Croatia or Bust 2025 - week 3 - Taking a motorhome down to Croatia and back, from the UK

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You can find the start of our posts about our Croatian adventure here: https://wherenexthun.blogspot.com/2026/02/a-motorhome-tour-down-to-croatia-and.html

Tuesday 16^th  September: Day fourteen – week three

The No. 1 bus whisked us into the city centre in barely fifteen minutes, where a quick coffee stop revived us, and with cups still in hand, we booked our Amphitheatre tickets online - an effortless trick that later let us slip past the queue at the ticket office.

Pula’s great Amphitheatre, rises before us in all its ancient splendour. One of the six largest still standing, its 30-metre walls curve around the sky, and four proud towers, rare survivors of time, offer a glimpse into the architectural ambition of a people long gone.

Down in the cool tunnels beneath the arena sits a small museum, quietly holding stories of oil and wine production, of gladiators and spectators. Unlike many Roman sites, you can step right into the heart of the arena itself, standing where crowds once roared and warriors clashed. Built in the 1st century AD, during the reign of Emperor Vespasian, it seated 23,000 and was carved from local limestone, its elliptical outline still remarkably intact.

Of all the amphitheatres we’ve visited, this one seems to breathe the past most vividly - proof of Pula’s former status as an important Roman administrative centre. And here is a lesser-known chapter of its history - over the centuries it has been a fortress, a cattle shelter, and now - almost whimsically - a stage for concerts and cultural events. I can’t help wondering what Vespasian would think of electric guitars echoing off his limestone walls.

We followed the tourist route through the city’s treasures, each turn revealing something new. Don’t miss the mosaic floor - quietly tucked away and easy to overlook. Just follow the brown signposts until you find its intricate patterns shimmering under protective glass.

The Temple of Augustus greeted us next, serene and elegant, its columns standing like time-worn guardians of Rome’s memory. The Arch of Sergi followed: an exquisite display of Roman stonework carved to honour a prominent family. Cobbled streets led us onward - past more Roman remnants, medieval churches, and sunlit piazzas where history lingers in the air.

The journey back was more stressful than the outward one. One bus failed to appear, so the next arrived packed to the doors. We squeezed in with everyone else, swaying together as it climbed out of the city. The afternoon then drifted by gently: a stroll to the far side of the inlet opposite Bryony, a refreshing swim, and then an ice cream at a small café perched just outside the campsite entrance. Simple pleasures, perfectly placed.

It’s been a lovely day, though rain is forecast for tonight. The sky is already darkening, clouds gathering. A little relief, perhaps, before tomorrow begins again.

Costs: 8 euros for bus return    coliseum 20 euros

Wednesday 17^th  September: Day fifteen – week three

Last night, north of Pula, the sky treated us to a celestial performance - a trio of electrical storms dancing along the horizon. For over an hour they flickered silently, like distant lanterns signalling alien arrivals from another world. Lightning without thunder is unsettling, as if nature has muted part of herself just to mess with your expectations.

Physics, of course, has its explanations: light racing at 300,000 km/s, sound plodding along at just 1,225 km/h. A hare and tortoise situation of the natural world. That’s why we see the flash long before the boom - and sometimes, if the storm is far enough away or the warm night air bends the sound aside, we never hear the thunder at all. But knowing the science didn’t make it any less eerie or enchanting. It felt like the opening scene of a sci-fi epic, the kind where alien ships crackle into existence behind curtains of cloud - very Independence Day, minus the global peril.

But I digress.

Today unfolded in a different sort of adventure: a 15-mile bike ride along the wild southeast coast, following a map from tourist information that seemed to have been drawn by someone with more enthusiasm than cartographic skill. Still, the detours were half the fun. We paused for coffee and wandered into the Cavae Romanae, the Roman quarries where slaves once carved the pale stone that became Pula’s great amphitheatre. The place hums with history - walls scarred by chisels - echoes of slave labour. Impressive, and haunting.

The afternoon brought gentler pursuits once more. I took to the water, swimming off the rocky foreshore in front of Bryony’s pitch where the sea is clear enough to see the sun ripple across the seabed. Scattered across the stone were elegant, spiralled shells - tempting treasures. I tried to bring one or two empty ones up as tokens of love for Maggie, small offerings from the deep – but soon discovered they weren’t as empty as I thought!  Current tenants, furious hermit crabs with strong opinions and stronger pincers, convinced me to return them to the deep. Rest assured, no hermits were harmed; each politely returned to its original position, dignity intact.

