The doomed lobsters at Murtar 

I've never felt easy with lobsters - I'm unnerved by their claws and jointed legs - I'm appalled to think of how they are boiled alive in gleaming pans -

I once read a short story by Samuel Becket called Dante and the Lobster - I shuddered when I read its closing sentence - it's true, I thought - it is not a quick death -

I thought of this story when I saw the lobsters at Murtar - we'd been sailing close hauled all afternoon, the yacht racing over the turquoise sea - the Bora blew from the north west - the yacht was heeled over, its port side rails skimming the waves - torn necklaces of foam stung our faces -

We had to reef the jib - we coiled the ropes around the shining winches - the yacht moved beneath our bare feet like a sleek, nervy, creature -

We moored stern on to the quayside - I picked up the lazy line, using a boat hook to lift up the heavy rope - a line of yachts swung on their warps in the wind, which gusted unpredictably -

We made our way into the waterside restaurant - it was then I saw the tank with the lobsters - their claws were bound up - their antennae flickered - they moved about in their beautiful speckled armour -

I felt pity for these doomed beings - soon a sous chef would fish them out, throw them into scalding, bubbling, water -

We ate upstairs - I looked out of the high opened windows - I was amazed by the beauty of the sunset - I felt calm and happy, my muscles aching, my hair full of salt - but I still remembered the lobsters -

The Jewish Cemetery on the Marjan

Sometimes I dream of a landscape in the east - I see plumes of oily pungent smoke rising up from a wicked city - I dream that I am half walking, half running, down the road to heaven - I can hear hoarse voices, in a language I do not understand -

I remembered these dreams when I went with Anne to the Marjan - from this wooded hill, you can look down upon Split - you can see the whole city, with its convents and palaces, its cathedral, its scorched squares - the hazy mountains beyond - the blue sky, with its vague clouds - the turquoise sea -

We'd climbed up a steeply rising street, then up many steps - we passed small stone houses with shuttered windows - within one garden, there was an old boat, resting upon a nest of dry reeds - there was only a thin ribbon of shade, for it was almost noon -

We gulped icy Oranginas in the cafe at the top - two pale English girls studied their Rough Guides - a young Croat with a brutal face told us that the cemetery gates were unlocked -

We'd come here to visit the Jewish cemetery - the tourist information we had said it was one of the oldest Jewish cemeteries in Europe - 

We walked amongst the pine trees growing over the tumbled graves - our boat shoes sank into a thick layer of pine needles - yellow butterflies zig zagged over the needles and patches of grass - all was silent - I felt immensely thirsty -

There were no graves after 1936 - I suppose the Ustase had got down to their vile work after that date -

At the far end of the cemetery, near the encircling wall, there was a tall pale stone - at its top was the  name, Rifka Finzi -

I realized that this stone must have been erected after the war - I felt my eyes fill with tears when I looked at the two tender naked figures - one raised his slim arms heavenwards - the other, smaller, head bowed, clasped his companion round the waist -

I wondered what story was remembered here - I thought of how ferocious winds had swept across Europe, blowing away mountains of ashes -

The konoba in Kaprije

At the end of our second day on Indian Wizard, we came to Kaprije, a small island north of Split - we picked up a mooring buoy, and came to rest in a sheltered inlet -

Sue, our instructor, was a fearless Irish girl, exacting in her teaching - she set very high standards in what she expected of us - what? - she would ask - what are you wanting to do? - I can hear her voice, even now, full of authority - I can still see her keen gaze -

We were all, I think, a little afraid of Sue - even John, who worked for Samsung, and who wore wrap around shades, was in awe of her -

Yet we found out, as we had to, that Sue was warm hearted and generous to a fault - she inspired us to overcome our fears, to be bold and skillful -

Anne and I paddled our shipmates ashore - we dipped the small paddles into the still shining water - there was no current or wind -

Sue led us to a konoba - we walked through the empty streets of a small village - there was a tree with purple blossoms - a red bike was left outside, like the gift offering of a cargo cult - beyond the village there were dark pines -

We turned, suddenly, into a stone house, past an open air oven - inside, we we were greeted with laughter and magnificent gestures by a woman in a yellow tee shirt - we sat down at a rough table in her living room - she showed us a metal tray upon which were lined up seven glinting fish -

Seeing Jack, another instructor, with his two Australians and sleepy eyes, our Croatian matron grinned hugely - fumare, fumare - she said, taking him by the arm -

Do your duty Jack, said Sue - we might get something off the bill -

We gulped down tiny glasses of fiery liquor - there were stories told about wild gusts of wind -

Sue told us that she came from Adrigole, not far from Macgillycuddy's Reeks - she, too, had relished the Bacchanalia at The Blue Loo -

The Fish Market, Split 

I have always loved fish - watching them them dart about in the shallows of the river near The Old School House - tiny silvery torpedoes amongst the river weed - or snarfing them with gusto - the trout lying on the white plate like a sacrificial captive, garlanded with watercress -

I first discovered sea bass in The American Bar - I was slurping bumpers of False Bay Pinotage with Richard - it was an evening in early summer - there were women in tight dresses, smiling at their glowering boyfriends - I could smell salt and diesel oil from the Inner Camber, where the fishing boats were moored -

But in the Fish Market, not far from the Narodni Trg, there was no glamour, only the strange beauty of the dead sea creatures, with their glistening tentacles, or lacy fins -

We saw saw drifts of mussels, their jet black shells marked with swirls of white - we marvelled at the weird shapes of squid and octopus - chunky oysters had ridged, uncompromising, carapaces - the eyes of the heaped up fish were like tiny coins -

