel.

Our campsite was simply a terrace within a large lemon grove, cleared of its previous inhabitants (trees) to allow at most 5 tents to be pitched. We had the entire campsite to ourselves, and the views of the small bay into which Minori was set were amazing. The only catch? The 377 steps necessary to alight when accessing the campsite from the town centre.

I soon realised that I have a strange internal compulsion to count steps as I climb them. I can even hold perfectly well-maintained conversations (and did) while counting the steps. It goes alongside my avid habit of using a bug smear or stone chip on the windscreen and crossing my eyes to make its' duplication loop around light poles on freeways when travelling as a passenger in the car as one of my least explainable quirks.

Anyway, the town, the campsite and the surrounding area was one of the most beautiful places I've been. As we descended the steps (at around the 128 step mark), we looked over some steeply built winding walls to see an old mother and daughter grinding tomatoes for Pomodoro Sauce, as sounds of Italian opera singers floated across the air like dandelion seeds. The vivid blue waters of the Mediterranean flashed sharply from the horizon, and momentarily distracted us from our descent.

The meal we were cooked by the campsite owners was amazing, and used the lemons, basil and tomatoes grown in their own gardens, along with homemade pasta and bread. I left Minori with an enormous sense of relaxation and awe that such a beautiful village could remain so untarnished by tourists and visitors in the context of what we'd seen before.

But Rome called us, and when Rome calls, you'd better answer the phone. Pompeii served as a fascinating cultural sidetrack for us on the way to Rome, with its ancient volcanic ash-preserved ruins both incredibly well maintained and thought-provoking. Seeing casts of the bodies found when excavations began still crouched in positions praying and cowering from smoke ensured a solemn and empathetic tone was present.

But like the old, ancient show-off that it is, Rome was our destination for that evening and was to be so for the following three. Our campsite was an easy train ride into the city, which proved just as well for we sought to do some hardcore, action-packed, foot-wearing, camera-carrying sight seeing. Within the space of our time we saw St. Peter's Basilica and the Vatican Museum, the Colosseum, the Catacombs, the Roman Forum (ruins of ancient Rome), the Pantheon and several smaller churches. Added to this was the Spanish Steps, the Trevi Fountain and Bernini's Fountain of the Four Rivers.

Rome I could only describe as a human, cultural and religious washing machine. It is such a high-paced, loud, busy, crowded, ancient, culturally rich and beautifully artistic hotchpotch that we were left feeling utterly and completely exhausted after each day. But the thing about Rome was that it was utterly addictive. Getting the opportunity to see Caravaggio paintings hung for all to see up close in a small church near the Pantheon (Chiesa de Saint Luigi de Francesi) presented an amazing opportunity, and the entire city buzzes with an energy we've not felt elsewhere.

We then had three nights left, which we allocated to the beautiful Florence (one night) and Levanto (near Cinque Terre in the North - two nights).

Florence was another place which surprised me - I assumed it to be another vacuous tourist trap, flaunting cheaply its art galleries and museums. But what I found was a more laid back and less ancient version of Rome, with the crowds more focused on drifting in and out rather than installing themselves for a long stay. The Uffizi Gallery which is located just next to the square where Michelangelo's David was originally set was one of the best galleries we'd been to.

Cinque Terre, therefore, was where all the crowds had decided to settle. This place turned out to be easily the most overrated place I have ever been. Essentially, the concept of Cinque Terre is that there are five small towns tucked romantically away in small separate valleys which plunge into the restless Mediterranean. The brochures and guidebooks swear to provide a stunning footpath joining the five towns, as well as a scenic train service which can be caught between any of the towns.

But what we found was without exaggeration thousands of Australian, German and American tourists with previously unused walking poles and hiking boots packed onto a train. From there, it was all about standing within 20cm of the person in front of you as you 'walked' (at the pace of the overweight 64 year old American woman in front of you) along the 'hiking trail' (read: asphalted footpath). And the 'nice little remote towns' were nothing more than villages crammed with backpacker hostels (with more Australians) and tourist shops.

I was not impressed, and was continually wondering why it was that this place was so talked up, so hyped and so bloody packed full of people. It was especially disappointing to contrast our recent visit to Minori, and the wonderfully peaceful experience we had surrounded by stunning coastline. I would not recommend Cinque Terre to anyone, unless they only had a few days to explore Italy and perhaps enjoyed buying 'I heart Cinque Terre' t-shirts.

