Part 23: Zagreb and Split (Days 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69)

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No-one from either city will thank me for saying it, but Zagreb is a bit like Belgrade. No eyes are going to pop out of their sockets at the array of architecture, which here is largely grey and plastered in graffiti. Historic sights are few, but Zagreb is home to some great cafes, clubs and bars which more than made up for it.

The train journey from Mostar was a draining 13 hours long. Fortunately we had paid extra to go first class, and had a compartment to ourselves for more or less the entire journey. We were tired and hungry on our arrival at Zagreb station, where we were taken to our apartment by Miroslav, whose voice sounded amusingly similar to Arold Schwarzenegger's. I was slightly peturbed that there was no actual bedroom, just two fold-out sofas, but there was no time to worry about that little detail as we went straight out with a nose for food. We sought out a curry house I had heard off just off the main square. Looking for Indian restaurants has proved fairly fruitless in recent cities, not least in the aforementioned Belgrade, but fortunately we were soon tucking into some spicy delights surrounded by plenty of English accents.

The next morning we welcomed more visitors, my brother Paul and our legendary friend Pete, sometimes referred to as Shenfield Pete (for that is where he resides), drunken Pete (for that is the state he can often be found in), or simply Pete the c**t (for that is what he is). They had been flown over by Wizz Air on a plane that they described as looking like a giant pink dildo. After a couple of tasty Ozujsko piva we headed out for a mooch around and took in some cafe culture. Gradually the bar-lined Tkalciceva street filled with drinkers wearing red and white chess board patterned shirts, scarves and hats. It was World Cup Qualifying day, and the city would host their nation take on minnows Andorra that evening at the Maksimir Stadium, two miles to the east.

It was a half hour stroll from our apartment to the stadium, and as we got closer the bars and cafes filled up with fans anticipating a return to winning ways after a draw with Ukraine and a heavy defeat to England. We bought tickets with relative ease and found the large, box-shaped stadium to be extremely sparsely populated. The Maksimir holds around 35,000 and it had been full a month previously against England. Now though, about 15,000 had paid the six pounds or so to see less glamourous opponents, and we practically had a block to ourselves. The atmosphere was fairly flat as a result, with most of the noise coming from the popular North Stand, normally home to Dinamo Zagreb's Bad Blue Boys firm whose graffiti litters the city. If Andorra did bring any fans they were in with the home supporters because the curved, distant enclosure to our right was totally deserted.

Damage limitation was clearly the aim for the visitors, who frustrated the hosts for 16 minutes of the opening period before a fine free kick by Ivan Rakitic brought relief to the home fans and ended the game as a contest. Luca Modric then missed a penalty, but the rebound was forced in by Ivica Olic to make the half time score 2-0 to the hosts.

After the break, Modric drove home a third following an appalling attempted clearance, and another penalty, this time from Rakitic, completed the scoring. It was fairly dull and predictable stuff to be fair, but the allowance for drinking beer in the stand made it a little more tolerable. At half time it had been annouced that England had only been drawing 1-1 in Belarus, which prompted a big cheer from the Croatians. We learned from text updates that England eventually won 3-1, a fact that the same announcer was a little reluctant to read out at full time. A good night was topped off by getting into a nearby Irish bar in time to see England's goals and staying there to get rather drunk indeed on white beer, which always results in appalling hangovers.

And so it proved - Thursday was almost a total write-off. Paul complained that his mouth was "as dry as Gandhi's flip flops" and Si spent the whole day in his bed. The rest of us did manage a half-hearted stroll to the square in the afternoon but saved ourselves for the evening, when we dined at the family restaurant of Croatian hero and former AC Milan midfielder, Zvonimir Boban, before sampling some bars south of the square.

Zagreb city centre is divided into two by a couple of steep hills. So far we had only seen the lower town, so on Friday we hauled ourselves up plenty of steps to the upper town, which provided some fine views over the south of the city. There were a few museums and churches here but few people around. A few of those that were there gave me some good-natured stick for wearing a rather communist "CCCP" hoodie.

