Slovenia

15:30
I spend a lazy morning getting packed, finishing a couple of errands, and reading a little about Slovenia. A new country for me, I know little about it, other than its part in the former Yugoslavia, and the resulting ethnic conflicts in the 1990s. Home for the next week will be a cottage in one of Slovenia’s wine regions, and my companion will be my school friend Kirsten, who I quickly realise has known me for pretty much bang on 30 years. That’s a sobering thought. We’ve not much planned for the week. The climate looks beautiful - our nearest weather station will be Maribor, which promises temperatures in the high 20s, light breezes, wall-to-wall sunshine. I imagine we’ll do some hiking, quite a lot of wine tasting/drinking, maybe some lake swimming if we find something suitable nearby. We’ll see what cool food we can find to cook. I’ve no idea about Slovenian cuisine, but given it neighbours Italy to the West, and Croatia to the South, I’m expecting good things. Kirsten’s driven her camper van up from Madrid, so we’ve got some transport sorted, should we need it much. From the sounds of it, our cottage is at the top of a hill, downwards from which finds you in one of 4 or 5 vineyards that surround the property.

I leave the house a little before 14:00, and jump on a train for the short ride up to Gatwick. Despite the Monday, early afternoon timing, the train is busy, having been delayed on its way to me. It sounds like I’ve enjoyed the best of the Summer weather while I’ve been in the UK these past 10 days. Today is grey and mizzling - a more popular 2024 combination. I’m not sad to be leaving it behind. I AM sad to be leaving behind my darling Vicki. I’ve loved being at home with her since got back from SE Asia, and I’m uber-excited for our next trip(s) away together in September.

Gatwick North is comfortably the busiest I’ve seen it this year. This is the first ‘full’ week of school summer holidays in the UK, and it shows. Children EVERYWHERE. I’ve paid to use the fast-track security service at the terminal. I’m not checking a bag, so have got a couple of heavy-ish cabin bags. Arriving at the fast track queue, I spot that they’re using one of the new CT scanners, which is great - except that it’s broken. Chatting to one of the security staff, they’ve been using it for a week now, and there have been some, well - let’s say ‘teething problems.’ The issue is quickly resolved by someone who doesn’t look like they work at the airport. I’m a little disgruntled when one of my bags gets pulled for further inspection. I always travel with a medikit, which contains a pair of blunt scissors, whose blades are less than 6cm long (as required by the Civil Aviation Authority). It’s these that have caused a red flag. Now, my bag is packed pretty fucking brilliantly. Everything I need, nothing I don’t. The medikit is right at the bottom of the bag - obviously. I locate it for the guy, whose beard is simply spectacular, and he measures the blade. Sure enough - 5.5cm. I huff, grab my belongings, and repair to one of the little desk things to repack my bag, quietly seething.

Still, I make it from the train to Brewdog in around 45 minutes, which is a none too bad result for this time of year. I’m thinking about buying a debenture seat at Brewdog in the North terminal of Gatwick Airport. I’m sat at the same table seat as I have on several occasions already so far this year. I’m pretty sure the bar staff recognise me. Looking back through my scribblings from earlier in the year, I can see that I’ve been here on several occasions when I was all but the only customer. Today, they’re pretty much at max capacity. There are even (whisper it) some kids in here. Not many, but some…

I’m conscious that at various times in this journal, and particularly at airports, I’ve written stuff that indicates I have some sort of preternatural hatred of kids. I don’t. I love (some of) them. I do, however, find that my enjoyment of travelling can be impaired by their loud, shouty, uncontrolled presence. I guess it’s not the kids I have an issue with, but rather the parents of those kids who choose not to assert any kind of control or discipline over their offspring. Besides - why would you bring them to a craft beer pub, when there’s a perfectly serviceable <insert fast food outlet name> just down the stairs?

So anyway - Slovenia. The sum total of my knowledge and experience boils down to a few games of football England have played against them, a couple of wines (one of which I adore) that I’ve tried in the UK, and that aforementioned war in the early 1990s. When I travel long-haul, I invariably end buying a Lonely Planet / Rough Guide type book, a growing library of which I keep in my office at home. I haven’t for this trip, and am unsure if:

1) This is because I’m only going to be away for 10 days, or
2) I’m largely sticking to one part of the country, or
3) It’s Europe, and I figure that’s unlikely to need me to spend a ton of time learning about local practices, a sharply different culture, a different currency.

I find myself feeling guilty that I’ve essentially snubbed the entire Slovenian nation, and wondering whether the WHSmiths downstairs have got a travel section…

23:50
The flight itself is a breeze. A shade under two hours. We leave close enough to on time that we land a few minutes ahead of schedule. The airport is all but empty, and I’m the first person to the immigration queue. I’ve no baggage to collect, so am actually outside waiting for my taxi a minute or two ahead of our scheduled arrival time. My driver is parked up the road a little, presumably to avoid paying a parking fee. He turns up pretty quickly, and seems like a jaunty sort of chap.

We set off - at quite a lick. I’ve no idea what the speed limit is in these parts, but I suspect it’s not 150kph. My driver is quite animated. He gets quite involved when I mention that I worked in business psychology for 15 years. Hands leave the steering wheel, he turns round to talk to me face to face a couple of times, even though we’re travelling at upwards of 80mph. As we arrive into the city centre of Ljubljana, we very, VERY nearly have a crash. A car pulls out in front of him, and we do the whole skidding / brakes screeching thing, before pulling to a stop less than half a metre from the offending vehicle. I’m unsure whether the fault lies with my driver or the other car, but it unnerves me somewhat. Happily, we’re not far from the guesthouse, so there are few opportunities for further nerve jangling.

Kirsten and Max have gone out to grab some food. Oh, I realise we need to do a bit of explanation, don’t we? I consider myself very lucky to have had 4 ‘best’ friends throughout my life, and even luckier that 3 of them are still with me. Kirsten is one of them. We met at school when we were both 16, and just clicked. We share a similarly dark sense of humour, we have in common the same philosophies of life, and even when we’ve not seen each other in a long time, we slip into a very easy style of conversation.

Max is Kirsten’s mum. She lost her husband, John, a few years back, and asked Kirsten if she could join some of this trip. Kirsten’s driven up from Spain in a camper van with Max in tow (as well as Juancho and Milla - but we’ll deal with them tomorrow). I’ve met Max a handful of times over the years, and have always adored her company. She’s a wine hound, so we have much in common.

I catch up with them at a cool restaurant down by the riverside. I can’t see much of Ljubljana in the dark, but it seems like a lovely town - very quiet, lots of bars and restaurants, easily walkable. We natter over a couple of bottles of wine, and head back to the guesthouse around 23:00. It feels like I’ve had a long day…Baca lagi