Losing Count

952, 953, 954 ...........and so it went on .... all the way to 1,350 - the number of stairs it takes to scale the fortress walls on the hill. 

It was undoubtedly the best way to view the spectacularly located town of Kotor in the Bay of Kotor (Kotorska).  Montengro’s famous port has had a very colourful land and maritime history, fighting off invaders over the centuries.  It was not uncommon for pirates to attack the local ships as they transported cargo across the merchant shipping lanes between Italy and the Baltic ports and many of the boats carried up to forty guns, rifles and swords to protect their precious cargo.

Kotor also served as an important naval location during both World Wars but the modern-day maritime action is limited to the constant arrival of cruise ships, whose passengers descend on the small town in their masses.  

Almost fjord-like, the bay makes for spectacular kayaking and I was very lucky to be out on the water on one of the few days when there was not a cruise ship in town.  I felt a bit silly saying “Wow!” out loud to myself so often, but it really is that kind of place.  The surrounding limestone mountains dwarf all else and I couldn’t stop staring at them.

The Stari Grad (old town) is a gorgeous maze of winding streets, churches, cafes and cats (the most cats I’ve ever seen in one place) - all enclosed within the fortified walls.  After four days in the town, I still managed to get lost at some point every day and find a new laneway to try.

But for now I am in Podgorica, the capital of this small, but stunning country.  As cities go, it will never win any prizes for beauty, charm or congeniality, but I don’t mind.  My room has cable TV.  With English-speaking programs.  And a Snickers Bar in the fridge.  After having had almost no television for the whole trip, I am finding myself completely entranced by a show about how screwdrivers are made.   

Tonight it is the simple, familiar things that are providing more interest than any century-old church or fortress ever could.  

Meat, mountains and music

Sometimes you meet the nicest people on buses.  Even Russians.  Maybe we all bonded after spending nearly four hours listening to Eurovision Song Contest style music.  It has a way of bringing people together and the complete silence on the bus said it all.

Having made it further south to Montenegro, I have been blown away by its natural beauty which includes fjord-like winding coastal bays, masses of limestone mountains and ancient fortresses on cliffs that seem to defy gravity.  There is also a sort of endearing Balkan style of architecture here which seems to be left over from the former Yugoslav glory days.  

On a trip to raft one of Montenegro’s rivers,  I became known as “Australia” which must have been easier to pronounce and remember than my real name.  It’s been one of the lovely things about travelling solo - there is usually someone who feels the need to look out for me.  This time it was Russians and I was happy to finally meet some who would change the less-than-friendly stereotype I had built after previous experiences in their company. 

Nestled in the north-western corner of the country, the Tara and Piva rivers and canyons, in the Durmitor National Park, are nothing short of spectacular.  Although at this time of year the water levels and rapids are low, the snow melts in May bring a three to four metre water level rise and turn it into a Class Five, adrenalin-rush river.  From its highest point at the top of the canyon down to the river , it is only about 200 metres short of Colorado’s Grand Canyon and was quite a sight from a rubber raft.

Lunch had me thankful I was not a vegetarian after tucking into the traditional dish of Ispod Saca (chunks of veal and potatoes, cooked in a claypot, over open coals).  It was amazing - as was the honey we stopped to taste along the road, fresh from the beehives. 

On the four hour trip back, with the same music, a belly full of meat and eyes full of magical mountains, it is quite possible that I might have even hummed along. 

Another old city

There was a lot of hype around Dubrovnik, so my expectations were high.  That usually means I get disappointed.

After spending two days on gorgeous Mljet Island, I reluctantly took the ferry to what I thought might be just another old city, knowing that it would be hot and full of tourists. Mljet is predominantly national park, heavily wooded with tiny little seaside villages and great for getting away from the crowds. 

But Dubrovnik is a place that captivated me from the second I lay eyes on the Old Town.  It is impossible not to succumb to its irresistible charm, its fortressed city walls, its marble streets, its atmospheric evening temperatures, the constant boat activity and most of all, a view from my room and balcony that I could stare at 24/7.  The Adriatic Sea is spectacular and when combined with walls built between the 13th and 16th centuries perched on its edge, it is unforgettable. 

Despite the several hundred stairs down to the beach and back to my room, it is worth every thigh-burning step to swim in the irresistibly clear water.  It’s taken some time and practice on European beaches, but I have slowly adapted to having little or no personal space.  The mornings are OK, but I discovered that afternoons take ‘lack of personal space’ to a whole new level.  

