Friday, 10^th June; Rovinj

We decide to spend our last day in Croatia exploring the beautiful Venetian town of Rovingno (Rovinj) that lies just across the marina from where Kalani is moored.

As Mediterranean seaside towns go, Rovingno is in many ways typical; there is a substantial cathedral, with its tall Venetian campanile (bell tower), at the top of the rocky outcrop on which the town sits. Around the cathedral are clustered a romantic looking jumble of old houses of every different size and shape. They are plastered and painted in muted colours of brick, ochre, pink and mustard with the odd gay example of pastel blue. One thing they all share in common is that they look as though they were last plastered and painted twenty years ago. Almost every house has an ugly satellite dish on the roof.

Between the houses the narrow cobbled lanes twist and turn as they rise up towards the apex of the hill towards the flat cathedral square. The usual mix of tourist shops and fashion boutiques line the main routes up the hill but if you turn down a side lane you soon find yourself in a romantic courtyard with old stones, ancient wooden beams and geraniums scenting the air. The buildings seem to have grown organically and fit together like the pieces in a jig-saw; some are dilapidated and nearly all in want of some repair. The feel is of an old Venetian town gone to seed rather more completely than a similar place in Italy.

The harbour sits at the foot of the hill in the lee of the wind; around its sides are the usual pavement cafes and restaurants with large umbrellas to shade their patrons from the sun. Tourists stroll along the waterfront and board the ferries bound for other places and even for Venice where we will be soon. Gnarled fishermen, wearing yellow oversize waterproof trousers, stand on their boats sorting through their nets and lobsterpots, mending their equipment. The boats go out at night and fish using powerful lamps to attract fish; it must be a hard and unrewarding life. Pleasure craft; sailing boats and flash contemporary motor cruisers outnumber them along the quayside leaving them as mementos of another, simpler age.

We choose a lively looking café and sit at a table next to a couple of English girls on holiday together; we chat to them and they tell us that they are from Bristol and have come here on a package. Their slight west-country burr seems homely but incongruous. Mostly, the tourists are German, a language you hear spoken everywhere. Timot loves ice cream and he is always trying to persuade me to have one, he doesn’t like to appear greedy by being the only one to indulge. I consent and go up to the ice-cream counter to order. The handsome man serving does a little show with the ice cream cones similar to a barman with the bottles, flinging them and balls of ice-cream in the air with magical wizardry – finally we get our ice creams and he doesn’t even charge us for them.

We get back to Kalani in time to welcome guests on board for drinks. Our lovely new friend, Cecilia Mc Ewan, whom we met in Portole (Optalj)), comes with John, Freiherr von Twickel, a retired banker and his wife Charlotte who ran Christies in Germany. They seem to divide their time between England, Germany and here. I don’t get the chance to talk to the Freiherr or his English wife. Derek chats away to her about art and design. The Frieherr talks to Timot while I chat to Cecilia about her life in England and her house here. We chat away like old friends about people we both know such as Podge Bune in New York.

Saturday, 11^th June: Rovinj to Venice

We left early and had a smooth crossing. We stopped and swam from the boat in the middle of the sea about half way there. I swam for the first time this season and found the water quite warm. The crew loved their swim and of course Bruce and Alex had never before swum in the open sea miles from land. The thought is at first a bit scary but soon seems quite normal. We are all excited about the end of our journey and seeing Venice. For most on board it will be the first time in that magical city.

We got there at about four in the afternoon. Tim was nervous about the approach as he didn’t have up-to-date local charts and his computer charting system is down thanks to an electrical surge. We creep into the lagoon slowly past an island that doesn’t even appear on the old paper chart we have. It looks to me as if they are constructing a sea defense system across the mouth of the lagoon and that this artificial island is part of that project. The depths in the lagoon are shallow and we approach the small marina, Lio Grando, with caution. The marina answers neither the telephone nor the radio. Finally, someone sees us from the mole and directs us into our berth.

Derek and I can’t wait to launch the tender and we speed into Venice in the late afternoon. It seems like coming home.

Sunday, 12^th June 2011; Venice

Timot, Derek and I take the tender into Venice to get some footage of us in that memorable setting. We go ashore at St Giorgio where there is a small marina next to the magnificent Palladio church. We discover that the couple from Buckler’s Hard, Nigel and Annette, we met in Croatia has their yacht moored here. Roberto, the marina harbourmaster, tells us that we can have their berth if they are prepared to move across the marina and if we are happy to bring our 25meter yacht into such a small space. We decide against, as the berth requires maneuvering in too tight a space. There is a waiting berth by the entrance that would take a boat of our length. Roberto says we can have it on Tuesday night but we must be away by 9 am on Wednesday. We thank him and say we will take it. It is about the best spot in all of Venice to be moored. Roberto allows us to climb up into the small tower that is his office so that Timot can shoot from a higher vantage point looking directly across the basin at St Mark’s.

We get back into the tender to go across to Salute only to find the engine won’t start. They ignition key is broken. We finally manage to contact Tim back on Kalani and he says he will try to get to us on the jet-ski. We sit disconsolately in a café at the side of the church and eat a rather tasteless meal. By now it is hot and we are thirsty. We chat to a young Swedish couple; they are clearly very much in love. The girl offers to lend us her bike key and that might just work. They are so sweet, kind and trusting that we rather fall for them and I buy them lunch telling them that no one under thirty who is pretty should have to buy their own lunch.

By now the annual regatta is in full swing and the waterways are closed to traffic. We get a good view of the passing races from where are. It is a colourful affair. Oarsmen of every description from canoes to eighths and even one boat with eighteen oars bedecked on flags and pennants row past in perfect co-ordination. The four great maritime cities states of mediaeval Italy, Amalfi, Genoa and Pisa compete against Venice; the whole City is en fete and St Mark’s Square is cordoned off. It is great to see the Baccino with only rowing boats, canoes and gondolas. The only anachronism is the police boats patrolling to stop anyone entering the race area. The sun is out, the day hot and the water calm – a perfect day for the regatta.