I leave you with a quote from a brochure we received on Cinque Terre:

"The sea lives on even without the sun; when the waves rise the gulf fills with dozens of surf boards, while from the promenade a curious, fascinated crowd follows the acrobatics of the young virtuosi of the sport, undisputed leading actors in this 'Californian' show that has no walk-on parts". What an utter load of shit. If i were to try to pen a critique of this statement I simply would not know where to begin.

The people…

Potentially the most striking element next to the 'sights' of Italy is the nature of its' people. What a bunch of crazy, emotional and unpredictable people the Italians are.

It is as such almost impossible to sum up Italians in just a few words. I instead will rely on some observations of commonalities and tendencies which I was able to grab like frantically dispersed feathers in the air:

1. Italian men love power equipment. This doesn't mean it's all about power saws and angle grinders, but I suppose hair dryers do count as power equipment. And it makes sense now why Italian men at home all use garden blowers, as a morning of our time in Venice was spent with the dulcet tones of two leaf blowers and a chainsaw. Italian men, it appears, hate leaves.
2. Italians are not known for their high levels of common sense and educational grounding. They tend to be too worried about looking good and wearing the right clothes to truly apply themselves, and we developed a theory that the truly smart Italians had to turn to organised crime to gain in a society which ultimately would not reward academic smarts. Grunting and blank stares were often encountered, and there was a specific mouth-hanging-open-to-catch-flies pose which adorned the face of many
3. For Italians, emotion rules far above practicality and logic. It would seem that an Italian would rather burn their entire vegetable patch to the ground than allow their neighbour to sneak a tomato or two. The drama queen like performance on board the boat to Bari featured exaggerated sit-downs and crossing of arms, accompanied with a pout which would make a 4 year old girl blush. Pride comes before all else, and emotion is just simmering beneath the surface if the need arises.
4. They are incredibly self-involved. We saw countless examples of Italian women looking at themselves in our car window and doing their hair. The frenzied trampling which took place when the buffet on board the ferry to Bari was announced was epic, and was another tilt in the 'me first, stuff you all' direction of note.

What does this all amount to? An absolute emotional and social observational drain, which left my head spinning. They are loud, larger than life, emotional and proud, and will give you each of these elements within the space of a minute.

Key activities…

• Climbing hills in Cortina D'Ampezzo, in the Dolomites National Park
• Drifting through the water-grid that is Venice
• Camping in the lemon groves of beautiful and relaxing Minori
• Visiting the ancient site of Pompeii, the victim of the Mt. Vesuvius devastation of AD79
• Encountering Rome, with its hot dusty streets and endless attractions
• Spending time in Florence, taking in more 'culcha' by visiting the Uffizi Gallery (home of countless Caravaggio, Da Vinci and Michelangelo pieces amongst others)
• Battling the soul breaking crowds of Cinque Terre

Highlights…

• Minori was such a typically 'Italian' place - it is just what you expect of a country known for its small twisting villages and seaside, and was a relaxing haven in an otherwise high fidelity nation.
• Venice surprised me - it was an example of how a place can be packed with tourists while still retaining an atmosphere of something truly special.
• Rome - was and still is the centre of civilisation in the area, and it shows.
• Saying a 'goodbye' to the pillows we had purchased for a miserly £6 each from Ikea. To this point they had become indistinguishable from a loaf of slept on 4 week old white toast bread (minus the mould perhaps). Oh but they were flat, compacted and as hard as buggery. We left them by a bin in our Rome campsite, and within 4 minutes one of them had disappeared. No doubt someone was an avid collector of useless haberdashery.