I’m not sure what the highlight of the beach was this afternoon.  It could have been the very overweight lady, less than a metre in front of me, getting changed into a swimming costume that left nothing to the imagination.  It may have been the hairy man in his baggy white see-through Speedo bathers, or perhaps getting sand kicked on me ten times because there is no room for anyone to walk past.  I actually think it was when I rolled over on to my stomach and realised I could have chewed on the toes of the person in front of me.  Yes, that close.

So yes Dubrovnik, although August has you at your busiest and hottest, you are so worthy of the hype and did not disappoint me.

Morning at Banje Beach

A bridge

It is not just a bridge - it is a symbol of a town (and a country) that is very slowly rebuilding itself, but not without its challenges.  

A stunning, three hour bus ride from Sarajevo took me to Mostar, a town that suffered major destruction during the 1992-1995 war.  Mostar is home to five beautiful bridges, including the Stari Most (Old Bridge), which was totally destroyed then rebuilt and opened again in 2004 after significant support from the international community and UNESCO.  I got a lump in my throating watching video footage of the successive blasting and bombing that finally sent the symbolic arch plummeting into the river below after it had stood for 427 years.

It is a long-standing tradition for the young men of the town to prove their manhood (and impress the girls) by taking the 24 metre plunge from the Stari Most, into the cold, flowing, emerald green Neretva River below.  That tradition now tempts more than a few brave foreigners who are lured by the challenge for a mere 25 Euros.  Not surprisingly, there is a right way and a wrong way to do a 24 metre jump safely and there is some coaching provided beforehand, in true Balkan style.

There is also a process of building up the crowd anticipation levels and collecting donations to 'encourage' the bridge diver.  It is no mean feat to attempt and lots of false starts as newbies get to the edge and hesitate.  Can’t say I blame them - it is a LONG way down to the river, but I was lucky enough to catch one brave soul in action. 

After just a short time in Bosnia & Hercegovina, I have been amazed by the friendly, strong, resilient, positive people I met - many of whom had lived through terrible times in refugee camps, finally coming home after the war, with nothing, to start again.  

When you live in a country, as I do, that has never known its own war, it is often hard to understand why refugees often struggle to integrate and retain so much passion, pride and sometimes bitterness. 

I get it now.

Being careful

Be careful what you wish for because sometimes you get it.  I came to Bosnia & Hercegovina looking for something different.  I am getting so much more than I ever bargained for.

It sounded like a gunshot or blast straight outside the hostel.  As everyone raced to close the windows, the tear gas wafted in and we felt an indescribable burning sensation in our noses and throats.  It was nothing compared to the feelings of surprise, sadness and empathy that I would develop for the Bosnian people over the next couple of days after learning more about their tragic war history.

Sarajevo has been a unique place on my travels, with its mixture of ethnic groups (Muslim, Serbian Orthodox and Catholic) and an old town with incredible mosques, churches and synagogues - all within a 500m radius of each other.  From its medina-like alleyways, the middle-eastern influence, the pumping bars and cafes to the bullet-holes and ruined buildings, it is intoxicating, laid-back and yet so very sad.  It’s a city where the challenge of rebuilding and healing continues.

With over 11,000 people killed in Sarajevo when under siege by Serbian forces lasting from 1992 to 1995, it was a privilege to spend time listening to two older men who openly shared their very personal experiences during the war.  They spoke with little emotion, but had a haunting emptiness in their eyes.  One was a firefighter before and during the war and another described how he and his neighbours survived the shelling, grenades and sniper attacks on civilians for over three years, often watching friends being gunned down as they tried crossing roads.    

A visit to the Srebrenica and Potocari Memorial Museum (2.5 hours from Sarajevo), left me  emotional, empty and in shock at how inhumane mankind can be.  This was the scene of a brutal ethnic cleansing/genocide, killing 8,372 Muslims (predominantly males) and leaving a generation of children without fathers or brothers and a childhood forever stolen from them.  

His name is Hasan and he was just 16 when the his village was taken over by Serbian forces.  He re-lived his experience of refugee camps and being on a sports field with his friends when 74 teenagers were brutally gunned down around him.  He was a survivor, but listening to him speak of losing his father and twin brother is an image that will stay with me forever.

In sharing his story, he spoke of how “Education is the best revenge” and I was left thinking how careful future generations need to be to ensure that history never, ever repeats itself.