Unfortunately it transpired that Si was not just suffering from a hangover - he had got some kind of stomach bug and was pretty-much bed ridden for the whole evening. Ever sympathetic, the rest of us stayed out enjoying ourselves, visiting a few bars in the afternoon before gearing up for Friday night in Zagreb.

It began in a decent grill restaurant on Tkleciceva before we sat outside a nearby bar (despite the chilly temperatures) to watch people moving up and down the strip as it got busier. Following a couple more beers in a smart expat favourite (ie full of English) place called Bulldog, we opted to try and find a club and chose to head for Hemingways just off Ilica, the main shopping street.

On arrival there appeared to be some kind of premiere for a television station going on, but we were heartened by a girl staggering around outside blind drunk and despite not being on the guest list, we were allowed in at a price. It wasn't a good crowd. If the over-pretentious girls and blazered city boy wine bar types weren't enough to deal with, once we had found a decent spot to perch about six of the biggest blokes I had ever seen decided to stand in front of us and block out what little light there was. They made my brother, who stands at 6ft 3ins, look like a dwarf. The place was summed up when one girl, who had clearly had a little too much of the sauce, found she couldn't control her ridiculous heels and tripped over Paul's foot, hitting the deck. As he tried to help her up, she pointed him out to her friend as if to say "he did it". Classy, love.

The clientele had begun to grate with us down-to-earth types, so we moved to seek out somewhere a little more suitable (ie downmarket) and found a place called Saloon just up the road. This was much more like it, a cavernous place absolutely packed full of people just out to enjoy themselves. It seemed like a student place but there was nothing advertised to say so. We had a good laugh pulling some dubious shapes to some even more dubious europop until 5am. Good times. On the way back, Paul and Pete were accosted by a persistent man who was friendly enough at first but suspiciously insisted on walking us back to our apartment. I had gone off to use the toilet / alleyway (again, classy), and just turned round in time to see the others sprinting up the road and away from me. "Run", they ordered after I had inquired as to just what the hell was going on. Totally unnecessary, but quite funny.

On Saturday we were off to Split, but on arriving at the train station we discovered that the train was in fact to be a bus. Not ideal at all, and the general mood was irritable, resulting in me losing my temper with the equally irate woman in the ticket office when she couldn't tell us if the situation would be the same for the return journey the following night. Eventually, we got on a packed coach for the five hour trip, though the situation was relieved by grabbing the back seats for a little extra legroom. I'm pleased to say we didn't flick any v-signs at trailing drivers. After stopping at a service station which was decorated randomly with a pack of bears and other wild animals, we eventually got there at about 8.30pm.

SPLIT

The difference between Zagreb and Split was immediately apparant as the bus wound its way along the attractive harbour on the Adriatic. A town of about 188,000 people, Split is packed with tourists in summer and is one of Croatia's most beautiful towns.

The main reason those visitors come, beyond the sapphire-blue sea, is Diocletian's palace. This maze of narrow, cobbled passageways inside the ruins of a Roman fortress is filled with delightful restaurants, bars and shops. It was here we began our evening, after we had dropped off our bags at our hostel (again, actually the apartment of a flame-haired middle-aged woman who kept referring to us as her "dear boys").

Unfortunately, after dinner in a picturesque spot in the centre of the palace, Si was once again beaten by his own digestive tract and was forced to retire early, leaving Pete, Paul and myself to explore the nightlife. Round the corner from the restaurant were a couple of tight terrace bars where we enjoyed a couple of beers, before the waiter advised us to head out along the water to the Bacvice complex to continue the revelry.

