Lake Bled

“Why should we lie still?”, asks the Slovenian travel brochure I've picked up from the hostel office. It's a good question, and one I dare not think about too hard lest I decide never to get out of bed again. So I read on. “Natural beauties and fresh Alpine air are inviting you to take highly active holidays. Rowing and surfing on the lake, angling, kayaking and rafting on the Alpine rivers, riding in nature and climbing the surrounding mountains, cycling and golfing, ballooning and parachute gliding”...

Cripes, you'd need a holiday for sure after all that. Just thinking about it makes me feel like a beer. So I put down the brochure and walk across the street to the supermarket, where for 50 Euro cents I purchase a can of something that tastes like it's been brewed in the store room out the back (and upon closer inspection of the can, it has) and take it back to my sun-lit hostel room. The proprietor, a tall slender woman in her 30s, is talking to the girls about something. She is a wonderfully cheerful lady and bears a startling resemblance to an older Cassie from Home And Away, except that she speaks better English than Cassie. Knowing we'd arrive during her lunch hour, she left a key and a friendly message for us at reception. It's hard to imagine Cassie ever being that hospitable.

Indeed, every person I've met so far in Slovenia has been warm, friendly and thankfully multilingual. After becoming instantly lost while making the 200-metre journey from the train station to our hostel in Ljubljana last evening, we were stopped three times in as many minutes by kind strangers who were only too happy to provide directions. Never mind that none of them knew the way either, it still gave us a warm fuzzy feeling you wouldn't get in many other parts of Europe. We had dinner at a pizzeria on the river where our waiter – a polite, dapper young man – brought us pizzas so large they wouldn't have fit on an average European plate.
“You don't have to eat it all, you know”, Caroline said.
“Yes I do” I replied through gritted teeth, driven on by the the sad visage of a million starving refugee children tut-tutting if I let so much as a scrap go to waste.

Now we are in Lake Bled, a stunningly beautiful lakeside alpine town that the tourists haven't discovered yet. It's a bit like a Slovenian Queenstown, but with castles instead of cafes. I notice a good sprinkling of bars and traditional restaurants as I walk down through the main drag in search of an ATM. There are a few shops selling tourist tat, but they're not quite as garish and in-your-face as they are in Queenstown. I can see a casino around the shoreline, which is good news for now as there is bound to be an ATM nearby, but may be bad news later when I've had a few beers. I locate the ATM outside a cafe across the road, put my card and pin in, and signify my intent withdraw money.
“TRANSACTION CANCELLED”, it says, and spits my card out. Interesting. Lucky for me I've got a plan B.
“Oi! Just work, ya bastard!”, I yell, slapping the screen admonishingly. An American lady in tight white pants and a floral shirt looks up from her coffee. I repeat the card-and-pin trick and it goes through it's usual “please wait while we waste your time and piss you and everyone else behind you in the line” routine again.
“TRANSACTION CANCELLED”. Oh dear, this is a setback. I don't know quite what to do now. I don't have a Plan C. To be honest, I hadn't even considered the eventuality of Plan B working. I do remember passing a gas station on the bus on the way in, and so I make my way up the hill in its direction, a sudden feeling of dread settling upon my shoulders like the stifling afternoon heat.

The gas station is there alright, and it has an ATM, but it won't give me money either. Nor will the one across the road. I have next to no cash left, just a smattering of coins in each pocket left over from Vienna. This is bad, really bad. But it's how a man reacts in these situations that is a true measure of his pedigree. What's the old chestnut, legends aren't born, they're made?

I'm just about ready to cry and demand to be taken home to my mummy by the time I get back to the hostel and break the bad news to the girls. But I somehow manage to hold it together and keep a sound mind. With the intention of purchasing essential supplies, I walk back over to the supermarket with my handful of remaining coins. Almost immediately I bump into a display stand and let go of the coins, sending them bouncing off the floor in all directions, many into irretrievable positions under benches and shelves. With what little I'm able to regather, I make my purchase and return to the hostel. God willing these four beers, two packets of chips and a banana will keep me alive until sunup tomorrow, by which time the ATM gods will hopefully be smiling upon me once more.

