Several months ago in a different era, my son accused me of " being difficult and more" because I felt my 91 year old step father should get insurance, however, expensive it was if he was going to get a ticket to Croatia this summer. None of us could have imagined how everyone's holiday plans have been turned upside down since then, but whilst my father gave up his attempt to travel I still held onto my room bookings in Croatia, even when Ryanair cancelled my flights. Indeed my fear of missing out on the visit, despite its painful birth was my main source of anxiety come the Covid lockdown. True ghastly deaths did at times make make me quail, but the only thing I was really worried about was not seeing my son, who was planning a summer sojourn by the Adriatic. The loss of his job, didn't stop his plans on being there, so I waited and waited hoping the Government would deem that holidays were permissible and not just essential travel. Ever hopeful I booked new flights, added extra insurance and plotted a new route South, knowing it might not happen, then just a week ahead of the trip, it was green lit.
Yay,after several months not going any further than the river, 10 minutes from my door, I got on an almost empty train, walked past closed shops in Stansted and joined a few intrepid souls on a largely empty plane to Rijeka, Croatia. Having wondered the main heart of the town and in the process as best as possible established where I would catch my bus on, I without a shadow of disquiet, headed to my hotel and was pleased when I found the street nearer into the centre than I had anticipated.
On my only other trip to Croatia, my arrival had been a bit scary. I knew the coach from the airport would be running very late at night but was content that map in hand, I would find my resting place easily. Only I did not. I searched for several hours, but the owner of the local bar did not recognise the name of the place, down on the lovely seafront, not a single town map was on display, I even rang to the UK, in the hope that my brother could locate the place somehow, but when that failed I hailed a passing man on a bike, who only spoke German, but he kindly took me home and with the help of possibly his young son, who spoke some English and with the help of technology, it was established that I was looking in the wrong town for the accommodation, it was a couple of kilometres down the coast. Luckily once I was given a lift there, my holiday went swimmingly and I thought Croatia was lovely.
However, as I glanced at the rather unexpected glassless windows of the vast building opposite to a little sign for my rooms for the night, I still did not suspect that once upstairs I would be met by a
closed door rather than by welcoming warmth. The confirmation note from Ryanair, gave one phone number, the sign on the door another, but answer came back there none. In the end after waiting half an hour I left a note explaining the situation and that I would be back at 8. The door was firmly shut. I rang my son and asked him the text the hotel a message and dragged by case back down the stays and back into the centre of town, and luckily found a cafe, with an internet signal and checked the deails and realised looking at booking.com that were was a second hotel, with a similar name to mine, back down into the centre of town. With my interest signal failing, I rushed down the main drag as quickly as I could but there was no sign of the second place. I walked back up to cafe and confirmed the location of the second hotel but still could not find it until I looked up and there was an M on the top floor - many of the cheaper hotels on Booking.com are flats in old blocks, converted into sort of hotels/hostels. Some you enter with a code, but most have receptionist, though their availabilty is limited. Both this hotel and the first one in theory were open and I should have been able to just walk in, but unfortunately this second place was as unresponsive as the first. Once more I walked through the town, up the hill, to the unprepossessing first location, but still no one answered the phone or the door. With my remaining power, I dialled a hostel downtown and secured a bed, with my last signal I texted my son, that I had been rescued and planned to follow it up with more detailed respopnse once my phone was chanrged, only to discover I had the wrong charger with me and that I could do nothing till morning.
After two hours running back and forth the jolly receptionist who mostly spoke to me in German found me a bed, provided free cups of tea, ignored the smoking guests, but delighted in the Orchestral music rehearsal going on in the back street behind the hostel. I feel asleep in my bunk bed to the pounding beat of the restaurant out front, interspersed with orchestral touches. After weeks of lockdown, Croatia was clearly much more alive than me or the UK.
After that luckily the break was less dramatic, indeed it consisted of sunshine and showers, swimming in the sea, home cooked food, free concerts and the occasional trip to winding back streets in quaint towns where I would not have been remotely surprised to see Romeo and Juliet appear. And I finally met up with my son and his partner and her Croatian family. It was lovely to feel almost normal, yes there was social distancing and must wear mask instructions on every shop door, but one could sit at cafes and even attend concerts and just lie in the sun and relax. Only the nightly reminders on the BBC that winter is coming and the virus not defeated cast a shadow. As I flew back today, Spain was deemed unsafe and I returned to warnings not to travel unless necessary. I stopped in London, en route home, lively, but with most of the cafes in Kings Cross still closed, clearly not back to anything like normal. The covid crisis goes on, but I am one of the lucky one's who has got away this year.
Yay,after several months not going any further than the river, 10 minutes from my door, I got on an almost empty train, walked past closed shops in Stansted and joined a few intrepid souls on a largely empty plane to Rijeka, Croatia. Having wondered the main heart of the town and in the process as best as possible established where I would catch my bus on, I without a shadow of disquiet, headed to my hotel and was pleased when I found the street nearer into the centre than I had anticipated.
On my only other trip to Croatia, my arrival had been a bit scary. I knew the coach from the airport would be running very late at night but was content that map in hand, I would find my resting place easily. Only I did not. I searched for several hours, but the owner of the local bar did not recognise the name of the place, down on the lovely seafront, not a single town map was on display, I even rang to the UK, in the hope that my brother could locate the place somehow, but when that failed I hailed a passing man on a bike, who only spoke German, but he kindly took me home and with the help of possibly his young son, who spoke some English and with the help of technology, it was established that I was looking in the wrong town for the accommodation, it was a couple of kilometres down the coast. Luckily once I was given a lift there, my holiday went swimmingly and I thought Croatia was lovely.
However, as I glanced at the rather unexpected glassless windows of the vast building opposite to a little sign for my rooms for the night, I still did not suspect that once upstairs I would be met by a
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| No access to Hostel Morcic. |
After two hours running back and forth the jolly receptionist who mostly spoke to me in German found me a bed, provided free cups of tea, ignored the smoking guests, but delighted in the Orchestral music rehearsal going on in the back street behind the hostel. I feel asleep in my bunk bed to the pounding beat of the restaurant out front, interspersed with orchestral touches. After weeks of lockdown, Croatia was clearly much more alive than me or the UK.
After that luckily the break was less dramatic, indeed it consisted of sunshine and showers, swimming in the sea, home cooked food, free concerts and the occasional trip to winding back streets in quaint towns where I would not have been remotely surprised to see Romeo and Juliet appear. And I finally met up with my son and his partner and her Croatian family. It was lovely to feel almost normal, yes there was social distancing and must wear mask instructions on every shop door, but one could sit at cafes and even attend concerts and just lie in the sun and relax. Only the nightly reminders on the BBC that winter is coming and the virus not defeated cast a shadow. As I flew back today, Spain was deemed unsafe and I returned to warnings not to travel unless necessary. I stopped in London, en route home, lively, but with most of the cafes in Kings Cross still closed, clearly not back to anything like normal. The covid crisis goes on, but I am one of the lucky one's who has got away this year.