Lowlights…

• At some point earlier in our journey we must have purchased some carrots. It took a few days of 35 degree Italian heat for us to realise that the carrots no longer retained their original form, and were now in fact fermented carrot paste. Putting aside MasterChef dreams of how this paste could well revolutionise dinner parties, once we had detected the offending 'carrot bag', it followed the same path as the above-mentioned pillows. But not without leaving us with a potentially permanent reminder of its transformation by way of a stain on our recently fish sauce free mattress.
• The intensity of Italy really got to us both and genuinely made us tired and keen for some relaxation in France. It even got to my normally steadfast travelling partner who was overheard ranting 'I hate you turmeric' to an uncooperative jar of said spice which refused to be sealed shut. I pretended not to hear, but made a silent resolve to get moving as quickly as possible.
• Cinque Terre has just won itself a place in my black book, along with many others who I have not time to name at the present time.
• Italian radio is truly terrible. Every single potential bandwidth is used (without fail), and is filled with utter crap. People shouting, speaking and being in your face is one thing when you're out in the open, but in the confines of your own car, you feel a little hard done by when your radio serves more of this up to you. It's particularly disappointing when we needed to find (and resultantly could not find) just ONE vacant radio station to be able to tune in my iTrip and be saved by my own music.

In summary...

In all, we spent 15 nights in Italy, and spread our time beautifully between countryside, coastal areas and cities. Italy simply oozes culture, arts and history, and is a remarkable example of how well national icons can be preserved - it's something to be commended.

But the thing with Italy is that it tires the traveller out. It sounds funny to be exhausted by just experiencing a place, but the sights, sounds and personalities you encounter in such a short space of time proved to be ultimately overwhelming. I don't think it's a place that I could live for any significant amount of time.

As we crossed the border to France, my eyes were noted to have slight swelling and dark rings around them, and my brain ached slightly as the last Italian near the border overtook me at 140km/h before cutting in front of me and slowing down at random. I'd already just fought to protect my space in line at the roadside stop food outlet.

It kind of summed the place up - absolutely nuts. But I wouldn't have it any other way.

I would liken it to:

Having an involuntary lobotomy, where your brain is removed completely for the space of time you're visiting and put into a blender. Added to your brain is some ancient and amazingly well-preserved history and a splash of beautifully picturesque coastline. Then add a good serving of alps and fantastic hiking, a dollop of the world's most amazing art. And before you start blending, add in the fact that every Italian you meet is slightly crazy in his or her own unique way.

Then blend the crap out of it for 15 nights (in my case). Then return the mixture to your head and sew it all back up. That's getting to how I felt upon crossing the border to France.

CROATIA!!

From eye-popping Slovenia, we squeezed back into our car and set sail for the sunny shores of Croatia.

By this stage, it was my 'un-birthday', a tradition which is held very close in our family. So the day was set up for my general enjoyment, with the plan to camp in a beachside campsite and to set ourselves up to have a beach birthday.

The drive took us from lush, verdant forests of Slovenia southeast to the warmer, drier flats of Northern Croatia. The landscape went from being focused on trees, waterfalls and dramatic mountains to stony low hills, bright summer blue sky and equally jewel-blue water of the Adriatic.

The scene of our first few nights' stay was to be a small town called Medulin, which is just south of Pula (in the far North of Croatia). We arrived at our campsite, which turned out to be comprised of an entire peninsula of land, thrusting out into the Adriatic the spaces for camper vans and tent campers. We found ourselves one such small spot for our tent ('the coffin'), fantastically located within 15 meters of a beach (albeit a stony one).

The next morning, we awoke and immediately went for a swim to help us to wake up. Accosting a small, wandering bread-selling man, we came into the possession of some chocolate and apple pastries for breakfast, and set about planning the remainder of my birthday.

Planning on hiring a kayak and paddling around the island and peninsula of our campsite, we were disappointed to find all of the boats already been beset upon by the seemingly avid kayaking Croatians. I was willing to be defeated and to resort to simply swimming and lying around all day. However, my small friend was not to be defeated, and she (accompanied by a grim look of determination) marched me up to a shop which sold inflatable novelty boats. Somewhat overwhelmed with simply the range and grandeur of the inflatable boats on offer, I somehow managed to keep it together and point to a nice orange number.

It was large enough for me by myself, so it was decided that we would both cram ourselves and our bags into its secure inflatable plastic environs, with a view to paddling across a large stretch of water. A few elements hampered our progress, including the element I often encounter whereby I make the mistake of believing that distances are not as large as they actually are (the planned route would have been multiple kilometres), the fact that the crossing was crammed with large boats with large motors and bow waves, and the fact that the boat was incredibly difficult to paddle when two people and a bag are squeezed into it.