Shades of blue

Tour group hell - that’s where I was.  And the worst part was that I had willingly booked myself on to the tour.  “It’s the most people I’ve ever seen here”, said our tour guide.  Lucky me - I managed to get one of the hottest days of the year AND have thousands of other tourists around me.  

Plitvice Lakes National Park is a stunning piece of work by Mother Nature and a must for any visitor.  Just not in August and especially not the two weeks in August that all of Italy has holidays (and visits Croatia).  Connected by environmentally-sensitive timber boardwalks and trails through a series of waterfalls, the sixteen lakes are varying shades of blue.  Even though it was incredibly hot, I was glad that there are strict measures in place to protect this pristine area with no swimming allowed.

Today, on a full day boat trip from the coastal city of Split, I saw more shades of blue than I thought possible.  Perched on my front row seat next to the skipper, on a smooth, clear ocean that continually changes, I marveled at the surreal colour of the water in the aptly named ‘Blue Cave’ when the sun shines in on a certain angle.  No digital enhancement could ever match what occurs naturally here in Croatia. 

The islands are a mix of 20-something party scene, swimming, snorkelling, old fortressed towns, limestone cliffs and more partying with yachts, powerboats and fishing punts of every shape and size.  At 26 degrees, the water is far from refreshing, but is so very nice to be immersed in its blueness.

But despite the attractive scenery and buzzing summer scene, something is missing for me here. I need to be a traveller (not a tourist) for a few days.  I need to detour to a place with more substance to interest and excite me.  

That place has Sarajevo, Bosnia written all over it.

A bed

It was hard not to smile when the taxi driver asked me "Are you a real Australian or do you have Croatian blood?".  Ummm ...... guessing I am a "real" Australian, unless there is something my mother hasn't told me. 

It was a funny moment after a long, hot day of bus/train/bus travel to get from Slovenia to the Croatian region of Istria.  I had been warned how busy August would be to visit, but nothing prepared me for mass tourism on this scale.  When the four screaming children in my six-seater train compartment kept kicking and crawling over me I thought,  more than once, that Guatemala would be nice this time of year. 

After trundling my bags through the cobblestone streets at 11.30pm at night, to the only hotel in town that had a room, I almost burst into tears when the man told me the price.   It would be my most expensive room of the entire trip - three times my budget.  He could sense I was a woman on the brink and gave me a discount.  When I saw the room, I did burst into tears.  It's only redeeming feature was that it was in the gorgeous coastal town of Rovinj.

Rovinj is a charming and popular fishing town with buildings that fall straight into the clear deep green ocean, where you can walk through narrow streets and smell lunch being cooked in homes along the way, see the washing flapping in the sea breeze, join the sun seekers perched like lizards on the rocks or eat in one of the many oceanfront cafes.  

Croatia's Adriatic coastline is spectacular from the water or by road.  Today's eight hours of bus travel across to Zadar spoilt me with incredible coast and ocean views for the whole trip.  The water here is beautiful any time of the day, but when the sun loses its strength in the evening, it brings a special glow and light that I have come to love. 

And tonight I have a bed.  Not just any bed - the BEST bed and room I've had the entire trip.  It's black.  With wall to wall, floor to ceiling mirrors.  And shag pile carpet.  And has a huge window overlooking Roman ruins.  This was a bed worth waiting for.

Postcards

There is something special about receiving a postcard from somewhere afar.   But I am guilty of not sending a single postcard in seven months and that makes me feel a little bad. 

I don’t feel as bad, however, knowing that I have been able to share some of my memorable experiences and pictures through blogging and Facebook.  This week, that sharing led to an opportunity to talk about my travel experiences through a pre-recorded Slovenian National Radio interview in the charming capital of Ljubljana.  It was a pleasure to share my impressions of a country that many people would be hard-pressed to point to on a map, but one that is so worthy of exploring.  

When the interviewer asked me to share some typical ‘Aussie slang’ to finish the interview, I knew it was not to be my finest moment.  It normally rolls off my tongue ......... until someone asks me to quote it into a recording device. 

Exhausted from my extensive one hour media commitment, I did what all celebrities do - escape the city for a few days by the lake.  Water (river & lake) is at the top of my “Things I love about Slovenia” list and I can’t get enough of the clean, clear stuff that is in abundance here.  Lake Bohinj is the biggest lake in the country, picture-postcard perfect, with limited development keeping the area pristine.  Despite my bare feet still not coping well with rocky ‘beaches’, the summer water temperature is perfect for swimming morning, noon and evening. 