Tim has advised us to try and borrow a screwdriver and to use that instead of the broken key. Just after he calls, I spot a small private motor launch pull alongside at the quay of St Giorgio, just outside the cordoned-off area. A beautiful lithe blond boy jumps off to secure the lines followed by a young dark haired one. I take the opportunity of asking them if I could borrow a screwdriver but my intention is just to meet them and find out who these adorable boys might be. They look so like Sebastian Flight and Charles Ryder in Brideshead Revisited.

The dark one is English, Mark Silver, and the blond is Parisian, Tibot. He tells me his daddy has a palazzo here and that is why they have their own boat in Venice. Sadly they are leaving tomorrow to go to the Basle art fair. Mark looks Jewish with dark hair and eyes, he is young handsome and speaks like an old Etonian. Tibot tells me his name is T with a bow and he mimes the action of pulling a bowstring. He doesn’t say what his surname is and I don’t feel able to ask. I suspect it might be a name I have heard of; clearly his parents are very rich. His hair flops over his eyes and he is constantly flicking it away in a seductive and sexy fashion. His blue eyes shine with life and love; I am sure the two boys are lovers of more than art. They disappear into St Giorgio to see an art exhibition and with them my fantasy evaporates.

Tim arrives on the jet-ski having miraculously got through the police cordon by feigning ignorance and gesticulating wildly. I can do nothing more to help, so I go across to Salute to admire the pristine white statue of a naked young boy holding a frog in his outstretched hand; he is like a modern figurehead to the Dogana point. It brings Gerald Durrell to mind; a fitting image to take away at the end of our adventure for he has been with us in spirit all the way.

I walk across the Acadamia Bridge and push through the milling throng to the Piazza to brave the crowds in St Mark’s. I am hot and tired by now; there is nowhere to sit down except a café that has run out of orange juice. I take time to look at the returning oarsmen in their skin-tight Lycra shorts; some are really hot and hunky. It is a very gay and festive occasion, crowds pressing against the barriers, flags and banners waving. The dignitaries of Venice are seated on scarlet-covered bleachers erected in front of the Ducal Palace. I imagine the Doge leaving on his golden barge to marry the sea in the 14^th or 15^th Cs, he would have seen young men in parti-coloured hose as skin tight as these oarsmen’s shorts with their parts accentuated by a codpiece tied with ribbons – nothing is new. Boys like that are often depicted in the art of the period especially in the work of Sodoma.

Eventually, the barriers come down and I can cross to the vaporetto stops on the Schiavoni side to find one to take me back to the Lido and Kalani. I return to find that Tim has arrived before me and has hot-wired the tender outboard so the others can get their shots and then get back.

Before the night falls, I stand in front of the backdrop of Venice and declaim the immortal words of the poet Wordsworth, written to mark the extinction of the Venetian Republic by Napoleon in 1798. I have memorized the first verse; it begins, “Once did she hold the gorgeous East in fee and was the safeguard of the West. The worth of Venice did not fall below her worth; Venice, the eldest child of liberty”. Etc. It is a fitting panegyric to the 900 year-old Serene Republic and a fitting finale to our wonderful one thousand mile adventure.

Monday, June 13, 2011; Venice

Thanks to Derek’s smooth talking; we have secured a berth alongside the entrance to the tiny marina at St Giorgio. Kalani can only just fit and Roberto, the marina manager, has told us that we will be on the waiting place and so can only stay one night.

St Giorgio is a beautiful Palladian Church (by the master himself) next to a former monastery, now the Cini Institute and library. The façade is white marble of an exceptional purity, it is a classical temple with both complete and sculpted columns and Palladio’s trademark double pediments; there are niches for statues and more statues adorn the top surface of the upper pediment at either end and midway between the apex and the side points in fine Roman tradition. It dates from the early 16^th C. It sits on its own on a small island right across the Baccino from St Mark’s Square – the primo place in all of Venice regarding St Mark’s and it’s seat of temporal power, the Doge’s Palace.

We arrive at just after 1 pm as arranged and slip into our assigned place by the mouth of the marina. Roberto allows Timot to film us arriving from his little watchtower. The day is glistening, the water calm and light fluffy clouds dot the horizon – a perfect Venice summer day. The panorama as we sail down the Riva degla Schiavoni is almost perfect, just marred by a few adverts on bridges and a large canvas to one side of the Doge’s Palace advertising Mario Testino, what a place for Mario to have his name in lights. It hides some scaffolding and the works behind but it is sad to see such a fine building disfigured by crass modernity.

Derek and I stand on the top deck at the rail watching the panorama of Venice float by; we have our arms around each other, happy to have achieved our objective but also looking forward to some time alone just with the crew on the ten day passage home. Bruce leaves tomorrow, as does Timot. His wife, Sue, and his son, Justin, are coming aboard tonight and will be with us for dinner and lunch tomorrow and then they all leave.

Derek, pushing his luck as always, wants Tim to make one more pass in Kalani for Timot to film. The shots taken the other day were in flat, dull light and will not match the light conditions of our arrival shots today. Timot, being a cameraman and wedded to good light, understands and agrees, even though he has packed away his kit.

Our lovely friend, Taryn, an art historian who lives in Venice, arrives bearing a huge bunch of flowers and a box of Venetian cakes to have dinner with us. We watch the sun go down over the city and drink cocktails on the aft-deck watched by a few remaining passers-by. Bruce excels himself, producing a great last supper for us to enjoy. Taryn has a few glasses of wine and becomes jolly and talkative. We brake after dinner to walk the few steps onto the large terrace in front of the church with the water behind to watch the full moon rise behind St Giorgio. Derek and I hold each other and waltz by the light of the moon just like Edward Lear’s “Owl and the Pussycat”.

Ó Jeremy Norman June 2011

Blog Ends:

N.B. Would anyone reading this blog who has not become a “follower” on the blog site, please be sure to do so. We can then keep you posted with the film’s progress.

Wednesday, 8^th June, 11; Limski Kanal.

We are entering the beautiful and deep drowned river valley or “Ria” of Limski; a strange Polish sounding name for a very Istrian place. It is a major tourist attraction on account of its natural beauty but inaccessible by land. It is long and winding, about nine kilometers from the coast to the highest navigable point. There is little sign of human habitation, just mixed deciduous forest coming right down to the shore with little or no inter-tidal zone. Its beauty lies in its depth and in some places, its sheer limestone cliffs, and the fact that it is pristine forest, unspoiled by human presence. There are some mussel farms and ever-present day-tripper cruises plying their way at too fast a speed along the narrow waterway.