***

One of the most astute parenting decisions my folks ever made was to put up a map of the world in the bathroom. This may seem like a fairly inconsequential matter to a five-year-old, but my hours spent in the dunny while my mates rolled around in the mud and chased seagulls led me to become the proud geography afficionado I am today. Trouble is, that now-famous map was printed before the collapse of Yugoslavia in 1991, and so Slovenia did not appear on it. It pains me greatly to admit that, when I heard we'd be visiting there, I needed to check my atlas to work out where the bloody place was.

Slovenia. It's not Slovakia and it's not Venice, nor is it anything like either of those places. It's a former Yugoslav republic, sandwiched between Italy, Austria, Croatia and a small stretch of Adriatic coast. Of all the ex-Yugoslav states it is by far the most progressive and economically prosperous, and at the time of writing is the only one of the ten newly-accepted EU states to have adopted the Euro. Its history is as long and varied as ours isn't, and centuries of resisting foreign invasion and occupation has left the country with a “can-do” attitude and a strong sense of nationhood. Legend has it that Jason and the Argonauts (the band of mythical Greek heroes, not the prog rock band from New York) once sailed down Slovenia's Sava River while in possession of the mythical Golden Fleece.

What really sets Slovenia apart from the other places I've visited, though, is its natural beauty. In this oft-overlooked part of the continent we've found a place that reminds us of home: a tiny, heavily-forested nation overflowing with natural beauty and a small population determined to keep their land that way. And I'm told that Lake Bled, nestled high in the western mountains, presents the most compelling scene of all. At first glance its hard to argue: the lake, a kilometre wide by a few kilometres long, is as still and pristine as anything you'd find in our South Island. It is hemmed in on all sides by towering, wooded mountains that taper off into craggy peaks, their reflections mirrored in the calm water of the lake. Just to add to the majesty of the surroundings, on a rocky outcrop that soars a hundred metres vertically above the lake sits a medieval castle, and an island at the far end of the lake (Slovenia's only natural island) is home to a 15th century church. Not even the tacky casino can detract from the lake's awesomeness, and I mean that in the biblical sense of the word.

It's a warm, sunny morning and the girls and I have found a suitable sunbathing spot by the lake in close proximity to a supermarket selling 50c beer. We have a postcard view over the lake, with the castle in the background, the church on the island in the foreground and more mountains completing the framing to our right. The serenity is only occasionally broken by a trio of unruly local fisherman, barking at each other in Slovenian and throwing stones at ducks to keep them away from their lines. Georgina and Caroline are the first to jump in the water and beckon me in. I make my way down to the water, hoping a quick dip will shake loose the cobwebs spun by last night's store room beer. Then I remember that Georgina has an irrational fear of fish.
“I don't know”, I say warily. “I can see a bunch of fish in there”.
“What? Where?”, Georgina says with alarm.
“Right down here where I'm standing. Look!”, I point to a small, harmless fish near the shore, maybe ten centimetres long.
“Stop it, you dick”.
The water is cold but refreshing and after a brief swim I'm back on the shore again, enjoying a picnic lunch and sipping another 50c beer; yesterday's credit card fiasco thankfully just a distant and unpleasant memory.

Learning and remembering the essentials of previously unseen languages is never easy, especially when moving so swiftly from country to country, but a trick I've learned is to memorise a phrase based on what it loosely sounds like in English. For example, to order three beers in Dutch you say something like “dree beeren, Ulster beef” and hope to hell that they bring you three beers, rather than a large plate of Irish-reared steak. The Slovenian word for hello is “dober dan”, which sounds close enough to “Diver Dan” for me to commit to memory. I'm going to need to use it, because we've now walked around to a small bay directly opposite the island, where we're going to procure a rowboat. I've never rowed in my life – at least not outside the safety of a gymnasium anyways – but how hard can it be?

