We remembered our excitement at arriving in Croatia, a country neither of us had been to before, way back at the end of March. We stayed for six weeks at Camping Stobreč, the weather was cold, especially overnight and first thing, we slept under double duvets, everyone wore masks, we loved our excursions in bearable weather conditions, there were evening curfews, our local restaurant plied us with freebies and the campsite with 300 places never had more than around 18 units during our stay.

Returning to Croatia at the beginning of August, to make our way back home slowly, the excitement was still there magnified by having visited Montenegro and Albania. This time we were booked in to stay at Camp Galeb as we wanted to explore Omis and as we drove to the campsite we noticed how the tourist season had taken over and campsites were now full, including Camping Stobreč.

Leaving Camp Galeb, where we arrived for two nights but ended up staying for two weeks, we had quite a few camping neighbours who wanted to wish us well on our way. One group consisted of 28 Hungarian friends and family. Soon after they arrived one of them, set up adjacent to us, had a problem with their motorhome water pump which Steve helped fix. Since that meeting, whenever they saw Steve they always had food and booze to share, the timing somehow always seemed to coincide with me being on the beach. On my return, not being able to last longer than 40 minutes in the heat, Steve would tell me how they had looked after him in my absence, about the home prepared pickles and chillies they fed him plus the spritzers, Hungarian wine, special liquor in a bottle marked with an ‘X’ for medicinal purposes only, and of course beer they said would be rude not to accept. I had to smile because the way they had set up their motorhomes reminded me of circles of wagons from old cowboy films and I loved the way they welcomed Steve into their corral.

Hitched up and ready to leave, every time I thought we had said our last goodbyes and were on our way out of the campsite, there would be yet another couple arrive wanting to wish us well and ask about our year’s travel experience so far. Steve was never in a rush, always happy to chat, but my feet began itching to move on and eventually we were off and driving along the coast we knew so well. We passed the colourful bays with yachts that hadn’t moved since we first saw and photographed them three months ago. We saw the beaches full of sun worshippers and inflatable installations at regular intervals in the sea.

As we approached the Le Meridian hotel sign and its promenade of palm trees and I remembered the trip Steve took with Richard in Teddy at the end of April. The water was calm when they left, but whipped up into quite a frenzy before they got through their first beer. They thought if they had another, maybe the sea might calm down, but instead the waves became even more fierce and higher so they had another drink and and filled themselves with brave numbness for their return journey. Steve was able to take this video before they boarded Teddy for their return journey. Unfortunately I missed the opportunity of photographing Steve as he fell out of Teddy into the sea upon returning, but I will have that image in my head for a long time to come.

As we drove towards Split Harbour I thought how well we had gotten on through our adventure, but I will admit to you that I have had the odd hissy fit. I haven’t always been in the mood to stick my head out of my half a window as we joined right hand turn junctions and yell ‘GO’, especially with my hair whipping my face from the wind and ending up resembling an unravelled brillo pad. I longed for air conditioning when the temperature was 30+ complaining I was melting (my Jewish friends will understand shvitzing). I always stocked plenty of cold drinks besides us in the cab, but when it was hot so were our drinks. Sometimes the caravan was too small because Steve had packed too much of his essential kit (inflatable boat, motor, fishing rods, fishing chair and fishing bait), sometimes it was too big when we were manoeuvring in and out of small spaces. If I was in a mood, Steve knew nothing was going to be right or work, so far as I was concerned, so he just took a step backwards and let me get the winging out of my system.

Although the journey from the campsite to Split should take around 20 minutes, as it did in March when it was empty of tourists, we allowed 2 hours following our experience a few days before. As we slowly crawled towards Split we admired the Klis Fortress, once seen always in view. The traffic was almost bumper to bumper so we continued to travel slowly and down memory lane as we progressed towards the port.