At one point, about halfway along the ria, a large tourist cruiser decides to turn to go back and, without any thought to us, starts to turn right across our path. They are entirely in the wrong on many counts, we are on their starboard side which gives us right-of-way, to name just one. None-the-less they continue, only to reverse at the very last moment as if they were playing “chicken” with us. They shout abuse and gesticulate wildly. It is clear that their captain had either no knowledge of the rules of the sea or chooses to willfully ignore them.

We launch our tender and spend half an hour with the kayaks having fun; it is still a bit too chilly to swim without a wet suits. By five o’clock it is getting chilly and the sun has gone, so we carry on to Rovinj; it will be our final port of call in Croatia.

Thursday, June 9, 2011; Rovinj and Motovun.

Today, we hire a car and drive inland to visit one of Istria’s ancient hill towns, Motovun. The day starts wet and rainy, hardly an auspicious day for filming. After about an hour we crest the top of a mountain pass and see a green valley laid out before us; it that splits into two to form a “Y”. It is a patchwork of well-tended agricultural fields, mixed forest and isolated farm buildings. In the middle of the valley stands a tall hill atop of which lies our destination. It looks like the background to a 14^th C Italian painting. The church on top of the hill surrounded by low houses and a city wall; a winding path rising up to the town gate with cypress tress standing sentinel along the route. The sky is dark and brooding, thunder and rain threaten. We stop to admire the scene from our vantage point, Timot managing to shoot a time-lapse sequence of the clouds scudding overhead. Rain fills the distant valley and threatens to come our way but breaks in the cloud lend patches of sunlight to illuminate the scene.

We drive on to Motovun, a typical 15^th C Venetian town. The lions of St Mark are depicted in a number of places but always with the gospel of St Mark closed – a sign that Venice was not at peace when the image was carved. The town is full of eager German tourist, some Italian is still spoken; older people remember the period between the wars when Istria reverted to Italy. Every road sign is in German, Italian and Croatian.

There isn’t much to film as every potential shot is marred by modern signs, umbrellas, ice cream stands, souvenir shops and the like. There is an austere town square with a typical early venetian well-head at its center and opposite a pretty 17^th C church. It is closed but we sneak inside to find three girls painstakingly restoring a late 18^th C fresco that has been recently revealed under 19^th C over-painting. Looking at the images, I am not sure the result will be worth the trouble and expense. The best part is the view from the ramparts over the valley below.

Timot calls to me urgently and I hurry towards him. He is filming a swift lying on the gravel not moving but clearly alive. I go to it, pick it up and it is alive and trembling. I release it into the air and in flies away with no signs of injury. We wonder what led it to fall to earth? I can only presume that it was a young bird not yet confident of flight and that, once grounded, it cannot re-launch itself. Swifts only land on cables or ledges and never on the ground – now I know why.

On our way back, we drive through lovely countryside with wild flowers and butterflies along the verges and in the fields. We stop to shoot some great film of marbled white butterflies, shimmering burnet moths and great green grasshoppers glistening and bright on yellow, blue and white flowers.

We pass through the village of Oportji, a smaller village on a hill. As the sun has now come out, Timot wants another shot from the edge of the village. We drive down a lane no wider than our car along a rough stone path and park outside a rather grand gate to a walled garden. As we are chatting outside the house, an older lady comes to the gate and asks us who we are. She speaks perfect educated English with a trace of a German accent. She is dressed for gardening in old clothes, a pair of secateurs in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She asks us in for a drink or a cup of tea. Intrigued, we accept.

It transpires that she is recently widowed. Her husband was a Scotsman but she was brought up in Austria before the war. The two of them bought this property as a ruin and restored it but shortly after the completion of the project, he died. We quickly discovered that we had many friends in common both in England, America and Austria. Her brother in law is Rory McEwen, the accomplished artist, we even have an example of his work at home. Timot is amazed that we can discover someone in the middle of nowhere who knows friends of ours – we are quite surprised too.

Monday, 6^th June, 11; Pula to Brioni

We arrive at the little port of Brijuni (Brioni) at about 2 pm and decide to rent an electronic buggy to take us, and our camera equipment, around the island. It is a warm and sunny day despite a storm being forecast. The main island is only about two miles long and cars are not permitted.

The islands have an interesting history; in 1893 Herr Paul Kuppleweiser, an Austrian steel magnate, purchased them. Up to this time, they had been uninhabited on account of being malarial. The new owner bought them for a song and immediately sought the best available advice as to how to rid the islands of malaria. Recent work in London had identified the cause as a mosquito, Anopheles, and so Kuppleweiser set about draining the fresh water lakes and planting eucalyptus trees. His energies were rewarded and the islands were rid of the dangerous insects. He invested heavily in building hotels and other infrastructure in order to create a top line resort. He put money into marketing and by ensuring that the place became fashionable, garnered excellent press coverage. The cream of European society flocked to his new resort.

After the First World War, the islands were ceded by Austria to Italy. The Italians permitted the Kuppelweisers to retain their ownership and, after the father died, his son Karl took over. He borrowed extensively to develop the place further but, with the financial crash of 1929, went bankrupt and lost everything. He committed suicide and the islands became the property of the state.

After the Second World War, the victorious partisan leader, Josip Tito, became President and dictator of communist Yugoslavia; he decided to make Brijuni his private playground and the seat of government for the summer months. He loved the islands and built a number of residences for himself, his ministers and his guests. He liked to show off the place and entertained a galaxy of world leaders here using the island to host the inaugural session of his non-allied movement with Nasser and Nehru as his initial partners. As well as politicians, he loved to entertain film stars, especially attractive female ones; he hosted shooting parties and stocked the island with game. His passions were young women, photography, wine making and shooting but most of all he loved power and that gave him ready access to all the others. Tito was estranged from his third and last wife, Jovanka, in 1977; they were never reconciled. He died of a gangrenous ulcer in 1980. His beloved Yugoslavia and its communist regime lasted another nine years, finally falling apart in 1989, riven asunder by the poison of Balkan nationalisms and by the inherent flaws in the economic and political systems.