Complicating things further was the fact that Nicola was at the front of the boat facing backwards, and that I was in the back of the boat, playing the role of rudder and 'engine room'. The boat sat down quite a bit at the back, and water slipped over into the 'hull' (essentially, onto me). Whenever I required a rest from paddling, I would stick my oar in the water, and Nicola would continue paddling, causing us to spin in tight anti-clockwise circles (putting truth to the homage that 'rowing with one oar' means you're not getting too far).

Eventually, we gave up on our quest and settled instead for paddling a safe distance to a jetty above which a restaurant was set, overlooking the water. This would do for lunch. Once we had negotiated the challenge of dismounting the fair vessel (which I had dubbed the HMAS 'Shithouse'), I looked up to see another boat pulled up to the same jetty as us - it was quite a grand large cruiser, and it looked interesting as a contrast next to ours (a point which was not lost on other bystanders, who couldn't hide their judgemental snickering and pointing).

The rest of the day was beautiful, and was crowned by the consumption of a massive fish platter for dinner!

Following this, our trip took us to Split and Dubrovnik, as we made our way down the Croatian coast. The weather was baking hot as we drove along the coast, and the towns by which we drove gleamed chalky white and steadfast from their perches along the shoreline. It appeared as though rain had not bothered to call by these areas for some months, as though every drop which was meant for Croatia went to Slovenia instead.

As a result, the beach provided a refuge from the heat. The beach also provided us with more than our fair share of exposure to what appears to be a European 'institution' at beaches - toplessness. Rampant would be a word I'd use to describe the frequency with which I observed (shall we say 'mature'? and shall we say 'larger'?) ladies who had bought into the philosophy of 'brown nipples are a MUST'.

I even spotted a curious natural phenomenon (click the link) quite uncommon for these seas… No veterinary intervention could right this grand old queen of the sea, and sadly all seemed lost as I regained enough of my senses to leave the beach.

From Split, we also caught a ferry over to an island for the evening (Hvar Island), which is known for its small old town, its high class visitors (excluding us with our orange boat clearly), and its continuous cropping of olives since pre-biblical times.

Dubrovnik was our final destination, and was the one we had anticipated most keenly based on our pre-trip research. We found a campsite nearby to town, and set aside a full day for the beach and a full day for investigating town and the city walls.

The books and websites were right about the warm water, the beautiful city walls and the intricate old town, and we thoroughly enjoyed our equal doses of both lazing and wandering.

However, what we were failed to be informed of (but what we discovered almost immediately) was the overly high proliferation of 23 year old bogan tradesmen Australians and New Zealanders who fouled the place up. It was just enchanting to hear shouts of 'oi bazza ya dickhead, come over here and lets get pissed' from the top of the city walls at around 3pm. It really did add an extra little bit of something 'special' I simply couldn't get by wandering down a street in Altona Meadows.

It set my mind pondering the causes behind this curious phenomenon. For those who invest belief in the theory that life is all about wading through oceans full of dickheads, Dubrovnik has been turned into your 'holy land'. What has caused this? Croatia has beaches, but so does Australia… Or is it the draw of the views from the ancient city walls, which generously endow the participant walker to take in views of the rust-coloured roofs of houses along visibly 'scribble-like' alleyways, merging into the deep azure blue of the horizon beyond? But no, our good Australian and NZ bogans were more likely to be looking at the inside of the local bars and clubs.

I came to the conclusion that it must have been on an episode of Getaway. Perhaps Catriona Rowntree sipped lemonade at an overpriced tourist cafe on the walls and spat out some quirky pun such as 'talk about living the high life'. Perhaps she then pretended to 'go out' at one of the town's 'hip and happening' night spots. I'm not sure, but I do know that I do not like Catriona Rowntree. Not one bit. But I digress.

The other somewhat disappointing part of Dubrovnik was the swarm of tourist outlets which appear to have popped up of late and a noted lack of friendliness among the local people (who no doubt also love the proliferation of deadhead southern hemisphere louts), who see tourists as a drain rather than an opportunity to impress. Prices here were not as cheap as they once were, as tourist operators have not been slow in realising the depth of wallets of Electricians from Shepparton, out to cause some mischief in an exotic location.

Regardless of this, I did manage to set aside my introspective wonder and got to enjoying a place which is set up for visitor enjoyment - the seafood was good, the beer cold and the weather beautifully (and non-sunburningly) warm.

