Stupid me nearly posted the same story twice and got the title wrong! So much for cramming stuff into a weekend! (All fixed now).

Well, crew. We had done it. We had given Monfalcone a firm, polite, and very permanent arrivederci. The Italian chapter had closed with the satisfying thud of a final customs stamp, and the sapphire embrace of the Adriatic was once again ours. We were back in Croatia and our last episode left us surrounded by what people told us was trees and other debris from local rivers, however to us it looked remarkably like shi….anyway..

Now, you may recall from our previous escapades (Blog 033, for the people struggling with my numbering) that Croatia has a certain… “fondness” for maritime bureaucracy. Their affection for anchoring fees is so profound, they employ a fleet of dedicated collectors who apparently work on commission. To avoid these aquatic bailiffs (and to stop our beloved Sawasdeekat from bobbing up and down in the mire) we enacted Operation: Pre-Dawn Flit. So, as we slipped our mooring at 7am the sun was barely a rumour on the horizon; Sawasdeekat gliding away like a ghost, leaving the taxmen to sip their morning espresso in peaceful, bill-less ignorance. Yay!

The sea was a pane of polished glass. Not a whisper of wind. So we motored. The thrum of the engine a steady companion as the world slid by in a haze of blue and green. Problems still befell us however, as the Raymarine Autopilot started playing up and switching off whenever it felt like it. This naturally means that all of a sudden, and for no apparent reason, the boat would swerve off to one side or another. Now it was nothing to do with the large amount of work we had just had done so we just reset it and carried on… I was going to say in blissful ignorance but frankly it was quite a worry for me as we would be relying on it as we crossed the Atlantic!  Our destination now though, was a modest little slice of paradise called Otok Koludarc.

The bay was a cupped hand of pebble beach and pine trees, and, unlike our previous anchorage, the water was now so clear you could count the toes on the crabs. It was quiet, unassuming, and perfect. A peaceful overture, we foolishly thought, to the Croatian symphony to come.

Ah, the folly of hope.

Why? Well the next morning, it became clear that Tyche, the fickle Greek goddess of fortune, had spat in our coffee. Our trusty anchor, a chunk of metal that had previously never let us down, had decided to get creative. In the night, it had somehow, with the precision of a master locksmith, wedged itself under a long-abandoned concrete mooring block. The buoy usually tied to the block, had long since gone, but the half-tonne slab of its legacy remained, and it had our anchor in a headlock eight metres below.

There was only one course of action. Yours truly, channelling the spirit of a panicked, middle-aged mer-man, donned a mask and fins and took a deep breath before plunging into the deep.

Now, a pro tip from your favourite amateur adventurer: when free-diving, one must equalise the pressure in one's ears. In my desperate, bull-in-a-china-shop haste, I forgot this minor detail. The descent therefore was a symphony of pain. A piercing shriek in my eardrums that competed with the burning in my lungs for some fresh air. I reached the bottom, a world of blurred green and shifting light, and, with a Herculean heave (or what feels Herculean when you’re about to see stars), I wrestled the anchor-chain free from the concrete's stubborn grip. Using my fins to help me I shot back to the surface, bursting into the world with a gasp that was half air, half triumph. Catastrophe averted I climbed back aboard and we were onwards!

We made for the small town of Luka, near Zaglav, where the water was so shallow at the town quay, we were practically kissing the seabed. A risky manoeuvre, but one rewarded with the immense pleasure of tying up next to our sailing friends, Ian and Jackie, on the good ship Nova Jean. There is a unique camaraderie amongst those who choose a life adrift; stories are swapped, wine is poured, and the world is set right over a meal in a nearby restaurant. Croatia, we mused, was perhaps not so bad after all. It was growing on us… like a benign, pleasant-smelling barnacle.

Ever Keen to get back into “holiday” mode we next stopped at Tribunj. It was a very pleasant place, and, after picking up a few supplies (and a nice ice cream) we were ever so slowly mellowing to Croatia. So, a brief, but pleasant stop in Tribunj later, and we were lured south by the siren call of a konoba.

For the uninitiated, a konoba is a traditional Dalmatian taverna, usually family-run, where the food is so fresh the fish probably introduced itself on its way to the grill. Our destination was Konoba Duga on the island of Ciovo, a tiny place where the tables practically sit in the chef’s kitchen. Here we met up with Karen and Ed, and the evening dissolved into a glorious haze of Ćevapi, local wine, and shared tales of nautical misadventure.

Then, Croatia reminded us who was boss.

The next morning, winter, which had apparently missed its flight to the other hemisphere, decided to pay a violent, uninvited visit in June. A hellish storm erupted. This wasn't a gentle summer shower; this was a celestial tantrum. Hailstones the size of petit pois, fired from the heavens at 50 miles per hour, turning our catamaran into a snare drum in an angry rock band. We sat it out. Sawasdeekat was shuddering around us and we waited for the apocalypse to pass.

