Spotty Dog

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Amongst the strange and arcane expressions used by British Servicemen is the declaration of approval “Spotty Dog”. It is therefore highly appropriate (and deliberate) that an adventurous training package offered in Theatre which consists of a sailing expedition on the Dalmatian coast is named Exercise SPOTTED DOG. Everyone has the opportunity to go down to the island of Brac for a few days of climbing, walking etc but only the selected few are let loose on a Nicholson 55 yacht and cast adrift for a week away from uniform, razors and the more restrictive Standing Orders. Competition for places is fierce amongst Officers and almost non-existent amongst Junior Ranks: accordingly the crew will either be all Chiefs and no Indians or made up of pressed men. By levels of bribery and corruption that would make an Italian politician blush; plenty of abject grovelling to the Officer Commanding and Chief Instructor of the Training Centre; and putting the application form to go down in the first place in front of the Colonel in the early evening when thoughts had turned to knocking off to go to the mess I secured a place on the yacht for the penultimate cruise of the season. Unfortunately my friends in the Fleet Air Arm would not redeem any of my air miles from duty flights to take me down to Brac, so I gritted my teeth for a fourteen-hour coach journey and (horror of horrors) a 05:00 start. What does the “0” stand for ? “0” my God it’s early.

This insomniac’s dream of a starting time proved to be highly worth it. Part of the reason that the trip to Brac via Split takes so long is that the bus stops at just about every SFOR installation in Bosnia. Therefore I found myself looking through bleary eye at Route Gull on the way to Mrkonjic Grad for the first pickup of the coach tour. Even the early hour did not diminish the joys of Gull. Furthermore to get to Mrkonjic Grad it is necessary to turn onto Route Hornblower which twists like a corkscrew down a valley, 50m wide at the base with 100m wooded cliffs to either side of the road and river. On this morning there was a fine sunrise but the mist and cloud from the previous night had not quite dispersed and hung like smoke in the trees as if they were on fire. Towards the end of the route is a high bridge over the valley where during the war victims of cleansing were forced at gunpoint to jump to their deaths or be shot. Having made our pickup we moved onto Route Pelican (familiar from my road trip) and pressed on to Glamoc. This town also suffered from fairly quality cleansing and damage and barely a building is unscarred by bullet holes. Some houses in the very centre of town still remain unoccupied and glimpses through the broken windows showed some unlooted possessions and furniture. The wartime graffiti has faded but it was possible to see messages offering “SMRT” (death) to Ustashas, Chetniks, Partisans, SFOR and old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all. The centre of town also boasted a small green on which a couple of horses and cows grazed outside the town hall. Just outside the town we ran into a checkpoint where a gang of tough looking Canadians with armoured vehicles were keeping tabs on movements, although the SFOR badges on the coach served to get us past with no trouble once the caltrops were removed from the road. The landscape here is real tank country: gently rolling with folds in the ground for concealment and few obstructions. Indeed an armoured battle was fought over this land during the war. At one point we disturbed a heron fishing in the stream by the road and it slowly flapped away in its characteristic loping flight. The gardens round the houses were (in addition to mobile haystacks) filled with beehives painted in a rainbow of gloss colours.

The crossing into Croatia and arrival into Split came much sooner than expected. The wooded country of Bosnia had given way to prairies and now we hit the Zagora, a scorched highland maquis where both the stone and kitchen appliance crops were bountiful. Indeed the more arid areas are known as the kamenjar (stone field) in the local language. We finally passed through the mountain pass and saw the tower blocks of Split spread out below us overlooking the wine dark Adriatic. To the west of the road is the medieval citadel of Klis which stands on an upended flake of rock on the seaward side of the Zagora. The citadel appears to have been carved from the rock on which it stands and the jagged, chaotic stone takes on orderly shape as buildings. This also causes an interesting effect on the journey back as the castle is overshadowed by the mountains behind it and so takes on the appearance of a flat on a theatre set with no depth until viewed from the side when it suddenly takes on a third dimension. Once past the tower blocks, Split revealed itself to be made up of tall, venerable buildings in beige-grey stucco with narrow windows covered by faded green louvered shutters. The effect is truly atmospheric and a romantic could speculate what intrigue or faded grandeur lurks behind the facades. We drove through the outskirts of town and passed smallholdings where plots of vines and sweetcorn grow around the houses and where chickens scratch in the gardens. This seemed the more incongruous as next along the road was a huge cement works (only a former command economy could have built something so hideous in such a beautiful spot) and the docks which are reported to have all but closed down in the collapse of Yugoslavia. The Yugoslav Navy also shelled the town in 1991 although the bombardment must have been fairly desultory, as most of town seems to have decayed and evolved as a result of age rather than violence. Certainly unemployment, recession and the war do not appear to have affected the spirit of the town and its lively café culture. Croatia is a tremendously patriotic country judging by the number of national flags flying from every possible point, although the decision to adopt as part of the flag the Ustasha Sahovnica chequered shield (and their currency the Kuna) is an interesting one bearing in mind that movement’s activities during the Second World War. We paused briefly before getting to the port at an almost disused barracks where exploration revealed the old Officers’ mess with a mezzanine level veranda, stone stairs to a palm-fringed terrace and further steps to the surprisingly warm sea. Oh to have sat here, possibly with a cold one, looking out to the islands on a warm night when the camp was still active. Possibly less peaceful, however, was the small compound which the Greek and Turkish Contingents had been forced to share by NATO presumably in the interests of bridge building.

