A dream remembered at Primosten ...

I can remember, still vividly, a dream I had when I was a shy, nervy, boy - I was walking in a graveyard, through a procession of marble tombs - everything I saw, the crowns of brambles, the polished marble, the moon in the sky, glowed with light - I was not afraid in the dream, but I wondered who I might see -

I woke up, to my bedroom in Palmyra Road - there, on the shelf, were my Science Fiction books and my Airfix models - outside, in the garden, was a cherry tree - I was just thirteen or so, returned from Malta - I was in my narrow bed - I stared up at the ceiling - I could hear my mum and dad moving about downstairs -

The memory of my dream came back to me in Primosten - we'd gone there, at Nathan and Donna's suggestion, on our first evening at the Marina - they'd walked there, along the rocky shore, with John, past a beach peopled with nude Germans -

We went there by taxi - a thin young man charged us 80 kuna for the drive - the small town was built upon an islet, joined to the mainland by a causeway - it had once defied the Turks, safe behind its walls and drawbridge -

Narrow lanes led upwards to the church of St George - we walked past gorgeous boutiques - young wives examined dainty bikinis - children licked huge ice creams - eateries were full of smiling, sun burnt, diners -

But at the church, all was silent - you could look out over the still sea - the church tower, with its white spire, was outlined against the blue sky -

There were terraces of marble vaults just below the church, overlooking the sea - I looked at the small photographs of the dead people - their faces were like strange ciphers -

Suddenly, I thought of my boyhood dream - the tombs were gleaming with that same unsettling light - the cypress trees were dark torches - the sea became a mirror, full of silvery shadows - swallows fell from the darkening air - I knew, this time, I wasn't dreaming -

I looked out at the distant islands, some covered with pines, others bare and grey - I imagined  the souls of the dead, sailing out to them, in their fragile shining boats -

Ghosts of Pervanova ...

Our one room apartment was off the Radunica - it formed part of the ground floor of a tall stone house - barred windows looked out upon a narrow alleyway, not more than a two or three yards wide - this obscure  passage, the Pervanova, became very familiar to us -

There was Meerko, across the way - Ivo had told us - Meerko is my friend - I drink coffee with him - we learned that Meerko was Swedish - he would sit, in his shorts, with his grey rug and bare chest, reading and drinking red wine - his tiny courtyard was directly opposite our doorway -

Ivo had said that Meerko might invite us over for a drink - but despite my nodding and saying dobar dan, we were only treated to a cagey smile -

Families would put out their washing to dry - tablecloths and shirts were like poignant flags - a few houses down, there was an open space, shaded by some small trees - sprays of purple blossom, perhaps bougainvillea, were stirred by a faint breeze - the air smelled of sun bleached stone - I could hear a radio playing behind thick curtains -

Kids would play in the alleyway - a toddler, perched on top of a red plastic train, was pushed along by his skinny older brother - the toy train bounced and juddered over the warm paving stones - I expected, any moment, to see him fly off, to hear his piteous roars of pain -

At the top, just below the steps up to the Radunica, there was a house with an open doorway - you could hear the noises of housework and cookery when you went by - small yellowy gold stars had been glued to one of the windows -

Anne once stole a glance into the dark interior - she saw an old lady, sitting upright on a kitchen chair - the room was bare and frugal - she had to look away, before the ghosts swirled out - they would have danced around her, whispering their precious stories -

Learning knots, coiling ropes ...

Before we went on our sailing course, we practised knots - Jean, who's a member of Semi Colons, gave me a small book of knots - Jean goes sailing in her daughter's yacht - she's in her eighties, and her eyes are startlingly blue - she told me once that she was crewing on a yacht in Poole Harbour - they found themselves becalmed in the path of an Imperial Airways flying boat - they were towed out of the way just in time - the huge noble craft was bound for India -

I would sit at home, weaving the slim rope into shapes with strange names, listening to ghost stories on BBC I Player - I mastered the bowline, during a reading of Lost Hearts - I would tie ropes to chair legs - I secured imaginary fenders to armchairs with clove hitches or two half hitches -

Anne read somewhere, or someone told her, that a good sailor could tie a bowline in the dark - she perused, intently, Tom Cunliffe's Complete Yachtmaster - 

Once on board Indian Wizard, however, we found that ropes could have minds of their own - when asked to coil a warp, I found that I was handling a willful snake, intent upon forming a figure of eight - clove hitches were an arcane mystery - no, Chris, Sue would say - the rope goes round the winch clockwise - 

Yet rope by rope, and knot by knot, I did at last gain the mastery - a moment came when Sue said - Chris - quickly - secure those fenders with bowlines in the locker - 

The yacht was leaping from turquoise wave to turquoise wave - the jib was reefed - yet I secured the white fenders - the bowlines were neat and tight -

Well done, Sue said - it was the most marvellous thing, to hear those two words -

