From Grado, we head via Trieste and Slovenia along narrow country roads to Nin, in the heart of Croatia. The little one is enjoying the trip to the full. Nin is often described as Croatia’s windiest kitesurfing spot. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case at all during our visit.

A stretch of calm doesn’t matter, because our lovely little campsite in Zlaton has a swimming pool. The Smurf is over the moon, the neighbours are friendly and the beer is cold. A few metres down to the sea, the sun sinks into a fireworks display as a sundowner. (more…)

We continue southwards. 10,000 years ago, the island of Cres was still mainland. Then a little too much ice melted and Cres was in the sea. The last hostel manager said it wouldn’t be a good idea to cross over just by bike. He was right. Immediately after the ferry, I realised why. The only road goes from the sea practically vertically 500 metres uphill.

Sabine, who’s a fan of the study tour, really wants to see the lammergeiers of Cres. We stop at the vulture centre in Beli. A boring exhibition says a lot for the good cause. We see a poisoned lammergeier with brain damage in the enclosure. In real life and in the wild, they don’t exist. The local stone beach is only impressive because of the parking fees. We fly further south. (more…)

We continue southwards. Next stop: Pula, over 2000 years of history. An amphitheatre half the size of the Collosseum in Rome. We cycle through the area. No beautiful beaches anywhere. Everything is full. A tour of the old town in the evening. The food is greasy, bad and expensive. There are jugglers on every corner. We can’t find a single real bar. No Hula a Pula.

Medulin is the Mecca of Croatia’s wind junkies. Well, that is, of course, only as long as I’m not there. Windfinder predicts a week of calm and is right. We fry in the dirt on the crowded beach. Sun cream floats on the water, the stones bite into our feet. There’s nowhere to get to the water, and where you do get there you mutate into an oil sardine. (more…)

Istria was given its current name in 1994 when the Swiss Pierre Rosan realised that money had no value at all in post-communist Yugoslavia: “L’argent, c’est rien ici!” he shouted out at the marina in Umag. Some Germans picked up on the slogan, left out the money (greed is cool!) and Germanised the name. Istria was born.

Arrival. At the border with Slovenia, we are delighted to discover that my European sat nav map material apparently dates back to the time when Slovenia was not yet part of Europe. We drive the last 200 kilometres towards Istria by compass. From Koper onwards, the world comes to an end: heavy thunderstorms are raging, visibility is 50 metres and you could even go boating on the roads. (more…)