Hats off, Cravats on

How on earth did we come up with "Croatia" as a pronunciation for the country actually called by the people who live there "Hrvatzka"? A pretty poor approximation, really - the word we use for the Croatia-created necktie, "cravat" is much closer. Not that the Croatians - the Hrvatski - seem to mind, the English rendering - or should that be mangling? - of their country's name is used almost interchangeably with the Slavic version.

Theo and I spent a little under three days in Croatia - just enough time to get thoroughly lost, stressed out and fed up trying to find a campsite close to the capital, Zagreb; a day to wander around and see its main sites; and another day extricating ourselves in the direction of Slovenia. Incidentally, Slovenes do pronounce their land as "Slovenia", so we were closer with that one.

Most would agree that Croatia's strongest suit is its incredible coastline, with more idyllic Islands to boast of than Greece and the dual jewels in its crown of Split and Dubrovnik. But Zagreb is not without its charms by any means.


The Dolac fruit and vegetable market was well worth a visit and there we got some of the sweetest plums and mandarins I've ever tasted - for a very decent price, too, although Croatia isn't nearly as cheap as, say, Slovakia ("Slovenske"...hmm).

The snappily named Cathedral of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary was also of interest, although its most intriguing feature was the prone effigy of a Cardinal on his way to sainthood and currently celebrating ten years since his beatification. He could be seen laying in state in a glass coffin and the brass emblem on its front was shiny from the number of hands reverently (superstitiously?) placed upon it by the people paying their respects.

That same ritualistic approach to Croatia's Roman Catholicism could also be seen at the Holy Virgin icon contained within a shrine at the 13th Century Stone Gate. Inside the gate, all was a-flicker with candles, there were a few people praying in the three pews placed before the shrine and the walls surrounding it were crowded with plaques proclaiming the grateful thanks of the faithful. As we watched, a crowd of noisy teenagers passed through the gate, but almost all of them crossed themselves as they approached the shrine, although they continued their conversations as they did so.


A final hats off to the splendid restaurant, Kaptolska Klet. Despite specialising in indigenous dishes and Zagreb specialities like strukli (a sort of savoury boiled cheesecake, which is much tastier than it sounds), it also offered the most extensive list of vegetarian options Theo and I have yet come across outside an exclusively vegetarian eatery. We were spoiled for choice and as a result, over-ordered and both had to leave half our very tasty main-courses uneaten.

One Day, In Denmark

When I think of the Danes, I tend to imagine tall, shiny people positively radiating health and vitality, good-looking rather than beautiful and generally jolly. 24 hours in Denmark largely confirmed the stereotype, although admittedly, they're not all tall. But in the short time we were there, we were made to feel welcome (in English, good old Scandinavia), well cared-for (the campsite we stayed in was one of the most spectacularly equipped we've experienced so far) and despite the gloomy, drizzly weather, there was no denying a general sense of bonhomie.

We were also relieved to discover that Denmark isn't quite as heinously expensive as we'd feared. Fuel is no pricier than anywhere else, the campsite costs are the higher end of average (but still cheaper than Switzerland), toilets tend to be free to use and very clean (you usually have to pay between 30 and 50 cents to have a Jimmy in Germany) and it's very kind to the motorist. Service stations and picnic areas are plentiful, both on the motorways and the trunk roads. If you want to eat out, smoke or drink alcohol, costs can prove a bit hefty, but we kept our outgoings modest to non-existent in that area and spent well under half our five hundred Krone when we re-crossed the border with Deutschland. There are about 7.4 Krone to one Euro, if you want to do the maths.

As we only had a day, we took ourselves to Ribe, Denmark's oldest town and only a few hours drive from where we'd been staying with Theo's old school friend, Franzisca and her boyfriend, Henning in Kiel. Even the persistent light rain couldn't destroy Ribe's charm, sitting as it does on a small river, complete with small dams and weirs (I was going to describe the river as dammed and weired, but decided that was unfair). We saw diminutive, part-timbered houses, chocolate-box streets, a pond area a-quack with ducks and a rather splendid cathedral.

Theo and I have visited more churches and cathedrals than I can easily count on our travels so far. Mainly because they tend to be the most beautiful buildings in which you can still wander for free. The cathedral in Ribe was not only a looker in terms of its gorgeously decorated pillars and ceilings and intricately carved pulpit, but it had arrestingly combined the ancient, Romanesque characteristics with some eye-catching modern art. Expressionistic mosaics, stained glass windows and frescoes surrounded a monolithic, almost Bauhaus altar. We agreed it was the grooviest cathedral we'd visited.

Pausing only to buy a couple of Ribe Bolle - a type of local Danish pastry - we pointed Sheena south and towards the town that once dominated the Hanseatic league, before being overtaken by the likes of Hamburg and Amsterdam. But the main reason I was looking forward to Lubeck was because I'd heard it was famous for making excellent marzipan. I really must go on a diet once this trip is over. Meanwhile, BRING IT ON.

Frustrating Times in The Netherlands

The Dutch are lovely, helpful people. We've found this everywhere we've met them (which is everywhere) on our travels. One of the reasons why we've met them everywhere, we've come to realise, is that their own country can be a deeply frustrating one - they clearly just want to get out of it.