It took us 15 minutes to walk it, but it was worth it - a cluster of bars, restaurants and clubs right on the beach, with the Adriatic gently lapping at it with barely a ripple. First we tried Club Equador. For the first time on the trip I was subjected to 'face control', a prejudicial system where the bouncers basically ensure the clientele meet a certain aesthetic standard. Amazingly I made the cut and even more amazingly Pete did, but less than a minute later we were out again, deciding that the rest of the punters loved themselves far more than was necessary and to take our custom elsewhere.

Luckily, just across was another bustling venue, half inside half spilling out onto a large balcony overlooking a sea and filled with a younger but more fun crowd. As we entered, a tall girl with mad, Amy Winehouse hair stumbled out of the toilet and tried to exit via a glass window pane. Clearly surprised that this should not work, she tried again. And again, before accepting the concept of a door and leaving via this more conventional method. She then collapsed onto a sofa with her head in her hands, was sick twice and fell asleep for the rest of the evening while strangers carried on their conversations around her. Finally, her friends eventually returned from wherever they had been for the prevous few hours to take her home. This was more our kind of place, especially as we muscled our way to a prime balcony table and got waiter service for the whole evening while snarling at anyone who tried to take our place.

A leisurely harbour walk was in order the following morning. The sun was bright, temperatures were in the low 20s and the whole town seemed to be out, filling the numerous cafes that lined the strip, palm trees separating them and the sea. No wonder Croatia is such a popular destination these days.

Famous local side Hajduk Split were at home that day and we embarked on the 15 minute walk from the city centre to be at the stadium in plenty of time for the 3.30pm kick off. The Poljud Stadium is idylically set between the hills to the northeast and the sea to the west, and is an attractive stadium with two elliptical main stands and an open end behind one goal where the ultras stand. The other end is bare with only a few boxes and a hedge filling the space in a peculiar arrangement. It holds around 34,000 but it became clear as kick off approached that this fixture against Cibalia was not going to be a crowd-puller. As the game got underway, no more than 5,000 had bothered. The apathy is a sad symbol of what the break-up of Yugoslavia did to football. Previously, teams like Red Star and Partizan Belgrade, FK Sarajevo and FK Buducnost would have provided a far sterner challenge. Today was a total mismatch, Hajduk dominating the game and winning 2-0 courtesy of two penalty kicks. The ultras, as in every game we have seen across Europe, did their best to drum up an atmosphere, letting off flares and purple smoke and waving flags, but it was a stroll for the home side. If it hadn't been for a string of outstanding saves by the Cibalia goalkeeper, his team would have made the long trip back to the north eastern city of Vinkovci humiliated. There was plenty of shambolic defending on display to put this Sunday League central defender at ease, but easily the most bizarre moment came when when Hajduk's number 9, Kalinic, was booked for diving in the box. The home crowd, instead of berating the officials, applauded and cheered enthusiastically. Kalinic must be either about as popular as Hitler, or the crowd have an overwhelming commitment to fair play. It was the number 9 who converted both spot kicks (admittedly, the rest of his finishing left much to be desired).

We were to take the night train back to Zagreb, where Paul and Pete would fly back to the UK and Si's mother and brother Neill would greet us having flown in the other direction. The sleeper was a novelty for our visitors, but it quickly wore off as a bumpy journey made for a difficult night's shut-eye for all. Si in particular, as his condition was still ropey and he had to get up twice in the night to pepper the on-board toilet with the contents of his stomach.

The train arrived back in the capital as the Monday morning rush was beginning, but fortunately our new accommodation was not far away. Paul and Pete left for the airport, and having been allowed to stay free of charge in the four-star hotel that Si's family were being put up in, I spend most of the last day sleeping and taking advantage of the luxurious facilities.

We spent a week in Croatia and found it to be a diverse place. The capital is worth a few days for its nightlife and culture (it is chock-full of museums if you like that kind of thing), while the Adriatic coast is picturesque without being spoilt by overdevelopment like many resorts on the Mediterranean. We left on a train to Ljubljana on Tuesday. Croatia was the last stamp in our passport, and the final non-EU country we would visit. We were undeniably on the home straight.

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