Dubrovnik, Croatia

I thumbed the interior leather flaps of my decidedly sorry-looking wallet despairingly as the increasingly impatient waiter stood over me. Fortunately, I was able to pay for my €3 coffee after performing the perpetually tedious task of counting out copper coins on the table. I may still have been in Croatia, but anything that could have even been loosely described as a ‘budget’ had long since departed.

No matter, I thought. After one freezing cold ferry ride, another lengthy bus journey and by far the trip’s best sunset watched over Bosnia i Herzegovina’s far-flung fishing village of Neum, I had reached my final destination, and the end of my trip was nigh.

Dubrovnik, otherwise known as ‘The Pearl of The Adriatic’, is incontestably Croatia’s main tourist attraction. So it came as no surprise to find myself but a sprat amongst the hordes jostling along the Stradun on the afternoon of my arrival.

The limestone-paved walkway is contained within the city’s famously fortified stone walls, and teems end-to-end with busy restaurants and stunning architecture. At its onset, tourists queue unwearyingly for the opportunity to secure those essential take-home snapshots of Dubrovnik’s oceanfront from the pinnacle of the wall, while standing imposingly at the opposite end of the concourse is the city’s grand cathedral.

Much like Split, another of Croatia’s tourist magnets, Dubrovnik’s old city is encumbered with cobbled and winding alleyways certain to baffle ambling tourists. These stretches are themselves littered with souvenir shops, (inevitably) overpriced cafés and art galleries. I stumbled upon a local artist’s museum-converted house, which recounted the horror of the Serbian siege upon the city at the start of the Civil War in 1991 through striking images and short narratives, in an oddly lighthearted way.

Later that night, after checking in to my lively abode for the duration of my stay, I met Darshowa, the owner of the exceptionally well-run and backpacker-friendly hostel, who, not before revealing to me that he was in fact uncharacteristically drunk, described in profound detail just how severe and traumatising the war had been for the Dalmatian people. He pointed solemnly to the sky where he remembered watching the planes approach before dropping mortars, and then to an entirely re-constructed section of the city where he took shelter in the basement of the hotel he used to work in. He stayed there for five days, too scared to come out.  It was evident through the somber tone in his voice that the pain suffered all those years ago hadn’t subsided much. In truth, his words were deeply moving, and echoed in my head as I gazed broodingly at the shimmering city lights.

As a family-run hostel, everybody had a part to play: Darshowa handled the invoices, Milka cooked and cleaned, and the sons took guests out on day trips. Luckily, I was able to bag a spot on one such trip: the following day’s island tour, which, judging by the photos on display at the hostel, and providing the weather was on our side, looked certain to be nothing short of epic. I say ‘luckily’ as the pre-allotted seven places for the excursion had already been filled, and after some intense pleading with Milka I had been granted my wish.

Next day, eight of us piled into the KIA people carrier and chatted excitedly as we made our way to the tiny harbor 5 km away. The weather most definitely was on our side, and according to Andrija, our guide, was the best in weeks. When our boat for the day came into view I immediately realized why Milka had at first been so apprehensive to let me go; there was barely enough room for six, let alone eight. Conscious of the fact that others may suddenly have become slightly displeased at the decision to let me tag along, I vacantly offered to lie down between everybody else’s legs.

This suggestion was instantly rebuffed by Andrija, who informed me that I would instead be perching atop the bow of the dinghy-sized carrier. This suited me fine. I was quickly joined by two others and off we went. The views, for the umpteenth time this holiday, were mesmeric. Before long, we were weaving our way between completely uninhabited rocky islands, rich with unspoiled verdure and host to hundreds of birds, weary after completing one half of their seasonal migration.

Soon, we arrived at the famed Blue Cave, where at noon the sun’s rays are able to shine through a submerged side entrance, which in turn illuminates the entrancing cavern in an eerie and gleaming blueness. Due to the narrowness of the entrance, the cave can't be entered by boat, so we strapped on our snorkels (there were only seven and I got one) and paddled in. We had hoped to see an octopus, due to the supposedly and abnormally high amount of them in the area, but unfortunately it wasn’t to be. We were, however, joined by scores of multi-coloured fish and a large lobster.

That was about as exciting as it got in terms of marine life, but the cliff jumping that followed certainly made amends for it. I was one of the last to go and had been contemplating the possibility of achieving a front-flip from the 10m high standpoint. Ever since that little kid had showed me up on the rope swing at Lake Bled I’d been keen to give it a go. This was my chance.