Key activities on the trip…

• Beach hopping between Pula (Medulin) in the north, Split, Hvar Island and Dubrovnik
• Taking in the mix of beautiful ancient architecture and stunning beaches
• Trying to avert my eyes from the beach scenery

The people…

This is where the whole 'Croatia' thing gets interesting…

I have read a bit on the history of Croatia through the days of Yugoslavia, its strained (well, not just strained but downright fractured) relations with Serbia as a result, and the legacy of those days. Croatia WAS in a very politically oppressed situation, forced to rely on a Government itself reliant on an autocratic and tyrannical leader (Colonel Tito) as well as the funds generated by the group of nations' only economic powerhouse, Slovenia.

They must have been dark days indeed when, after military oppression of some zones of Croatia which had tried to break away from Yugoslavia, member states (Serbia and Montenegro, Bosnia Herzegovina, Slovenia and Croatia) began talks of more broad separation. And it was the breach of trust and eventual turning on each other in bloody wars and genocide during these times which has driven the wedge in relations between all member countries, but specifically Croatia and Serbia. It gave rise to notable figures such as Slobodan Milosevic, who was only ousted from Serbian Government in 2001 and was only tried in the years since then by the War Tribunal.

As such these events still quite raw and not smoothed by the effects of the good old sands of time.

So the anger among Croatians is still reasonably palpable. The 'passive' part of 'passive aggressive' is wafer thin for Croatians, and you can just sense a simmering depth of emotion behind the eyes of most you meet with. It certainly explains a lot about why the Serbs and the Croats have been known to still fight at the Australian Open Tennis - it's as though they haven't got it all out of their system.

To be honest, it doesn't feel great (and isn't rewarding to) get beyond basic greetings and simple chatter with these folk, who no doubt have had it tough in the very recent past. I'm not saying it's not completely understandable why this is the case, just that it's uncomfortable that it is so.

Sometimes you get a false impression of a place which has come through tough times - our journeys through the Baltic states, to Hungary, to Slovenia, the Czech Republic and even to Poland told us that. The presence of tourist stalls and polished attractions can sometimes blur your view. And no doubt each of these places have come so far from their darkest hours.

I've learnt to judge a place more by my observations of its people (which is something I can't help but do essentially all of the time), and for me, this gave a much deeper view of Croatia than I think would be reported on Getaway.

Highlights…

• Lazing about on beaches can never be bad, and I even managed to get my pasty white office skin up to a 'stucco' colour, which I'm rather pleased with
• Acquisition of a sea-going vessel, the HMAS 'Shithouse' which is as we speak two-thirds deflated in the back of the 'Blue Bolt', accompanied by its two oars. Such daring and brash tales can be told of its destiny-led sojourns across the seas, the pirates and scallywags it encountered and the brave but limited crew at its helm.
• Taking in the Old Towns, especially Dubrovnik which was simply beautiful. To look down on children playing street football amongst a depth of rust-red roofs and sand-coloured walls was quite amazing. Pula was also highly underrated, with a colosseum-style building which although not as big as the colosseum was every bit as well preserved.
• Winning the footy tipping comp I had going with a Richmond supporters forum - 125 tips is nothing to sneeze at for someone overseas and who forgot to enter tips for 2 rounds. I had a celebratory pint on the beach at Dubrovnik to celebrate.

Lowlights…

• The bogans - seriously, just stay in Cranbourne.
• The visibly negative affect of tourists on prices, prevalence of tourist crap-selling stalls and prices.

In summary…

The last thing I want to do is to seem harsh on Croatia - it certainly does provide a mix of beautiful and unique old town architecture and crystal clear and warm blue water. For a beachside holiday in a continental Europe which does tend to want for nice beachside locales, it is certainly idyllic.

Our time there gave us a chance to unwind and prepare for what was to be a frantic Italy.

I suppose the issue we found with Dubrovnik may be more with knowing what the place must have been like even 5 years ago. And that perhaps the charm of recent years has begun to wear and fade in the baking Adriatic sunlight, as the tiring influence of unappreciative and idiotic tourists has taken its toll.

I would liken it to…

A party pie.