Take shopping for food for instance. Now, neither of us is a huge fan of supermarkets generally, and in an ideal world we'd shop at farmers' markets or have organic, seasonal vegetable boxes delivered to our bumper. However, as we've yet to find a campsite providing such a service, we've found supermarkets have been an invaluable source of our daily travel rations. This would also be the case in The Netherlands - if we could ever find one. Elsewhere in Europe our shopping technique is simple - get on the ringroad or bypass of a sizeable town and, voila, (or, presto, as the case may be) there's a Carrefour. Often they are signposted from a good 10kms away. Not so in The Netherlands. If big, out of town supermarkets exist here, we haven't found one. Instead we've been reduced to finding tiny town centre mini-markets (which means, of course, finding parking) which have a small range of produce and aren't easy to find in the first place. Then we have to pay. Environmentalists would probably salute this hypermarket-sparse landscape, but we certainly burn a lot more fuel trying to do our shopping in the Netherlands than in other countries.

Here's the next annoying thing about The Netherlands. While good old chip-n'-pin has worked everywhere else - meaning we can use our no-charge-for-use-overseas Post Office credit cards for groceries - very few places in The Netherlands seem to take Mastercard (or Visa). The Dutch have their own bankcard system (also, ironically, called PIN) and thus many places only accept Dutch cards. This has included campsites, aside from the one in Amersterdam which I presciently booked in advance. This wouldn't have been such a huge problem if: a) cash points were easy to find - total mission and b) both our Nationwide debit cards hadn't been swallowed by ATM's. This latter occurrence is no way the fault of The Netherlands of course, but it has naturally added to the frustration and means we'll have to pay commission every time we withdraw cash (from our Alliance & Leicester account).

In addition, Kate has caught a cold, the weather is rubbish and our laptop screen has developed a big white line down the middle. Again, none of this is the fault of The Dutch. But we're having a bit of a frustrating time of things here in The Netherlands.

Patty's Paradise

Some people just don't deserve their country. That's certainly true of the British, our ratio of ugly, insensitive developments to beautiful surroundings being sadly weighted in favour of the former. And it's definitely true of the Spanish, who seem intent on raping their stunning landscapes with acre upon acre of concrete monstrosities. The building boom has seen big, boxy appartment blocks going up wherever there's the slightest bit of space and beautiful towns like Salamanca or Cordoba are becoming increasingly swathed in wastelands of depressing urban sprawl. On the Costa del Sol, huge hotels to feed the (often British...we definitely shoulder some of the blame here...) swarms of tourists have been mushrooming for some decades now. So too, the rash of white, balconied villas over the lush hillsides, facing what was once a charming and picturesque coastline...all too many of our fellow countrymen and women are living in those too.

It was with a mixture of horror and gloom that we passed by Malaga, Torremelinos and Marbella on our way down the Costa to Patty's alternative living campsite, near Estepona in the far south of Spain.

Patty herself collected us from a rendezvous point nearby and led us to the orchard below her house, only ten minutes walk from the nearest beach (very unspoilt for the Costa del Sol, with a view to the rock of Gibraltar and the Atlas Mountains in Africa) and boasting electricity hook-ups, plentiful fresh water, loo, hot showers and laundry facilities. For that, we are paying ten euros a day plus ten euros on top for unlimited and excellent wifi internet access. In fact, pretty much the same facilities we payed 25 euros a night for in Torre del Mar, Lisbon and Salamanca, but on a far smaller scale and in a scruffier, more unruly but much more friendly site.

We are now comfortably ensconced beneath a lemon tree with a bucket full of windfalls ready to be squeezed into home-made lemonade.

The freedom of free camping...

There is a definite art to finding the perfect place for overnight repose, safe from uninvited visitors and unwanted interruptions. Our free camping so far has been in a ferry port carpark (convenient with good facilities, but hardly picturesque); a closed campsite (kind of cheating, but a useful spot); at an aire de loisir by a fishing lake, where motorhomes were forbidden to park overnight (luckily Sheena isn't obviously a camping car and anyway, no one came to check); and at an aire de loisir by the Canal du Midi, along with a group of other transient motorhomes.

In France, free camping is not generally encouraged because the country is so richly endowed with official sites, most towns, even those of modest size, boasting at least one municipal campsite. These are great for being able to use proper loos and showers plus the availability of water and electricity hook-ups, their general level of security and the flatness of the plots.

But, as we have found, many do not open until mid-April at the earliest. Also, you generally have to check into the campsites by 1800 or 1900 at the latest, which can inconveniently cut short sightseeing or stints of driving.

But free camping does have its drawbacks. You could indiscriminantly park up and kip like a long-distance lorrydriver, but that kind of utilitarian, service-station camping doesn't quite cut it somehow for a honeymoon or holiday. So we have found ourselves driving numerous kilometres seeking out a more agreeable spot, looking for lacs and aires de loisirs on the Michelin road atlas that might offer the right surroundings. Thus the amount we save in campsite fees is at least partly offset by the extra diesel expended en route.

Some motorhome afficionados clearly know of good free camping park-ups because you see clusters of them choosing the wagon-train approach to road-trip stop-offs and grouping together for safety in numbers. Going off-piste has its advantages if you hit on a gorgeous secluded oasis, but they are not the easiest to find. Eventually exhaustion will lead you to lower your priorities an settle for roadside avec les autres winnebagos, as it did on our way back from Carcassonne. It's the worst night's sleep I've had in Sheena, partly because I didn't feel secure in the aire we'd chosen and partly because of an uncomfortable recurrence of the IBS with which I am frequently plagued. However, I reckon we'll get better at this free camping business as we accumulate more experience. As for the IBS, I'll just make sure I cut down on cheese with my evening meals.