14 October: Šenkova Domačija to Ljubjlana

Maria turns up the “card of the day” that we have been reading each morning, to improve my Spanish:

... “The magic of starting again”. It is apposite for this day of change, when we go our separate ways.

I enjoy one last glorious burst of sunshine, cycling to the village vending machine for a few cheesy purchases. 

After 2 weeks of planning to do so, I walk up the hillock behind the house. It gives the archetypal view of Šenkova Domačija, making it seem as though it is the only homestead in the valley. The morning sun is blinding and, although not the most flattering light, is still an impressive amphitheatre. 

And there is yet another lovely view of St Andrew’s Church.

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Perhaps because I am leaving, the morning coffee break is early. It’s an opportunity to say goodbye. Polona embraces me warm heartedly and there is talk of me returning – perhaps even staying in the dorm, off-season. Drejc is a hand shaker but there is the same good feeling.  

The bus has been stationary at the “terminus”, visible from the house, for a couple of hours. What does the driver do the while. I discover when I arrive: he is snoozing on the back seat, curtain drawn. I hear an alarm, and the sounds of reluctant awakening. And then we’re off, Maria waving from the raspberry patch. Waves of sadness and gratitude wash over me. And I wonder how I will adapt to my solitary, damp-cottage existence – and the grey UK climate. I have had almost 2 weeks of sun, nothing unusual in these parts. But I will get some acclimatising rain in Ljubjlana in two days’ time – if the forecast is right.

I’ve been reflecting on the debates I have witnessed in the last 2 weeks and whether the passionate attachment to view (excuse Buddhist jargon) is particular to the Karnicar family or endemic to Slovenia. And whether it is also linked with a small-country mentality in some way. There is understandable resentment, for example, that because of the hospitality industry being 15000 in deficit, foreign non-Slovenian speakers take restaurant roles, and Slovenian diners are forced to speak English in their own country. Historically, being cut off by mountain borders perhaps encourages a more traditional, inward-looking outlook. I would put money on it being the last country to get around to reducing its meat consumption. (I have been told that just 1% of the country is vegetarian.)

I check into my hostel and am taken aback that its conversion from a former prison retains quite so much of the atmosphere of that time! My bedroom – a former cell off a long, red-tiled corridor – is made of steel, with a second grill door directly after it. The windows are high and I can only access my bed – which bridges the gap between the two side walls – by standing on a rock which has been placed on a pebble floor. Designer chic, or unbearably austere?

First impressions of Ljubjlana are its graffiti! 

And also evidence of a very rich cultural life, that I will have to bypass. I do, however, make it to the Museum of Contemporary History – trying to take in some of the complex and violent phases that the country has lived through. I can respond on an emotional level to the First and Second World Wars. (Eyewitness videos do a good job of keeping alive some very horrible stories.) But I just can’t integrate the border and alliance changes, the bringing together and dissolution of states and countries, the splits within Slovenia itself, the way the rest of Europe – including the UK – contributed to how the story unfolded, with secret treaties promising bits of land, etc.

A temporary exhibition of paintings by the 20th century artist, Tone Kralj, evokes the Second World War from a different angle. This painting is said to depict Fascist Italy commanding an Italian song from a member of the resistance, and one of the many victims:

Outside the museum, there is a commemorative exhibition of works by the photographer, Joco  Znidarsi, who died recently and was the first Slovene photojournalist, a prodigious prizewinner, decorated for his work by two presidents of Slovenia. 

Regarding “The face of the little girl Francka Gril in her father's embrace”, Znidarsi says, “She didn't speak a single word during the entire visit. She's not used to people. More than what we would do to her, she was afraid of what we would do to her father. Even today, we don't know what she really thought.”

Walking through the park, I’m impressed by the level of activity: there is a skateboard park, rollerskating drome, volleyball area, children’s play area… 

A Google Maps rating brings me to a riverside eatery. Sitting on the terrace, the sheer number of people is overwhelming. I head for a fish meal, the waiter deciding me in favour of octopus. I watch the sea of humanity, including an elderly roller-skater strutting his stuff on a nearby bridge, hips gyrating, arms flowing.

Back in my cell, sounds of the city come through the window: conversations, traffic, music. I am missing the mountains.