I still hadn’t made up my mind as I clambered up the rocks, badly grazing my back and whacking my head in the process. I made it up and readied myself. I was going to do it, I thought. It was pitiful. Rather than rotating forwards I ended up spinning sideways and landing on my back, legs akimbo. Suitably embarrassed, I quietly paddled away from the splash zone and joined the others, where we looked on in awe as the ever-zealous Kiwi leaped from a staggering height of 18m. Crikey.

We spent the rest of the afternoon chomping on freshly caught fish and lounging in the sun on the first sandy beach of the holiday, before slowly making our way back to shore under yet another golden sunset. Then we went back to the hostel and got absolutely smashed. What else would you expect from a group consisting solely of Brits, Aussies and Kiwis?

The next day was spent for the most part reading a book in a café overlooking the city’s harbor (I’d become quite accustomed to such views by this point and the loveliness of it all had waned slightly). I’d completely run out of money and in truth I was spent. Dubrovnik may have deprived me of my last penny and shred of energy, but the cherished memories it had given back in return were infinitely better to take home.

Hvar, Croatia

Prior to this trip, my parents told me that the only place in Croatia that I absolutely had to see was Hvar, the 68 km long stretch of pine-forested island lying 38 km south of Split. They went in 1975, to celebrate their engagement, and talked enthusiastically of how beautiful, relaxing and pure it was- a far cry from the tourist-jammed Dubrovnik from where they had just come. Obviously, I hadn’t expected the holiday haven to have completely maintained this apparent sense of undiluted serenity, given those opinions were formed over three decades ago, but I certainly hadn’t predicted that change on such a colossal scale would have taken place either.

Before I was even able to exit the ferry, hundreds of signs advertising accommodation were being waved in my face by hordes of fraught and squabbling guesthouse owners, determined to secure a booking. I smiled, apologized (how typically British), and attempted to worm my way through the mob without clouting anyone with my backpack. I quickly lost patience with this solicitude and ended up callously barging my way through before bursting out the other end.

Hustle and bustle aside, the allure of the dainty little harbor tucked behind the pier struck us immediately. The dire weather had now passed, leaving a blue-sky backdrop and perfect clacking conditions. I, however, was unable to partake in any clacking due to the loss of my camera and a great deal of irretrievable photos at Outlook Festival. So I now had to rely on Kevin to do all my clacking for me.

Hvar Harbour

Ever since the aftermath of the Civil War, Hvar has enjoyed a steady incline in tourism, and in recent years has attracted the wealthiest of clientele, including the likes of Jay-Z, Beyonce Knowles and Roman Abramovich. Surely I was bound to see somebody famous? Nope. Not a soul. Hvar was completely celeb-less, yet still astonishingly expensive.

Even just a ham and cheese baguette set me back 35 kuna (£3.50), and a coke can sized beer cost 25- both ludicrously high prices in terms of Croatia’s regular going rate. Our hostel, Villa Marija, however, was economically priced at 70 kuna a night, whilst still offering an impressive array of services. Upon our arrival, our extremely friendly and informative host (Marija herself) detailed exactly what to do and where to go, focusing particularly on the best party hotspots on the island. One such hotspot was the renowned ‘Carpe Diem’ nightclub, which I had heard about weeks before, due to its sole standing as the only edifice on the tiny, neighbouring Stipanska Island. That night was to be the secluded venue’s closing party.

Night fell and I, along with three others, strolled down to the harbour, wondering what the night held in store for us. Judging by the swarms of baby-faced, inebriated Brits/Aussies falling out of every bar on every corner, I guessed that that would pretty much be the gist of it for the rest of the evening. Unsurprisingly, it was.

Carpe Diem Nightclub, Stipanska Island

We moored at the pearly gates of ‘Carpe Diem’ at around 2am to discover that we were actually among the first punters to arrive. 80 kuna in and it was absolutely dead. Some closing party. Matters only worsened when we learnt that drinks cost around 75 kuna each, though I must admit the set-up was pretty impressive; loaded with long, squishy, pillow-packed sofas, hammocks, resonant speakers and even a swimming pool. All in all though, it was seedy, overpriced, musically lackluster and bitterly disappointing.