We can see a hunched-over old lady guarding five or six boats on the shore. I approach her from behind, preparing to hit her with a bit of my best Slovenian.
“Dober dan!”
“Ahhh, dober dan!”, she says, turning around to reveal a warm, smiling face. Then she unleashes a torrent of Slovenian garble, and for a moment we all stand and stare blankly at one another.
“Ahhh, sprechen sie Deutsch?”
Nope, but you're getting closer.
“Francais?”
Warmer still.
“Ahhh, you are English! Very good, very good. You want a boat? Ok, you have this one. One hour, ten Euro. Very good, very good”.
“How long will it take us to row to the island?”, Caroline asks.
“It will take only ten minutes. But for you” - she quickly eyes me up and down - “maybe twenty. Ha ha!”. She laughs heartily again. This time I don't share the joke.
Georgina and Caroline hop into the passenger seats, then follows a mildly humilitating episode as the old lady holds the boat firm to the shore while I hop in. Now she's lecturing me on how to grip the oars and row in a straight line. It's harder than it looks on TV. Plus I've got unoccupied boats either side of me to contend to. Once I can get out past them and into the lake, I'll be fine. I hope.
“No! No! Pull the left oar! Yes, no not like that! Just the left!”. She's yelling now so that I can hear her clearly, and a few tourists in the beach are now looking on in restrained amusement. Seems to me the fundamental problem with rowing is that you can't bloody well see where you're going. What's up with that?
“Ok! Now you are fine! Have a nice time!”. Though we're well on the way to the island she's still standing on the beach watching us, hunched over, a grin spread wide across her face. I'm not the only one who enjoys 50c beers in the afternoon, it appears.

Once out on the lake and under Caroline's direction, it's a fairly short row out to the island. Still, it's more physical exertion than I've put in since that horrific day on the sand dunes of Colorado and there's beads of sweat forming on my brow as we approach the island. Two English girls in bikinis watch my awkward attempt at docking at the wharf, exhibiting the same inexplicable curiosity with which the old lady watched me depart awkwardly from the shore. They're obviously here to try and get a tan but, like all English girls, they've just ended up all red and freckly.
“Hi there!”, says one of the girls, affecting an innocent schoolgirl tone. “We swam all the way out here, but we're too knackered to swim back to shore. Can we get a ride back with you?”
Five in the boat? I wonder how this would go down with the old lady on the shore. I'd hate to sour the otherwise cordial Kiwi-Slovenian relations that have prevailed to this point.
“Sure you can, no worries”, I find myself saying. “I'm just gonna have a walk around the island first”.
“Ok! We'll be here waiting, boy”.

From the wharf, a path leads around the shoreline, offering one breathtaking view after another of the forested mountains rising above the peaceful lake. Five pleasant minutes later, I've completed the loop and find myself back at the wharf, where the English girls are flirting with a Brazilian backpacker while his girlfriend sits in the boat looking on. Obviously there's no hurry, so I retrace my steps for a few yards and then ascend 99 steps to find myself in a cosy, sunlit glade surrounded by tall pines. Straight ahead is the church, whose 52-metre high tower has looked out over the tiny island and the lake for five centuries. Ensconsed as it is in such majestic and natural surroundings, the church seems to take on a whole new level of holiness and serenity; the idea that the view it beholds has changed little in half a millennia is pretty neat. This is Europe though, and the great thing about Europe is that irrespective of the spiritual value of a site, a bar is never far away.

In this case, it's just off the main path, attached to the gift shop selling tacky souvenirs and overpriced postcards. The sun is still brutally strong and I'm exhausted from the day's adventures. The barman can sense it and he's pouring me an ice cold pint before I can even say “Diver Dan” - or was it “dober dan?”. As I sip the libation and feel the strength returning to my bones, I can't help but question what the poor monks did on this island before there was a bar. It occurs to me that beer was only introduced to Europe by Belgian monks, and feel a kind of synergy at play between this glorious amber nectar and the will of God Almighty himself. If some higher power has ordained it, then surely the consumption of beer is some form of ritual worship of the God, a celebration of His benevolence and the unending quest of man to carry out His divine will? Then I remember the English girls by the wharf, and down my pint.