The Green Market, Split

Most days, we would visit the Stari Pazar, the Green Market - we would scurry across the busy Zagrebacka, a fearsome greasy stretch of tarmac - a racetrack for the bravos on their waspish mopeds, the sirens in their Mercedes - you could hardly see the pedestrian crossing, so faded were the white stripes - crossing it was an act of faith - you would hear the stinging hiss of tyres - you would feel dizzy inhaling fumes from a glittering exhaust -

Once on the other side, away from the shadowy Radunica, you would enter the Market - the exciting labyrinth of stalls extended the whole length of the eastern wall of Diocletian's Palace - tall trees provided welcome shade -

There was a severe church standing within the louche world of the market - once, one evening, we saw a wedding there - the bridegroom and his friends drank whiskey and cokes whilst they waited for the bride - a bottle of Blue Label Johnnie Walker was placed upon the roof of a brutish SUV -

A young slender nun darted out from the church - we then saw the bride, with her father - she wore a figure hugging flesh coloured dress - he had a savagely cropped rug - very soon the wedding party had vanished inside the church - the Blue Label was left untouched -

There was a rough cafe just up from the vegetable stalls - thin men would drink coffee or gulp Tomislav beers - women with worn faces would smoke Ronhill Lights - 

The market was open daily, from around six in the morning - it was used by the local people for almost all their needs - 

I would watch the tourists saunter by - the Japanese girls with their clever cameras, the members of the American  choir who had sung in the Peristyle -

I would lose myself in the moment - I would place the cherry Anne had given me in my mouth - I would taste its sudden sweetness upon my tongue -

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 -

Dreaming in the Archaeological Museum ...

I have always  had a great fondness for museums - when I was ten years old or so, I made my own museum in the garage - there, in shoe boxes, stuffed with cotton wool, I arranged my treasured artifacts - there were rusty links of chain, scavenged from the foreshore - sharp edged bits of flint, which I fancied were stone age scrapers, had pride of place, as did the foreign coins my dad had given me -

I would linger inside the dimly lit space, thinking about the Romans, or Tudor sea captains - I would then get my bike out, and cycle as fast as I could down the bright alleys - later, I would climb a tree, scrambling up as high as I could, my bare legs wrapped around slender branches - I would balance there, looking at my watch - why did the second hand sweep round so quickly? - why did people grow old?

Once, our neighbour, Mrs Nicholson, let me stroke the back of her hand - I said - it's like dry paper - would my own hands become like this?

Perhaps this explains my love of museums - with each exhibit, a delicate piece of scrimshaw, say, or a marble head, I can dive into time - I can imagine how it was - I can hear different voices, I can breath strange air -

I knew, therefore, that I must visit the Archaeological Museum in Split - I wanted to taste its wonders -

We got lost on the way - we ended up bewildered in a warren of narrow courtyards - by the time we entered the garden of the museum, we were dizzy - the pavements were ribbons of glaring stone -

But in the garden of the Museum, there were shady arbours - cypress trees calmed the eye - a wellhead had a frieze of bare breasted goddesses - bright blossoms scented the air -

Around the sides of the garden there was a covered terrace - you could wander among Roman and Greek stelae, commemorating army veterans, cherished wives, freed slaves - there were mosaics, as bright and sharp as Polaroids -

Inside, I  looked for a long time at an ivory bas relief of a triton and a nereid - I imagined them, deep in their watery paradise - I thought of the craftsman, dreaming of silky skin, of tender caresses -

Oranginas at the Buddha Bar ...

The day after our sailing course finished, Anne and I went back to Rogoznica - we ordered a taxi from the Marina office - the interior of the blue Mercedes was air conditioned - we were driven swiftly over the scorched roads -

We'd first seen Rogoznica at the end of the night sail from Privic - contrary to our fears, the wind had been moderate, and we'd enjoyed our passage - we sailed upon a dark sea, past small islands and intricate peninsulas - there was a crescent moon low in the sky - the only sound was that of the water, slapping against the hull of the yacht -

We steered by compass bearings, looking out for lights marking rocks, or channels into harbours - Nathan spotted the lights far more quickly than the rest of us - he had superb night vision - we got to Rogoznica after midnight - the waterfront bars were still open -

We'd all had icy Ozujsko beer, served in chunky glasses - we met up with Captain Jack, with Grant and Andrew - Grant was a lawyer, and Andrew a psychiatrist - they came from Melbourne -

Next morning, there'd been no time to explore the narrow streets, to look at the austere church - we'd set sail by ten for Kremik -

But now we were able to wander past the high stone houses, climb the steps to the church, see silky cats enter hidden gardens - we spent hours sipping milky coffee in the Cafe Illyria - the waiter there recommended the Buddha Bar -

I felt at peace in this louche den, overlooking the sea - I sipped my Orangina, listening to jazz - net curtains were stirred by a warm salty breeze - later, we went swimming - we lay in the shade of pine trees - drowsy, dreamy, creatures -