We have no idea what to expect from Brioni and are pleasantly surprised; the island is green and lush with a variety of mature trees and woodland, some large open grassy spaces teeming with fallow deer. There is a 18-hole golf course that despoils the natural beauty of the island but no doubt is enjoyed by many and an unsightly wildlife park with the remains of Tito’s extensive collection of unhappy looking wild animals, mostly donated by his non-aligned buddies.

The best bits are the areas left relatively untouched by man. There are areas of maquis where the myrtle bush thrives scenting the island paths with its delicious fragrance. Hares run freely everywhere seeming unconcerned by the presence of man. There doesn’t appear to be much birdlife except a multitude of mewing seagulls and some crows both in noisy disputation with each other. Tito’s villas are off-limits being still occupied by government ministers. One of the chief glories of the NP, so we are told, is the marine environment but as no one is allowed access, we cannot judge.

The whole island has the air of a rich man’s private estate, a deer park with picturesque ruins and no inhabitants other than staff. There are three outstanding ruins that we visited. First, an exquisite early Christian basilica of the 6^th C AD – we caught it flooded by golden evening light that filtered through the columns of the nave and apse leaving a patchwork of light and shadow across the old stones. The carved capitols are decorated with early Christian symbols now worn and faded. The little chapel sits in a hollow in a romantic glade of fir trees. No one was around to spoil the aura of calm and tranquility of this special place.

By the shore, on either side of an inlet, are the ruins of a roman palace complex with baths, cisterns, olive press and extensive buildings, so luxurious and extensive that archeologists have suggested it might even have been an Imperial summer residence; probably the first but definitely not the last autocrat to claim the island for his own.

Close to Tito’s villa lies a walled and fortified Kastrum of the Byzantine era. The Byzantines were great imperialists and sea traders who were the dominant power in the region after the fall of the Roman Empire until the rise of the Venetians – from 6^th C to 13^th C AD. They clearly had enemies for they chose a hidden cove in which to build their settlement and fortified it with a substantial stone retaining wall still standing about three meters above the ground for its entire length. The walls enclose a large settlement of houses and workshops. Grapes were pressed here into wine and maybe olives too; there are great earthenware storage jars sunk into pits in the ground to contain the produce. It is the only settlement from this era that we have seen on this trip; so often Byzantine remains are overlaid by settlement of a more recent date. Their basilicas remain; places of Christian worship are often inviolate while other structures fall.

The wonderful evening light affords us some great shots of the island’s scenic beauties and wildlife. We return to Kalani after six hours of filming exhausted but well pleased.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011; Brioni to Pula

This is our first wet and rainy day since the voyage began. It started out overcast with threatening black clouds and about lunchtime, the heavens opened. The only things of interest that we are able to film today are Tito’s gleaming Cadillac from 1955 and an exhibition of photographs of the great statesman. We see him kissing babies and travelling the world on his “peace missions” to non-allied nations such as India at about the same time that Indira Ghandi launched her unprovoked attack on Goa – another diplomatic success then? Other peace-lovers he palled-up to included Col Gaddafi; Castro; Ho Chi Min and Sophia Loren – and she was quite a-piece.

It seems that the beloved leader had all the necessary accoutrements; a police state, no press freedom, schoolchildren brainwashed to revere him like a god and a network of secret gulags for dissidents. Many people here still remember him with affection including those who put together this sickeningly uncritical exhibition that does great disservice to Brijuni and the National Parks of Croatia who administer the island.

People tell us that everyone in his day had a job and was allowed to travel, indeed that is true; as if working for a living and being allowed to go abroad were some wonderful benefit denied to the rest of mankind. Tito oversaw an economy based on sleight of hand, like all communist command economies, it could not be sustained and ended up as bankrupt as the political philosophy that spawned it.

We get back to the boat to learn from Captain Tim that we were aground. The port, administered by the National Park, had permitted our vessel to tie up in a berth with insufficient depth. Not satisfied with endangering our boat, on being informed of their error, the lady in the office offered no word of apology and made us pay none-the-less. The standards of customer relations so dear to the socialists everywhere are evidently still alive in the new Croatia.

Friday, June 3, 2011; Cres to Rasa Estuary.

It is but a short hop of a couple of hours from Cres to the Ria or drowned river valley estuary of Rasa. It is a deep inlet of limestone covered in forest down to its shores. There are no beaches and almost no houses. A few small boat moorings and the occasional rickety jetty line the shore. The place has a dejected and abandoned feel to it, perhaps even a bit spooky.

We wind our way slowly into the recesses of the estuary until we come its head. Here, there is evidence of industry or at least stone quarrying; a large bulk ore-carrying vessel lies empty and at anchor, it is called appropriately, “Stone”. Kalani anchors opposite the only settlement, a tiny hamlet called Trget.

I call the guide whose name I have for the town of Barban. She tells me that she cannot meet us as the road is blocked and it is now a journey of over 100 kms to make the detour. The ancient town of Barban is about five kilometers upstream from where we lie at anchor.

Nothing daunted, I decide that we will try to reach Barban by tender. The first obstacle to my plan is the lagoon where we have anchored. It becomes shallow close to where the river enters and we soon run aground. Nosing forward cautiously, we find our way into the river mouth, our propeller kicking up a great deal of mud behind us. The water deepens once we are in the river and we set off along the reed-fringed stream at top speed. The left bank has the ugly remains of some vast industrial complex now abandoned to dust and weeds; it is probably associated either with a nearby quarry or perhaps with the local timber industry? There is nothing else to catch the eye as we progress up river, certainly no bird life. For about two kilometers the river runs alongside a road that has plenty of traffic on it. Four young men on garishly painted trail bikes race us – they waive enthusiastically as the burn past.

After about two and a half miles we see an obstruction ahead. We have come to a wooden pontoon that entirely blocks the stream. On it stand a group of workmen building a road bridge over the river. The workmen carry on without paying us the slightest heed although we are the only craft on the river. We have no choice but to turn back so we retrace our steps and speed back towards Kalani.