We could hear, all around us, prices being shouted out, praises being sung of the stilled, limp, shapes upon wet marble slabs - gnarled marineros swigged from green bottles of Karlovacko beer - old women smoked Yorks, handled their scales with the skill and delicacy of neurosurgeons -

I thought of Michel Faber's unsettling and savage satire, Under The Skin - suppressing a shudder, I walked out, with Anne, into the dazzling noon -

Drinking mineral water in the Narodni Trg 

Most evenings, we lounged under creamy white awnings in the Narodni Trg, just beyond the Zeljezna vrata, the Iron Gate - I peered at my map of Split, taken aback by the strangeness of the names given to palaces, squares and alleyways - how long would it take, I wondered, to learn the Croatian language? -

I eavesdropped conversations in the Green Market - I listened to the man selling cherries, with his lean wrinkled head - he was talking to the olive skinned beauty with her sunglasses and sleek pony tail - what, exactly, were they saying?

The courteous and infinitely gracious waiter spoke many languages - we heard him speak German, French and Italian - he was astonished when Anne suggested that natty black shorts should be a waiter's summer uniform -

We looked across the square - a scream of swifts swooped over the roofs of the elegant palaces - I could see a young moon in the sky - below the thin pale shape, the contrail of a jet spilled across the darkening blue -

 I looked at the clock face upon the tower - I thought it looked like a sinister flower - the waiter placed the bottle of mineral water upon our table - two young men put on a mime at the far end of the square -

I watched the bubbles of gas in my glass - I saw my thin brown wrist without a watch around it - I wondered what delights would follow this moment -

Reeling along the Radunica

Ivo's apartment was in a narrow alleyway, off the Radunica - when we arrived, we were still shaky as a result of the drive - Ivo had met us in Marina Kremik - we were sitting under a red umbrella at the cafe - the masts of the Sunsail yachts shimmered in the bright sunlight - I had taken to wearing sunglasses - 

Ivo told us that he had one eye - God had woken him from an eleven day coma after the accident - he took both hands off the steering wheel, one to point heavenwards, the other to indicate his glass eye - I affected nonchalance - 

We loved the venerable stone of the house, the deep shade outside - the tiles were cool under our bare feet - our faces were sun burnt - we had strange, beautiful, currency in our pockets - 

That evening, we made our way into the old city - I snarfed a risotto which heaved with mussels and tiny segments of squid - the eatery was set inside the walls of the Palace - outside, the air was very still, settling like a warm liquid upon the smooth paving stones and steps - 

On the way back, we reeled through the ancient alleyways - the stones beneath our feet glimmered with a yellowy or silvery light - each side of us were silent stone houses, shuttered windows, barred doorways - 

We fell deeply asleep, sprawled out upon the cool sheets - we still felt the motion of the yacht - I dreamed that I was upon the turquoise sea, facing the Bora - I was at once very afraid yet full of joy - 

Thinking about Croatia

I was surprised how small Split Airport was - it was the size, I thought, of a modest bus station - I half expected to see dusty Hants & Dorset double deckers outside the arrivals hall - I remembered their green coachwork, the smell of cigarettes after school - but I saw a southern sky beyond the line of taxi drivers -

I came to understand that this was a Roman Catholic land - each palace was bedecked with blue flags - the mountains lining the shore were scorched and bare - the fathers in the streets had fought in the homeland wars -

The young man who was our guide explained about the Serbs - they said the fascists will kill you - kill them first -

He crossed himself before he climbed into the minibus - he drove with furious skill and pride along the new motorway -

In Sibenik Cathedral, I stared at the tombs of the fearless bishops - I heard, once more, their sermons against the invader - the cruel Turk, the rapacious Venetian, the unforgiving Serb - I wondered what would happen if they opened their eyes - bright angels guarded the chantry chapels - I saw the scoured and cleansed souls fly up to heaven -

In the bus, back from Bene Beach, we met two former partisans - as teenagers, they'd fought with Tito - they had shining eyes, and invited us for coffee on the Riva - one of them, Oscar, had met Fitzroy Maclean -

The pointed towers of the churches rose above dark pines in the islands - above our white yacht the sky was red - the sunset was like a movie directed by David Lynch -

In Split Archaeological Museum, there were gold coins from a hoard - my heart lurched when I saw how bright they were - still clean and shining, like unbroken promises -

The coastline of Dalmatia

Even as a boy, I was beguiled by maps - I gazed for for hours at the pages of an atlas of Britain - the scale of the maps was three miles to the inch - I traced the routes of canals across the north of England - I marvelled at the line of the Great Glen - when I'd counted all the names of the islands off the west coast of Scotland, I murmured their names - Scalpey - Benbecula - Coll - 

I bought Ordnance Survey Maps with my pocket money - I would unfold the sheet of wonders - there, before me, were the delicate webs of contour lines, the winding tidal creeks of landlocked harbours - I would cycle out to Portsdown Hill, the map in my saddle bag, as though I was Speke or Burton, questing for the source of the Nile -

The Times Atlas of The World was a revelation - there were maps of every country in the world depicted upon its sumptuous pages -

The coastline of Yugoslavia fascinated me - for me it was always Dalmatia - I loved the sound of the name, and studied the history of that indented, beautiful, shore - I saw, in my mind's eye, the galleys of the Doge, sailing to the island citadels -

Once more, I murmured the names of islands - Korkula - Hvar - Veliki Drvenik - 

In two days time, we will fly to Split - we shall learn to sail amongst those islands with their strange names - they could be the names of spirits in a grimoire -

Later, we will stay in the city, near the palace of the canny Diocletian - I can imagine him, tending his garden, having saved the empire -