After battling through the busy Split traffic arriving at the Ferry Terminal, which also houses the bus station and airport transfers, we were told we were too early and should return in two hours’ time. No way were we going to battle with city centre traffic again so we searched and found somewhere to park up further up in the port, hopefully out of sight of any officials. If we were challenged, which we weren’t, I had already decided we weren’t going to move. Having the caravan meant we were more than comfortable to while away a couple of hours and with food in our now cold again fridge I offered a drinks and lunch service. There was a pop up rapid testing station at the port which we planned to go to for our hopefully Negative Certificates, one at a time whilst the other stayed with and stood guard of the Poacher and Caravan. Being Croatia, naturally there was an ATM adjacent to it. Steve went first, I went second. I was the one caught in the downpour on my way back. I loved it, it was respite from the pounding heat, and took my time returning to the caravan. No, I didn’t dance in the rain – my sandals were too slippery – and my dripping leave-in hair conditioner clouded my eye sight.

Now 4pm we were allowed to join the queue for the ferry, but coming from the opposite direction already in the port, the turn was too tight for us to negotiate. Steve told me to hop out with our docs box, check in at the terminal and get our tickets, so hop out I did. The moment my feet hit the ground I had a feeling of panic. You know when you leave the house and you think you’ve left something on or forgotten something you need but can’t remember what? It was that sort of feeling, then I realised what my worry was. Steve has never ever towed the caravan before without me at his side and he had to negotiate our 13m rig in Split City Centre in full traffic all by himself. By that time, he had left so I had no option but to do as I’d been told. Check in to get our tickets was a doddle, there was no queue, I had our booking reservation, our Entry into Italy Forms printed out, our Negative Certificates and of course both passports. Waiting outside with the docs box under an arm with our boarding tickets, I finally saw the Poacher pulling in with our mobile home in one piece. Phew!! What relief! Well done Steve! Queuing up in the ferry lanes for passport control was bedlam, not enough lanes, pedestrians making their way back and forth through the queues to the ticket office, every driver trying to leapfrog to the front of whatever queue they were in which all narrowed into one lane at passport control. We admired Split Port for a final time, its port empty of cruise ships and super yachts. We were on our way to Ancona, back into Italy and back into Schengen. Waiting until almost last on, because it was reverse on (as per the original trip out), Steve needed help with the long reverse into the bowls of the Marko Polo. He ended up with a personal driver not in the driving seat, but steering the Poacher from the outside. All Steve had to do was ensure the Poacher was in reverse gear and keep his foot on the accelerator controlling the speed at a slow constant.

The next morning, whilst drinking our coffees and enjoying croissants, we watched from the top deck as our Marko Polo entered into Ancona Port and noticed some of the other passengers were wearing jackets and fleeces. We couldn’t remember the last time we had to cover up. After months of temperatures in the 30’s and 40’s it was wonderful to be a little cooler. We also noticed two cruise ships moored up, not going anywhere and again appreciated how lucky we have been when so many people have had their holidays cancelled.

As we drove out and through passport control, another doddle, we actually missed seeing any roadside stalls of fresh fruit, especially melons. We also missed seeing warning signs for wild animals like, snorting boars, growling bears and howling wolves, but we did see a tame one for a prancing deer. We certainly knew we were out of the Balkans and back into Schengen. Steve had noticed a water leak coming from the Poacher waiting for the ferry the day before so we pulled into a motorway station to check the situation. Naturally when I say ‘we’ I mean Steve. It was not good. We had to report “Huston we have a leak”. However, the attendants behind the till made phone calls and found a garage that was open and might be able to help out. Meanwhile a motorist intrigued by the Poacher offered assistance, so it was all hands under the bonnet and don’t spare the Gaffer tape.

We made it to the recommended garage which was in a commercial area and thankfully had plenty of space for us to park the Poacher and caravan parallel to the frontage. Steve went into the office and returning with a couple of mechanics they all stuck their heads under the bonnet with Steve showing them the hose with a leak, apparently a big hose with a small leak. One of the mechanics told us in near perfect English that he could get the correct specialist part, but not for six days, and as that was not an option he would go out in his car and see what he could find. Talk about going above and beyond!

To cut the four hour saga short into a few words, improvisation by professionals got us back on the road which cost unbelievably under £100. You can imagine that Steve tipped the young mechanic appreciatively, We weren’t sure that we had enough daylight time to make the campsite we wanted, but as our route was on a motorway we were able to make up for lost time and made it to Modena. It was a novelty to be on a three lane, sometimes four lane, motorway. There are none in Montenegro, a small dual carriage way down the centre of Albania, and none really of any significance in Croatia.