Maggie, for her part, was perfectly content without marine-inspired gifts. Her joy was a quiet hour alone with a book - an escape from her well-meaning but occasionally exasperating husband. Fair enough.

After tea, we joined the gentle evening pilgrimage at the headland point to watch the sun sink across the Adriatic. Hundreds gathered, yet it felt intimate - the shared hush as the sky melted into a painter’s palette of gold, rose, and violet. Waves lapped, glasses clinked, conversations drifted on warm breezes. Magnificent doesn’t quite cover it.

Walking back through the campsite, I was struck – again - by what a little nomadic village this is. Nearly 800 motorhomes nestled beneath the pine trees, each its own small world, yet all part of a larger tapestry. People cooking, laughing, deflating SUP boards, playing cards, reclining under strings of lights. Stories swapped over barbecues; advice shared between strangers who felt like friends by morning. Washing lines between trees, bikes leaning against trunks, children wobbling on scooters. A travelling community bound not by geography but by a shared longing for freedom, simplicity, and the wide-open “somewhere else”.

We’ve grown fond of this place - Kamp Arena Stoja - and tomorrow’s departure brings a pinch of wistfulness. But adventure tugs us inland toward the emerald lakes and waterfalls of Plitvice.

If, of course, we can actually manoeuvre ourselves out of our incredibly tight pitch by the sea. A challenge awaits - but then again, that’s half the fun of life on the road.

 

Thursday 18^th  September: Day sixteen – week three

Starting mileage – 26345

Thanks to Maggie’s advanced planning and with fairness to me, my good driving skills, we managed to reverse Bryony out of her tight pitch back up between the other motorhomes and back out onto the campsite road, without killing anyone or destroying their awnings. Fifteen minutes at the motorhome services point emptying black and grey waste and filling up the water tank and we were on our way to Lidl for a stock up.

We left Istria behind by way of the E751, the motorway unspooling before us like a smooth ribbon cast across mountains and sea. The views were spectacular - slivers of islands scattered across the water like jewels - though the vast stretches of roadworks near Rijeka added their own gritty charm to the journey.

And then came the E65… where everything unravelled.

Ah, Google Maps. Our old ‘frenemy’. You will feel our pain. Perhaps, like us you have asked yourselves countless times “should we stop trusting it now and rely on a satnav?” Yet there we were again, dutifully following the little blue line into the unknown. We should have stayed on the E71, but instead Google marched us off across country, deep into country roads that felt more like narrow, winding corridors carved into desolation.

I couldn’t tell you where we were – I think Maggie could though. And as I have said countless times before – she is the best navigator I know.  The bends were sharp, the drops were steep, and the monster lorries barrelling around corners seemed determined to test our nerves to the edge. It felt like navigating the spine of a pitching dragon: twisting, unpredictable, thrilling in the wrong sort of way. Poor Bryony creaked and groaned as we crawled along in second or third gear for most of the 30 km stretch. Thank heavens for semi–air suspension - it felt like our only defence against the chaos of blind bends, adverse cambers and quarry sized pot-holes.

At last, we rolled into Kamping Bear Place, our sanctuary for the night. The moment we arrived, the atmosphere shifted - calm, unhurried, almost embracing. The pitches were fairly level, though anything beyond 8.5 metres length might find parking up tricky. The facilities, while a little dated, were spotless, and the site sat just a ten-minute drive from Entrance 1 of Plitvice Lakes. Crickets chirped loudly enough to soften the rumble of the nearby road, creating the soundtrack of a warm rural evening.

It’s small - just enough room for around 25 motorhomes - and clearly beloved. At 14:40 there were twelve spaces free; by 18:00, not a single pitch remained. We felt smugly lucky to have arrived when we did.

The afternoon slipped away in the loveliest of ways: an easy chat with our Belgian neighbours, exchanging travel tips and campsite wisdom like seasoned wanderers. And then there was the bear - well, the dog. A hulking, gentle giant belonging to a German couple, so enormous it made a St Bernard look like a lapdog. A soppy sweetheart with a heart as big as its paws; the sort of creature that makes everyone smile without trying. Cute and adorable!

And so, after a day of wrong turns, narrow escapes, and laughter shared with strangers, we settled in beneath the fading light - grateful for something nearing civilisation, and the quiet companionship of fellow travellers on the road to Plitvice.

