We are travelling under a deadline again, but a fun one. One of my closest and oldest friends is travelling from Australia to Vienna for a conference. The opportunity for an exotic European catch up was too good to pass up, but our scheduled drive took us through Austria weeks too early. So, as we left Munich we booked flights to backtrack from Skopje, and set out with both a destination and a timetable: three weeks, 1,500 km, perfectly aligned with the meandering journey towards Turkey we had planned.
Then, of course, we did what we do. Starting with a detour along Austria's southern border to visit an obscure art gallery, we then found a mountain to climb, a spa to visit, and a string of towns each worthy of a second day. Each detour is just a small incrimental addition... and we felt so cheated by only a quick stop in Ljubljana last time... and so it goes.1
Northern Slovenia is a transition zone, in the geological sense but also very visibly. We entered in the east, where you feel the change crossing the Drava. You've left the Austrian Alps, but still the landscape only changes slowly. I said to a friend the other day it is like the Alps have been stretched out - the valleys are wider, the peaks are lower. More space and fewer people, but the rolling green hills and chocolate-box church spires are still familiar. The dairy pastures begin to give way to paprika, hops and grapes. The road develops a few more bumps. Consonants drop a little lower in people's throats. Car horns exist again.
In the mountain huts the soup is still hearty, the bread is still heavy. The hikers are tanned and vigorous as ever. But the prices have halved, and the people are a little firmer about their preferences. Not rude, not remotely selfish, but louder, bolder, somehow more emphatically at leisure. It feels less moderated. Not because there is anything false in the mountain etiquette of the Central European Alps, but edges are not quite so carefully smoothed here. There is something more nakedly direct in the mannerisms, more vocally enthusiastic in the language. Underneath it all there is a sense of fun: life is a game, and it should be played hard.
As social norms begin to feel a little looser, lower prices mean the purse strings feel looser too. A little tension falls from your shoulders each time you shrug off the cost of that second coffee or order without really noticing the right-hand column on the menu. The Park4Night app (our European travel bible) is crowded with options for each night stop, many of them recently built municipal sites designed to make travellers like us feel welcome.
So we are relaxing very easily back into van life. This might sound strange, but it takes time to accept the freedom of full-time travel. Part of you doesn't quite believe it at first. I feel that version of myself returning: the one who would forget which day of the week it is but for Outlook reminding me of the outside world on my phone. Perhaps that is why we've departed so immediately from the planned travel timetable!
There's a furry little Australian animal called a quokka, described as an "opportunistic forager". Basically they just bumble around, not following any particular pattern, and day after day it turns out there's something good to eat right in front of them. As I habituate back to that stress-free meandering, I feel like a quokka, bumbling and enjoying and not thinking too much about tomorrow.
Luckily I have Sam,2 though. So whatever detours we add, I know she is keeping an ever-evolving plan that will place us in Skopje exactly in time for our flights...
We have been strict, though. No time to continue on to Trieste, no matter how loudly the weather calls for gelato and beaches... ↩︎
Who, on reading this, has pointed out that in addition to the big picture planning my day-to-day quokka bliss is also largely directed by her hours of research and planning! ↩︎