A outdoor enthusiasts’ paradise, Bohinj offers a smorgasbord of biking, canoeing, rafting, paragliding and swimming with the bordering Triglav National Park (home to Mt Triglav, the country’s highest mountain at 2,864m), providing endless climbing and hiking routes.  

A morning spent cycling the Bohinjska Kolesarska Pot (sounds more interesting than Bohinj Cycling Trail) was a great way to see the river, farms, villages, fields of wildflowers and to get a taste of the local country life.   

So while it was just a short stay, visiting Slovenia has felt like one big postcard moment of green and blue.

You go first

“Leanne, I need you to go first and hook us into the anchor at the bottom of the waterfall” said our guide.   And just like that I had been appointed assistant canyoning guide for the day.  

With temperatures in the high 30‘s and trudging uphill wearing just bathers, wetsuit booties and shoes, it was hard to believe that 30 minutes later we would be dressed in full wetsuits, preparing for a day of getting wet in the best possible way. 

Lowering over the edge through a 50 metre waterfall into the turquoise blue pool below was just one part of a fantastic day that included sliding down natural rockslides into crystal clear pools.  My rope skills and canyoning experience were put to good use as our group made our way down Fratarica Canyon in the Soca Valley, exhilarated by being in such a special place.

I am in Slovenia which is heaven for anyone into nature and outdoor activities and packs a mighty punch in a small area.  Bordered by Italy, Hungary, Austria and Croatia, it is sparsely developed and populated compared to the rest of Europe and comes as a welcome change.

Best reached by car, the region is home to the Soca River, a beautiful 96km long turquoise river which is the cleanest and clearest I have seen anywhere in the world.  Surrounded by the Julian Alps and Triglav National Park, it is just perfect for rafting, climbing, hiking, biking, canyoning or just lying in the sun by the river soaking in the fresh mountain air.  At the height of the summer dry season, the river was low but just whet my appetite for how spectacular it would be after the snow melts. 

My weather gods are getting a bit carried away with the sunshine and warmth.  There are only so many clear, sunny 35+ degree days one can take in a row.  Luckily a visit to the Skocjan Caves Regional Park provided a cool 12 degree break.  The Skocjan Caves network is the biggest I have ever seen (11 caves) and with a huge underground river and canyon, the magnitude of the caverns was quite mind-blowing.

With so much more to explore in this beautiful country, I will happily continue to go first.

Worth Trying

The options were many but the choice was easy.  Why would I go to a gallery with a name that I could not pronounce when I could go to to the Museum of Broken Relationships?  I was intrigued - it sounded like something that would be worth trying.

Conceptualised in Croatia, the Museum grew from a travelling exhibition revolving around the concept of failed relationships and their ruins.  People all over the world have donated personal items, along with a short story explaining the symbolism of the item and the broken relationship, to be exhibited as therapeutic relief.  It has since toured internationally and it was absolutely fascinating.

It is just one of the many wonderful things that greet visitors to Zagreb.  With a colourful open-air food market, gardens, cobblestones, trams, buzzing outdoor dining scene, lots of free live music, quirky museums and churches (of course), this clean, charismatic city has been an unexpectedly pleasant introduction to a country that I have wanted to visit for over fifteen years.  

On 1st July this year, Croatia became the 28th country to be admitted into the E.U. (European Union), two decades after its brutal war of independence.  In one particular square in the old town, the buildings surrounding it were flying the joint flags of Croatia and the E.U.   

And then I saw them - the group of reporters gathered outside one set of doors.  It was worth trying....... so I did.  I almost got away with pretending I was a reporter.  With camera (zoom lens of course) around my neck, notebook in hand, I stood next to a well-dressed lady who was holding a recording device.  It looked like it could be interesting ....... so I decided to roll with it to see what would happen.  

I waited patiently outside the building (still no idea what it was) for someone important (no idea who they were) to arrive and make an important statement (no idea what it was about).  And then the important person came out of the building.  Like many fun plans, it was flawed.  It might have worked better if I could understand Croatian.  So I quickly snuck away,  photographed the group from afar and smirked to myself for ages afterwards about little it takes to amuse myself. 

Even if things don’t always go to plan, sometimes they are worth trying anyway - just because you can.  

