Croatia or Bust 2025 - week 4 - 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 23rd September: Day twenty one – week four beginning

Last night, calamity struck: Maggie stubbed her toe on the bed frame with the force of a small meteorite impacting Earth. I swear I saw it veer off at a jaunty forty degrees. She couldn’t walk on it. I was seconds away from bundling her into the van and racing to hospital, sirens purely imaginary but spirit very real. But Maggie - my Cleopatra of the Duvet Kingdom - refused all talk of Accident & Emergency, insisting on “resting it overnight”. A bold, brave strategy. A painful one, particularly for me. You see, I had two problems last night. First, genuine worry for her poor little toe (which was looking increasingly like it needed its own postcode). Second, the plague of mosquitoes that had gone full ninja on me, despite every precaution known to humankind. Matters were not improved by ‘Cleo’ rolling herself tightly into the duvet like a smug, cosy chrysalis, leaving me exposed to the airborne vampires circling overhead.

At 3am, I faced a moral crisis. I attempted a gentle tug of duvet reclamation, but she resisted - with surprising ferocity - while entirely still asleep. One part of me wanted to rip it from her grasp and declare independence. The other part, the saner, kinder, more sleep-deprived side, thought: “Oh, but her poor foot…”

So, I surrendered, switched on the portable fan, and prayed it would blow the mosquitoes away from my ears for the remainder of the night. It did… just about.

Morning came. Maggie’s toe looked awful. Bruised purple, swollen, radiating defiance. My old Mountaineering First Aid training whispered in my head, “Yep. Broken. No doubt.”

But Maggie? Oh no. She insisted she was going for a bike ride.

I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly fell out of their individual sockets. I shrugged. I huffed. I offered thoughtful “ummm…” noises. Nothing worked. All fell on deaf ears and senses. The woman is made of Dartmoor granite and sheer willpower through and through.

We achieved a heroic distance: as far as the café down the road. I resisted offering her a paracetamol and a Band-Aid - her standard response to every one of my injuries over the years.

“Fractured elbow, Steve? Here, have a paracetamol and a Band-Aid.”
“Hmm, possible concussion? Ooh, that must sting. Here—Band-Aid. Two paracetamol if you’re really suffering.”
Yes. Two. She’s generous like that.

Dearest reader, you will be pleased to know, I held my tongue. Miraculously. Even when she insisted we continue cycling to Nin for a spell. We had coffee, planned our next steps, and made individual non-shared wishes at Grgur’s shiny foot - tradition demands it.

Back at Bryony, her foot was developing a lovely shade of deep blue, and she finally conceded that resting it might not be the worst idea in the world. I admire my wonderful wife - her grit, her determination, her stubbornness. These qualities infuriate me and enchant me in equal measure.

The rest of the afternoon slid into quiet organisation as we mapped out the next stage of our journey. Croatia, as we’ve discovered, is not effortlessly tailored for motorhomes. Sites can be too expensive, too cramped, too basic, or so big you feel like you should be wearing a conference lanyard with a location air tag attached. Wild camping seems nearly impossible, and cities require serious detective-level skills to find secure parking.

I know seasoned motorhomers might scoff at this. Fair enough. We’re still newbies. Croatia is the furthest we’ve travelled in Bryony. Our only previous brush with these lands was Yugoslavia in the late eighties on a skiing trip - a different world entirely. Yet, despite all this, AutoKamp Peros in Nin has won us over. At 26 euros a night, it offers a lovely reception team, a sweet little swimming pool, a simple café, and excellent cycling nearby. Yes, mosquitos and midges are about. Yes, some tree branches could use an arboriculture haircut. Yes, pitches can be tight and the facilities are a tad old-fashioned - but they are spotless, friendly, authentic, and genuinely good value. We have loved our stay here.

Tomorrow, we point Bryony toward Omiš and Autokamp Lisicina for two nights, then continue to Kamp Solitude near Dubrovnik for three more. After that, we turn for home—possibly via Mostar in Bosnia and Herzegovina if the roads and whims of adventure allow.

Costs today: Campsite fees – 104 euros.

 

Wednesday 24^th  September: Day twenty two – week four 

Starting mileage: 26679

It began around midnight last night; announcing itself with an almighty megawattage flash and then a sonic boom thunder clap that shook poor Bryony to her very core. The cypress trees above our central habitation skylight shook and waved frantically in the sudden downwards gusty winds that swirled and roared with fury. Branches stripped bare of their slowly browning long pine needles.

