Old and new

An island somewhere

The first islands we visited were Cres and Mali Losinj, a short ferry ride from Istria, where we started our journey. Far from the opulant holiday villas of the 19th century Austro-Hungarian nobility found on the mainland coast, Cres is pure rural Croatian from top to bottom. Picturesque harbour towns and rocky coastline galore - and wild enough to be the only home in Croatia of the griffon vulture, which we kept an eye for but unfortunately could not spot.

The day was spent cruising from one end of the island to the other, with the loose eventual goal to spend the evening watching the sun set over the harbour of Mali Losinj. We managed to time our arrival in Osor, in the south of Cres, just in time to see, judging by the crowd, one of the most exciting things to happen on the sleepy islands each day. The two islands of Cres and Mali Losinj are seperated by nothing more than a canal around 15 metres wide. The bridge over this swings open for around 30 minutes to allow boats to pass from one side to the other, avoiding a lengthy sail around the south of Mali Losinj as they proceed either to the Istrian coast or to the islands to the east.

After 15 minutes of tinkering, the two bridgekeepers (I imagine a highly regarded position) gave up trying to fix the mechanism for swinging the bridge out and ended up pushing it, which I suspect might happen a bit. Through came the boats, their crew (or rather compliment of loungers) waving proudly to the crowd. The Panama Canal it's not, but I have to admit got a bit caught up in the excitement of it all and found myself wishing I had ticker tape or streamers or something to throw to celebrate the passage of these doughty seafarers.

And only a very small part of me wanted the boats to have to race through like the Argo to avoid getting smashed by clashing rocks...

Red and white gear? Check.

Within the first day spent across the border we'd had a great chance to see something of what makes Croatia tick - and it's the same thing that makes a lot of Europe get out of bed each morning and pull on their pants: football.

We'd managed to time our visit at either one of the best or one of the worst times, depending on your outlook. While not an avid follower of the round-ball game, I've certainly come to appreciate the passion it arouses in people all over the world - from horn-honking competitions in the streets of Lyon to celebrate their Olympique's topping of Ligue 1, to virtual rioting in the boulevards of a victory-mad Buenos Aires during the World Cup, to pubs erupting all over Australia when we finally qualified - without exception, there is nothing which engenders passionately emotional outbursts quite so consistently around the world as the beautiful game.