Costs: tolls  29 euros; 68 euros for two nights.  Fuel 60 euros.

Friday 19^th  September: Day seventeen – week three

Last night I attempted star trails above Bryony, hoping to catch the heavens spinning like a celestial catherine wheel. But, the campsite’s ghastly neon-orange lamp ruined any hope of long exposures. A shame, really, because the sky was flawless; the Milky Way stretched above me like a shimmering river of stardust. Gutting.

Plitvice National Park, however, made up for everything.
Forty euros each for entry, seventeen for parking - pricey, yes, but worth every last cent. Entrance 1 lies a simple eight-minute drive from Kamping Place Bear, with plenty of motorhome parking beneath the shade of the trees. We walked nearly eight miles today, weaving through forests and beside lakes before drifting across one of them on an electric boat that hummed softly like a busy bee. A fantastic day from start to finish.

Before I get carried away, a little geography - because some habits die hard.

Why are the lakes that astonishing green-blue? Simples! It’s all thanks to calcium carbonate dissolved in the water, bouncing sunlight back in those vivid hues. Tiny algae join the dance, scattering the light. The dissolved calcium carbonate forms tufa, a mineral that reflects greens and blues especially well. Add in depth, sunlight, organic matter and wind, and you get the ever-shifting palette of Plitvice.

And how do these lakes and waterfalls form?
Tufa and its cousin, travertine. This wonderful, hollow, porous rock builds up over time as dissolved calcium carbonate is deposited onto plants, algae, mosses and wood. At Plitvice, tufa formation began in the Quaternary period - 250,000 to 300,000 years ago - and the process continues today. It’s like watching the Earth sculpt itself in very slow motion. Absolutely fascinating – if you are a geographer, I guess!

And the reason we have lakes and waterfalls at all?
Water rich in dissolved minerals flowed for millennia over limestone and dolomite, leaving behind layer upon layer of travertine, creating natural dams, terraced lakes and cascading falls. You can take the geography teacher out of the classroom… but never the geography out of the …. Never mind!

We wandered along boardwalks and pathways that skimmed the lakes. The colours were unreal - green and blue like the wings of a kingfisher - and the clarity of the water made every submerged tree trunk visible, now coated in milky carbonate deposits. Trout, pike, minnows and sticklebacks drifted through the shallows. Woodland anemones nodded beneath beech trees, berries glowed among the undergrowth. A heron posed for us on a branch only five metres away, elegant and motionless, as if aware a crowd of admirers had gathered.

Waterfalls large and small fanned out before us, some roaring, some whispering. We even spotted a swallow hole or two. And the forests - endless forests. – where Beech dominates, but pockets of oak and spruce mingle in. Croatia is far more wooded than one imagines until you're standing in the middle of it, surrounded by leaves and light. Scientists monitor the biome via sensors strapped to tree trunks, measuring water flow, transpiration, CO₂ and O₂ levels - nature under gentle surveillance. And that appealed to both of us – we are after all – natural scientist educators by degree.

Yes, it’s touristy. Yes, the flag-waving guides are unavoidable. But wander just a little further and pockets of tranquillity open up: quiet paths, gentle breezes, sunlight dancing through the canopy. Bring your own food and water - it’s Croatia, after all, and prices inside the park match that reality. We entered at 09:00 and emerged at 14:40, tired but delighted.

This UNESCO World Heritage site is something special: a dreamscape of cascading falls, turquoise lakes and tranquil forest paths. I can only imagine how stunning it must be in autumn, when the leaves lie gold and crimson, or in winter when the entire valley dons a snowy mantle - dramatic, enchanting, almost mythical, I suspect.

Back at Kamp Bear Place, we showered and relaxed. One shared block, three showers for each sex. Dated but immaculate, with plenty of hot water. Black and grey waste, water fill-up, friendly staff. Small but popular, most pitches, once again, gone by 16:30.

Tonight, I’ll try again to photograph the Pacman Nebula, and tomorrow we head to the bear sanctuary at Kuterevo before returning to the coast down at Nin and Camping Peros. One day for the beach, one for an Uber into Zadar and back. Beyond that, who knows? Perhaps sea kayaking as we drift toward Split. And maybe, if I can charm the boss, one night high in the mountains for Milky Way photography.