The storm announced its arrival just after midnight - no polite knock, no distant rumble - just a blinding flash of megawatt light, followed instantly by a thunderclap so violent it felt as though the sky itself had detonated above us. Poor Bryony shook right down to her chassis nuts and bolts. The cypress trees above our skylight thrashed wildly, tossed by violent gusts that came swirling down like some furious, invisible giant stamping its feet.

It felt, for a moment, like we had wandered into the opening of Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights, where the moors are alive with tempests and the wind howls like an angry, forgotten spirit. Long pine needles tore loose and spiralled through the air; branches rattled and groaned.

Then the heavens fully opened. For hours, waterfalls cascaded off the roof in endless torrents; water streamed over the windscreen and walls in shimmering sheets. Huge raindrops hammered the roof in a rapid, irregular drumbeat - each crescendo triggered by another bolt of lightning searing itself into our retinas, leaving us blinking and dazzled.

Thunder rolled across Nin like a titan God dragging a colossal cooking cauldron across the sky - gaining power, losing it, then roaring back again, attached to the world by some cosmic elastic band endlessly stretched and released. Some thunderclaps hit so hard I felt their force in my chest, as though gripped by the atmosphere itself. Bryony rocked gently in the assault.

Through the rear skylight - slightly ajar - a fine mist sprayed through the mosquito net, landing on bare skin like cold, electric pinpricks. Overhead, Jupiter raged, hurling lightning bolts while dragging heavy tables across the parquet floor of the gods’ great hall. We all cowered in our motorhomes like characters from Shakespeare’s King Lear, helpless witnesses to the wrath of the heavens while the storm raged in mad, merciless fury above.

Outside, puddles became ponds; rivulets became streams; pine needles gathered in soggy clumps around tree trunks. The ground could take no more.

Morning: Escape in a Tempest

By 07:30 we were on the move, squelching out of the campsite like reluctant adventurers. First stop: Plodine supermarket, thirty minutes away. Good stock levels, decent variety - useful as a backup to Lidl. Almost a Waitrose equivalent!

Then we set off down the E65 toward Omiš, pursued by the storm, like fugitives escaping from a watery apocalypse.

To say the driving was horrendous would be an understatement on the scale of calling Everest “a tad high.” Black clouds hung low, the bellies of towering cumulonimbus swollen and furious. Lightning stabbed distant hills with frightening regularity. Rain fell so intensely that even at the highest wiper speed, visibility collapsed into milky grey nothingness.

Traffic crawled at 25 mph. Some cars gave up entirely - pulled onto the hard shoulder, hazard lights blinking, owners trudging toward emergency phone posts like drenched pilgrims. Spray was relentless; water streamed across the tarmac in thick rippling sheets. Our wheels skated more than once.

We’ve known monsoons in Thailand, tail end hurricane lashings in the Dominican Republic, and Serengeti thunderstorms that rolled across the savannah like armies of gods. But rarely, if ever, have we driven through anything quite this apocalyptic.

The descent off the motorway down the D70 was nerve-shredding. Two narrow lanes that barely allowed two vans to pass. A 40cm deep drainage ditch running alongside - ironically overflowing. Visibility down to twenty metres. Water coursing across bends at 12cm deep. On steep switchbacks I crawled at 10 mph just to prevent aquaplaning.

But at last – miraculously - we arrived at AutoKamp Lisicana in Omiš, damp but alive.

 

The campsite is small and family-run, full of charm. But for our 7.8m length and bike rack overhang, it’s… a squeeze. I’ve parked in tricky places before, but this one deserves its own medal ceremony. Pitch 10 has us tucked beside a raised curb under a trellis of vines and clematis. Behind us, a pillar with a single foot to spare. In front of us, three feet before the next van, parked nose-to-nose. Maggie demanded I take photographic evidence upon arrival - insurance in case any “It wasn’t like that when we arrived!” conversations arose. Meanwhile, Our habitation door just clears the pergola and cannot open fully due to a trellis support rail standing guard.

We arrived in monsoon-level rain, lightning cracking overhead. Within minutes the entire site was underwater. The owner and I stood ankle-deep - 10cm at least - in what had once been a driveway into one part of the site. She wore flip-flops. I wore trainers. The trainers drowned!

