The catacombs ...

The day before we left Split, flying back to a land of clouds, we visited the catacombs underneath Diocletian's Palace - I had stared at the emperor's bust in the Muzej Grada - his shrewd cold stare was unsettling - he looked lean and ruthless - I imagined him, having ruled the world, retiring here, exhausted, to grow cabbages in his gardens -

The catacombs were, in reality, the cellars, or basements, of the palace - I was a little disappointed, in truth, not to see mummified priests, or poignant frescoes - but when we slipped past the siren who gave us our tickets, we entered a disquieting enough space - 

The air was damp, almost icy - the mid day sunshine of the Peristyle was replaced by a dim sad light - vaulted ceilings glistened high above our heads - galleries led off to immense underground halls - we wandered between massive columns of smooth stone - one half flooded hall reminded me of a scene from Stalker - I expected to see a hollow eyed man, splashing, very carefully, through the water - I lost all track of time - 

Flood lights illuminated some sections of the passages - I wondered what it would be like, to be here alone in the dark -

Even though I knew the gewgaw stalls were outside, in the bright sunlight, I could feel chill fingers, stroking my face - 

The overheated engine ...

When we we got onto the ferry from Trogir to Split, we were sweating profusely - our clothes stuck to our skin - we hung out of the portholes - a faint breeze blew over the darkening waves - the tower of the cathedral reached up to a clear pale blue sky - it was after six in the evening - this was the last boat back - 

I suddenly became aware, over the mad throbbing of the engines, that the marineros were shouting at one another - worried, excitable, voices echoed within the passenger salon - 

One of the marineros flung open the hatch to the engine room - he scurried down, into the inferno, clutching three litre bottles, full of water - 

He soon came bounding up, then raced to the grim lavatory, refilling his bottles - then scuttled down again, into the zone of noise - 

This happened, again and again - the engines must be overheating - Anne's cool gaze fell upon the anxious lunging figure - I hope they don't run out of water - 

Then, whilst all this was going on, a pouting beauty in a green dress made her way onto the bridge - there was a sign saying - strictly no admittance to passengers - 

We could hear her, joshing the other marinero, presumably the captain - then I saw her slim hand upon the throttle, pushing it right down, so the trembling, quivering, boat picked up speed - 

Meanwhile, the marinero with the bottles still raced back and forth - then he gave up, lit up a York, and sauntered up onto the bridge - 

Needless to say, we made it safely back - the beauty sashayed off the boat, with her escort of two lean marineros -  

Being beguiled by cats ...

There is something about cats, their sinuous smoothness perhaps, or their unfathomable glowing eyes, that has always beguiled me - Herodotus describes the island temple of the cat Goddess, Bast - the festivals of the Goddess were celebrated with feasts of drunkenness - the deity has the body of a woman - she clasps a sistrum, to accompany the dancing of her worshippers -

Doctor Johnson had cherished his cat, Hodge - I can imagine the creepy yet charming Bozzy jealously eyeing Hodge - Goldy would be sipping tea in the morning room -

Christopher Smart's cat, Jeoffry, danced in my dreams - I thought of the curable patient, taking comfort from the delicate creature -

There'd been cats in my life, too - I'd been welcomed home from school by our burly street wise tabby - he'd walk with me, whilst I delivered newspapers - my mum said that he lived almost long enough to go to University -

And here in Split, there were cats - I saw them, elegant slim spirits - dozing upon ancient stones - leaping between worlds -

The man with the shaven head ...

From time to time, the icy glare of violence has caught me unawares - I can remember how the father of one student suddenly turned up at school - he left the pitbull in the BMW - there he was, squaring up to me, his thick neck pulsing, his spittle wetting my face - the school was picking on his son - 

I stood my ground - the bull necked dad left without being able to sort out the teacher who had given his son a detention - the next day, during the morning briefing, I was presented with a certificate attesting to my bravery - 

I can recall, too, the scowling man in Herceg Novi who offered to buy guileless Tessa a drink - the waitress said - no, do not take a drink from him - he is a bad man - she was a beautiful young woman, with delicate olive skin - when she smiled, you could see one of her front teeth was missing - 

The town was broiling with the sullen implacable heat of a Balkan August - our driver, Goran, told us that Montenegro was the stolen car capital of Europe - you will see your car outside my father's house - 

In Split, one evening, we were listening to an American choir singing in the Peristil - the clean cut boys were singing The Auctioneer's Song - they swung their arms splendidly - 

Sitting below me was a man with a shaven head - you could see, very clearly, the marks of a war wound - a bullet, or shrapnel, had left a deep groove in his skull - his daughter handed him icy beers - she soothed him when he started snarling at the American boys - 

 

But when one of the girls sang Ave Maria, he listened in rapt concentration, his lips moving - when she'd finished, he whistled and roared his approval - 

I wondered what part he'd played in the Homeland Wars - what things had he seen, what things had he done?