As time goes by

So maybe I didn't get the dream peloton photos I had planned, but I got more.  I got everything that Paris had to offer on the final day of Le Tour de France.  

The crowds started gathering early in anticipation of what was to come and Paris delivered on all front.  Except one.  Toilets.  Barely a loo to be found and it's not just Paris.  France in general seems to have a minimalist policy when it comes to toilets.   

As time went by (thirteen hours of it for me), people watching provided endless entertainment, amusement and also admiration.  I admired the very polite and helpful policemen who spent most of the day giving people directions.  I admired the Columbian spectators for their vibrancy, love of life and music (wherever there are Latin Americans, there is a party).   I admired those dedicated spectators (mainly English, cheering their winner) who sat in the very hot sun for those thirteen hours, with their flags on the barricade, to keep their prime positions.  Unlike many people from all over the world, I chose not to wear my country's flag as a cape, but was proudly Australian on the inside.

And as for those amazing cyclists ......... they are so incredibly fast.  They are much faster than I ever anticipated and when they hit the downhill sprint towards the finishing line on the Champs-Elysees, they are just a blur.  Thankfully they were a blur eight times as they did their laps which gave me eight opportunities to try and spot Cadel.    

It was a 'pinch me' moment watching the podium ceremony on the big screen, standing beneath the Arc de Triomphe ablaze in lights and joining thousands of others in genuine appreciation for the riders and what it takes to even make the start of such a race. 

This morning, hot, weary and with tourist burnout, I had to convince myself to get out and see some more sights.  As the accordian-playing busker on the train played "As Time Goes By", it was a simple reminder of how blessed I am to have time to watch life go by.

Timing

Sometimes it is all in the timing.  Sometimes I fluke it, like being in Annecy to see the start of a stage of Le Tour de France.  But sometimes timing is not quite on my side - like today. 

Annecy, a beautiful lakeside town, surrounded by mountains and steeped in history, was the scene of the second last stage of the historic 100th Tour de France and my very first tour experience.

Le Tour de France is nothing less than a spectacle and transforms every city, town and village that it visits.  Those places both bid and pay heavily for the privilege of being included on the route each year, but the publicity and tourism that it brings is worth its weight in gold.

The day before the Tour came to town, I did THE thing to do - I went cycling.  Although I was lycra-free in a clearly lycra-preferred zone (and on a rented girly bike with a basket), I enjoyed cycling around the dedicated bike trail around the lake as much as all the shiny people did. 

After getting up early to catch all the action of the Tour circus under construction, I scored a ringside spot against the railing, ready to watch the teams doing their official sign-in before starting for the day.  With zoom lens poised, I had timed it that I could get to see a few of the teams on stage before having to leave to catch the train to Paris.

That’s where I got the timing wrong.   The crowds were building all around town as I clapped and cheered through two hot hours of pre-start entertainment and give-aways.  As the time ticked by, I started getting nervous.  Surely the riders would be coming out any minute?  No.  I had forgotten about the all the official cars, the police vehicles and the publicity caravan that had to make their way out onto the road first.  The caravan is a major procession of decorated cars (lasting about 45 minutes), giving away sponsors‘ product along the road ahead of the race.  It’s an exciting and integral part of the whole Tour and I saw first-hand how passionate people are about catching the merchandise. 

I didn’t see or get a single photo of a cyclist but it was worth more to get the whole experience that is Le Tour de France.   But now comes the Champs-Elysees.

The air of excitement and anticipation right now in Paris is infectious and this time the timing couldn’t be more perfect.

Ups and downs

It started with a down.  The car had stopped at the crossing for another pedestrian and I, naively, expected it would stay stopped while I walked across.  But no.  After yelling a very loud swear word as it ran straight into me, knocking me and my luggage to the ground, I recall thinking that this might not be a very good day. 

Adrenalin kicked in as I retreated to the side of the road, grateful that nothing appeared broken or damaged.  With several cars offering to be witnesses and give statements on my behalf, I spent most of the time thanking them, telling them that I was OK and consoling the young, shaking girl that had hit me.  Sometimes it's just not worth making a fuss in a foreign language when no real harm was done.  Well, apart from the nightmares of little white cars lunging at me, no real harm.  