About the site? Tight turn right into the motorhome services area; the left-hand site is easier to get into but smaller and so is for smaller campervans. The trees in the larger pitch area to the right, drape low, barely clearing a 3m motorhome roof. As I sit here in the warmth writing this post, the site currently resembles a newly invented lake system. Thankfully our pitch is gravel although it’s clear that the water table has risen somewhat rapidly!

Getting out tomorrow may require some fancy choreography, prayer, or both.

It sounds like I’m grumbling, but I’m not: the place is charming, authentic, and the owner is warm, lovely and hospitable. The scenery is magnificent - steep canyon walls and towering peaks all around. A climber’s paradise. A bus stop to Split sits 300m up the road by the police station, and a ten-minute walk over the bridge brings you into Omiš. Tourist-heavy but with gorge boat trips that look spectacular, the vertical canyon walls rise like the ribs of the earth herself.

The road to the site, off the main thoroughfare in the town, is challenging. Longer vans risk grounding. Best to approach from the south. From the north you may need to swing across traffic and still perform delicate manoeuvres, thereby blocking the road if you don’t get it right first time.

Then there’s the cutting - two rock walls, eighteen inches clearance each side. Luckily, we’ve trained on similar terrain at home, we have a cutting at the end of our road of similar dimensions. This one curves midway though – ours doesn’t!. Longer units, beware.

Oh, whilst I think of it - the 3.2m single-file tunnel on the D70 approach: take the centre, go slow, trust nobody’s right of way.

 

It is a day of damp endings. By 17:15 - five hours after arrival - we’d been nowhere. Rain continued in torrential waves. Maggie’s foot throbs; everything we own is wet. Bryony has been transformed into a makeshift sauna as jackets, shoes, trousers, and shorts steam dry.

We read, snooze, edit astrophotography images, and listen to the storm. It feels like a very long day.

PS: Maggie’s Research Corner

Never challenge an academic on a mission. Today’s storm statistics, ferreted out by Maggie:

• Parts of Croatia received 140 litres of water per m² in 24 hours – compared to UK winter averages 35 litres per m².
• This means Croatia endured four UK winters’ worth of rain in a single day. The highest rainfall ever recorded in the country since records began.
• Istria saw 2,000 lightning strikes in two hours, with cars washed down streets.

The kind of day then, that even the authors of great storm literature - Brontë, Conrad, Shakespeare - might have nodded at and said, “Yes, that will do. Time for it all to end.”

Costs today:
Tolls – €15
Campsite fees – €68 for two nights (water, waste, electric)

 

Thursday 25^th  September: Day twenty three – week four 

The bus to Split, the number 60, runs every half hour, carrying travellers, students, shoppers, dreamers and day-trippers along the coast and into the city. Four euros return. Thirty-five minutes journey time this morning. Fifty minutes back later on, because we cleverly chose the exact moment every school and college released its flood of student humanity into the world. Every stop became the right stop for someone.

But the views along the coast made every lurch, brake and stop worth it. Pebble beaches curled like crescent moons between small rocky promontories; tiny boatyards and marinas clustered around the shore like handfuls of seashells collecting along a beach berm. Jetties stretched out like fingers, each one hosting a few gently rocking local boats. A harbour glittered with the presence of big, modern three-masted yachts - sleek, glossy creatures that probably spend more time admiring their own reflections than ever venturing out to sea. Beyond them, the outer islands floated like soft green mirages, while ferries - both the swift little ones and their lumbering car-carrying cousins - criss-crossed the channel.

The bus drops us beside the market district near the docks, where ferries chug, boat tours beckon, and the air smells faintly of salt, diesel, and roasted nuts. From there, it’s a simple five-minute wander into the old city.

Split  - is a City Built Inside a Story - a place that feels as though it began as a whisper in the ear of history and then slowly grew into a legend. Home to the Roman Emperor Diocletian and the vast palace he had built - a retirement home on a scale that would make modern day billionaires blush. He stepped down from power in 305 AD, a decade after construction began, and retreated to this fortified, Roman army camp like, sanctuary: 215 metres long, 180 wide, wrapped in walls thick enough to keep out armies and, presumably, unwanted visitors.

It is one of the only ancient palaces where life still hums inside its walls; Croatian writer Marija Juric Zagorka once described Split’s historic heart as “a living room lined with centuries.” She wasn’t wrong.

