There and back, and back again – my forty minutes in Croatia

One of the (many) upshots of your parents being out of the country for an extended period of time is that you are forced to grow into a mature, confident adult, who does not need to call them 24/7 with probing questions about “water pressure,” and “which pans work on induction hobs.” You are expected to make rational decisions, bold choices with plenty of time to spare, and make sure you are self-sufficient enough to pay for this when the time comes. So invariably any mistake you make is going to be very late in the day to fix, and also bloody expensive. Thus on the 26^th May, Mum and Dad received around thirty panicked phone calls, about how I’d managed to book my departing and returning flights for the same day.

I was to land in Split at 16.30 and then, time permitting, hop on a plane back to London at 17.10, giving me about forty minutes to enjoy the airport. Trying to resolve this little pickle took up the whole afternoon, as I battled between Expedia and Lufthansa employees who decided this was the other party’s fault (although they could both come to an agreement that I was the biggest idiot in this situation). In the end I conceded defeat, sacked off my return flight, and forked out for a journey home with Norwegian airlines that would get me into Gatwick at about midnight. Even worse, I had to arrange for my bag to only make the outbound journey with me. I was half expecting customs officials to pounce on me as soon as I left the aircraft, in what might have looked like the least subtle and most middle class Cocaine smuggling ever. They would have been bitterly disappointed to find my suitcase did not contain 10kg of pure Columbian blow, but instead the complete works of Shakespeare and half the sun cream aisle at Tescos.

The family have been very supportive of the situation (to my face anyway), and Debi was shut up very quickly when I informed her that, despite her wanting me to travel directly to Split with British Airways, thereby avoiding this situation, BA cocked up and cancelled all their outbound flights this week.

But finally I made it, and I have to say that Croatia looks like Italy. I know you shouldn’t judge a book by it’s cover, but the only knowledge I have of this country is that they’re always in our group stage at the World Cup, where we’ll have a much hyped match, that inevitably ends 0-0 (“this was a sitting duck really, what are they playing at” laments Ian Wright every four years). Both old towns in Split and Trogir look like they’ve been lifted from ‘Piazzas Through The Ages,’ and around every corner is a quaint little cafe or restaurant, that you’d feel ‘quite chic’ about eating at. Around every other corner are the gift shops, the tourists, the selfie sticks, and loud Americans, but if you can look past that it really is a stunning country.

The campsite is layered like a wedding cake and there’s plenty to do. Ros and I are staying in a small apartment just up the road from the campsite.

“Is it nice?” I asked Mum when I arrived.

“It’s fine, it’ll do.”

It’s not bad actually, the shower is a little bipolar, but it’s only a base. For some reason though, our invitations to the parents to come to us for breakfast or coffee fall largely on deaf ears. They’ve become pretty snobbish about all other accommodation these days, unless it has wheels of course.

We spent a lovely Sunday celebrating Dad’s evolution into the Bus Pass Age, where certain presents included garibaldi biscuits, a TV remote with four visible buttons, and a Teasmade (oh no, he already has one of those). After breakfast, the king sat on his throne whilst his peasants did the washing up for him – though he did have to come and take some photo evidence, clearly enacting his own mini Watergate scandal on Belvedere campsite.

We all made the trip to Trogir that evening for dinner – our taxi was a little steamer piloted by the Old Sea Captain from The Simpsons, that we rode down the coast. Dinner was held in a glorious Piazza in Trogir, hosted by a lovely Croatian man. They even baked Dad his own Birthday cake/mousse/trifle, but after singing Happy Birthday 23 times, Dad was impatient, Ed was embarrassed and I was out of my best voice, which was the biggest shame of all. We stopped off in Trogir square for coffee and brandy – we were ‘treated’ to a Croatian band (“newly reformed!!” the waitress told us eagerly) that decided they would play derivations on the same tune for every song. By the end we sounded like superfans, singing along gustily to each melody. It was a little choppy on the way there, but not as much as the return journey where one errant passenger, filled with risotto, lamb, wine and brandy, found himself at the mercy of his toilet bowl back at the flat. No clues as to who this was, but that lamb really was delicious.

I realise I’m writing this on Wednesday, but I’ve been told that

1. if I continue at this length I’ll finish this passage upon return of Mum and Dad
2. it’s just not detailed enough (heavens I haven’t told you what I had for breakfast the other day, but only because I can’t remember myself (though as it’s Europe it was probably fruit and yoghurt)).

Well wishes to you all, but to stave anyone’s fears Mum and Dad appear to be enjoying themselves, but we can’t say for certain. They’re both very tanned, and very relaxed, but I’m not sure how long that will last come September.

Love

Rob x

N.B. Mum just thought I said ‘century,’ when I said I was writing this first ‘entry.’ The fear on her face that I might be staying longer than the week tells me I should probably get this Norwegian flight one way, and not book another return flight.