Once back at Trget, we pull into a tiny jetty that belongs to an attractive looking waterside restaurant. We enquire if there is a local taxi. They confirm what we have already been told, it is 100 kms to Barban. As the restaurant looks so nice, we decide to take all the crew out for lunch tomorrow before we head for Pula.

Back to Kalani for a rest and a bath then dinner in front of the TV watching Jean de Florette the French classic from the 70’s.

Saturday, 4^th June, 11; Rasa Estuary to Pula

We enjoy a convivial and delicious lunch at “Martin Pescador”. The crew must limit themselves to a glass of wine; they will be on duty all afternoon. We all choose seafood, the restaurant’s specialty. All that is, apart from Alex who will eat no fish or shellfish except tuna, he is happy with a big juicy steak.

While Derek and I have a rest, the crew raise the anchor and we set sail for the City of Pula some five hours sailing time away.

Sunday, June 5, 2011; Pula

We are anchored in the sheltered bay just outside the town where we have an excellent view of the Roman Amphitheatre that is just yards from the shore. Its stone takes on the colour of oaked chardonnay in the morning light. It is the sixth largest in the world and one of the best preserved. It was built by Claudius but enlarged by Vespesian in 79 AD in order to stage naval battles. It is a truly impressive piece of architecture and I am looking forward to seeing inside.

But first we walk into the center of town to find an Orthodox church. The only one in town is 6^th Century Byzantine but it is padlocked despite declaring that it is open for Sunday morning service. Perhaps the congregation has departed and the priest did not feel there was any point of holding a service with no congregation – we are disappointed.

It is a hot and humid morning but we continue up the hill to find a Franciscan church and friary that is open. We while away some pleasant minutes in its 12^th C cloister watching a family of tortoise that includes a baby no larger than a golf ball. Just before 11 am a male choir arrives, some forty strong all dressed identically in short-sleeve white shirts and bright red ties. They are on tour from Bavaria. We spend an hour listening to their beautiful singing but an uninspiring choice of songs.

Next, we head for the forum and the center of town to have lunch and see the exquisite small Roman Temple of Romulae and Augustus. The latter is a good deal tastier than the former. Bruce has spoiled us for anything but the best.

By now we are tired and hot but cannot miss the amphitheater. It is not far to walk but it is hot work for Timot carrying his camera and tripod. It is well worth the trudge. The oval amphitheatre was built to seat 23,000 spectators with cells and cages below and three tiers on the harbour side that tower some 80 feet above us. The sheer scale of it takes our breath away but there is a mystery why a town of only 30,000 should have needed a theater of this size.

Sunday, 29^th May, 11; Opatija. Risnjak NP for the night.

I decide to re-arrange our itinerary. We were so disappointed to see so little of the National Park yesterday that I decide that to go back today as the forecast is for sunshine.

The park authorities have set up an ambitious program for us today. First, we are driven to within about 100 meters of the summit of Risnjak Mountain in a four-wheel drive vehicle; we climb the last bit on a path that is about a kilometer long. The land falls off steeply to first one side and then the other. A cuckoo sings persistently on our way up through the woods, otherwise there is little sound of bird life. Shafts of sunlight penetrate between the tall trunks of the beech trees and reflect off limestone boulders that lie dotted in amongst the forest floor. Underfoot the deep, squashy leaf litter, dampened by the rain, smells deliciously autumnal. The trees have a strange curve in their trunks just above the ground surface, this we are told, is because of the weight of snow in winter pressing against the trees and distorting their growth.

There is a hut near the top; the views are well worth the hike. We spend about two hours admiring the mountain scenery and the forest spread out below us. The lush alpine meadows above the tree line are divided by rocky crags of hard, white limestone. It is a truly “Julie Andrews” moment.

We go back down to the main Park reception area for a late lunch of venison goulash that is surprisingly delicious. The helpings are sufficiently generous to satisfy even Timot’s prodigious appetite.

After lunch, we take a walk in an open meadow surrounded by pine forests with many different species flower and a few remind us of a wild flower meadow back home. We laze in the long grass letting the warm sun bathe us, inhale the fragrances of the meadow and let our lunch digest.

Our guide takes us by car on a journey through the woods on precipitous gravel roads. After about an hour we come to another open forest clearing about three hundred acres in area with a lone wood cabin in the centre. This is to be our lodging for the night and we have come to see a very rare and special creature.

The facilities are primitive, no hot water and no means of heating food. Our guide leaves us and we are alone with the stillness of the forest. As the evening draws in we prepare to watch and wait. The air grows chilly and we put on warm clothes but are careful to stay inside and out of sight less we should put our hoped-for guest to flight.

At eight o’clock, Timot perversely decides to make one last sortie outside to film the sunset. No sooner has he set-up his camera and tripod than our visitor strolls into view. He is about 400 meters away across the open clearing and has left the shelter of the trees and has started to cross the open meadow.

He is an enormous old male brown bear. He ambles directly towards us, we can see his grey chest and neck and the tuft of brown fur on his back that looks like a mane. He raises his sensitive snout to sniff the air; by this time he is only a hundred meters away and in plain view. He disappears behind a clump of trees only to re-appear five minutes later even closer to where we sit with bated breath. He seems unconcerned but must have either seen a movement or smelt something alien in the air as he trots rapidly towards the tree line and then disappears from view for good.

By now it is about 8:45 pm and the light is fading fast. But we have had a great sighting and Timot has shot some excellent footage. We are too tired to have any appetite for the cold pasta that we brought with us. We are elated and happy as we climb into our cot beds for warmth. I sleep fully clothed with three blankets. The hut is very cold, it has no heating and the air is cool at night here in the mountains. We would not have missed this experience for anything; it is a high point of the trip for all of us.

Monday, 30^th May, 11; Opatija; Galeb

In the morning, we get up early and eat a bowl of cereal before setting off down the hill back to the coast and Kalani. As we descend the air warms up and by the time we reach the coast we are suddenly back in Mediterranean summer.

We arrive back in time for a mid-morning coffee and an early lunch.