It's in general really bloody hot, but you can find quite a nice flavour both in the interior and the fringe areas. You generally find relief from the heat by sticking to the pastry (read: beaches), but you never really know what you're going to get with the filling (the people and the tourists). It's not always pretty to ask too many questions about what's in there or you could find out all to well about the filling.

SLOVENIA!!

After completing our journey of Austria, we were to progress into Northern Italy for around a week, taking some time in the Cortina D'Ampezzo region (the Dolomites National Park) and Venice. As Italy was to be completed only after we had visited Slovenia and Croatia, the next country to be fully completed was Slovenia.

We had allocated just a few days to Slovenia, but had some really high hopes based on the experiences of our friends.

Slovenia has quite a checkered history, with only a very short time as being it's own nation. It was controlled for over 500 years by Austria up until 1918, when Austria-Hungary's WW1 loss found Slovenia split between being controlled by Italy (mainly the West), siding with Austria (in the North) and being part of Yugoslavia (the rest).

WWII then saw Slovenia take an opportunity to regain the bulk of their nation back from Italy. It then became part of the collective of nations known as Yugoslavia. As part of the former Yugoslavian republic, it was the economic driving force behind the collective (also comprised of Serbia and Croatia), and was finally able to wrestle free of the politically and socially disadvantageous circumstances of this group in 1991.

As we crossed the Italian border, the road narrowed significantly in anticipation of a winding, hairpin bend-strewn mountain pass more suited to bicycles than cars. I relaxed safe in the knowledge that it was in fact a road only after checking with Nicola.

We had seen quite a carpet of verdant green from Northern Italy, but what unfurled in front of us in Slovenia was (if possible) even MORE green. It was sparkling, dew-coated and just plain beautiful scenes of mountains, forests, lakes and gushing waterfalls. While engaged in an all-out wrestle to haul the Blue Bolt around a particularly tight hairpin and narrowly missing a completely exhausted uphill-bound cyclist, I couldn't believe the sheer amount of water just pouring off the hills. And it wasn't even raining.

Our first night's stop was in Bovec, a small town (though large for Slovenian standards) known as a skiing, rafting and hiking hub. The town itself was an impossibly clean little village ganged up on by a circle of low rocky mountains and forests. You could hear, smell and just feel the water all around.

We had originally planned on white water rafting, however we soon found that Spring was the best time for this, as the rivers were more swollen with winter snow run-off. So rather than pay for another low-grade (i.e. tame) rapids experience (something we'd already done in New Zealand), we felt we were up for some moderate-level canyoning - a sport which combines hiking, swimming and abseiling, with river beds and waterfalls as the arena of choice.

At 9:00am the next morning we set off with our softly spoken guide to the river in question and hiked quickly up to the top of the falls. Fitting a harness, helmet and (for me) a pair of someone else's runners, we set about descending what we'd just walked through the water. Wearing someone else's shoes is unpleasant for me personally at the best of times, but it was just plain weird wearing them in water. I had to swallow another one of my seemingly idiosyncratic aversions and toughen the hell up.

The experience of canyoning itself I could not more highly recommend - abseiling down in the midst of a 50m waterfall was simply amazing, and having the opportunity to rockslide with the aid of the river off other smaller falls was exhilarating. Feeling drenched but satisfied, we made our way back to town for some more exploration of the local area.

What we found was a veritable 'green paradise' of jewel-coloured water, canyons and deep blue pools. We stumbled upon an out of the way swimming hole area which had only a few local Slovenes. Towering rocks provided diving platforms into the deep blue-green (but icy-cold) water below, and we took turns tumbling, diving and jumping into the depths. To warm up again, all we had to do was lay on the rocks in the sun for a while, before going in again. All in all it was a truly unforgettable experience.

After our time in Bovec, we moved onto Bled, another town blessed with Slovenia's outstanding natural beauty. Another mountain pass awaited us, again covered with cyclists out to immerse themselves in the scenery.

At the top of the Mountain Pass (which was in the Julian Alps) was a lather of coaches, bikes, cows, pedestrians, day-trippers and panini eaters which all conspired to stop the traffic to a standstill. I had to wait while a woman helped her husband back their monstrously oversized camper van out into the flow of traffic, which he made more of a meal of than a mouse would with an entire zebra.

