The artless bathers of Bene Beach ...

When we first stood inside the shadowy apartment off the Radunica, Anne and I could have thrown ourselves down upon its cool tiled floor - we were sweaty and light headed - the sky above was a  burning, dazzling, blue - the subtle, watery, greyish blues of our river valley were a poignant memory - we wanted to drench our bodies with chilled water -

Perhaps reading our tetchy sunburnt faces, Ivo suggested two beaches we might like to visit - one was the town beach, Bacvice Beach, the other was Bene Beach, reached by bus, shaded by the dark pines of the Marjan -

Most days, we visited one or both of these beaches - Bacvice Beach was at its best at sunset - the calm silky sea slid over your skin - gentle wavelets lapped against the shore - Croats of all sizes and shapes lolled in the shallows, or paraded upon the warm sand -

But it was Bene Beach that we preferred - we would catch the Number 12 bus, just across the Marina boulevard from the Franciscan convent - we would stare at the sleek power boats whilst we waited for the bus - the bus driver wore shades, and looked like an elegant gangster -

Boarding the bus with us were gnarled brown oldsters, bright boys, baiting each other, beautiful olive skinned girls, young mothers with their cherubs - I stared shamelessly at them all - I wanted to experience every new sensation as fully as I could - my days of being a pale apparatchik were gone -

There was no semblance of order when the bus arrived - I soon learned that it was best to surge blindly forward, to elbow my way through the milling grannies -

Once arrived at the beach, we would linger in the Cafe Benedict - idle patrons sipped coffee or icy beers in the shade - later, stripping off under the pines, we would dart down to the rocks, or to the crescent of sand,  lunging into the sea

We would gasp at first, in the glittering turquoise waves - then relax, and feel the water cool our feverishly hot bodies -

Drying upon the rocks, I realized how unselfconscious all of the bathers were, how comfortable they were unclothed - I clasped Anne's hand - we lay upon our backs, looking upwards at the feathery branches -

Lying there, I thought of the closing sentences of T E Lawrence's The Mint - Clouds Hill was just a short drive away from The Old School House - he described the airmen, diving into a swimming pool - all hurts and individuality washed away - everywhere a relationship: no loneliness any more -