Meanwhile, Diocletian himself remains an intriguing figure. A man who did what no Roman emperor before him had dared: he retired. Peacefully. Of his own choice. Historians still scratch their heads. Perhaps he hoped to force a precedent - compulsory retirement for emperors – thus reducing the odds of them being stabbed in the back by an ambitious rival. If so, it worked. He kept his head. Many of his predecessors did not.

But don’t canonise him. The man left a complicated legacy: celebrated as Split’s founder; condemned for ordering the execution of its first Christian martyrs. Like the city he built, his shadow is long and layered.

Split has worn many crowns over the centuries: Roman, Byzantine, Venetian. Each left carvings, arches, stairways and spaces that still whisper their stories. The narrow alleyways and Mighty gates that guard impregnable walls. Ornate balconies hiding in unexpected corners and lit Peristyle courtyard glows. Jupiter’s Temple stands steeped in quiet power. The People’s Square buzzes like an over exuberant beehive.

Most shops naturally cater to tourists - Split is a major cruise-ship destination, as we discovered the moment an armada of matching sun hats drifted past. But tucked among the souvenirs are museums, curiosities and plenty of places where the soul of the old city still lingers. It is true that strolling Split feels a little like wandering into a chapter of Henry James, who admired the Dalmatian coast’s “venerable stones steeped in sunlight.” The city still has that effect.

Our day finished with pirates and ice-cream!

On the return journey we hopped off at Omiš for said ice-cream and a little wander. A place once home to the terrifying Corsairs of the Middle Ages - pirates who defied Venetian rule from the 12th century until the city fell in 1444. Their fort still clings to the hill above like a stubborn barnacle. A steep stepped walk, but rewarded with views worth every gasp.

Behind the town rises the Cetina Gorge - waterfalls, rapids, a canyon sliced so high and steep it looks like the earth was cut open by a sword. For the brave (or mildly unhinged): rafting, white-water kayaking, canyoning, climbing. An adventurer’s playground beckons.

The narrow entrance up into the campsite area 

It’s been a good day. Maggie’s foot held out, despite still being very painful (though she’d never admit otherwise). She suffers in noble silence; I would, of course, narrate my pain with the enthusiasm of a Shakespearean tragedy, at every available opportunity, to every person I’d meet, whether they wanted to hear it or not!

Tomorrow, we push further south to the large, expensive campsite near Dubrovnik - Camp Solitudo - for three nights. Then begins the great logistical ballet of plotting our long and winding return to Caen for the ferry on October 16th. Whether we make it onto that ferry remains, as always, an adventure in itself.

Costs today: 8 euros for the bus fares

 

Friday 26^th  September: Day twenty four – week four 

Thank heavens Maggie has her wits about her! If she hadn’t been on high alert this morning, serious damage would have been done to poor Bryony - and I’m not exaggerating when I say serious.

We aimed to leave by 7:30 AM, and as I was slowly pulling out of our extremely tight camping spot, I heard the unmistakable yell: "STOP!" It wasn’t a casual shout, it was a command. I immediately hit the brakes, because when Maggie raises her voice, you listen.

It turned out the culprit was that pesky steel trellis, overgrown with vines. What we’d failed to notice last night was that there were three sharp, 2-inch steel trellis spikes sticking out at right angles, camouflaged by what looked like innocent vine leaves. One of those steel daggers was now a mere inch away from the top of Bryony’s habitation door. Ouch! Actually, double ouch!!

After a couple of frantic seconds, we went into full precision mode - moving forward and backward, inching our way out of this mess. It felt like a game of camping Tetris as we carefully moved the motorhome back and forth. A neighbouring camper, clearly excited to offer his unsolicited advice, jumped in with his “helpful” suggestions and lots of hand waving – urging me to go forward into the space in front of his campervan. His hands and eyes just said ‘Get on with it man.’

I won’t mention his nationality or the gleam in his eyes, but when Maggie politely pointed at the trellis and thanked him (in the most polite "I’ve got this" way possible), his smile faded faster than a melting ice cream. From a warm morning to a positively polite glacial one in less than 10-seconds - forty years of ‘skill’ dealing with stroppy parents and kids distilled into one sentence. You could practically hear his retreating footsteps as he scrambled for cover.

Had I listened to them, Bryony would have had a 2-inch gouge right across her side panel. A disaster waiting to happen. That would have been the trip ended.