Parking up the caravan on our pitch to set up, we discovered we had a problem with our water pump, a ceiling light fitting was hanging by a thread and the fridge refused to work. We blamed it all on the bad state of the Italian roads causing excessive shake, rattle and roll. Rolling up our sleeves, well we would have done if we were wearing any, we got to work repairing what we could. The pump was fixed, the light fitting screwed back to the ceiling, the fridge we ignored in case it was having one of my hissy fits, and rescued the little food we had on board.

That evening at the small campsite bar over beer and wine in evening 30° heat, we joined Heike and Heiko from Germany. On hearing about our fridge, Heiko immediately left the table returning with fresh figs, apples, cheese and bread from their stores. We were really bowled over by their gesture, especially bearing in mind they were travelling in a car with a tent. When I saw what he had brought to share, I disappeared and returned with more cheese, crackers, a tomato. Between ordering Italian wine from the campsite bar and what we each brought to the table we had a feast. Luckily our glasses are never less than half full and that night they overflowed!

We went to bed, yet another occasion when we were happy tired, and decided not to worry about the fridge until the next morning. We woke up early. We were cold! It was only 20°. And happily, the fridge was cold too. Today we catch up and work out which campsite to book, either still in Italy or maybe over the border in France. We hear many of the coastal campsites are full.

View From The Cockpit

Let’s give you the driving seat for a moment or two. Firstly, you have to get into it, that’s the first door key. Stella goes in the back, that’s the second door key, Blanche needs to get in, there’s no key for that door, opens from inside. Then we take off the steering lock, that’s another key.  Sitting comfortably now, we then make the battery connection, yes, it’s another key, and finally put the fifth key in the ignition and start up. The car rattles to a start, and a very lage puff of black smoke emits from the back of the car. No pope yet then.

Then we select the gear, firstly the hi/lo ratio.  Low is great for the initial manoeuvring, plenty of power, no speed, come to think of it High is much the same.  We also decide whether to engage diff lock, which puts power to all of our wheels, useful for slippery gravel slopes. Having manoeuvred our way out of the slippery, gravelly, slopey and tight bends we get to the tarmac. Disengage diff lock, put it into high ratio, choose first or second and speed away with our top five gears, of which only four get used. Well, when I say speed, you have to remember that we have the acceleration of a skip.

We also have the turning circle of an oil tanker, great for motorways, but not for hairpin bends – serpents us international travellers call them now. The wheel is heavy, not always precise and needs constant adjustment as we wander along – literally.

We start to slow down for a junction, we have yet the sixth key in the dashboard for turning on the flashing lights at the back of the caravan, bit like those slow-moving vehicles on motorways but they have the luxury of a convoy vehicle as well. This key is dual purpose, if I turn it the other direction, then the spotlights above us blast into life, giving us some much-needed re-enforcement to the two tealights that double up as our headlights.

The indicators are noisy, I wired them to some speakers, so I didn’t forget to turn them off, if only the radio was as audible. Air enters the car through two holes in the dashboard, as does the rain. The windscreen fogs up in an instant as the heater doesn’t work, but we can open the windows a smidgeon, to let the cold air and rain in, out, in out, shake it all about. We have installed an auxiliary diesel heater, which does at least give us some demist capability.

Blanche shouts “go” and we drive away, towing our two tonnes behind us. On a moving day we may tow for four or five hours, heating our water bottles to sterilisation temperatures as they sit just above the heat of the engine and exhaust. We tend only to stop for fuel, providing we can find that seventh key of the day.

One highlight of our journey may be seeing another Defender, much tooting, and enthusiastic waving ensues, there’s a comradery amongst us owners, as we’re inevitably the oldest Landy and we crawl onwards, wondering how the hell the more modern ones can go so fast, and ponder what it would be like to have an air conditioned one.

At the end of the days journey my legs are cramped, knee doesn’t function, we’re hot and bothered, the seat foams sunk to the floor hours ago hurting our backs, and shirts invariably dripping wet.

The one thing that does work is my smile as I get out, think, well done Poacher, another 250 km today, now where’s the bar?