Things began to look up a few hours later after reaching Morzine - a beautiful town, full of flowers, set amongst the mountains with tonnes of good walking trails and views. Having just missed the Harley-Davidson convention, it seemed surprising how many groups of British guys were around.  The fact they they were a lot less hairy than most Harley riders did make me wonder what they were all doing in town.

It seems that Morzine is one of the premier downhill mountain biking locations in the world.   The UK doesn't have many big mountains, so across to France they come in their hundreds.  The fantastic ski lift systems takes riders up with their bikes, then down the trails they come.  The grazed bodies and arm slings around town was a good indication of the hazards, but the smiles, laughter and jokes over a beer or two showed just how much fun everyone was having, along with the thrills and spills. 

It's always nice when a down is followed by lots of ups. 

In celebration

Today, the 14th of July, is France’s national day (Bastille) and although I spent the day in Switzerland (a.k.a. the most expensive country in the world, where everything is closed on Sundays), there are lots of things to celebrate about being in France again after too many years.

Nimes, in southern France, provided a very fine re-introduction to the country.  My initial expectation was that it would be yet another lovely town filled with Roman ruins, gardens and one of the best-preserved amphitheatres in the world.  Little did I know that every Thursday during July and August, the city centre transforms.  At night it morphs into a vibrant outdoor festival with restaurants galore, free, live outdoor music at more than eight locations, artisan markets, dancing and food/wine stalls.  The place buzzed with the joy of summer and I buzzed with it.

Further north, it was a celebration of being in the outdoor wonderland of the Alps region.  Chamonix, the popular ski resort and mountain playground, is home to Mont Blanc, Western Europe’s highest peak at over 4,800m.  With the influx of summer visitors, it is more difficult to get away from it all or have a true wilderness experience, but it's a great base and paradise for hikers, climbers, cyclists, paragliders and trail runners alike.  With at least twelve outdoor equipment and clothing stores to lure in this deprived traveller, it was the ultimate test of willpower to walk out empty-handed.

I am habitually speaking Spanish to the French people and for some reason, they are just not understanding me.  My English doesn’t seem to work very well either.  Generally their first preference is to speak French........ and their second preference is to speak French.  

Luckily I now have the essential words under control and can celebrate being able to find myself a toilet or order a chocolate croissant with confidence.

Happy Bastille Day.

Detouring

Sometimes a little detour can lead to the most unexpected, wonderful experiences and detouring in Spain has been no exception.  

Of course I knew Salvador Dali was a famous Spanish artist.  Of course I did ........ 

Truthfully though, before coming to here, I would have been hard-pressed to recognise any of his work.  Determined not to remain ignorant, it took just a little detour to the town of Figueres, to see his famous theatre/museum - one of the most visited in Spain.  It turned out to be one of the most unexpectedly wonderful things I have seen in this country and left me in awe of a genius.  

So while on a roll with my newfound admiration for Dali, the detours continued.  It was just one more hour on a bus after all .........  and it took me to the Costa Brava, to the coastal town of Cadaques that inspired much of Dali’s work and the area he called home for many years.  It is tucked into the uppermost north-east corner of Spain, just a hop, skip and a jump into France.  

Little did I know how much I would enjoy this beautiful, white-washed, cobble-stone filled town with medieval city walls and the Mediterranean Sea at its feet.  With its main economy being tourism, it is not difficult to see why it is so popular with locals and visitors alike.  With its crystal clear, blue/green Mediterranean waters, Cadaques is perfect for diving, swimming, fishing, boating and soaking up the sunshine on the rocky beaches. (As an Australian, the concept of lying on a rocky ‘beach’ has been challenging, but it is the Mediterranean and that’s just what you do). 

It is always a bonus when you can explore a unique rocky coastline by kayak, stopping in at little bays along the way for a swim.  With great water visibility and perfect ocean conditions, I was left wondering what I did to please my weather gods in a previous life.  After six months of travelling and a total of only eight days of bad weather, I continue to worship my weather gods. 

Cadaques is also the starting point for some great hiking in Cap de Creus - a dry, rocky nature park with amazing geology, surrounded by ocean and incredible views.  I do love a good rocky outcrop and this area does not disappoint.   

The most interesting times on this journey have resulted from trusting my instinct to ‘just go for it and see what happens’, rather than sticking rigidly to a plan.  It’s those detours that are making it so special.  

Getting infected

I suffer from a hidden fear and I’m not ashamed to admit it.  It is called “tourgroupphobia” - the fear and immense dislike of getting caught up in crowds of tour groups (particularly the ones with megaphone-wielding group leaders that get in the way of my perfect photo).  Ah, summer holidays in Europe.