Once we managed to free ourselves, it was time for another mini-drama: reversing Bryony 30 metres into the motorhome service bay. And that was just the beginning. A three-point turn, multiple reverse-and-pivot moves, and a sharp right-angle bend through a narrow gorge later, we finally hit the main road. After that, the narrow, twisty road up to the motorway was nothing but a formality. Let’s just say, my high stress levels subsided rapidly. Why? Because I had married the most brilliant, level-headed woman in the world and yet again, she had saved the day!

If Carlsberg made tight pitches …….. then this one was definitely an award-winner. But honestly? Despite the challenges, this campsite turned out to be one of my favourites on the whole trip. Maggie, on the other hand, was just relieved to leave.

Once we hit the coastal road south to Dubrovnik, the scenery completely changed. Extraordinarily charming - with stunning vistas across to the islands, floodplains high in the mountains, and fields - huge strip-fields surrounded by drainage ditches – full of lush oranges, limes, watermelons, and vegetables. These vast plots of land looked like a patchwork quilt from above.

And on the roadside? Local produce stalls offering fresh oranges, limes, walnuts, garlic, spinach, and more. Welcome to the famous Neretva Valley, an agricultural reserve that’s every bit as beautiful as it is functional.

Just when you thought the views couldn’t get any better, we hit wine territory: steep slopes filled with vineyards stretching all the way down to the water. We had to stop at one of those charming little coffee stops right on the edge of the coast. A small cabin with covered terrace seating area overlooking a steep slope straight down to the Adriatic. Straight trellises of vines, crystal-clear aqua-marine waters, and little ferries criss-crossing the sea like something out of a glossy travel ad. Yes, it really was pretty dreamy. The famous dalmatian coast.

After crossing the great bridge, we arrive on one of the islands, where oyster and fish farming take place in the inlets. Then, we rolled into Dubrovnik, via the bustling old port where cruise ships dock. This whole journey has been an absolute geographical wonderland, with every turn offering something new and exciting. Highly recommend.

After setting up, we headed down to the beach. It was pebble-stony, but peaceful and semi-exclusive for campers. There were beach beds and umbrellas available on a first-come-first-served basis, and the water was just perfect for a swim. All the while we watched ferries, cruise ships and yachts cruise past. Absolute paradise.

Camping Solitudo - now this is a place worth talking about. The whole campsite sprawls across a peninsula, so there’s plenty of room to spread out. Sure, in the high season, it might get a bit crazy and crowded, but right now? We had our pick of pitches. The facilities are spotless, the showers are hot (no fiddling with those irritating push buttons), and we scored a prime spot with a clear sky view - perfect for stargazing – Site D – pitch 101.

A 10-minute walk gets you to Bus 6, which will drop you right at Pile Gate and the Old Town for just 2.5 euros each way (cash or card on the bus). Super convenient.

 

I did some stargazing last night. We are in a little exclusive cul-de-sac – around ten pitches, the forward row with sea views, just.  Clearly everyone wanted one as all subsequent new arrivals headed this way, even right up to 2230.

 Around 2030, there was a tense standoff when a young couple with a baby tried to park their van in a vacant pitch but got blocked by the awning of the neighbouring motorhome. The neighbouring camper wasn’t being very friendly about moving their awning, so there was a standoff for about 40 minutes. Sadly, the young couple finally gave up and went elsewhere. But karma has a funny way of showing up: a bigger van arrived, parked right next to the guy’s awning, and the gap between the two vehicles was barely 3 inches. Point made. Don’t be a selfish idiot when it comes to pitch boundaries. ‘Respect the code!’

At 10:40 PM, I had a close encounter – sadly with a caravan-towing vehicle and not a UFO - that came flying up the narrow track. I barely dodged the guy, who then reversed aggressively - right toward me, even though there was plenty of space on the other side. Some people seriously have no manners. Messed up my astrophotography session though – ah well!

So, some final thoughts before I go to bed - it wasn’t the easiest start to the day, but with Maggie’s quick thinking and a little patience, we managed to avoid a disaster. As for Dubrovnik? Stunning views, crystal-clear waters, and a campsite that’s hard to beat. All in all, it’s been a day filled with highs, odd lows, and a lot of laughs. A good day all round then.

Costs today: tolls 9 euros. Fuel 62 Euros. Campsite for three nights with electric on comfort pitch 130 euros.

 

Saturday 27^th  September: Day twenty five – week four 

The Best Dubrovnik Tip You’ll Ever Get: Rise and Shine Early!

