Beside the Seaside

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In Which It's Me, Oh Kathy

August 20, 2008 by Mike

Poreč

Route: Ankaran - Koper - Izola - Piran - Sečovlie - Savudrija (Croatia) - Umag - Poreč

25 years ago I came to Yugoslavia with my skoolchum Andy Blyth. We had InterRail tickets, backpacks and, in Andy's case, a 17-year-old's moustache. (He was still the one all the girls fancied, mind.) We'd been in Lloret, we'd stayed with my sister in a circus tent in Avignon and my aunt in a big house in the hills behind St Tropez, and we'd spent two days in Florence, visiting a grand total of zero museums but finding a great jukebox in a bar behind the station. Although the bar behind the station in Paris, where we learned to speak French with a Moroccan accent, had better beer, as I recall.

And in Yugoslavia? We took the train to Pula then (I'm guessing) the bus up to Poreč, which is where the Blyths had come on holiday when Andy was a nipper. All I remember is getting drunk in a field and cadging a sleep in the tent of three students from Watford. They were so grown up -- at least nineteen -- and one of them said his brother was Kate Bush's first boyfriend. He was the first one to, y'know, "do it" with her. Like I said -- they were blokes. It was all very exciting. Then we had to go back to the train station.

So I travelled in hope and expectation today, humming 'Wuthering Heights', through the remainder of those 31 km or so of Slovenian coastline -- stopping only at the yellow-and-green supermarket, I fear -- and in to Croatia, and to Porec.

The border was marked by a change from pine forest to a lower, stunted, shrubby tree. Can that really be the reason that Slovenian speakers stopped heading south, or Croatians stopped moving north, all those centuries ago? Perhaps there isn't a Croatian word for pine and, stumped, if you'll forgive the pun, they simply stopped at the edge of the forest.

It's a small road out along the coast to Savudrija then round and south through Umag and Novigrad. Holiday homes hidden down dark tracks. Glimpses of blue sea. If Slovenia is full of supermarkets then Croatia is a land of Tourist Offices, Tourist Agencies, Turist Buros, Turist Biros and at least one Turist Ofice -- bad speling on purposse to maek it stannd out, I oneder? Otherwise the landscape was beautiful and the shrub gave way to far more compelling and attractive views.

Umag and Dajla and Novigrad and Spadiči -- the towns sound so different.

I saw no Slovenian cars in Italy. Even though the border is open and both countries in the EU, and there are many people of Slovenian origin in Trieste; even though the standards of living aren't so very far apart. It was as if the Slovenians didn't dare cross that frontier.

Lots of Italians in Slovenia, though. Although, because by now I was actively searching, I saw no Croatian cars in Slovenia. As if they didn't feel they should be there.

There are lots of Italians *and* a fair number of Slovenians in Croatia.

It all reminds me of one of the great moments of British comedy. Please stop to watch this if you haven't seen it before. (If you know it, you'll watch with pleasure, I'm sure.) It helps if you're British -- or know us very well -- but I've been replaying this sketch all day -- with Cleese as the Italians, Barker the Slovenes and little Ronnie Corbett as the Croats: "I know my place."

To Poreč and, Kate Bush aside, I had few memories so no expectations. It's a very attractive little place, ringed by hotels and holiday apartments. I can't believe it was this developed 25 years ago, although Croatia and the whole of the former Yugoslav coast were tourist hotspots for central and southern Europe long ago.

And then I spotted a sign, amongst the pointers to Tourist Agencies and Campings and Apartmani:
BIKERS CAMP

Wanting to warn them about the missing apostrophe, I followed the signs a couple of miles inland -- a great biking road, incidentally, all curves and climbs, although the last 100 metres or so are loose shale and mud -- possibly so the bikers who are already there can laugh at late-comers like me paddling their bike down the lane or worse, falling over in full view of the assembled biker hordes.

Except, I was the only biker there. And the only other tent belonged to a French family who turned up late this evening in their Renault.

That left me and Dragan, the owner of BIKERS CAMP. He'll be played in the movie of the book of the blo- I mean diary of the trip by Benicio Del Toro as he played Fred Fenster in The Usual Suspects, though speaking German with a Croatian accent. Something I feel Benicio will manage with Oscar-winning comfort.

Dragan is the most laid-back campsite owner ever -- especially of a campsite that, at the height of the summer season, has me and the French family to stay. "Maybe tomorrow fifty Hell's Angels come," he offered, brightly. Then he offered me a shot of moonshine and all seemed well with the world, and the idea of those fifty Hell's Angels arriving. Wow.. strong stuff.

BIKERS CAMP has clean loos and showers for men and women. It has logs set around a large campfire (unused). There are two hammocks set up under the trees, away from the fierce sun. A couple of small bungalows are available for those who don't pack a tent on their Harley. And then there's the bar.

It's a big bar. You could call it rough and ready, with a couple of cracked and greasy leather sofas in one corner near the big, old television. There's a pool table in the far corner. A motorcycle sits off by itself, partly in pieces. There are seats inside and out on the wooden deck, beneath a roof lined with a blue tarpaulin sheet. An American flag hangs from the ceiling over the bar itself. On shelves behind the bar are two kinds of glasses -- big and very big -- and a can or two or engine oil. There's no food available but you can drink draught beer, bottled beer or -- when he knows you -- Dragan's moonshine.

There's music too. It's exactly what you'd expect. Exactly what you'd hope to be playing in the bar of a Bikers' Camp in the hills above Poreč.. unless you happened to be staying there yourself. Think late 60s/ early 70s. Think Heavy Rock and Heavy Blues. Think denim and leather. Think long hair and longer moustaches. Think slide guitar, growled vocals and a chugga-chugga rhythm section. Then think.. played by Croats.. sung by Croats in 'English'.. think lyrics written in 'English' by Croats. Who perhaps learned their English from records. Gulp. Think this music played very loud, very late.

Welcome to BIKERS CAMP.

Beside the Seaside

In Which It's Me, Oh Kathy

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