30 September: to Jezersko

I have a few hours before my early-afternoon bus to the farm. Leaving my suitcase at the hostel I embark on the tourist trail. It is 13° C, but most people seem to be wearing T-shirts as they drink coffee or beer at the many bars and cafés. E-car charge points are everywhere but the dominant form of transport is scooters – I swear I saw one speeding along at around 40 miles an hour – and cycles of all sorts. Slovenia is very bike friendly, with cycle lanes everywhere and good road surfaces.

I follow the tourist-office recommendation towards a nearby café and experiment with Slovenian coffee and croissant. I won’t rush to repeat it– the latter went down like lead. But a nearby bakery did a good line in cakey carbs. I bought the mother of all strudels, dense as cement, and it stood me in good stead during the rest of the day.

In the main square, primary- and secondary-school talent is on display, with girls of all ages doing twirly things with hoops or roller-skates; “I wanna be someone” is pumped out at full volume; supportive families applaud enthusiastically.

I have signed up for a tourist-office tour of the extensive network of tunnels built by the Germans during the Second World War immediately under the old city. After a period of neglect, when they were used for all kinds of projects, including mushroom growing and squatting, they are now a tourist attraction as well as a venue for concerts and art exhibitions. A few rare animal species have made their home there, including an albino salamander, bats and a spider, which our guide obligingly sighted examples of en route.

At one point the concrete-lined walls give way to tufa (created when carbonate-rich water flows over leaves and animal skeletons). This conglomerate is relatively soft, hence the feasibility of the tunnelling project.

At the end of the tour we are invited to experience a simulation of an air-raid. The sound of the siren, with its associations of devastation, loss and suffering, is followed by a pummelling, during which our seats literally shake. To my surprise, I find I am very distressed. But in fact the Slovenians didn’t use the shelter much during the war because it would have meant sharing space with the Germans. The city only experienced one raid and minor resultant damage.

I am in curious about what, if any, connection our guide has with those times. It turns out she is younger than I think – it was her grandparents who were involved rather than her parents. The guy tells me straight: her  grandfather’s father was shot by partisan soldiers and his body left hanging for 30 days.  Some questions are better not asked.

Move recently, Slovenia was of course involved in the Serbo-Croat war – in the early 1990s. How must that affect the psyche of a people. But our guide asserts that she bears no ill will towards Germans, or any of the former Yugoslav countries. It seems that Slovenia has fewer hardline grudges than some of the other players.

The other site that I knew I shouldn’t miss was the tower of the parish church. Entry is via a QR code ticket purchased from the tourist office. This lets me through the magic gate – which closes behind me. It is then a sequence of flights if stairs, getting progressively steeper until virtually a ladder. I am the only person there and I admit I am a bit on edge. What if… my luggage isn’t there when I get back to the hostel, I break my ankle, I have a heart attack, the bells start ringing and I die of aural overload (isn’t there an Agatha Christie along those lines?), or I can’t get back through the gate? Oh dear, I seem to have forgotten how to travel.

Needless to say, none of the above take place. I scoop up some emergency biscuits and nuts from a supermarket on the way to the bus station. Waiting by the edge of the road, a nearby taxi driver emerges from the rank to try to sell me a ride to my destination, one hour and 34 km away. He tells me it will cost €50 by bus – which I know it’s a blatant lie as I have already checked; it will set me back €1.30.

The bus pulls out at 14:25, super punctual. We head across the plain, past huge villas that have gobbled up the agricultural land between villages. All is new new new. As we approach the vast limestone peaks, the twisty-turns road lulls me to the brink of sleep – and it is a surprise when the driver suddenly tells me I am at my destination. In the middle of nowhere. A few farm buildings, and occasional hotels dotted around. It reminds me of squeaky clean Switzerland.

I trundle my suitcase a couple of hundred metres to the farm, which is also an accommodation business. It is close to the head of the valley and looks onto a stunning, but austere backdrop – jagged limestone crags that look impregnable. But the panorama board displayed on the terrace suggests several low- to mid-level routes. I experience a mixture of emotions: delight at seeing this Alpine landscape again and a non-committedness towards the idea of scaling any heights. That kind of walking feels like another age and another body.

My host, Polina, is out. But I’m invited to show myself around the farm. I clock the poly tunnels, hence, pigs, sheep. When she returns I’m so relieved that she is open and friendly that I share my angst about whether I can or can’t do a proper working day with my back as it is. It all feels very reassuring and possible at this stage. 

I opt for more likely sleep in a little box room used for drying laundry, than if I chance snoring neighbours in the volunteer dorm.

Volunteers eat with the staff in the kitchen. It is a delicious meal: broth followed by a salad, roast potatoes, and roast chicken or beef, and raspberry cake. I have done nothing to deserve this! 

The kitchen is run by three women. In the height of the season they turn out 40 meals a day. The farm is virtually self-sufficient. In addition to the vegetables and eggs, all the meat comes from their animals. (They would like to produce more Lhamo because it costs more to rare pigs but demand is for pork.)

After the meal Polina brings two guests to join us. They are venerable Slovenians, Andre and Amelia, who have moved back from the States – to where Andre had moved following his imprisonment in  post-WW2 Communist times, prior to Slovenia gaining independence. It’s a fascinating conversation. Amelia is a lifelong environmentalist, proud of being a thorn in the flesh of authority. I am dreading the inevitable question, “What about you, you’re very quiet” which duly arrives. I don’t think the pious Buddhist, “I try to hold my views as lightly as possible, and believe acting in anger is usually not the answer to an unsatisfactory world” is going to cut. Luckily, in the to-ing and fro-ing of people in the room, I can drop out of the conversation. 

29 September: to Kranj

I am travelling to a country that is just a 1.5 hour flight away. But before leaving, I couldn’t have told you which countries it borders. I also have remarkably little grip on the size of the country and the distances within it that I will be travelling. And when my plane descends towards Ljubljana I am ashamed to say that I am actually surprised to see soaring limestone peaks so close to the capital. Under informed or what.

I am relieved when my phone pings into life. Travelling without access to timetables, accommodation websites – the usual gizmo – would be unthinkable.

The late afternoon sun is pleasantly warm. A throng of people at the bus stop are piling onto a bus for Ljubljana. What about Kranj? I have trouble getting the word out in a way that is intelligible. The driver tells me that there are no more buses to Kranj today. I bounce between the taxi rank (where I am quoted an extortionate €30 for a ride that would cost me €1.90 on the bus) and the bus stop. Eventually, the timetable proves correct. A bus pulls in and I am in motion once again.

The mountains emerge from a flat plain – similar to the French Alps that I am familiar with. We weave our way through villages with views of maize being harvested, and a zillion churches.

No one on the bus speaks English. But the driver tells me he’s taking me to Kranj  “Centrum”. What did we do before Google Maps? I stumble my way to the little hostel cum hotel in the old city, kick the dust off my shoes and relaunch for supper.

The streets are weirdly dark – no floodlighting that I can see, few streetlamps. A full moon hangs over the river. The terraces are full. Led by Google ratings I arrive at an authentic little bistro, across the river. The picture menu shows combinations of yoghurt, cheese, potato, meatballs and sausages. I choose something that looks like an omelette. When it arrives, it turns out to be a solidly constructed laminate of bread and cheese, accompanied by a large glass of yoghurt. This sits oddly with the beer I have just started and it feels like a terrible meal. But the next day I hear at the tourist office that this is a cherished eating venue. So I will need to educate myself into Baltic ways.