Here’s the golden rule we can’t stress enough: arrive in Dubrovnik early. Aim for 8:00 AM sharp. Why? Because by 11:00, the city transforms into a bustling hive of tourists, with crowds so thick, you’ll feel like you’re swimming against the tide. We’re talking actual queues - yes, you read that right - for entry through the city gates. It’s a real thing, and you’ll definitely want to avoid it.

But once you’re in, prepare to have your breath taken away. Dubrovnik is like a living, breathing historical masterpiece, its beauty and history woven into every stone and corner. Imagine Venice’s opulence, but with a sun-drenched Mediterranean twist. This city once held the title of the second wealthiest in the Mediterranean (only after Venice) during its heyday in the 14th to 17th centuries. And it's no wonder; everywhere you look, there’s something jaw-droppingly gorgeous - stunning architecture, awe-inspiring city defences, and history that practically seeps out of the cobblestones.

It’s so beautiful, in fact, it earned a starring role as King’s Landing in Game of Thrones. But let’s face it: Dubrovnik is also a tourist magnet and like any honeypot, it comes with its share of high prices. So, here’s the secret: do the popular attractions first, then slip away to the quieter corners of the old town as the crowds begin to swarm the main street.

And whatever you do, look up. The details are where the magic hides - carved stonework, quaint wooden shutters, and ornate balconies all whisper the stories of a city with a legacy that stretches back centuries.

You might, like us, wonder why so many of the old town’s roofs are relatively new, and here's the backstory: In 1991, during the Croatian War of Independence, Dubrovnik endured a brutal siege by Serbia and Montenegro. The city was bombarded for eight long months - incendiary shells and mortars rained down on the city’s medieval heart, leaving much of it in ruins. The city fought not just for its survival but also took in over 26,000 refugees during this dark period, showing a resilience that still echoes in its narrow streets today.

This city’s history isn’t just written in books - it’s etched into its very walls. Dubrovnik began as a Roman fort in the 2nd century and flourished into a mighty city-state. By the 15th century, it commanded a merchant fleet of 300 ships and 4,000 sailors. Over time, it transformed from an independent commune in the 10th century to a republic that lasted until 1808. The remnants of this rich past are still there, waiting to be explored: fortresses, city walls, basilicas, fountains, monasteries, palaces, and museums all line the cobblestone streets.

To see it all from above, hop on the gondola lift up to a hilltop that provides one of the most breathtaking views of the city - a panoramic masterpiece where the terracotta roofs, sparkling sea, and ancient walls come together in a stunning snapshot of time.

Dubrovnik, you’ve charmed and bewitched us. A city that feels like stepping into a living history book. Just remember - if you want to fall in love with this place without the crush of tourists - you’ve got to rise and shine early!

The Cost of Travel Reality Check

Now, a quick pivot to the practical side of things - because travel isn’t all sunshine and Game of Thrones shots. As we continue our journey, I’ve been crunching the numbers. So far, we’re averaging about 37 euros per night for campsites, 10 euros daily for tolls, and around 17 euros a day on fuel. All said and done, that’s about 54 euros per day - before food, museums, and all the extra fun stuff. For those of you following our travels, you’ll know we’ve typically averaged around 30 euros per day on previous European trips. So yeah, this one is definitely proving to be a bit more of a splurge.

Sure, we could have avoided tolls and searched for cheaper places to stay, but even then, the nightly rates were averaging about 33 euros per stop, which isn’t a huge difference.

I’ll be diving into a full cost breakdown once we’re back, but for now, I just wanted to share where we stand with around three weeks left of our adventure. Our ferry departure from Caen is on the horizon, and there’s still plenty more to explore before we hit the home stretch!

 

Sunday 28^th  September: Day twenty six – week four 

Chasing Storms, Biking Adventures, and the Secrets of Traveling Together

The forecast was a bit of a mixed bag today: rain, thunderstorms, maybe a bit of sunshine in between. We said goodbye to Betti, our friendly neighbour, who was off to explore one of the islands in her cozy camper van. Meanwhile, we grabbed our bikes and set off, ready to see what Dubrovnik had to offer, even if the weather didn’t seem too keen on playing along.

Biking around Dubrovnik is a bit like trying to ride through a maze of traffic, potholes, and, well, chaos. The roads are mental - traffic buzzing around like bees outside a hive. But we pressed on, winding our way along the peninsula, skimming past resort hotels, and taking a few quiet paths by the sea. Then came the real challenge: a brutal uphill climb to the top of a neighbouring hill. The payoff? Well, you’d think there would be sweeping views of the Adriatic Sea, but nope - just pine trees. Everywhere. Lots and lots of pine trees. So much for that panoramic view.