Venitian Castle

Next day, I ventured off into the island’s visibly less-trodden and refreshingly unsullied countryside, eventually finding my way to the Roman-built castle, overlooking the busy, yacht-awashed harbour. Once again, I was spoilt for choice, as striking vistas emerged on all horizons; red-bricked rooftops gleamed in the resplendent sunlight beneath me; jagged cliff-tops loomed dauntingly to the right, whilst vineyards, olive groves, and lavender fields spanned meadows to the rear.

To my left, however, were two snoring, discernibly hungover whippersnappers, one with permanent marker on his face, slumped against the wall. The stark contrast in these images I felt was an accurate summing up of the island: while Hvar will indefinitely remain as one of Croatia’s jewels for all its plain-to-see beauty, so too will its reliance upon excessive and binge-drink cultured tourism for sustainability.

View from The Castle

Split, Croatia

It rained in Split. A lot. It started as I, fellow couch surfer Kevin, and our host, Ivan, were making our way back from the city's old-ancient and bomb-blasted Peristil Square, where vast quantities of migrane-inducing Croatian wine had been consumed, and it didn't stop until 9pm the next evening. With the exception of a few showers a week earlier, it hadn't rained properly in Split for months. This rotten luck filled me with frustrarion, but I, along with Kevin, nevertheless set out on foot for a thorough exploration of the nation's alleged cultural capital after a record-breaking (for the trip) 12-hour slumber in a double bed, provided for me by Ivan, who was turning out to be yet another amazing host.

Before we had chance to glimpse anything even slightly worth glimpsing, the fine rain drifting down on the city turned rapidly into a torrential downpour, and sent us running for shelter in the nearby backpacker-friendly 'Fife' Restaurant. We sat the storm out over a long, delicious lunch, followed by several rounds of vivifying coffee, before the rain finally gave in.

Not wanting to hang around, we hurried over towards the central, touristic zone, where Peristil Square and the surrounding feats awaited our titillated spirits. Evidently, the rainless skies didn't want to hang around for long either, as the heavens opened once more after just five minutes of dryness. This time, we sought cover under the roof of an outdoor florist, next to whom stood an understandably delighted umbrella merchant. He looked up at us, grinned, pointed to the sky and exclaimed in Croatian something which I presumed was along the lines of "I bloody love it when it rains". We each bought one and resumed our tour. It was a shame to have to see it all in the thick of such awful weather but sunny or not, the old town's magical aura and intriguing history still shone firmly through the dense sheets of unyielding precipitation. The war-surviving bell tower stood gallantly above the square and the cramped and cobbled alleyways leading tourists away into the rest of the cannonaded maze, and there was even a clearly undeterred, just-wed couple posing exultantly with one another at the foot of the Romanesque obelisk.

Further exploration led us to the famed and tourist trafficked statue of 'Gregory of Nin', whose big toe apparently brings good luck to all those who touch it- a superstition visibly abided by due to the smooth and shiny appearance of the rebel bishop's worn dactyl. There wasn't an awful lot to see and do after that really, so we, plus another traveler we'd picked up somewhere along the way, spent the rest of the afternoon watching the multi-millionaire owned yachts trickling in and out of the harbour.

That night Ivan treated us to another bottle of Croatia's finest vintage (though this one was admittedly a slight more palatable) before heading into town with his friends and other couch surfers in the area to get as blind drunk as we had been drenched earlier in the day. We took our umbrellas, but thankfully they remained unused.

Next day proved to be a considerable improvement, but, alas, the catamaran tickets to the neighbouring island of Hvar had already been booked, and we only had time to sip a wholly unsatisfactory iced-coffee before boarding our sturdy vessel and leaving the postcard-like picture in our wake.

Outlook Festival, Fort Pula Christo, Croatia

Pula, the coastal capital of the vast slab of land dangling liberally from the summit of Croatia, is awash with crushed empty cans of cheap lager, flat-peak caps, fake Ray Bans and highly questionable tattoos. This can only mean one thing: the British are here. Of course there is a wealth of other similarly low-frequency-fervent Europeans here to enjoy bass music at its best, but the sense of a mass British invasion is impossible to ignore.

Back for its fifth year, Outlook has added further to its dusty dominion by including yet another stage, The Clearing, and extending ticket sales to a further 3,000 people, taking the grand sold-out total to roughly 15,000. The festival’s continued development is no wonder really, as its reputation for propelling roots-inspired bass music to the forefront of contemporary tastes grows ever wider as its youthful years roll on by.

