Overland from Slovenia to Istanbul
By Ella D
Here’s some of the highlights from an overland trip I took from Slovenia to Istanbul, using sleeper trains, buses, ferries and the occasional bike. Our route was pretty much improvised as we went along and took us through a substantial chunk of the former Yugoslavia. We started hiking around brilliantly clear Slovenian lakes, before island hopping down Croatia’s coastline, travelling inland to Sarajevo and Belgrade and then heading east through unfathomable Bulgaria, winding up a month later in Istanbul admiring the magnificent dome of Aya Sofya. As holidays without flying go, this has to be one of the best.
Slovenia
It sounds obvious but perhaps the most astonishing thing about Slovenia is its diminutive size: it’s so compact that you can leave Ljubljana on the bus and be walking in the mountains within a couple of hours. Nestled in the basin of the Sava and Ljubljanica rivers, with views towards the snowy peaks of the Julian Alps, Ljubljana is a charming, tiny capital with the relaxed feel of a provincial town. On both banks of the Ljubljanica, there’s a proliferation of outdoor cafes and bars - it’s a great spot to sit back with a glass of wine and admire the city’s handsome neo –classicist, baroque and secession style architecture.
A relatively short bus journey out of the capital, Lake Bohinj, situated on the edge of the Triglav national park, is truly spectacular. Less visited than its famous counterpart Lake Bled, but, if anything, more dramatic, Bohnij is Slovenia’s largest glacial lake. Remarkably, given the exquisite beauty of this vast reflective pool of water, it’s blissfully free of the usual trappings of mass tourism: a couple of hotels, a bar, a campsite and a small ferry carrying day-trippers across the lake is about the extent of the development. The meadows and pine-clad hills surrounding the lake are the picturesque starting point for some deceptively steep (near vertical!) hikes through the forests above the lake.
The Croatian coast
From Zagreb, with its lively cobbled old town and sprawling Soviet suburbs, we caught a sleeper train to Split and then travelled down the Dalmatian coast towards Dubrovnik.
Facing the shimmering Adriatic, Split is the main town in Dalmatia and attracts a large number of visitors, thanks to its pretty Italianate old town and the famous ruins of Diocletian’s palace, built by the emperor Diocletian for his retirement in the fourth century AD. A little further down the coast, Hvar island is the beautiful, if inevitably pricey hang- out of the yachting set and their entourages. For the less well to do, it’s a case of sinking back into an avant-garde wicker sofa, sipping a cocktail, feigning sophistication and admiring the sparkling Adriatic from dry land. With pretty churches, harmonious stone buildings and rocky beaches extending around a verdant coast, Hvar’s an attractive stop for a few days in the sun.
For a complete change of scene, Lastovo, just one hour and a half from Hvar island by catamaran, is completely off the beaten track and a bucolic refuge from the cultivated glamour of the Dalmatian ‘riviera’. On arrival at Lastovo’s port Ubli, you’re picked up by the island’s ‘bus’ (think van with a couple of chairs placed precariously in the boot) and driven 10km around the island, across densely forested, hilly terrain, around a series of nail-biting hairpin bends, to Lastovo’s major conurbation, which comprises one street with a shop, two cafes, a bank and a tourist office, who are able to arrange private self-catering accommodation in farmhouses owned by a local families. We stayed with a friendly couple who delivered us buckets full of tangy nectarines from their garden. Without a car, however, the novelty can wear off and options on the island become a tad limited. A step downhill walk from the main street brings you to a hamlet, with a quay where you can swim and sunbathe – but there’s no beach within easy reach on foot.
We took the daily (4am) catamaran from Lastovo and then a bus on to Dubrovnik. Eulogized as the ‘pearl of the Adriatic’, Dubrovnik is alas the unfortunate victim of its own popularity. Modern Dubrovnik is a large working port. Most of the sights of historic interest are contained inside the walled medieval old town. The old town is undeniably beautiful, but when we visited in early September it was so choc-a –bloc with cruise ship parties that I felt like I was being perpetually swept around by a giant wave of tourists, all of whom who had the misfortune to be incarcerated within the old city walls. Perhaps it will suffice to say that it’s the kind of place where the restaurants have plastic waiters and unappealing photographs of their lunchtime specials. There was, however, a curious inverse correlation between the number of fellow tourists and the number of steps; the more remote corners of the old town throw up some interesting nooks and crannies and thankfully at night, when the tour groups retreat to their gigantic ships, it’s certainly pleasant enough to stroll around. If you’re on a budget, however, I would definitely advise sleeping and eating outside the city walls, where prices drop dramatically.
Sarajevo
Leaving Dubrovnik, we caught a bus across the border to Mostar, famous for its old bridge destroyed by the Croatian Defence Council in 1993 and rebuilt as a symbol of reconciliation. From Mostar, we boarded a train on to Sarajevo.
I was unsure what to expect of Sarajevo: the name brought to mind childhood recollections of the BBC news; the sombre intonations of war correspondents, burnt-out buildings, snipers and bullet proof vests. In fact, Sarajevo’s a lively and friendly city – and a fascinating place in which to spend a couple of days. The pavement cafes and coffee shops around Marsala Tita and Ulica Strossmayerova are crammed day and night as people linger over an espresso and a cigarette; there’s excellent ice-cream at caffé Metropolis. Even the Markales market place, where 68 civilians were killed during the siege, is bustling, as stall vendors and shoppers barter over a selection of rosy tomatoes and luscious nectarines.