A couple of hours later, we're sitting down at a traditional Slovenian restaurant in the town. I'm drinking Heineken out of a Guinness glass, which isn't necessarily Slovenian, but does reflect its rapidly-evolving and sophisticated image. Given we're less than thirty miles from the Italian border, one would expect some seepage of its influence into the local cuisine, in the form of pasta and salads perhaps. But no, it's just the standard Germanic fare: Schnitzel, sausages, dumplings, roasts.

Ominously, there's also a “mixed grill” option and it appears to be the favoured dish of our waiter, judging by the look of him. He is, of course, the only waiter on duty and is showing the full effects of it. Sweat pours off his ruddy, rapidly-aging face – which he occasionally wipes with a towel draped across his right shoulder – and he is continously out of breath, even as he stands over diners frantically jotting down their orders. Then he's away again, huffing and puffing as he goes, his enormous frame sending a glistening arc of sweat across the room with every step. Never mind the tips, he looks like he'd be happy just to survive the night.
“Ok, hello”, he mutters breathlessly as he arrives to take our order. “What would you like? Oh God, hang on”, he suddenly remembers something and rushes back into the kitchen, returning shortly thereafter with beers for the people at the next table. “Ok, hello. What would you like?”

Georgina and Caroline plump for the schnitzel, which is so large that our poor waiter can barely carry the plates. I can identify at least four of the seven meats on my mixed grill platter. One of the unidentified ones could be spiced mince, though none of the three of us can make a positive identification. The meat bonanza is only mitigated slightly by some sauerkraut and a side order of dumplings. The girls can only manage about half of their meal, much to the disgust of our waiter.
“This is it?”, he asks in a mocking tone. “This is all you can eat? Come on!”. He's joking around, but we all know he'll be gleefully tucking into the leftovers once his shift finishes. If it ever finishes. My meat platter is disgracefully large and decadent and once again I'm reminded by the girls that I don't have to eat it all, you know. So I just close my eyes, think of the Darfur children, and plough on until every last scrap is gone. Then I order another beer.

***

It's our last morning in Bled and, prompted by the previous evening's display of disgusting excess, I'm going for a walk. I've been told of a beautiful gorge a few miles up the road that lies within the Triglavski Narodni Park. Trouble is, I've just walked off the edge of my map – always a dangerous and disconcerting experience – and I've found myself at a fork in the road. I remember Cassie telling me as I was leaving, “there will be a fork in the road, and you go right”, so I decide to follow my natural instinct and go left.

I don't want to talk about what happens next, but suffice it to say that after getting a little more up close and personal with the Slovenian countryside than I'd bargained for, I miraculously stumble upon said gorge. It truly is a place of unspoiled beauty: the water is clear as day and rushes along between sheer rock walls that give way to a green canopy of forest high above. The sunlight filters through to the water and lights up the walkway in an ethereal, iridescent glow. I follow the walkway along the river through the length of the gorge and it pops out at Slovenia's highest waterfall, broadening into a handsome valley that spreads out below my feet. I continue along the forested path until I find myself back on a quaint country road and then, much to my amused surprise, back at the fork in the road again, but approaching from the opposite direction. Funny how often that happens.

It is with a measure of sadness that I depart Lake Bled. It's a stunningly beautiful part of the world that serves as a reminder that there's more to Europe than historic town centres and endless bloody castles. Bled is endowed with beautiful scenery, as well as endless bloody castles. Undoubtedly part of its appeal lies in its resemblance to New Zealand – right down to the endearing locals and cheap shitty beer – but there is an historical gravitas to it that you could never experience back home. Slovenia is one country in Europe that has thus far resisted the inexorable tide of low-budget tourism and retained much of its indviduality and local charm. The mountains, the lake, the church, the castle and the old lady taking the piss out of my rowing style have been here for hundreds of years, and they'll still be here for hundreds of years to come. Including, I suspect, the old lady.