On our tour of Rijeka two days before, we had noticed that there was a rusty hulk tied up in the main port; our guide told us that it was Galeb, President Josip Brod Tito’s State motor yacht. It is enormous, about 200 meters long, covered in rust and peeling paint. The riveted steel plates betray her pre-war vintage. The Captain had invited us to come back and see around her – an invitation not to be missed. We duly arrived as bidden at 2 pm.

Galeb (or Seagull) is in very poor shape, covered in rust inside and out; most of the interior has been stripped out. She arrived in Rijeka only the day before we first saw her. She had lain rotting in a local ship-yard because her owners could not afford the enormous cost of repair. The City of Riejka has bought her and hope to raise the money to restore her for use as a tourist attraction. I think they must have underestimated the cost involved in such a project – in my view all she is fit for is scrap.

The Captain’s initial warmth stemmed from his belief that we are all from South Africa. Once he started to realise that some of us might be British, he was distinctly less friendly. I discovered that his dislike of the British is because he blames us for the deaths of Croatian prisoners at the end of the war in the infamous incident highlighted by Mr Tolstoy in his book. In it he accused Lord Aldington of perpetrating a war crime. His lordship won his libel action against Tolstoy but our Croatian captain is clearly unconvinced by this version of events. When I tell him I am half Scottish, he thaws again. He is an older man, tall with grey hair and wearing a dirty pair of blue overalls. His manner alternates between friendly and suspicious but he has a twinkle in his eye and I am never sure whether he is being serious or just teasing.

He shows us to the private staterooms of President and Mrs Tito. They had separate bedrooms, which is not altogether surprising given their 30-year age difference. Between the two bedrooms is their private sitting room decorated with period 50’s fittings and furniture all now rather faded and dirty but which must once have been the acme of contemporary design. The scale of the private apartments is modest given the size of the Presidential ego and the size of his yacht. The room reminds me of those advertisements of the period that depict an ideal father figure, perhaps with a pipe, and mother in an apron smiling as she uses the latest domestic gadget. The man always looks middle aged despite his youthful skin. The impression of Tito’s sitting room is one of solid middle class suburban comfort although this very room must have entertained many heads of state such as Pandit Nehru and Abdul Nasser. You can learn a great deal about a person by the way they decorate their living space.

The engine room is on two levels and is like a dystopian vision of a worker’s factory in a communist manifesto. Apparently 38 sailors toiled in its steamy bowels. I cannot imagine how much diesel it must have burned per hour. The Captain tells us that the engines are still in good working order but, as she was towed to her berth, I can’t imagine how he knows this to be the case.

The rest of Galeb is a sorry sight, the decks are made of softwood planking and scorched dark brown in many places, all the machinery is rusting or has been scavenged for scrap or spare parts. Areas of the deck have been covered in a thick layer of reinforced concrete. I can’t wait to leave such is the smell of dereliction and decay.

Our Mate, Viktor, is with us and it is not long before Captain scents that he must be from either Serbia or Montenegro; another black mark against us. Victor wanted to come with us as he was stationed on Galeb when she was being used as a training ship for the Montenegrin forces in 1996. Viktor had joined up in an effort to get out of Bosnia and served only for about a year after the war had ended. He was emotional when he found his cabin with the very same bunk bed that he slept in still in situ.

I was not sorry when finally we got away and started for home.

Tuesday, 31^st May, 11;

We spend the day at anchor in Rabac, Istria, catching up on work. Both Derek and I have a great deal of administrative work and emails to answer, so a day’s break from our punishing filming schedule is most welcome.

We are anchored opposite Cres in a rather ugly bay with three huge concrete hotels. They look as though they were constructed during the enlightened era of the worker’s paradise as a reward, or possibly a punishment, for diligent manual workers.

Unfortunately, this is the only convenient anchorage on this exposed stretch of coast, so we will have to put up with it. I think the bay was chosen because there appears to be a sandy beach and they are a rarity on this limestone coast where the shore is either rocky or at best a pebble beach.

Wednesday, 1^st June, 11; Bay of Rabac, Istria to Cres Town

We spend the early part of the day on board catching up on our “missing shots” list and filming introductions to the crew. At about 15:00 we set sail for Cres Town on the long thin island of the same name.

We anchor in the wide bay outside the pretty little Venetian town; a huge rusting floating dry-dock is anchored close by and spoils the delightful panorama, it is painted in ugly garish patterns along both sides. We try in vain to position ourselves where it will not intrude visually but, try as we might, we swing at anchor and it always comes back into view.

Thursday, 2^nd June 3, 2011; Cres Vulture Center.

This morning, we venture into town to meet Marin, the son of the founder of the Vulture Eco-center, who has come to meet us. Pavement cafes ring the inner harbour; in the center of the open space they describe, where the harbour ends a fountain, that looks like a dandelion flower in seed, sprays forth its spume. The town center is for pedestrians only; it has a relaxed charm and lacks pretension. Many of the houses are painted in bright colours and some buildings have Venetian features; there is a small loggia, now a fruit market, and a handsome clock tower in the Venetian style. People pass by on bikes or on foot dressed for hiking with sticks like ski poles and backpacks. There are young girls in tight bum-hugging shorts and strappy tops. This is an island for bikers and hikers and students on a budget.

Marin arrives to drive us to the center; it is about half an hour north of here. We are told that Cres is the largest island in the Adriatic despite being only a few hundred meters wide in a couple of places. En route, we pass the 45^th parallel, the point that is equidistant from the equator and the pole. It makes for a significant change in climate and vegetation. South of the line, the vegetation is typically Mediterranean while to the north, in the Tramontana, the climate is more continental and central European. Both zones have some different plant species and, for those they share, the flowering dates can differ. The northern forests are composed of chestnut, oak and laurel bay while the south of the island is mostly pine and maquis.

The island is actually the top of a long mountain chain. Our car climbs rapidly from the shore and soon we stop to look back down on the bay. The calm water is rippled by the occasional light gust of wind that seems to paint the surface of the sea with light affectionate brush strokes.

