Croatian Coasting

Well, as most of the group probably assumed but never publicly admitted - the only thing holding this motley crew together was Harry (the sunshine of our lives) and Ana's Unitarian derived circle of truth. As we no longer maintained our sentinel status as guardians of the north, the group fractured quicker than a piece of porcelain at a Greek wedding. Marty and Theresa, now being free of the kids (Myself & Chris), jetsetted to Dubrovnik to combine a night of drinking with a night of romance. The jury is still out as to which of these proceedings occurred first or perhaps if one was causal to the other.

Meanwhile Lou and myself tussled for directive control of the travel itinerary for the remaining four and set forth to find a bus to take us south. Our respective 'partners' were providing appropriate organisational support in their own special way: Matt on the search for icecream and Chris on the search for foreign love. Sadly only one of these pursuits was a successful venture (and Chris elected to head off with the main party to the spectacular Plitvice National Park rather than make a tempting detour to Ivanaville).

The ensuing journey south proceeded uneventfully save perhaps for the amount of times the group wished Lou had bothered to book the last and only remaining hire car in Zagreb. Why, for the first time ever, Louie waited to consult the male contingent of her travelling troupe, rather than book it immediately still remains a mystery - maybe even more of a mystery than why she puts up with us in the first place.

Needless to say she did not make the same mistake twice and became more autocratic than ever in her self appointed leadership role.

The other significant event provided by the bus journey was the first of what would be many encounters with a couple of friendly Canadian guys - or should I say a friendly Canadian couple.... Lou? (more on them later)

Plitvice National Park was a breathtaking succession of naturally tiered lakes linked by a series of terraced waterfalls. It seemed (as Lou commented) at every turn there would exist an even more idyllic and spectacular vista - up to and including when she was confronted by the sight of three men in form fitting bathing apparel (read Bondie budgie smugglers) launching into the eight degree water adjacent to a No Swimming notice and in full view of the of the participants of an Asian bus tour. Never have words like refreshing, liberating and invigorating been so misused. In fact other descriptions were used but cannot be printed on this family friendly blog.

From Plitvice the foursome continued south to the preeminent Dalmatian Coast. Fortuitous timing (rather than Lou's good management) landed us on the last scheduled ferry from Split to the island of Hvar. A quick trip to the upper deck led to the second chance encounter with the friendly Canadian duo of questionable orientation (they were obviously not cardinals of the North). After a few beers consumed on our behalf and about 20 beers consumed on their behalf we arrived at Hvar a little before midnight.

Our bedding decision was made easy as the expected throng of accommodation touts did not quite eventuate, and thus we accepted the only residence on offer. The next day, with the impending arrival of Marty and Theresa, Chris and I conspired to allow Matt and Lou some quality time. Armed with the knowledge of Lou's aversion to anything remotely risky (read slightly interesting) we tabled the idea of rental scooters and a day of fun in the sun. Expectedly, the offer was turned down by the privacy starved lovers and so off we went, content to see the look of excitement and relief in Matt's eyes as he embarked on a wonderful day of shopping and sightseeing narrowly avoiding a day spent motor biking with the boys.

The evening was spent in good spirits as the reunited six enjoyed a traditional Croatian meal

complete with traditional Croatian over-charging. With the anticipated arrival of the newly married

(and freshly consumed) Harry the following day, achievements most of us thought impossible were realised. These being:

1. seven Calvin school friends successfully organising and achieving an overseas reunion, and

2. one of the seven Calvin school friends remembering to bring a corkscrew to accompany the bottles of wine.

The day was spent boating, eating, drinking and chatting about good times both past and present.

For once a perfectly romantic ideal that Matt had envisioned ceased to be a fanciful delusion but

rather was realised in the most beautiful of settings. (Well perfect right up until the third encounter with a couple of drunk boat borne Canadian boys...) And so the adventure for some was complete but for others only just beginning. For those anticipating a more suspect travel narrative stay tuned for Greece.

(Dirk Petrusma)

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And what exactly did the Martins get up to in Dubrovnick ... was a night with Ben really causal to Theresa having a few stiff drinks?? Surprising as it may seem, I have actually allowed Ben's ink to stain this page once more.

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It was high time to break from the group to take our chances in Dubrovnik, which unfortunately had a reputation of not allowing Aussie tourists to depart intact. Theresa and I took a short flight to the fabled town from Zagreb and alighted from the bus next to the old city. We were immediately surrounded by locals with magazine clippings offering accommodation. I took the lead… “don’t worry darls”, I said, “I am used to handling these matters…bugger off, bugger off, bugger off”. We were soon left standing alone with full packs and no where to stay. Undeterred I marched off up the hill…there would be plenty of places to stay. 3 hours later in the 30 deg heat I accepted defeat and Theresa secured accommodation in 5 minutes within the old city. Beginner’s luck.

Our digs were modest but the amount of restaurants and beer houses outside our door promised we would waste little time on romance and we set out to enjoy the sights of a foreign land. We rounded the first corner in the old town and were met with a VB bar mat swinging from an awning. The publican was Tasmanian and he welcomed our accents and, more believably, Theresa’s cleavage. We listened for an hour and were comforted to know that in his opinion the previous Aussie tourist who didn’t make it home had probably asked for it. We walked away backwards politely waving and made a move to the local bottle shop. Some would suggest that a holiday would be where you took things easy, especially during hot weather. Theresa decided, very uncharacteristically that this idea lacked merit in Dubrovnik and we were soon hiking up the hill overlooking the town with a bottle of whiskey. We reached the Smrden-Grad fort in just over an hour and where we were surprised to find an unadvertised museum covering the history of conflicts the region had endured. Theresa could see the beach from here and we descended with now warmer whiskey to an alcohol free stretch of pebbles to enjoy an Australian past time. A group of local suits marched down onto the beach and setup a picnic blanket not far from us. Dark glasses, impeccable hair cuts, these guys meant business, whatever they were there for. Even in my whiskey haze I was impressed when one of them produced a pack of cards and wads of money. My admiration was short lived when, with a heavy accent, one of the guys shouted “UNO”.

Our time on the beach was also short lived – Theresa told me that she wanted to stay for the rest of the afternoon and that I was to buy ice creams. I sullenly walked up the path; past the sign that prohibited sex on the beach (it was going to be a long day) and returned with melting refreshments - only to stop to see a staggering girl wandering towards me. Ice creams in the bin and back to our digs. Sorry Dirk, romance once again off the agenda. The next day we walked the city walls, admired the amazing scenery, both historic and, at a guess, early to mid twenties. We then caught the bus to Split to catch a ferry to Hvar. We met an Australian couple on the bus. The bloke was recovering from eating horse in Brussels. Needless to say I trumped him will tales of woe from India and then threw in a few references to this mate I had who was a pilot. He showed mixed interest in my stories.

(Ben Martin)