Slovenia-Italia
from July 6 until July 11 2002

Difficult words, a pound of ice-cream, caves and a wild deer

Suddenly we're in a country which language we don't speak. I especially have a hard time coming to terms with this. At the first tourist-information-centre we encounter I ask the English-speaking lady all kinds of words, to at least manage to communicate a little bit with the locals. I write down a few pages. The lady loves to teach me some of her language; normally tourists are never interested in it. The Slovenian language contains beautiful words, but mainly a lot of difficult sounds. Dobar dan, potpis sluzbenog lica prosim, and of course: hvala lepa (thanks)!

We encounter one major and unexpected setback in this country: the prices are very high. Putting up your tent on a simple campsite already costs 10 Euro. No bad price for European standards, but we felt like travelling through a real cheap country this time.

From Kransja Gora we cycle over a real cycle-path to Mojstrana Dovje. On our right-hand-side we see the majestic Julian Alps, the highest peak being the Triglav. These mountains are more grey, freakish and dignified then the Tyrolean Alps. In Mojstrana Dovje we search for a campsite, when Jozef Peternel invites us to put up our tent on his land. It's situated a few hundred metres from the road, the grass and herbs grow very tall, the terrain is visible from the road and it slopes, but we're still glad with the offer. To prevent problems with neighbours and police he writes us a note in which he grants us permission to camp on his property. Our benevolent saint forgets nothing.

A rainy night causes our tent to be soaking wet in the morning. The tall grass also causes some displeasure. Once we're on the bicycle again it's all forgotten. We use Slovenia as a bridge between Italy and Croatia. We try to see as much of the country as we can, such as the Vrsic-pass. It's not exactly a coincidence that this mountain-pass is included in our trip, Peter would like to cycle every pass on earth if he could. He once read somewhere that the Vrsic-pass is a very beautiful twisting road that leads through an unearthly mountain range with amazing views. Well, that sounded nice, so now we're here. The ascent is about 12,5 kilometres long, start calmly in a green valley and winds itself with long loops through the landscape. The colour green of the grass and shrubs rapidly changes into the grey, yellow and brown of rocks. Sharp rockwalls thrust themselves skywards; one of the walls shows a human face that evolved in a natural way, sometime during the existence of the wall. The road seems to become narrower. In the steep hairpinbends old-fashioned cobblestones replace the crumbly tarmac. The 24 sharp turns are all numbered; apart from the number the signs tell at which altitude you are now. That's real nice information when you feel all right, but often annoying when your legs refuse to cooperate.

As we often experience, the climb is harder than we expect in advance, this timebecause of the gradients of 14%. The views sometimes make you forget your pain though. At the summit we gape in admiration at the 360-degree view. Half an hour later we stand, with only 38 kilometres but a whole lot of altitude-metres on our counter, on a campsite in Trenta. We meet the English couple Rose and Peter McAvoy who's camper stands right next to our tent. On the terrace the four of us talk for hours; they tell us that we miscalculated the exchange rate for the Slovakian Tolar. Unfortunately to our disadvantage: life is twice as expensive as we already thought.

Alongside the river Soca and through the Julian Alps we cycle towards Italy. Just before Tolmin I have my first puncture during this trip. Now the problem is not having a puncture, but finding the patches and glue that are somewhere deep down in a pannier.
Nova Gorica is a divided town, just like the old Berlin in Germany and Nicosia on Cyprus: the last piece of the Iron Curtain in Europe. The town was divided in 1947, when the Italian-Yugoslavian frontier was settled. The largest part of the town of Goriza became Italian; in Yugoslavia they build the new town of Nova Gorica, right next to the old town. Until 1952 the inhabitants were forbidden to cross the border, after that year it became somewhat easier. Nowadays there is a free traffic, as long as you have the right papers.

Roads in Italy are even worse than the Slovenian ones. The waves and bumps in the tarmac are so high that we get catapulted now and again. With a steady 36 degrees Celsius it's another bloody hot day and we escape the town towards the Adriatic. We both feel the urgent need to cool down. At a Lidl-supermarket disguised as an Ildi we buy a pound of lemon-ice-cream that we eat in the shadow of the shop, on the parking lot. Passers-by grin at us, full of understanding and head for their own ice cream.
At campsite "Alla Rose" in Aurisina we chat with Luc, a Belgium man who travels by motorcycle, until the night falls. The next day we're lying on the beach for the first time this trip, get sun-tanned, take a rest, watch people and have no obligations at all.

Two days later we're in Slovenia again; we're travelling eastward and arrive at the end of the day in Postojna. Here we'd like to visit the Postojnka Jama, 20-kilometre deep stalactitic and stalagmitic caves. We can't find an affordable campsite, but we do find a nice and illegal spot near the muddy river the Pivka. The tent is completely out of sight and there are no footpaths in the vicinity. The caves are just a short walking distance away, ideal. We wash ourselves in the river, actually more a wide ditch, and hope as a result we will be somewhat cleaner. At night Peter discovers his third tick, that's very busy digging itself in. Just when we've interrupted its activities, a life-sized deer with a huge pair of antlers comes out of the bushes. He scares just as much as we do, but disappears faster than we can get our camera.

The first caves in Postojna have been discovered coincidentally in 1818. The new part was discovered in 1891, no coincidence at all. When we enter the caves (with a 50% discount with our phoney-studentcards) we're following in the footsteps of 29 million previous visitors. So they tell us. That's another coincidence, such a nice round number. Thirty years ago Peter visited the caves as well, with parents, brothers and sister. Without their visit then, you could say that 28.994 people were here before us. Peter tries to explain this enormous coincidence to the local ticket-seller, but it's wasted on him. Maybe he just can't comprehend a miracle of this magnitude.
A miracle that everybody can comprehend are the enormous stalactites and stalagmites in the cave, the magnificent "Briljant"-stalagmite, the ridiculously low growing-speed of one millimetre per 20 years and the ignorant tourists who only want to break off pieces to take home. Let's not forget the blind Proteus, the human fish that resembles a salamander that supposedly descends from the cave-dragon.

The same day and 90 kilometres further down the road we enter Croatia. Six weeks of cycling behind us and still we feel like we're on holiday. When's that journey around the world finally going to start?