The downhill ride, though? Now that was a blast. We zoomed down to the old port area and then rewarded ourselves with not one, but two coffees each - because who’s counting on a lazy Sunday morning?

By mid-afternoon, the thunderstorms rolled in, like clockwork. The first three lightning strikes? They slammed into the top of the hill we had just been on. Yeah, the one with the tall communications mast. And there I was, sitting in the camper, feeling like the biggest idiot ever. For all my mountaineering experience - summer and winter walking certificate qualified - I had forgotten one key lesson: how to avoid being struck by lightning. It’s not as easy as it sounds but apparently, I’m really good at ignoring common sense!

But, no matter! Tomorrow, we head inland toward Sinj, a perfect place for stargazing, and with plans to cycle up to Cetina and visit some bright blue sinkholes. Along the way, we’ll explore a remote spot filled with abandoned carved stones and necropolis sinkholes. Don’t say I don’t know how to show Mag a good time!

As I reflect on this morning’s bike ride, I can’t help but chuckle. Maggie was determined to get a picture of me standing between two ancient Roman pillars, with the bright blue sea in the background. She loves trying to turn a short fat ugly guy into a picture-perfect memory photo. Why she chose me, a perpetually paranoid Welshman, I have no idea.

It’s funny how traveling together for weeks in the confines of a tiny camper van can make you wonder: Is this good for romance? Is it good for our relationship?

From where I’m sitting (right here, with my legs wedged awkwardly between the kitchen counter and the fridge), the answer is a resounding YES. Sure, there are moments when you wish your partner would, I don’t know, stop breathing for a minute or two to spare you the noise. Or, from Maggie’s perspective, when she’s probably praying for me to not breathe at all for an hour. But on the whole, spending seven weeks in a tiny box on wheels? It’s definitely brought us closer.

On the road, there’s no room for distractions, no separate routines, no endless lists of chores to occupy our minds. We are constantly present with each other - whether we’re sharing meals, navigating through a confusing roundabout, or watching the sunset over the horizon. It’s just us. No one else. And that has a way of deepening our connection in a way that nothing else can. Every journey requires cooperation - whether we’re navigating unknown roads, setting up camp in the middle of nowhere, or cooking a meal in the world’s tiniest kitchen. We share responsibilities, and as we squeeze into these tight spaces together, it builds trust, patience, and a deeper sense of mutual respect. We’ve learned the art of giving each other space when needed, and knowing exactly when to crack a joke to lighten the mood. It’s the little things that make our partnership stronger. The changing landscapes around us, the ever-shifting views, bring us closer to nature - and to each other. We lie side by side in the camper at night, staring through the skylight at the stars, watching the sunsets paint the sky, and finding quiet spots on a beach to just be. There’s no rush, no distractions. Just the two of us in our little world, carving out precious moments of connection, free from the demands of everyday life.

And then, just when I think I’ve reached peak romantic bliss, Maggie hits me with one of her really funny, mildly sarcastic, disparaging one-liners that brings me right back down to earth. But that’s part of the magic, too. I’m a lucky man. No question about it. Traveling through Europe in a small motorhome with a woman as intelligent, witty, beautiful, and patient as Maggie is an absolute gift. She’s a rare beauty, inside and out.

And now, a little confession: Today, we indulged. Two coffees each - again, plus a croissant. Yes, we went all out. It’s the little luxuries that make the trip worthwhile.

 

Monday 29^th  September: Day twenty seven – week four 

A Day of Surprises, Ancient Tombstones, and Market Day Madness: Adventures on the Back Roads of Croatia

Starting mileage: 27,934 | Ending mileage: 28,099

Today felt like one of those wild, unexpected journeys where the road ahead is full of twists, turns, and surprises at every corner. It started with a seemingly simple decision: driving down the D60. But as we reached a T-junction, we were greeted with flashing amber traffic lights. No signs of roadworks on the ground, but a quick glance overhead confirmed it: we were about to take the scenic route – on the wrong side of the road!

In an instant, we found ourselves cruising down the left side of the road, amidst the hustle and bustle of a construction site. Huge rollers rolled by, bulldozers dumping piles of fresh tar, and workers in bright orange vests were busy raking steaming heaps of asphalt. It felt like driving through the set of a post-apocalyptic movie - no one stopped us, no one even flinched. It was like the road had swallowed us whole.