Outlook Photography

So, as we tread elatedly onto the soils of Fort Pula Christo for the first time, our expectations are understandably high. Belting out the tunes early on in the day is the Beach Party area, where punters are able to relax and divest themselves of head-splitting hangovers in the sea before the new day’s madness begins. The   beach is conveniently located within a minute’s walk of the festival’s incredibly organised camping area. Flat ground, short grass and dense-green trees make for excellent counteractions against rain, and the usual battle for tent-space is non-existent. There is ample space for everybody, including the numerous and easily-spottable German families who, judging by their hands on hips/frown on face stance, clearly must not have heard about Outlook’s coming to Croatia.

Alternatively, and if you’ve been lucky enough to bag a ticket for one, day-time shenanigans can be had on one of the festival’s many boat parties, guaranteed to offer all aboard a bouncing and booze-flowing excursion of the Adriatic shores. Fortunately for us, our weekend begins in such fashion. Clash Magazine’s quaking vessel sets sail to the sound of original 80s reggae courtesy of Earl Gateshead, and steadily evolves into a mash-up of dub and bass-fired anthems through the likes of Mr Mafro, Mungo’s Hi Fi and Trojan Sounsystem, a symbolic homage to the progression of bass culture since its conception in the early 1980s.

Outlook Photography

The tone is set and upon our return, we dock to find that the festival’s aptly named harbour and dock stages are in full swing, with Fat Freddy’s Drop and Goldie playing host to the giddy crowds. After a staple intake of spine-rattling sub-bass, we stumble up the stony trail among the masses and eventually emerge into the grounds of the crumbling Austro-Hungarian fort. Like moths to the flame, we are instantly drawn to The Moat stage; a long, grubby, open-air tunnel (a moat, essentially) leading to the raised platform where DJs can show off their supreme mixing skills. Hiding a few yards further up is Fort Arena One, beckoning revellers in with fire-breathing walls and green laser beams gliding through the mist. Beyond that is the entrance to the fort, which leads its guests down a chalky passageway to the impressively titivated Courtyard stage, the sweat-strewn Dungeon and the small but by no means lesser Ballroom.

Outlook Photography

 As the night elapses, our dancing gradually transforms from tame head-nodding to full on arm-flailing and tribal-like hunkering in time to the beats of Iration Steppas at The Outside Stage and Jah Shaka in Mungo’s Arena, the latter hammering out a marathon 6-hour set to ensure fun is had by all.

Friday begins miserably, as the rain lashes down on Pula and thunder cracks deafeningly throughout the day. It is the first rainfall in Croatia for two months. A collective sigh of relief is breathed when the weather finally convalesces and ponchos can be tossed aside. At The Harbour, Lee Scratch Perry warms the crowd with a typically mellow set, loaded with classic reggae anthems, whilst Zinc and Jackmaster make no mistake in thrilling a spry and exuberant crowd over at The Dock.

Addison Groove deservedly draws in the biggest horde of the night, owing to a triumphant breakdown of electro-house smashers, but by now the main talking point of the festival is the simply unsurpassable quality and dynamism of Mungo’s Hi Fi. The sound-system is incredible. Bludgeoning bass notes as thunderous as mother nature herself devour the ears of all present, and any remaining damp clothes within ten metres of the looming speakers are completely dried within as many minutes. One spectator even turns to me to say that he can’t feel his legs. Though whether that has anything to do with any other external ingestion I am unsure.

Outlook Photography

Saturday’s proceedings are hijacked mercilessly by the boys of Shogun Audio at The Dock, as thousands clamber and splash about in the newly-formed swamp to the raucous and thrashing sounds of Spectrasoul, Friction and Icicle. Outside the fort, a stellar line-up of DJs including Nicky Blackmarket, Congo Natty and Serial Killaz ensure that the drum n bass mayhem carries on long into the night, while in The Moat, Blawan delivers a no holds barred 2-hour salvo of intelligently crafted tunes, showing not a shred of diffidence in a positively experimental approach to a solid set.

Outlook Photography

We awake on Sunday to find that the sun has finally donned its all-too dusty hat and against the will of our broken bodies we somehow manage to drag ourselves to the dock to embark upon our second voyage of fun-filled booze cruising. This time, our hosts are long-time reggae producers Channel One, who promise to all those patiently waiting in line that this boat party will be the best yet. They’re not wrong, as the veterans fire up the maritime shindig and spark a flurry of non-stop knee-jiggling and hip-swaying that continues uninterrupted throughout the duration of the all-out Jamaican jaunt. Equally as polished sets from General Roots and The Heatwave, helped along by some raw and gritty MC-ing complete an unforgettable three hours aboard the two-storey party cruiser.

