Only twice have I skipped a day’s sailing on a charter holiday,
Croatia’s Dalmatian coast shares that prize.
Having fought a bloody war two decades ago to establish its sovereignty and independence from one dysfunctional superbloc, it’s a warm welcome to another this week for Croatia, who become the 28th nation to join the seemingly ever more wobbly European Union.
Ah, the war. To quote a legend, “Don’t mention the war, I mentioned it once, but I think I got away with it.”
And we did get away with it, though it did cost us a day’s sailing…
Splitting for a week
Boat owners and holiday apartment owners will sympathise with each other in defining a successful holiday as one where you take more jobs off your to-do list than you add to it.
Which is how I found myself splitting for a week to Split last year, for a pre-season (and therefore cheap) charter break island hopping (aka bar hopping) in the Adriatic with three middle-aged mates, two British and one a Dutchman who hails from The Hague.
Or the “Prison for Heroes” as the locals prefer to call it.
Of which, more shortly…
The one Kuna tour
A view of the map or the view from the plane will have any pleasure sailor salivating. The Dalmatian islands promise a pearl-necklace of sun-kissed islands nestling in a comparatively sheltered non-tidal sea.
For sure, there are more polished charter destinations, but Croatia isn’t that far off the beaten track and all the comforts, pleasures and amenities are there. Marinas and harbours are never too far from each other, shore-power, showers and WiFi never too hard to find, and if the stern-to moorings popular in this part of the world freak you out a little, marina and harbour staff will be on hand to help you get tied up at the end of the day.
Yes, all the regular needs of the modern sailing bloke are catered for here.
Our charter boat helpfully came with a set of non-English pilot guides but harbour staff were always happy to interpret and lend their own advice on the best (cheapest) marinas to stay in and the best (owned by family and friends) places to eat and drink. The navigation is as simple as it could be anyway and we made heaviest use of the free Information Map provided by the tourist board and Croatian Hydrographic Institute – a handy sheet containing a basic chart along with suggested routes, weather resources and key navigation rules.
And while it might be less polished than some of the better known charter destinations, you have less of a battle to avoid the pitfalls too. For sure there are the restaurants and bars in some marinas or by the more popular quays that will charge you an arm and a leg for a beer or a shot of the local Grappa, but you never have too far to walk to find a friendly little family run place.
A place where you can mix with locals and the less lazy and showy variety of tourist.
A place where the owner will stand you a bottle of the local wine for being the first boatload of Englishmen to turn up at his place that year.
A place where you can eat a reasonably priced meal while shooting the breeze with some easy company.
And a place where saying you’re from The Hague generates a reaction somewhat akin to telling a bar full of Scousers that you’re a Man United supporter.
Prison for heroes
To be fair this wasn’t the first time my Dutch friend had mentioned his city of birth to the Croats. On our first night in Split, in a charming little restaurant on a back street near Diocletian’s Palace it came up while we chatted with the owner and it was greeted with a cacophony of laughs, pantomime howls and calls of Prison for Heroes from all corners of the room.
Pantomime howls is about right. While we’d obviously hit a raw nerve the banter was always good-natured and friendly and by the middle of the week we were totally unfazed by it. We’d come to regard it as a rather useful ice-breaker.
That said we were never able to get anyone to really explain it all to us. I guess the heroic sheen of wartime actions dims when viewed from peacetime. The line between a brave act of defence and an atrocity shifts to the side a little. A war in which atrocities were doubtless committed, and one that dragged in many other nations in order to bring it to a conclusion, will demand a worldwide scrutiny.To scrutinise it fairly demands that accusations from all sides be investigated with equanimity and due process followed. This long, drawn out task fell to the International Criminal Court in The Hague. The apparent feeling of being hard done by amongst the Croats we met would seem to be vindicated by some of the court’s conclusions.
We’d tied up for the night at a small harbour town on the north side of Brač after evaluating a few options and picking a small ferry port which looked likely to feed and water us. Toddling up to a quiet pizzeria overlooking the Adriatic we settled down to several bottles of the local red and a carbs feast to satisfy our sailor’s appetites.
As we chatted with the owner the conversation turned to our origins and we played our tried-and-tested ice-breaker card.
As the howls of laughter gradually subsided, free drinks flowed, generosity was reciprocated and the hours evaporated. Well into the wee small hours we finally staggered back to our boat and one of the very few times I’ve resorted to crawling up the plank between quay and stern as I was in no fit state to tackle it upright.
Punishment for the guilty
Midday was close at hand when my sore and sorry eyes opened the following day. I was semi-naked on my bunk with the cabin door still open and I had no idea how I’d wound up there. My crewmates stirred shortly afterwards, probably as a result of my clumsy attempts to dress and rehydrate myself.
We looked over an inviting, sunkissed sea through dark glasses and shaded brows.
Nope. Not today.
A walk inland (eventually) seemed like a plan; heading up the hill to the nearest town and a supermarket where we could stock up for a “quiet night in” on the boat.
We ambled up the road past small holdings and tumbledown buildings occasionally adorned with black-and-white posters of military looking men captioned with words none of us will ever understand, but a message we understood all too well.
The town’s bar was closed up for a local funeral but the owner’s daughter cheerfully knocked up lunch for us – bread, fish, meat, olive oil and some freshly made lemonade to help us recover from the night’s excesses.
And a useful reminder that behind those Facebook-shots of quaint buildings and rolling hills there are lives being lived, and it’s our encounters with those lives that really make a trip worthwhile.
And no, it wasn’t a “quiet night in” on the boat after all.