Finally after a lengthy wait and a bite of lunch in a café on Split’s waterfront (where an anarchic junior Balkans driving school was in operation using small electric cars driven with panache, elan and sheer bloody mindedness by the local toddlers) we boarded a ferry full of German backpackers and set sail for Brac. My first experience of the Adriatic might have been motorised rather than under sail, but the place was breathtaking (and I don’t mean by the aroma of backpacker). We arrived in Supetar, the main port in Brac, to make the transfer to the Training Centre. Unfortunately there were not enough seats on the buses for the number of soldiers involved and their kit and so the coaches looked more like something off the Indian Subcontinent as we bowled across the island with arms and legs protruding from skylights, doors and luggage compartments. On the island the stone crop had been very plentiful over the years and merely to scratch out a living the farmers had had to clear the stones and stack them into gigantic cairns, some of which had presumably been used as shelters or animal pens as they had low doors. The stones had made way for olive groves and so the deep green leaves and black trunks of the trees punctuated the blinding off whiteness of the rock and soil. On arrival the village of Povlja (where the centre is based) was most inviting, lying as it does at the end of a creek lined with little cafes and bars, although it would transpire that the yacht crew would be kept busy far too late to go out and enjoy it. The hotel which is used for accommodation was pleasant, although we were warned that far from being up to British fire safety standards it had only just achieved those expected in Croatia although this was not to disturb the sleep of the yachties who were to sleep on board. A swimming test and an interminable series of briefings over (the latter broadly stating that everyone was to be treated as an adult, the detail proving how they weren’t) the landlubbers went to sample the bars of town, the yacht’s crew to stow our gear and receive yet another briefing, this time about our yacht, HMSTC Lord Portal. However the Skipper, bless him and all who sail with him, had purchased a stock of bottles of Pan beer and so these duties were not too onerous once we had tracked down a crown-top lifter. Finally with all done we dived into our bunks. I like to sleep on deck when possible, and there can be few more simple pleasures than lying on a pile of sail bags on a warm night looking at the bright stars and moon (there is absolutely no light pollution on Brac) while drifting off to sleep. That is until Croatia’s answer to Robbie Williams begins to clear his throat in a bar across the creek and let rip with highly amplified popular tunes. By two a.m. I had given up on sleep as vocals had given way to the theme from “Chariots of Fire” and thence to local folk songs which are most mournful and bloody annoying at 1,000dB. By about three thirty I finally got to sleep only to be awakened by the bin-lorry and what sounded like someone shovelling gravel into a corrugated iron container at half five. Still, the stars were worth it.

The following morning we victualled the boat, slipped moorings and set off into the wide blue yonder. The first day was a gentle introduction to sailing for our (largely novice) crew and involved the inevitable safety briefs. Any pretence at being nautical went rapidly out of the widow and requests for the watch in the saloon to come on deck to help with the port headsail sheet turned into a call for you lot downstairs to come up top to pull on the thick blue string on the left. We managed to get a good way around Brac without being holed below the waterline despite the best efforts of the crew and the amiable bickering between the Skipper and Mates about the best way to do things, also probably because the wind was very light so we relied on the mechanical headsail (i.e. used the engine). After a quick swim with the yacht lying at anchor we proceeded in the twilight to Milna for further bickering about how to use the mooring and a night ashore. The town is described as unremarkable by the Rough Guide to Croatia, but we found it to be perfectly pleasant and atmospheric, especially after dark. Thank God I stopped by the boat on my perambulations that evening with the Second Mate: the Skipper informed us that we’d be off at 05:00 the following day (unoriginal these insomniacs who run adventure training) in order to get to the next port at a sensible time. Second and I went off to search for bread for the morning (not easy to find at after 11pm in a small port although with pidgin Serbo Croat and hand gestures we succeeded) and a nightcap: those who hadn’t been warned of our early departure stayed out longer and were very sleepy and grumpy bears the following day.

