Castle towns in Istria

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.

We drive along the north Istrian coast. Umag. Everything is fully booked because of the ATP tournament. Campsites the size of the English Garden exude the charm of Neuperlach. I understand Pierre Rosan’s exclamation at the first price enquiry. Money really isn’t worth anything here.

The first campsite wants 32 euros for the night. That’s twice as steep for me. In Vietnam, I recently lived like God in France for three days with that kind of money. The next campsites charge up to 38 euros for the night. We set up our tent on a small campsite (i.e. less than 2000 pitches) by the sea late in the evening during a short break in the rain. Campers in jogging bottoms vacuum the forecourts of their satellite dish-crowned “back-to-nature” tins. The food in the nearby pizzaria is excellent and expensive.

The thunderstorms continue during the night. There is heavy flooding in Austria. Here, the rain coming directly from the Adriatic hits land for the first time. The thunder echoes for up to half a minute. When lightning strikes in the immediate vicinity, we roll into the car. Good night.

The next day we tour through Inner Istria. Croats are a bit crazy. To be honest, I’m surprised that they are sometimes so fast at football. If they drove that fast on their country roads, they’d definitely get a speeding ticket. Where we expect 100, in Croatia there are signs saying 50 for kilometres.

The Istrian hinterland resembles Tuscany. Cypresses and rosemary are in the air, vines grow on the hills and there is a castle town on top of each one. We are the only visitors in Buje. Old grandpas sit on the benches in the midday heat. A priest is practising a goosebump-inducing Ave Maria on a mighty bass organ in the church. There are hardly any new houses in the whole town, just centuries of history. Ruins stand next to inhabited quarry stone houses.

The artists’ settlement of Groznjan is quite overcrowded. Housewife artists and too many tourists among the old walls. An international youth musicians’ meeting brings a different practitioner to every single house.

Motovun is basically a town like any other here: Castle on a hill. There is a church by Palladio. But we don’t get to see it today any more than the rest of Motovun. The journey is simply too long.

We continue along small roads to the north of Istria. Hum is the smallest town in the world. 100% tourists double the population. As there are only 19 of them, dinner on the terrace of an old tavern at sunset is nevertheless very peaceful. Istrian corn soup, Karst ham and micro chops. Hello holiday!