Pilgrims (a)Way

Saturday 7^th April was a very special day in our family, Father’s 95^th birthday. Sister A, brother N and myself had arranged with the Warden/Manager of the sheltered accommodation in Windermere, where he lives, to have a buffet lunch with him and the other residents, and apart from believing that A and I were joining him for lunch he did not know that Son and New daughter, A and A’s husband P and her children were all coming too. In fact N and his wife were due to fly over from Germany but in the last week N has been unwell after a fairly routine angiogram which left him with a large bruise and femoral artery swelling which needed some small but uncomfortable inguinal surgery at short notice, so sadly he was unable to come over for the event. S,the manager at the House, had arranged a fancy dress party and had made all the lady residents nurses’ aprons and caps and all the men had a white coat on and there were lots of dolls in baby clothes all around representing Father’s previous career in Obstetrics. It was a wonderful party with lots of fun and leg pulling from the residents and all enjoyed it immensely.

After the lunch, we all returned to our respective home, and Father, who was coming with me to Bosnia the next day came back with us. That night, in the farm yard, in safety, we tried out the camper van to see whether Father and I could indeed manage in there, and he had a good night’s sleep and we prepared breakfast in the morning and we up and dressed by the time everyone else was stirring, so the experiment was a success. After lunch on Sunday 8^th April, we departed from Yorkshire en route for Dover.

We were fortunate in the weather and surprisingly little traffic on the M1,M25 and M20 and made good progress, arriving outside Gravesend about 1900hrs where we stopped in a lorry park for the night, had a good supper and slept well. The intention had been to spend a little time in Canterbury on Monday morning before our ferry at 1430hrs. That worked well, and we parked in Canterbury at 0845 and walked very slowly and gently into Canterbury where we visited the cathedral and saw the holy site where St Thomas a Becket was slaughtered and walked into the monastery garden behind, which is beautiful. I was surprised F made it so well, despite the fact that I have brought a wheelchair in case he needed it. The only blight on this Holy diversion was that some “Jobsworth” parking attendant had decided to give us a ticket, because despite there being no obvious signs to the contrary and no height barrier, and even with Father’s disabled badge clearly in the window, the plonker decided that we were in contravention because we occupied more than one space. In fact all four wheels were inside a space, but the camper has a six foot bum, which like many others, protrudes rather into other people’s space! More of this later perhaps when I have had a gentle remonstration with Canterbury Council on my return.(Although by that time, no doubt, there will be a Court summons because I have been unable to contact them to pay the £60-00 parking fine.) I also find it offensive that so many of our holy sites now find it necessary to charge for entry, as indeed does Canterbury Cathedral. They have a small notice to explain their charging policy, and why they feel it is necessary, but I cannot help feel that, even though they might need the money for the fabric of the building, it is hardly in the spirit of the Lord whom they embody and whose policy was to cast out traders from the temple and state clearly that God’s house should not be profaned by trade. I wonder whether they will similarly expect to pay to enter the Great Temple of Valhalla because God will have a little notice that says that he needs the income for the maintenance of the universe? “Consider the Lilies of the field…..”

Having left Canterbury we went down to Dover and arrived an hour early and were lucky to be put on the earlier ferry, so we sailed at 1345 and arrived at 1515 European time. The Satnav device took us straight across France and Belgium into Germany where we spent the night with brother N in Monchengladbach, with the slight ridiculous problem that I programmed the right name of the street with a single number difference in the postcode, so we arrived at the wrong house first off and spent the next half hour along very small lanes getting to the correct place. Technology is only as good as the programmer! It was nice to see N and A and their son, N who is soon to go off to South Africa, where the family used to live, to do a training course to become a Game Reserve warden. N has fortunately recovered well from his operation and illness. After an overnight stay, with the family also working early, we left at 0830 and had a brilliant, staged 600 mile run from Monchengladbach to Graz in Austria. The weather was perfect, and we enjoyed the trip, stopping about every 150 miles for a walk and a drink, and to make lunch in the camper. About 100 miles outside Graz however we hit a slight problem as the fuel light came on and I drove to try to get a fill up but, with only 3km left to go, ran dry inside the 3km tunnel at Sasstadt, just south of Wels. All’s well that ends well however, and I started the flasher lights, took out the Hazard triangles and accessed the spare can of diesel from the garage of the camper. Apart from the incredible noise and the almighty wind created by the large lorries overtaking us, it was all going relatively well until I tried to start again and then remembered an occasion whre I had helped a similar diesel van in the same circumstances and the engine just doesn’t fire up from a fuel pump, it needs priming first after running dry. Well, I hadn’t got a clue where to prime it. When I had helped before, I had towed the other vehicle into a bump start, but nobody was stopping here unless they were mad…….or Police. The tunnel patrol Police vehicle came screaming down the tunnel and pulled up in front of us. A very kind police officer spoke in excellent English and said to get the hazard triangles, get in the van and they would tow us out. Perfect, and at just the right minute. Father sat sombre at my side, certain that I was going to get either a hefty fine or imprisonment and was beginning to make suggestions as to where I might leave him until I was released! Nothing could have been further from the truth. The officers were very polite, very friendly and amazingly helpful. They opened a gate at the end of the tunnel which lead to an emergency access road and thence off the autobahn to a petrol station. They would not even accept a gift for a drink or two. It was all part of their service they said and they had been pleased to help having had us reported by a CCTV camera. ( Obviously by someone who was as good as their technology.) The whole delay- 25 minutes! Now that is some service! Vielen danke!

