Only the Med would - A window on the world of a small Croatian island village It is Spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters-and- rabbits wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea. The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine to-night in the snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows weeds. And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now....... Dylan Thomas Under Milk Wood, a story about a small Welsh fishing village, is about as good a piece of writing you will find anywhere in the English language. When walking, riding and kayaking from Perth to Darwin one year I determined Id learn it by heart. I never did. Never too Much of Brac......... Since leaving Turkey on 26 April, Ive never had more than one day in one place. I have now been in Sutivan on Brac for 2 weeks; 2 unexpected weeks. It is like my Hotel California; Ive arrived but I cant seem to leave. And despite the undoubted beauty of Brac, my endeavours to rest my errant knee have ensured I have not explored the island; only observed the village of Sutivan. Innumerable coffees have been drunk at each of the 6 bars. Meals have been taken multiple times at each restaurant and soaks in the Med have occurred at both beaches. Ive observed a lot of sun, some wind and today, a cracking good thunderstorm that has shaken buildings and turned cobbled streets into whitewater rivers. Every morning a blonde, long haired, long legged Englishwoman leaves her apartment set back from the small pebbly beach. On the wall above the beach she stops, hands on hips and waits. Slowly, generally two-by-two, out wander blonde, long haired girls. Long legged all, from 6 to 16, at least 10 in total. They join the Englishwoman and descend to the beach. A tall, long legged, short haired adolescent boy comes into the office of Aldura Sport after 6pm each day, put his palms together in the prayer position to Eti or Ivo and borrows one of the long skateboards racked up on the wall, saying Kvala (thanks) as he leaves. For the next hour he speeds up and down the asphalt around the small harbour. At some point, most days but not every day, a tall, long legged, long haired adolescent girl swooshes past on her roller blades. The two cross over in different directions, smile coyly but never speak, never travel in the same direction. As the setting sun makes the old stone buildings around the harbour glow orange, an old man, tall and gaunt; always in navy pants and pullover, always in a navy beret, climbs aboard his small, open blue boat. Boxes of ropes lie scattered unkempt around the deck. He slowly, methodically tidies the ropes, coils them, sheets them. When done, before the sun has fully set, he climbs off the boat and disappears up a narrow lane. One day he threw me; he took the boat out to sea. Around the same time as the skateboard is being borrowed, the pancake/palecinken/creeps (sic) trolley rolls past from its daytime position behind the beach on the eastern side of Sutivan and sets up for the night by the harbour. However the man who walks past mid morning in short, shorts pushing a luggage trolley holding an Esky offering corn cobs for 10 kuna, is only ever seen once. But twice Ive seen him, esky parked outside, in the supermarket ordering, from the deli/bakery counter, only the middle section of a loaf of bread (what happens to the ends?) and 4 slices of cheese. Between the harbour and the small pebbly beach on the the western side of Sutivan there are some steps down from the road to a narrow, concrete path across the rocks to the water. Every day the same tall, thin, middle aged man stands in front of his Esky at the end of the concrete and casts his line into the Mediterranean. No-one else ever fishes from this spot. In fact he is the only person I see fishing with a rod. Despite their huge coastline, fishing is not big in Croatia; not the national sport of Greece and Albania. All day large yachts and motor cruisers enter the beautiful small harbour here in Sutivan. In the middle of the harbour they do numerous 360s at snails pace. Eventually a man, the harbourmaster perhaps, wanders to the sea wall and gesticulates towards them; manbag rising up and down across his chest. Some of these boats then throw him a line. He ties it off, if space allows, either to a harbour bollard or another already moored craft. Then more gesticulation before, invariably, he unties the line, throws it back aboard the boat, which then motors out of the harbour and away from Sutivan. Always, as the sun says thanks and goodnight; at a time when invariably the wind of the day has also said farewell to be replaced by mirror calm, a tiny yacht, no more than 4 metres, speeds out of the harbour, faster than allowed, small outboard screaming. I forget to watch where he goes, only noticing he is always alone. But he cant go far as before dark he speeds, faster than allowed, back into the harbour. Meanwhile a short, middle aged man with a swollen knee, sometimes bandaged, but not always, strolls barefoot (no-one else is ever barefoot in Sutivan except for Ivo and this man), invariably clad in the same faded, grey T shirt. He stop often to drink coffee by day (and beer by night) at one of the bars. For one week he was alone but now he is always accompanied by a tall, blonde, long legged, but never barefoot, middle aged woman. He must have got lucky in Sutivan. The Vanka Regule adventure festival is ramping up here now. Vanka Regule means without rules. It must be time for me to leave soon. Im getting too used to the rules and regularities of Sutivan. And in any case the blonde but never barefoot womans holiday on Brac is coming to an end. Tomorrow she flies to to England.
Posted on: Tue, 22 Jul 2014 14:17:06 +0000
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