PS. You’d think that as an ex-mountaineer, I’d know better. As a retired geography teacher, I definitely should. But still, the temperature drop after sunset caught me completely off guard. I was bundled in lined, three-season mountain trousers and a duvet jacket and still frozen. I ended up wearing two duvet jackets just to survive. A man passed me at 00:30 and, in broken English, advised me to be safely in bed by 01:00 because “Kamping place bear” had its name for a reason - apparently the bears like to wander in the early hours. No idea if he was joking – I stuck it out! At 0130 I learned the gent wasn’t joking. I heard the bears snuffling and grunting – crashing through bushes a hundred metres or so away behind Bryony.  It was a great reminder that this landscape is still inhabited by some of the big, great guardians of nature – wolves and bears. After a rapid pack away, as I closed the habitation door, an indifferent large bear ambled somewhere just to the rear of Bryony. Discretion is the better part of valour and all that – another record winning ‘astro-gear pack away!

Costs today: – lake tickets 40 euros each.

Saturday 20^th September: Day eighteen – week three

Starting mileage: 26526

As I slid into bed last night alongside the tousled haired, wonderful love of my life, I was excited about my near bear encounter. “You’re in early” said the whispering sleepy voice. “Hungry bears Mag, just behind Bryony”.  “So, what are you doing in here then – get back out there so I can get the life insurance money” came the sleepy reply! I have spent most of the morning trying to work out what she means by that!

We slipped away from Camping Place Bear at Plitvice Lakes at 07:00, Bryony and me, yawning in the first pale light, while we wound our way through mountains and valleys along the D52, heading for the Velebit Association Kuterevo Bear Refuge. The morning was draping itself across the peaks, clouds like a soft, silvery quilt. Some stretches were so shrouded that visibility on the road shrank to thirty metres, turning it into a secret corridor through a ghostly landscape.

We passed through scars of history this morning - villages still marked by the Balkan War of the mid-1990s, with burnt-out shells of buildings standing like solemn sentinels; and memorials that whispered remembrance to anyone who’d pause and listen. Between the ridges, life carried on: cattle grazing lazily, farmers rolling hay into cylindrical bales - the rhythmic pulse of rural labour uninterrupted. The land felt like a living history book, one page at a time unfurling as we drove.

And then we arrived at the bear sanctuary.

Words almost fail me. It’s a blend of wild beauty, human kindness, and quiet conservation that hits you in the chest like a warm, unexpected sunrise. Nine bears call it home: rescued from illegal zoos, abandoned cubs, and other misfortunes. Volunteers from all over the world keep it running - hippie-surfy vibes mingle with the earnest dedication of people who have chosen a life of minimal impact and maximum care. You can even stay overnight in their ramshackle car park – now that’s a true off-grid adventure - but if you overstay past 10:00 a.m., be prepared to roll up your sleeves and volunteer for the day – seriously – it’s free lodging with responsibility, essentially.

The atmosphere is quiet, reflective, respectful. Maggie was captivated, utterly entranced. She’s a nature lover through and through - her heart beats to the rhythm of the wild – she’s a country girl at heart, a biologist by degree. The bears, slow and ponderous, were still in their morning daze, half-eaten breakfasts and golden sunlight lulling them into a gentle stupor. Watching them was like observing living, breathing pieces of forest sculpture, each one a testament to resilience and survival. We were transfixed.

Volunteers moved about like invisible woodland sprites - tending to the bears and living simply in harmony with the land. Knowledge was gained through discreet signposts and placard explanations. We learned lots about bear biology, threats to their habitats, and the delicate work required to protect these majestic apex predators in modern Europe.

Practical tip: skip the first obvious parking spot and go a little further - there are better spaces, just watch for low building roof overhangs. Stroll the enclosures, seek out the bears, chat with the volunteers. You’ll leave feeling inspired and strangely restored. Off the beaten track, yes, but absolutely worth the journey.

 

Back on the motorway toward Nin, just outside Zadar, we encountered a scene more suited to a spy thriller than a holiday road trip. Service stations crowded, special tactical police teams lurking like storm clouds, black cars streaking past with blue lights flashing. Local police were out in force too, and we never quite discovered the reason. Mystery of the Croatian motorway, I suppose. Quite unnerving!

We ended the day at AutoKamp Peros, right outside Nin. A small oasis with a neat pool and a terrace café that promised cool drinks and yummy snacks. Pitches are level, mostly shaded by pines; water and electricity are available at each pitch. Grey waste disposal is tucked discretely to the back, a concrete hardstanding with a road-drain style setup that took us a moment to decipher. Facilities are clean and relatively modern, though a little mosquito-heavy - large enough to make you reconsider that second glass of wine outdoors in the evening.