The center, Caput Insulae, is at Beli, a tiny village of about 170 houses perched above the sea. We are greeted by the founder and man-in-charge, Dr Goran Susic, a biologist with a doctorate in ornithology. He is about fifty and stocky with dark hair going grey. His charm and enthusiasm for his many projects are at once apparent. We like him instantly and he is a mine of information about not only his beloved Griffon Vultures but about local ecology, history and legend.

The center is designed to be a “visitor attraction” for tourists with all that that implies; horrid signs everywhere and dejected looking birds in cages. Fund raising for vultures is an uphill struggle so Goran has to be self reliant; he now gets seventeen thousand visitors a year. It is still not enough and his work involves a constant battle to raise the 100,000 Euros a year he needs.

The real work of the center is impressive; birds are being rehabilitated, taught to fly and then released into the wild. Misguided tourists frighten young vultures into premature flight so they fall into the sea from their nests on the cliff face, unable to fly. The center rescues about ten such birds every year.

I have so many questions to ask and Goran has so much to tell us that neither of us know where to start. Goran explains that the Griffon Vulture is an endangered species. When he came to Cres to start the rescue center about 17 years ago, there were only twenty-four pairs of birds and now there are eighty. He claims to have achieved this through a holistic ecological approach. They are using volunteers to remove alien vegetation and they have set-up vulture restaurants, sites where they provide meat for the vultures to feed them. The local population of animals that sustained them over the centuries has now all but disappeared as the population on the island has plummeted. Beli now has only twenty permanent inhabitants; everything closes in winter including the food shops. Those that have remained work in tourism and the land is untended. The farming that remains is mechanized but with no farm animals. The sheep population is but a fifth of what it used to be. Dead sheep provided the vultures with most of their food. The even more endangered Black Vulture died out on the island fifty years ago; Goran hopes to re-introduce it.

He has created nature eco-trails that wind across the island for miles dotted with beautiful stone sculptures and many labyrinths of imaginative design. These are patterns of stones laid in plan on the ground. Goran has a mystical Buddhist approach to the earth. He believes in contemplation and stillness and he tells us that these labyrinths fascinate people and help them to slow down and breath in the soul of this beautiful place. Inside the labyrinth, he says, time is “Kairos” time – the moments in between- while outside it is governed by “Chronos” - the clock or sequential time.

He walks with us down an old stone track into the almost deserted village of Beli. We sit under a lime (linden) tree in flower alive with the buzzing of innumerable bees feeding on the soporific pollen and nectar; butterflies dart from flower to flower, the flash of their copper coloured wings glinting in the sun as they pass from shadow into light. We stop here to eat the sandwiches Bruce has made for us and to talk further with Goran. Derek, particularly, relates to him on the subjects of philosophy and spiritual matters - both Hermann Hesse and the Upanishads are firm favorites. I am more interested in talking to him about his work with nature and the land.

We plan to return to Cres for a longer stay, there is so much of interest here and so much to explore; it would be a simple life, walking, swimming, painting, reading and exploring the diverse ecosystem. There are over 3,000 different species on Cres about the same number as in the whole of UK; there is a new flower or tree at every turn.

Goran cannot stay with us for the afternoon so he takes us down to the little harbour and points out the cliffs where the vultures nest. We do not much like the thought of the long walk and the hill climb necessary to get within camera range, so Timot suggest we try to rent a boat. The lady behind the co unter in the beach bar is skeptical but is persuaded to telephone a local boat owner. He says he will take us out in his small boat for a couple of hours for 500 Kuna – about £65. We say yes enthusiastically.

After about half an hour, it is now four o’clock, a very red-faced man appears and we gingerly step into his small fishing boat. He speaks no English but a little Italian, which helps. We set off for the cliffs, soon he is earning his fee pointing out vultures on their nests and some perched on rocky ledges. They are wonderfully camouflaged against the cliff and the vegetation. After a while, our eyes adjust and sometimes we can spot them first. Thankfully, the sea is only a little choppy but Timot need to be put ashore to get a stable platform from which to shoot. This we do and he manages to get some good shots from a precarious perch on a rocky ledge. Finally, a bird decides to fly and we are awestruck by its size and grace. Timot gets a good shot of it in flight with its nine-foot wingspan and splayed primary feathers like fingers pointing at the dying sun.

We return to the little harbour well pleased with the footage we have obtained of these remarkable birds. Someone from the center is waiting in a ancient Lada to drive us back into town.

27^th May, 11; Opatija marina; Tour of Rijeka

We had intended to moor in Rijeka but realize that the town has extensive commercial docks but no marina, so we plow on to Opatija, another two hours further on. After the rather grim industrial appearance of Rijeka, Opatija has great charm, surrounded as it is by woods of Bay, Pine and Holm Oak. It is a late 19^th C seaside resort built for rich Austro-Hungarians in the late 19^th C; it became their equivalent of Nice or Cannes. The coastal road is lined with imposing Victorian villas painted in creams, pinks and ochres; the fancy cornices and plasterwork now, sadly, so often defaced by modern additions or conversions. The hillside on which the town lies is less arid than the Cote D’Azure but there are no beaches here to speak of and now, shorn of its political connection to Austria, the town is prosperous but has lost its former glamour.

Our Rijeka guide is Sandra Bandera; she walks us around the lack-lustre city center. In spite of its Roman origins there is little left of historical importance to be seen and the 19^th C architecture that must have been the chief glory of the place, is for the most part, in want of love and attention. It is a dirty, industrial town whose chief claim to fame is that an Englishman invented the torpedo here in the 1860’s. It is a distinction that, on both counts, I would if I were them, tend to keep rather quiet about.

Sandra tells us that her grandfather lived in the same house in the town under six different flags; Austo-Hungary, The Kingdom of Yugoslavia, the Fiume Republic, Italy, Communist Yugoslavia and Croatia. All that without moving house! Fiume has a large Italian population; in the 1930’s the town lay on the border between Italy and Yugoslavia, in fact the city was divided in two, rather like Berlin after the war. For a brief while it became an independent state under the aegis of the League of Nations but was soon subsumed into fascist Italy. What a tragic history and one so typical of the Balkans where people seem unable to live in peace with one another and borders are always a source of conflict.