I paid a little homage to the guardian angel, and smiled at the small child’s bootee on the camper wall,a reminder from the time that we did this trip and turned over a trailer in a jacknife incident in the middle of a 3 lane downhill stretch of the E3 autobahn, south of Frankfurt…..and survived!

The night spent outside Graz on a lorry park alongside the autobahn does not go down in memory as one of the best nights for sleep. It rather rivals the holiday we spent camping on a Municipal campsite outside Paris in the 1980’s. That was situated alongside a railway station, between two main roads and under the flight path of Charles de Gaulle airport. This Rastplatz was apparently perfect, very large and open with good parking about 60 metres back from the road. During the night however it was clear, that one could not have seen the railway line behind the embankment at the rear, and although the sensible lorry drivers were asleep in their cabs alongside us, from about midnight, the traffic picked up on the autobahn and with the thunder of double HGVs with trailers at 70m.p.h.all night, and the express trains behind, the noise was deafening and the ground literally shook as a small earthquake might. Father, without his deaf aid in, slept like a log.

On Thursday morning, 12^th, we decided that we could make it into Bosnia easily in the day, having really broken the back of the journey, and we cruised in beautiful sunshine from Graz into Slovenia, to Maribor, and thence to Croatia and Zagreb, to Okučani and then south off cracked concrete autobahn, which is the E70, heading for the border crossing at Bosanska Gradiska. Now, for those of you, (who are probably in the majority at this moment in time), who venture into Bosnia as civilian tourists, a few words of advice. Do not be too phased by this place! It is rather like stepping back into a 1960’s James Bond film, old, tatty, narrow, congested, and manned by armed, very authoritarian police and border guards. One approaches it across a two lane iron bridge, which crosses the River Sava, the northern border between Croatia and Bosnia. Actually coming out of Croatia involves an encounter with Croatian officialdom as well, who are always interested and concerned about, not what you might have been running in Croatia, or with what you may have taken whilst there, but what are you going into Bosnia for and why you want to go there, and what goods might you be taking their erstwhile neighbour enemies. A full search can take place at either of these delightful tourist traps, but this time we were lucky and everyone seemed, at least, to be taking life in a slightly more chilled fashion. This could be related to their anticipated membership of the enlarging European Union of course, and the possibility that, since the vast majority of eastern Europeans seem to head for us, we may be the interviewee they meet when looking for their new work permit? ( Only kidding of course…..who needs work permits when you have a Home Office like ours?

The River Sava is the place where, in 1995, refugees fleeing Bosnia who tried to swim across, died when they were shot by the opposing forces. The river ran red for a week.

And so, the first part of the pilgrimage is almost at an end. We drove down through the small townships on the rough roads into the outskirts of Banja Luka. The motorway link that was being started 18 months ago is in much the same state as it was then, in fact it does not look to have made any progress whatsover from the approximately two miles of optimistic three carriageway compacted dirt that was there then. However, many more of the houses have been repaired and the townships look poor but vibrant. The driving is still as maniacal and the roadside shrines are developing small satellite shrines of their own. The drinking of copious amounts of beer and plum brandy, and the lack of any real insistence of roadworthiness of the vehicles are predominantly responsible for the accidents, although the traffic police seem to have got hold of more hand held laser cameras and some breathalyser kits. (I was reliably assured by Zarko yesterday, that they are not capable of picking up the alcohol on the breath after drinking Slivovic or Vodka, so one can safely drink those with impunity, although I think he may realise that that is unlikely to be the case one day)

The final run in is from Banja Luka to Mrkonic Grad, and involves trip up one of the most scenic gorges I have ever seen. Father and remark on it together everytime we have driven it. The pictures give some slight idea of its beauty, but only getting out and looking can really explain what I would want to express. (Yes…the camper does just go under the overhang on the left but it is a blind right hand bend…actually not the best place to try to take a photograph, and definitely illegal to do so at the wheel except perhaps here!)

The final run climbs up to the Glamoc plateau out of Mrkonjic Grad. The road, on the edge of the mountain with precipitaous drops and little in the way of guard rails is again a spectacular trip, worthy of any tourist route of the future. Sadly the poverty, the war damage and the mines which are still in many parts of the forst and hillsides are likely to prevent this for a long time to come, but I think so often, that this is a cross between Switzerland and Austria, it has wonderful hills, mountains, rivers and valleys, magnificent and vast forests, superb summer climate and heavy snows in winter, and ideal all year round resort area which could bring rapid prosperity to an otherwise impecunious, scantily industrialised, country.

We phoned ahead. Yes, we could come in anytime, a day early, no matter, everyone is waiting to see us. We climbed the last ridge and then turned the last bend to see the plateau of Glamoc Polje spread out southwards in the distance, a vast flat fertile volcanic crater. Small smoke wisps arose from the areas where they were burning off the old grass on the fields and lower mountain slopes. On the western edge, snuggled under the hill side, we could glimpse the small white dots which was the village of Sumnjajce, our destination.

Bosnia or bust….well here we are, Archer and Arrow, 1380 miles and nothing’s bust. So far, so good.

Best wishes, Doc.

Time is of an essence here in Bosnia, so probably no more will get published for a few days; there are many old friends to see, and that usually involves a considerable amount of time over Turkish style coffee, Slivovic, and beers, but watch out for next issue… “Moonshine Mountain”