The surroundings? Well, let’s just say the campsite sits cheek by jowl with a colossal resort. Mega-huge. Noisy at night. The nearby beaches are shallow and pebbly, requiring a good forty-metre wade just to reach knee depth. I’ve unkindly dubbed it “Newquay-on-steroids” - crowded, brash, and bustling, though with no offense intended to the original.

Our plan: tomorrow, explore Nin; Monday, Zadar; then seek quieter beaches further south for some kayaking and SUP adventures. Split awaits with its ancient ruins, and after that, we drift home, slowly, savouring every detour. Twenty days left of this journey, and the sense of freedom still stretches ahead like an open yellow brick road in some magical kingdom ….. now where have I seen that before?

Before we go, though, a small moment of humility: Bryony, our faithful companion, has done brilliantly. But yesterday I noticed only four of five oil indicator lights were flashing, and the brakes squeal occasionally - a first for our seasoned motorhome. Touch wood, she’s a trooper, carrying us across mountains, valleys, and border crossings like a loyal old warhorse. We may grumble, we may fuss, but we love her for it. I’m fervently hoping she’s still OK.

Costs today: tolls – 17 euros.   fuel 53 euros   Bear sanctuary donation 20 euros.

 

Sunday 21st  September: Day nineteen – week three

A Hot Lesson in Pula and a Quiet Miracle in Nin

Maggie is, without question, the brains of our outfit. How do we know this? Because she spotted the blunder I so confidently waltzed into when booking the Arena Stoja campsite in Pula.

While doing her usual forensic sweep of our bank statements, she noticed that Arena Stoja appeared to have charged us twice for our two-night stay. My first thought: Surely not? I had booked online, received the confirmation, and smugly believed everything was shipshape. The email even told me the €71 fee would be charged on checkout. Easy.

Except—hidden in the undergrowth like a tiger waiting for a careless tourist - was a €70 fee for “selecting our own pitch online”. Nicely tucked away. Nicely not spotted by me. And when the follow-up email arrived encouraging me to “choose your pitch and complete registration”, I clicked through without reading the fine print.

So yes, I am smarting. I feel like a prize muppet. A €70 muppet. But, ho hum… lesson learned.

Today’s adventure was gentler: a morning walk into Nin. With temperatures nudging 31°C by mid-morning, we slipped out early, following the short 25-minute route from the campsite. Shade, however, was as scarce on some stretches of road.

 

Nin is tiny and idyllic—Croatia’s smallest royal town, once home to its medieval kings. You don’t need long here. A Roman temple, two small ancient churches, a salt museum… and pride of place, the world’s smallest cathedral: the 9th-century Church of the Holy Cross.

As we wandered up the narrow, car-free lane at 08:30, we stopped abruptly. A church service was underway. The doors were open; locals sat and stood outside because the cathedral was bursting at the seams. A choir’s voices drifted onto the street - soft, pure, echoing against stone walls warmed by the rising sun. People listened with bowed heads, still as statues. It felt peaceful, serene, almost sacred. In all our travels, we’ve never seen devotion spill so gently into the street.

When the service ended, the silence dissolved into laughter, greetings, hugs, chatter - like someone had pressed play on life again. Families reunited, neighbours caught up, children tugged on grandparents. The whole street seemed to exhale joy.

We found the remains of the Roman temple - small now, but once the sixth largest in the Adriatic. Then we circled the promenade, taking in the shimmering tidal lagoon. Mullet drifted lazily near the surface, dorsal fins poking out like tiny sails catching the sun. The heat by now was fierce, the landscape shadeless and white in the glare.

We skipped the famous sandy beaches and the therapeutic peloid muds - apparently great for joints and skin, but less appealing when you feel like you’re melting into your trainers.

What we did seek out was the small salt pans museum. Compact but surprisingly captivating. We didn’t brave the outdoor walk across the pans - we’d have roasted - but the museum itself was excellent: a treasure trove of local history and science woven together.

We learned that the Nin salt pans cover 55 hectares and are controlled by 495 flood gates, allowing over 3.1 billion litres of seawater to wash through each year. The process of thickening brine - passing from basin to basin as it grows denser and denser - felt almost alchemical. Twenty-one crystallisation basins, 42,000 square metres. Sun, wind, patience, and skill. That is what makes salt.