But the real thrill came when we encountered oncoming traffic, flying down the right side of the road at full speed. You could almost see the drivers' jaws drop in disbelief as we met face-to-face in the middle of the tarmac. It was like being caught in a bad dream where nothing made sense, but we made it through - dodging, weaving, and praying for clear roads ahead.

Such are life’s little adventures travelling the back roads of Croatia.

After that chaotic detour, we finally made it to our planned layby. But, of course, it wasn’t as easy as just pulling over. The entire area was fenced off, but we found a gap in the orange netting - just wide enough for Bryony, our trusty camper, to squeeze through. It felt a bit like sneaking into a secret hideaway, like a treasure hunter finding a hidden passage to the past. And there it was, the Crljivica Archaeological Site at Cista Velika, a true gem tucked away on the D60.

As I stepped out (Maggie stayed in the motorhome), it was like walking into a time capsule. The roadside was littered with ancient limestone tombstone heads - some large, some small, all carved with intricate designs that whispered stories from centuries ago. I was standing in the middle of a forgotten necropolis, where history and nature collided in an unforgettable way.

Imagine the eerie beauty of Etruscan tombstone tops, except these were from the Roman and early medieval periods. Scattered across the land were prehistoric tumuli, old forts perched on the hill slopes, and remnants of a once-thriving Roman road. This was more than just an archaeological site - it was a living snapshot of history, where the past and present coexisted seamlessly.

Surrounded by 90 preserved tablets and coffin stones dating from the 14th to 16th centuries, I soon realised they were more than just grave markers; they were art - Bas-relief carvings depicting funeral rites, mythical creatures, and even knights in full battle regalia. There were hunting scenes, knights’ shields, and floral rosettes - each symbol a window into the spiritual and cultural beliefs of the people who once lived here. I could have spent hours there, but alas, we were on the move again. Back to the humdrum of daily life, which led us to a quick pit stop at Lidl in Sinj - because even explorers need snacks!

After the excitement of the day, we made our way to Camping Peruca, a tranquil spot nestled at the northern edge of a reservoir. The water level seemed unusually low, but the setting was pure bliss - rustic, peaceful, and perfect for unwinding. At €25 per night, it’s an affordable gem, with two large gravel terraces and grassy pitches beneath a canopy of trees. The facilities? Simple but functional, housed in two converted shipping containers that gave the place a charming, off-the-beaten-path vibe.

The check-in process was as quaint as it gets - a converted phone box with instructions on how to sign in and an honesty box for payment. No fancy receptions or elaborate systems - just pure, unfiltered rural charm. It reminded me of the little campsite we stayed at near Plitvice - back to basics, yet full of character. But here's the catch: being so high up, we were in for a cold night. The temperature was already dipping to around 8°C. Our bodies, used to the warm coastal air, were definitely in shock. We may have been in the middle of nowhere, but we were going to sleep under a blanket of stars – so no complaints from me!

It has been really nice getting off the motorway system and travelling the rural hill roads today.

As we journeyed along these roads, the signs of Croatia’s turbulent past were never far from view. The 1990s fight for independence made itself known in the form of small war memorials, murals of resistance heroes on bus shelters, and the occasional abandoned house, its roof collapsed and walls scarred by shrapnel. The past might be buried, but it’s never far behind, a constant reminder of this country’s resilience and strength.

But then, there were also magical interludes as well, like when we entered Trilj. The atmosphere was electric - joy in the air, people everywhere, and the streets filled with the vibrant colours of a market day. And not just any market - it was a proper fair, with hundreds of stalls stretching across every road and side street. Thousands of people were out, exploring, shopping, and soaking up the local culture. Coming from the land of famous street fairs like the Goosey Fair in Tavistock, we know what a good market looks like. This one? It was up there with the best of them. The chaos of driving through it? Worth every second.

Today, Croatia showed us its true colours - unexpected, ancient, rugged, and full of life. From the chaos of roadworks to the whispers of ancient tombstones, and finally, the vibrant energy of a market day - this is what travel is all about: the moments you don’t see coming, the ones that leave you breathless. And tomorrow? Well who knows what surprises await down the road less travelled – but then that’s the fun bit isn’t it?

Today’s Costs:
Camping Peruca: €25 per night (2 nights) = €50