Outlook Photography

Outlook Photography

Later, Congo Natty and co entertain a huge audience at The Harbour with an accomplished set stocked with outstanding vocals before DJ Markey takes to the turntables to deliver a thumping set for the festival finale. The crowd go wild when the Brazilian trickster flips his machinery upside-down and scratches the arse out of DJ Hazard's 'Killer's Don't Die'. It is an epic end to an evidently epic festival.

It's simple really- if you're love festivals and into reggae, dancehall, dubstep, dnb, or just a mad mash-up of any of the above, then you need look no further than Outlook, the be all and end all of proper bass music.

Ljubljana, Slovenia

Self-touted as a city able to offer its visitors everything any other modern rival can whilst successfully preserving a traditional and relaxed feel in all quarters, I had expected a lot from Ljubljana. Though I didn't really know what to expect. All I knew for definite was that there was an old castle on a hill, a canal and almost everybody who lived there spoke impeccable English.

Due to its relative proximity, I had allocated the first two days of my stay to exploring the famed lakes to the north of the capital, so didn't actually get a good look at my humble surroundings until 72 hours after check-in. I set off after a late breakfast and sauntered absent-mindedly along the pebbled streets and alleyways until I stumbled upon the central plaza, where buskers and mimic artists entertained clapping tourists and goggle-eyed children. The canal flowed behind the square beneath a drawbridge, and the two buildings beyond parted to reveal a splendid view of the old medieval castle towering above the city from its tree-shrowded hilltop. For a completely pedestrianised city centre, at the height of summer, there were surprisingly few people about. I sat myself down at the feet of the statue of France Peresen, a legendary Slovene poet, and relaxed. It was nice to finally be able to rest my aching feet after about a hour's worth of meandering in flip-flops. But then, just as I had taken the first puff of a cigarette, came the abrupt and most unwelcoming splatter of freshly deposited bird excrement, inches away from my foot. Strangely enough, I felt more relieved than unlucky, as I would have ordinarily expected to be caught directly in the firing line. I fastidiously slipped away from the danger-zone, and resumed my casual strolling, eventually finding my way to the road leading up to the castle.

Once inside, I quickly realised that there was nothing to see or do unless I coughed up the €8 fee which granted entrance to the tower viewpoint and the 'virtual castle tour'. I paid up, and was duly rewarded with some top-drawer clacking opportunism, and speedily obliged my fortune. I was skeptical of the whole 'virtual castle tour' thing, and at this point it had occurred to me that I could easily sell on the ticket I had already bought which could be used for the virtual tour and re-entry to the viewpoint, as nobody had inspected it thus far. A quick calculation of available funds told me that this was a favorable option, and I actually managed to make a face-value sale within the first minute of trying. Pretty stingy behaviour really, but the Slovene budget was already stretched as thin as a crack-addicted supermodel. Cashback.

I spent five nights in Ljubljana and went out and managed to get thoroughly smashed on three of them, each with different people and each co-incidentally including a stopover in the same bar,  simply called 'Skeleton'. Upon entering it wasn't difficult to see why. Everything was skeleton themed. And I mean EVERYTHING. Skeleton portraits hung from the skeleton-adorned walls. Skeleton-themed ornaments collected dust on each and every shelf and there were even full-length (artificial I assume) skeletons hiding beneath glass panels in the floor. The toilet doors were designed to resemble those secret bookcases you get in the movies and almost every cocktail on the menu somehow featured the word 'skeleton'. Overall, it was a very thematic experience. After sampling several of the barman's most recommended concoctions, I stumbled up the stairwell and made my exit.

