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.