Of course, Sarajevo still bears the scars of the siege: there’s the shell holes in the pavement filled with red putty, the once grand Habsburg facades pock-marked with bullet holes and the UNCHR labels on the shattered remains of window sheeting. A short tram ride out of the centre, past the lurid yellow façade of the Holiday Inn where the foreign correspondents were holed up during the war, you reach Sarajevo’s excellent Historical Museum. Housed in a building still partially war-damaged, the museum aims to facilitate remembrance of the siege of 1992-6 through a powerful exhibition (not translated at the time of my visit) using newspaper, documentary and photographic evidence, together with artefacts linked to day –to day survival, such as packs of US humanitarian rations and civilian survival guides.
Yet, for all the poignant visibility of battle-scarred buildings, it’s a testament to Sarajevo’s youthful vitality that it is possible for the siege to temporarily slip one’s mind. The city is a real melting pot of cultures: minarets and soviet high rise blocks share a skyline; and the Catholic cathedral is just a couple of minutes walk from the mosques of the old Turkish quarter. We found private accommodation in a grand 19th century apartment with a balcony overlooking one of the city’s oldest orthodox churches. The old Turkish quarter, with its squat houses, shops and cafes, just a couple of minutes walk from the river, becomes the focal point at night. Shrouded in an atmospheric haze of smoke, it’s packed with both locals and tourists who descend for tasty cevapi, small grilled spicy mince sausages served in pitta bread, the Bosnian variant on fast –food.
From Sarajevo, we decided to head to Belgrade. For most destinations, buses and trains depart from the centre. Those wishing to travel to Belgrade, however, are banished to a rather run-down bus station on furthest outreaches of the city. It’s difficult to escape Sarajevo’s history.
Bulgaria
I found Bulgaria a bit of a conundrum and not just because of the alphabet. We arrived on a sluggish overnight sleeper train from Belgrade, in which we could overhear a conversation in the next carriage between what sounded like two Texan arms-dealers, discussing something euphemistically called ‘military technology’. Arriving into Sofia, early in the morning, I found it hard to get a measure of the place; at first sight the city appeared pretty much on a par with any other eastern bloc capital, less grandiose than Belgrade, ridiculously cheap, but with all the shiny trappings of a new capitalist economy: shopping malls, cocktail bars and mercs.
Things changed however, when we met Kiril; who descended from his rickety bicycle at a road crossing and introduced himself, having seen us looking at our Rough Guide to Bulgaria. Fluent in English, German and half a dozen other languages, Kiril was delighted to have encountered two English students and proceeded to guide us around the sights of his home city, before inviting us to his apartment for dinner that evening to meet his family and watch a lengthy video of traditional Bulgarian dancing. Initially a little disarmed by this hospitality (coming fresh from the mean streets of Oxford), we threw caution to the wind and Bulgaria turned into the most interesting leg of the entire trip. Kiril’s stories about Bulgaria – and there are many – told us more about the country’s incomplete transformation from party state to capitalist consumerism than any guide book. Having been imprisoned in a Bulgarian labour camp for his ‘pro-Western’ leanings, Kiril’s interest in England and all things English appeared without bounds. We later discovered the source of his enthusiasm; Gladstone’s public denouncement of the Turkish massacre of thousands of Bulgarians in 1876, an act which helped generate the climate international outrage sparking the Russo-Turkish war of 1877-8 and ultimately lead to the liberation of Bulgaria from Ottoman rule.
Hearing we were hoping to do some hiking in the Pirin mountains in the south of the country, Kiril invited us to stay at his house in his wife’s village. We caught a bus via en route south to the Rila Monastery, the most famous Eastern orthodox monastery in Bulgaria, with many impressive frescoes. The monastery’s striking black and white stripped buildings date from the fourteenth century and are still inhabited by a dwindling number of monks.
Travelling through Bulgaria’s countryside the massive disparities in the country’s wealth became apparent. The trendy sushi bars of Sofia felt a long way away from rural Bulgaria, where hunched old ladies till the fields with scythes and lead donkeys laden with vegetables. Kiril’s house, it transpired on arrival, was not entirely built: specifically, it lacked floors and an upstairs. However, this in no way impeded our enjoyment of our brief stay; particularly once we had sampled the wonderfully plump figs growing in the garden. Fixing up transport through a friend of Kiril’s, we set off hiking in a remote spot in the Pirin mountains. It was late September, glorious weather and the pine clad hills were absolutely silent. The mountain refuges in which we stayed for a couple of nights were empty. The owners – with whom we had to communicate through gestures - appeared understandably bemused by the presence of two English tourists. Hiking up to a secluded lake one day, we came across a mountain hut – empty, except for two inebriated Bulgarians sitting on a log, strumming guitars and singing at full throttle to the silent mountains. After a couple of days peaceful hiking, we made it back to civilization in tact - quite miraculously, given that our map bore no correlation to the terrain. From Sandanski, we travelled onwards to the historic city of Plovidiv, which has some impressive ancient archaeological sites and a picturesque old quarter dating from the National Revival period.
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