I was accompanied by Irish Johnny for my walk home, who enthusiastically chatted to me about his blossoming business in Bangkok as we traipsed further and further in the wrong direction. However, our foolishness soon transpired as somebody else's disentanglement from a horrendous altercation that could potentially have been far worse. The city was overflowing with rowdy Brits passing through on their way to Croatia's Outlook Festival, set to commence in three days time, and in typical fashion, all of them were absolutely sloshed. Two unfortunate souls had plainly wandered far from home (at this point we hadn't realised that we had been equally as moronic) and were visibly in the early stages of a violent disagreement with two of the local boys. I quickly realised the impending doom as I noted that one of them looked as though he could crush both the English lads' heads with both hands simultaneously. To be fair to the Brits, the other Slovene appeared to be the one causing all the agro- getting right up in their faces and screaming 'I'll fuck you up mother-fucker' about ten times- but if they had had any sense between them they would have just jogged on. Instead, one Brit let fly a right-hook and caught the mouthy Slovenian pretty sweetly on his left cheek. Brave as it was, this was a huge error. The Incredible Hulk lumbered over and sent the brave Briton flying into a nearby car with one super-punch, which spelled an immediate end of his contribution to the ruckus. At this point, Johnny and I stepped in but failed to prevent Hulk from hurling a head-height karate kick into the nose of the other Brit as he was steadying himself, knocking him clean off his feet. He tried to get up but was kicked again, this time as if his head was a rugby ball being belted at the goalmouth. Now Johnny and I knew we had to get our bodies between them, fearing the worst if we didn't. Somehow, we managed to calm Hulk and his ratty accomplice down without getting our own faces smashed to pieces.

Minutes later, the Police arrived. The Brits were still conscious and stood battered and bloodied in front of the policemen as Hulk casually chatted to them, relaying to them his version of events. Meanwhile, we informed the Brits of just how serious their injuries already appeared to be and advised them to go to a hospital immediately. They obviously saw no point in hanging around or heeding our advice and elected to stagger back from where they came. I was astounded when the Slovenes were given nothing more than a slap on the wrist and told to go straight home. Rattled and unhinged by what we had seen, Johnny and I wandered back to the hostel (the right way this time) and discussed at length the newly-discovered darker side of the Slovene capital, keeping a watchful eye out as we made our way.

Lake Bohinj, Slovenia

By now I had come to realise that the purchase of my €257 inter-rail ticket had been utterly pointless. My ‘flexi ticket’ allows ten days of use within twenty-two, and initially I had thought that utilising all of these wouldn’t be a problem. However, up until this point I had used the damned thing only once in five days due to exceedingly low face-value fares and the fact that travel into Slovenia had only been possible by bus. Due to my stubborn nature, I was determined to get my money’s worth by only using the ticket on days of travel which would ordinarily cost more than €25. This possibility, however, was beginning to look increasingly unlikely as I belatedly scoured the web for the regular fares of each journey I had planned to make. Only three of them exceeded more than €25. Mug.

I begrudgingly made the trip to Lake Bohinj, another of Slovenia’s reputed marvels, by bus. My disgruntlement, however, was soon appeased when the winding road eventually led us into a vast and beautiful valley, adorned with acres of dense green forest and sparkling streams with quaint farmhouses dotted about the place. The views were stunning.

The lake itself is apparently less popular with tourists, though it is considered by many to be even more spectacular than Lake Bled. When I arrived, it wasn’t hard to see why. What the lake lacks in castles and rope swings, it easily makes up for in its effortless serenity. It is huge and scopes more than 4.35 km. The water is crystal clear and completely still, so much so that the tiny fishes paddling in its shallows appear as though they are hovering rather than swimming. A prolonged period of clacking ensued, before I decided to head to the local tour operator and hire a bike for the afternoon.

I intended to cycle around the lake to cut my journey time down and be back in time for the five o’clock return bus. This plan started accordingly, as I set off along a pleasantly flat trail to the right of the lake, which offered a great deal more clack-worthy views. It wasn’t until about twenty minutes in that I realised there might be trouble afoot. The terrain was becoming increasingly difficult to manoeuvre myself through due to jagged rocks and robust tree-roots impeding every direction my front wheel would turn. I perspired, panted and powered through, fancying myself as a bit of a biker-boy at battle with whatever mother nature could throw at me. I felt I was winning for a brief period. My inferiority soon became palpable however, after my guiding wheel took a glancing blow from a callous-looking rock and sent me tumbling down the banking into a ditch. Nature had countered.

Not to be stifled, I hurriedly climbed back aboard the saddle and yanked the bike back onto the path. Cursing my calamity, I pushed down on the peddle and resumed my sweaty skirmish. I turned a corner and came upon a sign which explicitly indicated that the use of bicycles was forbidden in the area. This sign was clearly far more sensible than I, but it was too late to turn back now. I was going to see this through.