The remedy is simple - get out early to beat the crowds.  In Spain, with its long, late-night culture, ‘early’ generally means nine or ten a.m.   Love it.

Under a sky that has been impossibly blue, the historic town of Girona has been a charming mix of colour and character.  With a major airport nearby and cheap flights from the UK and Europe, the summer crowds are already making their presence felt.  Girona is often the first introduction visitors have to Spain and makes a memorable impression with its mixture of old and new architecture, great museums and friendly atmosphere. 

It also has gelato - lots of and lots of gelato.  In fact, it has the most artisan gelato shops I have EVER seen in one place.   Day one of trying to resist was a dismal failure.

Girona is not, as I first thought, the city of Romeo and Juliet fame.  Turns out that is Verona ..... and it’s in Italy (should have paid more attention to my Shakespeare).  It is, however, a lovely romantic town to stroll around, gazing at the impossibly blue sky - and eating gelato.  

With the perfect temperature and light of the day at eight p.m. at night, there is nothing more pleasant than sitting outdoors in the plazas, watching the world go by.  Spain’s less-than-booming economy makes for good value dining and a good three-course lunch with drink can be still be found for about $15.

Despite the European crowds that are only going to get bigger everywhere in August, I shall be brave and face my fears. 

In the words of Michael Palin:  

“Once the travel bug bites there is no know antidote and i know that I shall be happily infected until the end of my life”.

Swearing

As I stood frozen on the spot, I was very glad that I understand some Spanish.  It did not help calm down the barking German Shepherd dog that had me bailed up on the mountain trail.  It did help me understand its owner when he finally appeared around the bend,  telling me ”do nothing, do nothing, stand still and do nothing”.  I did nothing.

When the owner sauntered past with the playful puppy, telling me it was all OK, the temptation was very high to do something.  Something like swear profusely.  Must have been the adrenalin - I would never swear profusely.

I have made it to the small town of Benasque, nestled in a valley at the base of the Spanish Pyrenees mountains, not far from the border with France.  It’s one of those picture books towns full of cobble-stoned streets, beautiful old buildings and an icy-looking river.  Benasque is both a hiking and mountain-biking mecca in summer and a base for skiers in winter.  It is always fun to turn up to a new town and find a fiesta in progress, with a band, free wine, ham, bread and complete with a puppet show for the children.  

My first day’s hiking included getting harassed by three dogs, slipping on wet rocks, soaking my shoes in an unexpected puddle and getting a bit lost but I only had to look up at the incredible views to remind myself that I am in the Pyrenees and I am not a princess.  I may, however, have sworn once or twice. 

I almost didn’t get here.  After locking myself in the musty stairwell of the Barcelona apartment, as I was leaving to catch the bus, things were not looking good.  With no phone reception, no keys, no neighbours home and one hour of sitting in the dark, a passing real estate agent came to the rescue.  I may have sworn more than once or twice at my own stupidity.  

But I did get here and will continue to soak up this lovely town and its crisp, clear mountain air with delight.

Waiting expectantly for the show to begin.  The crowd was huge once it got started. 

Stolen

When I arrived, I was warned about the pickpockets and bag snatchers that are rife in the tourist haunts around the city.  I had prepared myself mentally that it might happen to me and that something important might get stolen. The first-hand experiences people shared with me had just reinforced it even more.  Through the narrow, cobblestone, slightly undesirable backstreets, I had remained cautious and ever-vigilant - always holding my bag tight and staying alert.

The only thing stolen from me in Barcelona was my heart.  But it was returned to me filled with love and admiration for this city, its passion, its people and the joy of life.  Those less desirable streets became part of my neighbourhood and I looked forward to exchanging a "buenas dias" with the drunks hanging on the corner at nine in the morning.

It has been a place to pause, my home for almost one month and although these feet are starting to itch for new adventures, it will be sad to leave the friends and the familiarity of a city that has been so welcoming.

It will be hard not to miss my favourite cafes, listening to the animated locals, the gorgeous policemen, yoga clases in Spanish, people-watching in the plazas, getting hugs from random strangers, walking everywhere, the bubble-making busker, the inhibition-free beaches, the generous 'standard' drink servings, the food, the music, the vibe and the colour.  I will miss being in a place that is proudly and staunchly Catalonian, that fought long and hard (but unsuccessfully) for its independence and where men are not to proud or macho to greet each other with a hug and double-kiss.