Thinking about heaven in Sibenik Cathedral ...

I can remember being prepared for confirmation - the old Anglican church in Sliema was within walking distance of my parents' flat - my dad had been posted to Malta - I learned to swim off the warm rocks of Balluta Bay -

The incense would swirl inside Holy Trinity Church - it was cool and dark within the Victorian walls - I would study the catechism given me with profound attention - outside, my shadow was razor sharp, dancing upon the pavement -

When we entered the Cathedral in Sibinek, all of the vague beautiful mystery of my boyish faith came back to me -

Our guide, Darijan, told us that we must behave with decorum - shawls were draped over the bare shoulders of the Icelandic girls -

We passed by ornate, sumptuous, altars - marble columns glowed in the dim light - underfoot were the tombs of prelates and heroes -

Darijan took us into the Baptistery - I felt my eyes fill with tears - above me was the face of God the Father - I looked up at the calm, bearded, face - delicate stone shells reminded one of pilgrimage - gentle angels unfurled their white wings -

I thought about my mum - she's told me she believes in heaven -I could see her, in my mind's eye, whilst I stood there, in the numinous space -

I saw her when she was much  younger than she is now - we were in a small cemetery between two railway lines - she was cleaning the neat gravestone of my gran, her mum - she straightened up, putting down her cloth - I'll see her in heaven she said -

The waterfalls of Krrk National Park ...

It was Ivo who first  recommended that we visit the waterfalls in Krrk National Park - we'd just arrived at the apartment in Pervanova - I was still very jumpy as a result of the furious drive - Ivo wrote down the name of a cafe we should visit, near Bacvice Beach - the Cafe Fife - then he said, smiling his strange smile - I kept on wondering which eye, the left or right, was the false one - you must go to Krrk - they are beautiful - 

We bought our tickets in the Adriatic4you office - a slim girl, exulting in the icy air of her empire, gave us the tickets and a leaflet -

The next morning, we waited for the mini-bus, down near the ferry port - white Jadrolinja car ferries disgorged their shiny vehicles - the girl directing the traffic looked like an irritable komosomolet - she sent us packing -

We met up with the rest of our party - two splendid brawny Icelandic sisters told us about life on their parents' farm - the shy young Irish couple appeared to fall asleep during our guide's exposition of the Homeland Wars -

The Krrk National Park was two hours or so drive away - we listened to rousing acapella patriotic songs on the mini bus sound system - very soon it seemed, we were slewing round hair pin bends, down into a vast canyon - you could see a broad river, sweeping through a tangle of woods, braided channels sparkling with foam -

We crossed walkways, over turbulent, swirling, water - we saw shoals of fish in shallow lagoons - under the thick foliage of the trees, it was very hot and humid - we felt thirsty and dazed -

But at the foot of the falls, we saw people swimming in the river - Anne and I joined them, without delay, wiggling out of our damp clothes - the water was icy - I felt my feverishly hot body cool immediately - the beautiful roaring waterfall glittered in the Balkan sunlight - I lay upon my back, my mind empty of thoughts - I was only conscious of the cleansing, chilling, water -

Our guide did not join us - he said he had friends to see - later, on the way back, he unfolded a map, and told us about Sebrenica - I wondered, as I had done so many times, why ordinary men had carried out such crimes -

I asked myself - how much water, from waterfalls like these, would be needed to wash humanity clean?

The strange beauty of wells ...

I have always had a fondness for wells - the image of a circle of pale water, reflecting the stars, is one which has long haunted my imagination - for me, wells are portals to different worlds - like stretches of clear water, amongst tall reeds, they call for votive offerings - I can see, if I close my eyes, the precious sacrifices, sinking to the gleaming depths -

I can see, in my mind's eye, the well in which Turu Okada's soul drifted from his body - I can see, too, the cross of eyes set in the wall of the well described in The Treasure of Abbot Thomas -

In Venice, I saw grey cats, stretched out upon stone well heads - in Cerne Abbas, I gazed down at Saint Augustine's Well - no faces were reflected in the quiet water -

In Split, we saw a well head in a deserted courtyard - the palace was full of memory - washing hung from a line fixed to a delicate pillar - bedroom shutters were flung open -

Anne peered into the well - I followed her, leaning over, resting my chin against the warm stone - there, below, was the circle of water, reflecting the sky -