But after freaking out a few more cyclists and pedestrians, I shot down the other side of the mountains and into the otherwordly verdant fields below. Although the road didn't narrow any further (nor widen) the trees seemed to close in around the road to form a dark, lush-smelling cocoon in which we would our way further Eastward.

On the way we called into the touristy but beautiful Vintgar Gorge, a set of lakes and waterfalls formed through the power of the water carving gorges into the surrounding rock bed. The result is a continuous 3km stretch of beautifully coloured pools, teeming with trout and acting as a lifeblood of the encroaching thick green forest.

As a one-up to Bovec's scenery, Bled (as well as being surrounded some of Slovenia's tallest mountains) is centred around a ridiculously emerald-green coloured lake, with a beautiful old church adorning an island in the middle. On a cliff overhanging the waters is a medieval castle, just to top it all off.

Most of our time was spent lazing on the banks of the lake itself, as well as a spot more swimming and consumption of beer. After dinner we were presented with some local blueberry schnapps, which topped things off beautifully and meant that I rolled into the tent with the world spinning a little, accompanied by a buzzing inside my head which I would otherwise have associated with a cacophony of bees fighting behind my eyes.

From Bled, the schedule told us that we must move on to Croatia, but it was with some pangs of regret that we did so. Slovenia proved to be the ultimately most naturally beautiful, non-artificially clean and impressive country we've visited.

The people...

Slovenians are as cool as cucumbers; they live in a land of incredibly impressive and almost overwhelming environmental beauty and they make the most of it. They are outdoors-oriented, fit and healthy, and have a strong appreciation and respect for the world around them.

Although the importance of self image they uphold seems to be a legacy of their Italian neighbours, they integrate this with a much more 'down to earth' sensibility. They are common-sense 'no bull' people who enjoy their place as custodians of some of Europe's most breathtaking environs.

Key activities...

• Canyoning in Bovec
• Once again putting to the test the concept of 'Poste Restante', which on this occasion actually did work (I got all the birthday cards and gifts I was sent via mail!)
• Exploring the countless canyons and waterholes of the region surrounding Bovec
• Swimming in and lounging around lake Bled
• Walking through and around Vintgar Gorge in north-eastern Slovenia

Highlights...

• Canyoning was amazing - kicked the butt of another set of stage 2 or 3 rapids, and got us into the heart of the Slovenian scenery
• Lake Bled is just picture postcard perfect. I could hardly believe that such a place existed in real life
• The afternoon we spent at the local waterhole near Bovec was so much fun. It was bursting with life as kids, their parents and grandparents threw themselves off high rocky points into the freezing cold waters below. One kid must only have been 4, and (armed with a bicycle 'stack hat') threw himself off the very highest peaks previously only trialled by Nicola and myself. There was also a man there who looked like the bad guy from Kindergarten Cop, added to the bonus of swimming and jumping off things, I got some serious milage out of breaking out some Arnold Schwarzenegger quotes ("playtime is OVER"). Nicola also saved a dog who had got a bit ambitious with stick fetching in the fast moving water.

Lowlights...

• The hoards of tourists (mainly a couple of coach loads of Americans) soiling up Vintgar Gorge.
• This is getting a little cliched, but really the main downside to Slovenia was its excruciating ability to make me want to spend more time there.

In summary...

Slovenia was really the clean, green breath of fresh air we needed after some recently spent time in city areas. It was one of the most aesthetically pleasing of natural environs we'd encountered. Norway's hills plunging into fjords, the French alps and the Dolomites soaring peaks; each held their own beauty. But no place truly brought it all together like Slovenia - it's the stuff of nature documentaries and 'best places you've never heard of' books.

But what really makes Slovenia special is not just how beautiful it looks, but in how you can actually interact with that nature. We got to briefly indulge in the water-based lifestyle of summer that the locals themselves lived, and got to experience a sport I'd never previously considered (canyoning).

Most importantly, the Slovenes seem to have got right that perilous tightrope-wide balance between thoroughly enjoying and making the most of their natural conditions and preserving to the utmost the very environment which feeds this lifestyle.

I would liken it to…

The island from Jurassic Park, in that it has this movie set-like landscape and scenery seemingly untouched by humans. Unlike Jurassic Park though we did not get spat on by Velociraptors or crammed into small electric-rail vehicles with strange men with white beards. Or 'Newman' from Seinfeld. Which was nice.