This early start was also well worth it. We covered a good distance North up the coast where a slim fertile strip supports vines and olive trees while behind the kamenjar sits baking in the sun. Eventually we left the open sea and went up the River Krka past Sibenik with its fortresses and cathedral, the latter under renovation and shrouded in scaffolding and polythene like a gigantic present. Our eventual destination was Skradin, the gateway to the Krka national park. The approach to the marina was beautiful, the white buildings of the town with their red pantiled roofs nestling in a familiar landscape of grey hills covered in dark green trees where the river began to grow narrower. I posed for a photo in the pulpit of the yacht but on getting the prints back found that the photographer had focussed on the (very shapely) bikini-clad posterior of a young lady in the yacht in front of us. After coming alongside we tied up quickly and set off on a ferry to the park itself. This was spectacular. We only had time to visit the lower part of the park, where a series of low but broad waterfalls pour down the valley. One can only speculate where all this water comes from bearing in mind the surrounding countryside is so parched, yet the park was a veritable oasis, especially after the boat which had been exceptionally hot in the sun and which had taken on temperatures below during cooking that made a corrimec in summer feel like an icebox. One of the crew suggested that the falls were turned off at night once the tourists had gone home to save this water but despite the presence of a couple of suspicious concrete bunkers at strategic points I remain unconvinced. It would have been possible to spend a day or so idling about by these pools and falls, but on this occasion we had failed to bring our bathing rig and anyway the local lovelies besporting themselves in the water were so lovely that I don’t think my heart could have stood up to it. Instead we repaired to Skradin and a restaurant where we ate Dalmatian specialities, which turned out to be enormous plates of grilled meat and fish rather than Pedigree Chum or the typical contents of the freezer in the urban myths about dodgy Chinese and Indian restaurants. Our stay here was all too short as the weather forecast suggested that the following day we would actually get some good wind early on rather than being becalmed as we had to this point. During the passage I was for my first time at the helm (and giving orders like the Bucko Mate of a Tramp Steamer) while tacking, which was jolly amusing for the first few turns as a veritable comedy of errors broke out in the cockpit in front of me. We also had a go at man overboard drills but with the less experienced at the helm found that we generally ran over the fender acting as a body at about nine knots instead of coming neatly alongside and stopping nearly dead to recover it. I resolved to wear a harness if it got a bit bumpy rather than chance my arm on the “seamanship” of the crew of Lord Portal. A further excitement was passing quite close by what appeared to be a nudist beach but it was hard for us to confirm this as the Skipper and Mates were lining the rails and hogging the binoculars.

Our destination for the evening was Trogir. The approach was fairly inauspicious as it passed a dirty great cement factory, shipyard and industrial estate built out of the produce of the former. I had some idea of what to expect though as there is an aerial photo of the town on the wall outside my office which beckons like Shangri-La (and has been carefully cropped to remove evidence of industry). We arrived at sunset and by happy chance the sun was falling over the walls of the castle on the island which makes up the old town between the mainland and a larger island. As it grew dark the castle and walls of the town were floodlit and passers by were blown up into giant shadow puppets against the stone. The walls of the town hid further delights. Narrow streets and alleys with greenish paving stones polished as glassy as the sea by the footsteps of passers by lead between small squares, each lined with small cafes and bars. A large central square is surrounded by the cathedral and a Palace with balustraded windows in its beige front. Modern life seems not to have touched the whole place except in the shape of the signs hanging from the buildings, the odd power line and television aerial and a cashpoint set into one of the medieval walls. The overall effect was similar to being in a maze, especially as the streets were so narrow and the buildings rose to four stories. There was a festival going on that night and it was not until the following day that we realised that the reason that the locals were getting quite so well lubricated on a Sunday night was that there was a Bank Holiday on the Monday. As might be expected for a Bank Holiday it started to rain in the early morning which was a bit of a pain as I was sleeping on deck and was awakened in the dawn by more than a hint of precipitation trickling into my sleeping bag. The rain lasted long enough for me to be woken, clear up the laundry that was drying on the rails and to fall through the open forepeak hatch, catching myself a fruity one on the thigh and ribcage before landing unceremoniously in a heap on top of a poor Marine Captain in the bunk below. After this rude awakening and some unofficer-like language I decided to have an early start and head into town in search of coffee, rolls and some photos before the place filled up. Trogir was as delightful by day as at night and I had the place almost to myself, accompanied only by a few other early risers and the waiters in the cafes. Another point of interest was brought home here. Because of the size of Lord Portal we always came alongside in the millionaires’ row of large yachts and most of these were of the stinky-oily motor type, veritable gin palaces. In Trogir it was evident that one proud owner had tied up feeling a little smug and thinking he was the daddy in his big boat. One can only imagine his chagrin the following morning when he threw open the portholes to see that a private yacht of similar tonnage to the QEII was casting a shadow over his quarterdeck. Certainly the yachts along the Riva ranged in size from the luxuriously palatial to the vulgarly ostentatious with crew in quasi-naval uniforms and velvet roped red carpets laid out on the quay, although the orange-jumpsuited henchmen and captured submarines were hidden from view in the bowels of these behemoths. We felt positively undersized, even in a 55 foot Nicholson.