On I pushed and off I fell. Again. This time I picked up a little too much speed on a downward slope and bounced off a tree-trunk sized root blocking my path. I was flung sideways from the bike and this time landed with an almighty thud onto my chin, sinking my teeth into my tongue in the process. This one hurt. I moaned and swore until a couple who had been approaching stopped to help me up. I spat out a glob of blood and decided that I might have been a little too zealous in my endeavours as a hard-boiled mountain-biker. I spat and swore for a few more minutes before scornfully dragging the bike along the death-track until the ground levelled out about half an hour later.

I jumped back on the bike and continued my plight. Seconds later, however, I noticed a small clearing beside the lake ahead and duly stopped for a much needed sojourn. After a sore-soothing dip I braced myself for the second agonising half of the journey. To my delight, however, the path soon turned into smooth, flat, lovely tarmac. It's so underrated, tarmac. Never had I been so appreciative and gratuitous towards it. Better still, the road was at a slight downward incline, allowing me to breeze through the rest of the ride with the wind gently blowing in my ears. At last, I could enjoy the lake's paradisical scenery, with not so much as a pebble to disrupt my journey. Bliss.

Lake Bled, Slovenia

Up at 8am, determined to make amends for yesterday's shambles, I decided that the day was right to venture north into the Slovene countryside and pay a much anticipated visit to the country's main tourist attraction, Lake Bled. I'm a big fan of lakes in general really, after having woken up to the view of one of the world's most spectacular for eight incredible months in Canada, so my lake standards were justifiably high.

My expectations were not dashed as I turned the last corner of my journey to see the majestic lake glistening in the sunlight like a jewel in a crown. After a bout of some serious camera-clacking, I set off on a lap of the sky-blue lagoon, stopping to clack some more every couple of minutes. Halfway round I felt it was time for a spot of tan-topping and picked a patch of grass among some slumbersome sight-seers. I thought I'd fit in well here. In typical fashion, I was comatose in seconds and quite happy in my dreamworld until I was boorishly awoken by the sound of screaming children, who proceeded to skip past and drip all over me. My discontent soon turned to gratification however, as I quickly noted that since I had nodded off, a sight to rival the lake itself had plonked itself down next to me; a page-3 look-a-like stunner, who was busy posing for pictures in nothing but her underwear. Her burly, meat-headed boyfriend behind the lens muttered something followed by a deep grunting noise that I believe was his laugh when he noticed me failing terribly in my efforts not to look. Discretion most definitely isn't my forté.

By 3 o'clock, the sweltering sunlight had taken me to melting point, so I duly dove into the lake and paddled around for a good half hour. Shortly afterwards, I resumed my lap and promptly stumbled across the most rigorously fun-looking rope swing I'd ever seen. I stood back and watched as a British girl perhaps only a couple of years younger than me clutched on to the thing for about five minutes before talking herself out of it. A child of no more than eleven years assumed the role of superman and launched himself into the lake, gaining a good 20ft of air before crashing back down to the water. That was my cue, I thought. Can't have him stealing all the thunder. I instructed an observer to take a picture of me and nonchalantly took the wet stick from the boy's hands and readied myself for a victorious swoop. Disaster. I barely made it more than a foot over the water before losing my grip and falling pathetically into the shallows. 'I must be too heavy', 'It's harder for taller people' I exclaimed as I shamefully climbed back up the banking. Evidently, it wasn't as I quickly and expertly failed again, and again. Suitably embarrassed, I handed the swing back to the kid, who waited for a crowd to gather and then casually boshed out a perfect-10 somersault. Fuck off. Little shit. My blood boiled, and my cheeks flushed. I can't have this, I thought. I snatched the swing back from him and prepared myself for one last attempt, this time, taking the swing with my forearms facing inward. I took a deep breath and counted to three... Success! I cleared the banking in true Tarzan style and swung miles higher than that little backflipping fucker, and I even screamed 'I'm Batman' in the process. This got a laugh as well as a cheer. Bet that kid was kicking the dirt in jealous rage. Ha. Live and learn little one, live and learn.

Following my gallant victory, I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the quaint village as a shirtless backpack-wearing wanker, feeling all manly and heroic. I later realised the implications of this ill-fated decision after showering at the hostel revealed that my torso had been victim to an unmerciful foray of now presumably very fat mosquitos. Copious amounts of scratching ensued for the rest of the evening- the badly bitten right nipple receiving particular attention, which now looks like a squashed cherry tomato.