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.

The Škocjan Caves, Slovenia

Border crossed, and bound for Slovenia's famed Škocjan Caves, the day was beginning to get better and my horrendous hangover beginning to heal. The morning had started badly- I'd missed the 12.45 bus to Sežana, the border town between Italy and Slovenia, and consequently missed my connection to Divača, the nearby train station to the caves. This meant that I had to wait for an extra hour and a half in Trieste and another hour in Sežana, so I didn't arrive at Divača until 15.30, leaving only an hour before the last tour of the day got under way. Those of you who know me probably won't be surprised by this.

Fortunately, after a rushed, dusty walk along the bank of a dual carriageway beyond the station, I finally reached my destination. No-one had stopped to pick me up despite the thumbs-up and cheeky grin combo I gave to every passing motorist, until I was about five minutes away when a Spanish couple kindly obliged me. I naturally saw this as an opportunity to show off my skills with the lingo but after the initial chit-chat it soon became apparent that I hadn't a clue what Sergio was saying to me. I just kept nodding and saying things like 'Si' and 'en serio!?' as he continued to yap away at a million miles per hour. I got the gist alright I suppose.

Anyway, the Caves. If you've been on a similar tour before then you'll know how mad everything is down there. I didn't quite catch the entire explanation but the rocks are basically formed through the constant dripping of water from the Reka River above, causing a an icicle-like formation to occur over thousands of years. Puzzlingly, these rocks also grow upwards, causing head-on collisions and eventual amalgamation. One such freak-rock, 'The Giant', had grown to 18ft in height over an apparent period of 250,000 years, at a rate of 1cm every 100 years or something daft like that. It looked revolting, as far as good-looking rocks go, but pretty impressive nonetheless. The most remarkable part of the tour, however, was the crossing of a huge Indiana Jones style bridge, albeit made of steel and glass, suspended between two gargantuan boulders over a 200ft drop. Epic stuff.

Annoyingly, we weren't allowed to take any photos during the tour. Although this didn't seem to stop one determined tourist, who spent a large portion of it stealthily hanging around at the back, clearly because he was taking photos. Eventually, the guide clocked him and gave him a right telling off. She made him come to the front and walk with her for the rest of the tour. Pretty embarrassing when you're a middle-aged man and there are children around behaving better than you are. Funny for everyone else though.

Ah yes and let's not forget the endless squeaking and flapping of those bloody bats. I've not got a great track record when it comes to walking below potentially bowel-bothered birds so I was wary of impending bad luck. The relentless dripping didn't do much for my repose either, and I must have brushed my hand through my hair and checked the resulting colour a dozen times. To my relief, I escaped the gloomy grotto unstained.

After the tour had finished, my Spanish compatriots offered to take me back to the station. Upon arriving I discovered that the next train to Ljubljana wasn't for yet another hour. That bad start to the day really had had a knock-on effect. I inevitably fell asleep atop a platform bench and would surely have missed my train if the conductor hadn't shook me awake when it arrived. The train eventually trundled into Ljubljana at about 10.30- six and a half hours later than the time the hostel were expecting me. I then got lost, even though the hostel was allegedly 500m away from the train station, which it wasn't, so didn't actually check in until 11.15 by which time there was nowhere to get something to eat. Must get up earlier.

Venice / Trieste

Undeniably the most expensive stop of the trip, I arrived in Venice with the compelling awareness that keeping costs down would be tough. 'Tough', however, is an understatement. 'Impossible' is more apt. Despite the fact I was only paying €12.50 a night to stay at (an admittedly lovely) campsite, my wallet took a right battering. €20 for 24 hours' use of the Vaporetto, €7 a meal and €4 beers ensured that my pre-determined budget of €80 in two days was destined for failure.

That said, Venice is unlike any other city i've ever been to. Not least because it appears flooded, but because of the unrivaled charm and elegance it possesses. Despite its relative sameyness, you feel compelled to take pictures of absolutely anything it throws at you. Upon studying the day's snapshots later on it's as though you're flicking through a notebook and watching the stills come to life. It is inundated with tourists, without whom the city would be a ghost town, and getting lost is inescapable. Getting lost is the best way to see a city though right? Who knows. It's not like I had any choice in the matter. I was lost the moment I stepped off the Vaporetto. Fortunately, I stumbled across numerous beguiling backstreets and picturesque plazas, that I surely wouldn't have encountered if I hadn't been lost. I didn't meet a soul for almost the entire time I was there. I was simply content to wander the streets and when my feet got tired, perch by one of the many cafes and let time pass me by as I gazed thoughtfully at the stripey t-shirt donning gondoliers steering their clientele around the watery maze.

I saw a kid kick a chair from a restaurant into the river on the second day. His dad ordered him to go in and get it before it sank into the murky water but just as he was halfway in the waiter skidded over and plucked him to safety. I observed quietly from the neighbouring bridge and tried in vein to conceal my amusement as the waiter attempted to fish out the chair with a long wooden pole and the kid sat crying, head in arms, completely devastated. The chair was gone.

Call me cantankerous but Venice is annoyingly couply and romantic. If you're single and traveling alone, it does get a tad tiresome to turn every corner to find yet another couple inspecting each others' tonsils. I suppose it's to be expected in a city renowned for honeymoons and marriage proposals really. I met a  Columbian girl on my final ride on the Vaporetto who I briefly considered proposing to. She did express an interest in moving to England permenantly so i'd be doing her a favour. I reserved my thoughts on this occasion though. Can't go proposing to people all willy-nilly. It's the behaviour of an oddball.

To be honest, I hadn't expected much from Trieste, my next stop before I crossed the Slovenian border. And I very much doubt I would have been so entertained, if it wasn't for David, my first friend made on the trip. I'd met him online, through couchsurfing.org, which I'd just signed up to to help me out with the cost of the trip. I knew it was popular but had no idea how huge it evidently is. There were about 150 users in Trieste alone, and after pinging off about a dozen 'couch requests' I had two replies within an hour. One of them was from David, who had recently been traveling and detailed in his acceptance that he was itching to host someone as he hadn't done so before, and wanted to provide a surfer with an equally as satisfactory experience to his own.

It couldn't have gone better; he looked after my backpack during the day so I could explore the city comfortably, he cooked me dinner, gave me my own room for the night and got me pissed on campari cocktails! And he barely spoke a word of English. There happened to be a couchsurfing social event on in town that we headed down to later on. Everybody was just so chilled and friendly, and after a few more strong ones we moved on to some Balkan style disco at the harbour where I duly attempted one of those Russian dances where you crouch down and cross your arms whilst hopping about. I lasted just about long enough to rouse a small crowd who seemed to be enjoying my moronic frolicking quite a bit until I got a little too carried away and accidentally booted a girl in the shin. Everybody stopped clapping after that. I bought her a drink to say sorry, but then realised that I had no money left for myself. I found David slumped in a chair, drooling on himself, and sensibly decided that it was time to go home. Despite the unsavory end to the evening, I was in awe of this brand new couchsurfing world that I had just stepped into. Italy, done.