I will miss being able to sit in awe listening to one of The Three Tenors and being treated to the visually spectacular (and free) 'Magic Fountain' - a synchronised water fountain/light/music show.  There is much to miss about Barcelona.    

Although the mountains of the Pyrenees are about to steal me away, it becomes clear that home doesn't have to be somewhere permanent - it can be anywhere the heart is.

Nowhere special - I just liked the orange bits. 

My neighbourhood plaza

Gaudi's iconic La Sagrada Familia - the essence of Barcelona.

National Museum of Art - an amazing backdrop for the Magic Fountain show. 

The Magic Fountain, dancing in time with the music.

The longest day

It looked, felt and sounded like the city was under siege and it lasted a very long time.  The smoke and fireworks started from ten p.m. on Sunday night and were still going when I got home at two a.m. this morning.  

With a long weekend in Barcelona, the celebrations of the feast of Sant Joan are well and truly underway.  Today (24 June) is an important day for the Catalan residents and marks the official start of summer in the northern hemisphere.   Midnight last night marked the longest day (shortest night) of the year and the time at which the sun reaches its highest point before beginning to drop.  In other parts of the world, it is known as summer solstice.  The sun is seen as a symbol of fertility and wealth and is given strength by all the fireworks lit around the city.  

And they are everywhere.  Lit freely in the streets, on the beaches, in the plaza - by anyone, anywhere and they can be alarmingly close and a bit scary when one goes off as you walk past it.  The atmosphere is very loud and vibrant but also highly unregulated (the fun police take a night off) and I was really surprised to see small children lighting crackers, then taking just a few steps back while it shot into the air (or sideways - it’s always a bit of a gamble).    

With ambulance and fire engine sirens going off regularly in the background, I found myself wondering how many fingers and eyes have been lost over the years in the name of fun.  I’m pretty sure there is a reason they are banned in so many other countries. 

As well as being an important family celebration for locals, the long weekend also draws huge party crowds of Europeans - many with their ‘drinking team T-shirts‘ on.

Before the evening celebrations, it was great to have seen some of the family and community celebrations with their gigantes (giants) lined up for photos.  An unexpected storm cleared the early beach crowds but did little to dampen the enthusiasm or numbers of people later in the night. 

With a seven a.m. start for me yesterday, it really did feel like the longest day.

Getting lucky

They started on Tuesday and it sounded like gunshots.  The fiesta does not start until Sunday, but I am very lucky that the sweet children in my street decided to start practising early.  They have been letting off crackers at random hours of the day and night.  It is a stroke of luck that I will be in Barcelona for San Juan - one of the biggest fiestas of the year.   All I know is that it will be 24 hours of celebrating and loudness......  but more about that next blog.

Last night was more than just luck - it was also a privilege.  Wandering the city during the beautiful evening light, then watching and listening to the renowned Spanish tenor Jose Carreras perform outdoors at dusk, in front of the Pedralbes Royal Palace, surrounded by gardens, was a special experience. 

It might have cost six Euros ($8) to buy a hotdog for dinner and I might have felt completely out of place wearing jeans (really wish someone had mentioned that the dress code was formal....), but I did get very lucky with my seat.  After the seat I booked online was deemed to have an obstructed view, the wonderful concert organisers took the liberty of changing my seat.  They told me they hoped I would be OK with that.  I was more than OK with that - I had been moved from a cheap seat to the best section at the venue, for free. 

He may be a lot older than in the glory days of the Three Tenors, but I was unprepared for just how powerful and transcending his voice would still be.  Listening to Jose and Gladys (a gorgeous Italian soprano) doing a duet of “All I ask of you” from Phantom of the Opera, sent shivers down my spine.  Their finale (after five encores) of “Amigos Para Siempre” (Friends for Life) is a memory that time will never erase.  Unluckily for me, the taking photos was not allowed once the show started and besides, I think the crowd would have lynched me if I had tried.  Cameras with big zoom lenses are definitely not ‘de rigeur’ at the opera.

During the taxi ride home, the Indian taxi driver and I had an interesting discussion in Spanish about the concert ...... and cricket.  As I paid the fare, he kindly suggested that we could go together to the San Juan festivities on the beach on the weekend.

It was a very kind gesture, but not his lucky night.