The most moving part, though, was a wall lined with the names of salt collectors from 1950 to today. You could read the rise and fall of decades - prosperity, hardship, war, recovery - just by the number of names in each year. A quiet, unexpectedly human history.

The afternoon unfolded slowly around the pool. Warm water, chest-deep, a handful of other travellers dozing or reading. Plenty of shade. Laundry done. Ice cream in hand. A peaceful return to Bryony, where we strung our washing between pine trees and caught up with family on WhatsApp.

A chilled day. A much-needed pause.

Costs today: – salt museum 12 euros

Monday 22nd September: Day Twenty – Week Three
Catching a bus in the Nin area is an adventure all its own - almost like trying to catch an invisible wandering local breeze. The nearest bus stop lies a 25-minute walk from Peros, either back toward Nin or forward to Zaton, and so we set out on foot, hopeful pilgrims to the gods of public transport. Arriving at the chosen bus stop, we waited. And waited. No bus arrived at the designated time.

Then, as if conjured from nowhere, a private bus rolled up. The locals queueing with us boarded without hesitation, and - trusting in their quiet confidence - we followed. For five euros (cash only), we were carried straight into the heart of Zadar, gliding to a stop just fifty metres from the footbridge that leads into the old city. How marvellous is Google Maps, tracking our passage in real time - something unimaginable in those hazy, analogue eighties when our travel adventures felt more like guesswork and blind faith.

Zadar is a city that whispers to you. “Turn this way”. “Come down this Alley”. A labyrinth of marble-paved streets, where exquisite churches rise like polished spiral shells from the shoreline and the usual tourist shops and cafés nestle between them. There’s a cathedral with its solemn gracefulness, scattered Roman forum ruins like ancient bleached bones in the sunlight, museums that hold artefacts from across the centuries in their breath - and, of course, the unforgettable Sea Organ, a place where architecture becomes music. You can lose several hours in Zadar without even noticing them slip through your fingers.

The Sea Organ itself is a wonder - unique, inventive, a marvel of human imagination. People sit in the warm air on the promenade above it in quiet contemplation, letting the random, melodious harmonies wash over them. The sound is soothing – the mighty Adriatic humming its own lullaby. We joined the others, sat on the steps, listening, and gazing at the water that Alfred Hitchcock once declared “the most beautiful in the world”. And, he may well have been right you know. It is a beautiful promenade of cafes, sea salt laden air, slow strolls hand in hand and lingering glances. I think I may be a cynical romantic after all.  

Eventually we drifted to a nearby café, still close enough to hear the Sea Organ’s gentle music drifting through the air. We talked with the young waiter, trying to understand his world. He is only slightly younger than our own son, from a rural region north of Zagreb. He rents an apartment in Zadar with friends, earning good wages by Croatian standards, bolstered by the generosity of summer tourists. Yet he spoke too of the introduction of the Euro - of the inflation that swept in overnight, of how people’s spending power shrank like a tide pulling back unexpectedly.

He cannot afford a house here. He cannot go out to eat or drink as often as he once did. And like many we’ve met, he worries about rising migration – from Asia - and the wage stagnation he feels it brings. Another local told us of a close friend who migrated to Ireland to work as a chef: long hours condensed into three intense days, followed by four free ones, with enough earned money to buy a house, after settled status was secured.

How often we hear stories like these on our travels - from Iceland to Spain, Italy to Finland, Namibia to The Gambia, and even the USA. Young people searching for places where effort becomes opportunity, where their futures feel a little less precarious.

Zadar stole our hearts today - history, mystery, and ingenuity all wrapped together in cobbled streets, Roman stones, and medieval silhouettes. And the Sea Organ… perhaps one of the most extraordinary things we’ve encountered in all our many travels. Truly special. Truly unique.

Then came a first for us: we finally stepped into the twenty-first century and ordered an Uber. A novelty! We downloaded the app, read the safety briefing, and two minutes later a car glided up to meet us - correct colour, make, registration, and code, all neatly aligned like pieces in a puzzle. For 17 euros we were ferried back to the campsite by a lovely driver who told us of her experiences travelling through Devon as a teenager. What are the odds that our first ever Uber driver would know our tiny corner of the world?

The rest of the afternoon passed in quieter pursuits - cleaning Bryony and planning the next part of our journey. The kind of simple tasks that feel almost meditative after a day layered with wonderful impressions.

Costs today: Uber – 17 euros. Bus fares – 6 euros.