The Adriatic coast is like the jewel on an Empress's finger. Big, bold and sharp blue, the sun flares off this aquamarine and the world looks better in its light.
First, we got to Slano, a small village turned tourist spot, its modest stone homes somewhat dwarfed by the new monstrous hotel, square like a prison and fenced in to boot. It was a horseshoe town built around a quiet bay, popular with yachts and small tour boats. We were hot and bothered, having cycled a whole hell of a lot up hills and down from the first Croatian border town of Metkovic. We managed to muster enough energy to cycle around the bay to a camp ground full of Polish people. "It must be a cheap one," said Michal, grinning. And, after our next campsite in the elite Dubrovnik, we found that it most certainly was! We were told to put our tent under a tree, which had lots of sticky stuff under it. We blew up our mattresses and promptly fell asleep in the shade. After a lazy afternoon of doing nothing in the shade, we were approached by a Polish woman. She asked where we were from, and then incredulous, she asked: "Don't you like the sea?" Indeed, we laughed afterwards--it must seem strange to these people who had traveled many hours away from their windy Baltic coast to this turquoise paradise, that we had rented a campsite next to the water and then stayed away from the sea. The truth was we had swam before 9am, and then cycled on for another four hours, the sun parching our skin and turning my nose a lovely scarlet color. There was no respite from this deep, strong heat, and I couldn't face sitting on the beach.
"We've been cycling," I said, lamely. "We're tired." The woman nodded, and walked away. Probably to the beach.
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