We end the day at an imposing castle, Trsat, on a hill across the river that gave Rijeka or Fiume its name. Little is left of interest to see at the castle but we were bought a refreshing round of cool drinks that we sorely needed after a day of walking in the hot sunshine.

Saturday, 28^th May, 11; Day at Risnjak NP

We drove to the park to be met by our guide but, because the day is wet and foggy, there is no point in venturing into the hills to see the chief glory of the park, Risnjak mountain. Instead we drive down to the Slovenian border, into an area where the park has been recently extended, to visit some beautiful water meadows full of spring flowers and some very bedraggled butterflies that I identify as Black-veined whites. These are common here but a rarity back home. We dive along the banks of the river on dirt roads strewn with jagged boulders brought crashing down the hillside by last night’s heavy rainfall. Every few meters we stop to admire the rushing water and the profusion of wild plants in flower. There are many species new to me but we don’t have time to stop and identify them all. I make a mental note to return here again one day.

It is a long drive back to the boat and we arrive tired and hungry.

25^th May, 11; Rab to Senj

We make passage for Senj on the mainland. There is a stormy Bora wind gusting up to 55 knots forecast.

After three hours of uneventful passage, we decide to stop opposite the southern end of Krk where there is a narrow channel between there and the small island of Prvic. It is a barren limestone island with a few sheep and no sign of human life except a sheep pen close to the shore. We wade ashore onto a stony beach from our tender.

The island has a stark beauty with soaring rounded hills scoured clean to the north and east by the salt-laden bora wind. On the lee side and in the valley where we landed, sparse vegetation grows, mostly herbs like Sage (Salvia offininalis), Curry plant (Helichrysum italicum), a few saxifrages and tufts of grass. The half-wild sheep look mangy and run away at the sight of us. The warm air smells of the sea and mountain herbs; the light is harsh against the bare hillside. There is no sign of animal life save for the buzzing of a solitary honeybee feeding on the purple sage flowers. The island has a savage beauty and a scenic grandeur; the vegetation type is a garigue on a broken and fissured limestone pavement. There are rocks and pebbles everywhere making walking hard and dangerous. Nonetheless, we decide to hike to a tall dry-stone wall that marks the field boundary and runs out of sight up the slope of the hill. From there we trace the line of the wall to half way up the hill to where we can get a better view. The hike is tiring, the day is hot and the going hard. We take care not to slip and twist an ankle on the rough jumble of bare stones. After half an hour or so, I’ve had enough; we have climbed to about 80 mtrs above sea level. The others seem happy to stop and admire the view across the bay to where Kalani lies at anchor. We sit and marvel at the wildness of the scene and drink deep draughts from a warm bottle of water.

After our walk and then tea back at Kalani, we press on towards Senj. As we head out into the straight that separates the mainland from Krk we start to feel the force of the strong Bora. There is only a short fetch or distance for the wind to travel over water so that, despite the wind force, the waves remain modest; even so great spumes of spindrift fleck the windscreen and reach up to drench us on the boat deck where we stand to watch the drama unfold.

Docking any boat in a strong wind is hard but to dock a 25 meter motor yacht with no bow-thruster is only to be attempted by the most experienced master mariner. Capt. Tim is up to the challenge and with all hands and passengers on deck to man the fenders we ease up toward the dock. As usual, the dock is a concrete pier with no rubber fenders attached and on the final approach we notice a nasty concrete ledge projecting two foot from the jetty for its last five meters and it is just submerged beneath the sea. Who would think to build a jetty with such a vicious obstruction? No sooner are we alongside and are greeted by a throng of admiring locals than we are approached by an old sea-dog who tells us we cannot think of mooring there for the night. He tells us that if the bora gets up over night, we will not be able to get off the dock and we will be trapped like a nut in the jaws of a nutcracker. Tim decides that we must move and we complete the whole terrifying maneuver a second time. We now understand why the harbour master said to Tim when he called up asking if there was any space in the port, “Of course yes, but why would you want to come here?”

26^th May, 11; Senj to Opatija

It is a fine day and we can see the castle on the hill close to the town, so we decide to walk up to it. It was easy to find and we arrive in plenty of time for our 10 am meeting. We spent the few minutes we have in hand filming outside the castle. It stands on top of a steep hill overlooking the sea and so enjoys some commanding views of the sea in all directions.

The day got off on a bad note. The Lady Professor at the museum whom we were scheduled to meet at 10 am did not appear. After chatting to the man on the till, who hardly spoke English, he made a call and then let us in for free, I having told him that we had an appointment to met the museum director, the professor. No one comes down to meet us or show us around, which seems a bit strange, so we look after ourselves and read the few signs in English that tell us about the Uskok pirates of Senj who build and manned this fortress and start filming inside.

The Uskoks were Christian refugees from the Turks who came to the coast to find refuge in an area under Austrian rule. They became seafarers and lived by attacking Turkish shipping, a matter of little concern to the Austrians. They became rich and powerful and built this castle in 15^th C. Unfortunately for them, the Austrians made peace with the Turks and so they turned their attention on the Venetians. Venice was the supreme naval power in the area and didn’t take kindly to being raided and having Venetians sold into slavery. They were unable to make Austria take action, so they went to war and in the early 17^th C they fought Austria for three years and defeated her. Under the terms of the peace treaty of Madrid Austria undertook to suppress the Uskoks, burn their ships, garrison the town of Senj and transport the troublesome Uskoks inland; all of which then transpired.

The castle interior is not of great interest but the story of this pirate’s lair is. After about forty minutes of filming, I ask again at the desk about the missing professor. This time there is a young girl on the till who speaks better English, she tells me that the Professor works at the museum in town – we had no idea there was one - and is not available to drive up to the castle to meet us; we say we will go down to meet her. We pack up and walk back into town, it takes us about fifteen minutes and we arrive at the museum at 11:30 to find the gates locked and no bell in sight. I call the professor’s number but there is no reply. I am at a total loss to explain this rudeness and cannot think why she had not felt it appropriate to inform us that there were two museums in her very small town or to talk to us when she was informed we were at the castle as clearly she must have been.

We set sail as soon as we are back at the boat and all of us, including the crew, are pleased to be leaving this strange and unfriendly town.