Our next destination was Split and my watch missed out on displaying their newly found mastery of the string and flappy bits as we were to be mother watch for the next twenty-four hours. This job entails keeping the boat shipshape and cooking for the crew, the latter no mean feat when the Second Mate could consume such huge quantities of food. Unfortunately for us while lighting the stove the poor beleaguered Marine Captain, still smarting from having a hefty Royal Signals (V) Officer falling through a forepeak hatch onto his midriff managed to cause a gas explosion and small fire. Those of us below at the time went into a mild state of shock and the initial reaction was “look at the pretty orange glow” until the First Mate got busy with the fire blanket. I thought that marine firefighting equipment was for tackling conflagrations at sea, not extinguishing smouldering Bootnecks. Luckily no permanent damage was done and I’m sure the victim’s arm hair, fringe and eyebrows will eventually grow back. The lack of stove and the need for a gas-safety inspection meant that we were forced to stay alongside in Split for two days, which was quite a hardship. We made the most of the opportunities for a cultural exploration and I, to my embarrassment, had to admit that despite once having been a classical scholar hadn’t realised that Split was the location of Diocletian’s palace during the Tetrarchy. The walls of the palace remain, pierced by more modern windows and doors and as at Trogir hide a warren of shady streets with polished paving stones and quiet squares. Some idea of the ground plan can still be gained and the peristyle remains as a courtyard surrounded by an elegant colonnade, filled with the ubiquitous pavement cafes. Overlooking this square were medieval balustraded balconies and the mysterious louvered windows mentioned earlier and on one side a cathedral which had been built as Diocletian’s mausoleum and which had been decked out in some of the most florid baroque art and gilding outside the Vatican. Honestly, I wouldn’t give it house room. One thing the Croats don’t do well is graffiti (except for the political or that offering large portions of SMRT) and the local attempts at hip and happening decorations declaring musical allegiance lack some credibility as the bands mentioned are Simple Minds and Dire Straits. Mind you a party of nostalgic 1980s stockbrokers could have been in, or the Splicani have a highly developed sense of postmodern irony. I managed to stock up on postcards showing the Pope obviously superimposed on a backdrop of Split and an inflatable Dalmatian (which now takes pride of place on top of the cupboard in my office) to use as a figurehead on the Portal.

All too soon we had to set sail back for Brac. We set off in a fresh wind with the Skipper and mates bickering amiably about what size sail to put up, and very rapidly got into the first proper bit of sailing of the trip. The sky darkened and wind got up as if a Bosnian thunderstorm was about to happen and rapidly we found ourselves hanging on for dear life in a force eight. I was rather enjoying myself, but some of the crew weren’t. One confessed later that he felt safe in his harness, especially as the Skipper wasn’t using his. He changed his mind fairly rapidly when the call came for the Skipper’s harness to be sent aloft instanter, and muttered darkly about how he’d only come on the trip to work on his tan, not to be drowned. As rapidly as the storm brewed up it disappeared again and we settled down in the dusk to a few happy snaps and admiring the sunset. The coast was lined with quarries which looked like giants’ staircases up the sides of the islands and from which it is claimed the pillars of the White House were hewn. Our arrival in Brac was, typically, just before closing time and there was no chance of a late night so we wearily had a cold beer and retired to bed, me so tired that if Robadan Williamevic had started his music in my room I would have slept through it, Chariots of Fire and all.

The following morning it was time to return to Banja Luka. The journey was uneventful except for the coach driver’s comedy seat which collapsed heavily onto the knees of the passenger behind him periodically and his stopping to pick up a mate who was hitching. We passed one town where a whole street had commerce based entirely on hairdressers (and the women were remarkably well coiffeured) and were soon on Route Magpie where we could admire the churches standing like huge pepper mills in fields full of buttercups and at one point, where the road ran high up the side of the mountain, look down on clouds which gave the impression that our slightly rickety coach was flying. Rested and recuperated we pulled into Banja Luka and as the door opened the characteristic smell of damp and dirty nappies wafted in, a bit of a change from the fresh sea air of the past days. As I carried my kit to my corrimec I realised that despite the trip being fun I’d actually quite missed it all.

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Comments

[Bren]

GPO
Have you got your post from us in the UK? All the best, Bren and Lynn.