Once it did, we foolishly thought a bit of busyness would be our biggest problem. We motored to a bay on Otok Marinkovac, near the glamorous Hvar. The place was heaving. A nautical car park. What followed was a farce of such epic proportions it deserves its own stage play. Let’s call it The Eight Attempts of Marinkovac.

Act I: We attempt to anchor and put shore lines out. I leap into the dinghy, a modern-day Sir Lancelot, but cannot get to shore fast enough to tie the lines to the shore. Sawasdeekat, sensing my incompetence, drifts away in a slow, mocking arc.

Act II: We find a new spot, only to realise we are now parked in the marine equivalent of the M25 during rush hour. Let’s try again.

Act III: We spot a free mooring ball! Yay! A beacon of hope! We approach with grace… and miss. We make a big turn and…

Act IV: We try again and get the ball! Victory is ours! But the lines are a tangled, incomprehensible Gordian Knot. We abandon mooring, so to speak.

Act V: (By now, our cheer has curdled into something resembling quiet, seething rage). We secure a different mooring ball. We lower the dinghy. We are ready for that calming, well-deserved drink. Then, like the shopkeeper in Mr Ben, a man appears on the shore, gesticulating. The ball is "booked." We are moved on.

Act VI: Back on the boat we try another one and we are told to move again.

Act VII: Sensing our frustration a man directs us to a new ball. We are told the boat there is leaving. We wait. and wait. And WAIT. The boat, clearly inhabited by people with no concept of time, stays put.

Act VIII: We snap. We return to the spot from Act II, drop the anchor with a defiant "sod ya!", and declare, "If we are in your way, go round!"

We took the dinghy ashore, and on our way, the man who had clearly not wanted us on two other bouys now suddenly had another free (if only we ate at his restaurant), we politely decline and, in a display of stubborn defiance, make a point of using another. Very frustrated we got our drink and sat down to calm down. We were so grateful for a rest that the ice cold cocktail (mine’s a Long Island Iced Tea) was an almost religious experience. Joining us here were whole flotilla of friends - Andy & Jane, Ed & Karen (again!), and Darren & Karen. Food (of course) was next and as we all chomped down on some tapas, we shared the trauma of the mooring fiasco - no doubt bonding us for life. The boys drank beer and talked about engine disasters whilst the girls went for a swim.

We decided to follow Ed & Karen to the next bay which was Loviste.

We were going dead downwind and so we decided to Goosewing to Loviste. Now goosewing for the uninitiated is where you put out both foresails and just let the breeze take you (as shown here). It’s a great way to sail and we managed to pip Ed & Karen to the bay. We went ashore in Loviste that evening, partly to find a hot meal that we didn't have to cook ourselves, and partly because Pookie, ever the artist, had conceived a plan to cook a dish with Karen the following day and needed to forage for inspiration and ingredients.

We found our dinner (shown above), a simple affair, and as we began the amble back to the dinghy, sated and content, the world began to perform a magic trick.

The bright blue canvas of the afternoon sky had been streaked with clouds that now, in the failing light, acted as a prism. The sky itself seemed to blush, shifting into a profound, almost violet purple. We stopped. We watched. And then, the sun, as if acknowledging our pause, broke past the cloud barrier.

It revealed itself not as a fierce, blinding orb, but as an end-of-day soft, smouldering ember. It hung there for a moment, a perfect, gentle red, before deepening into a rich, blood-orange hue that stained the entire surface of the sea. The sacred silence, broken only by phone cameras clicking, continued as it began its final, slow-motion descent, slipping behind the distant silhouette of the island as if drawing a velvet curtain across the day. It was more than "very nice"; it was a quiet, undeniable benediction.

We stood there, hand in hand, on that Croatian quayside, and felt the last of our frustrations melt away into the twilight. The country wasn't just challenging us; it was also showing us its soul.

The following morning we made our way to Uvala Spilice near Brač, the bay was a sheltered crescent of serenity, but its true magic was in the water. It wasn't just clear; it was a liquid jewel. The Adriatic here shifted through a spectrum of blues that defied simple description. From a pale, milky aquamarine over the white sand to a deep, resonant sapphire where the sea grass forests swayed. It was the kind of water you see on a postcard and assume has been digitally enhanced, but here it was, real and shimmering, cradling our hull like we were floating in a vast, tranquil aquarium.

It was in this stunning setting that we met up with Karen and Ed once more and invited them onto the boat to make a cooking video. If you want to see how to make Croatian Ćevapi, with that incredible water as a backdrop, click here:

https://youtu.be/7rUX-lezBx8?si=i7MhdhoHVRDXh-nl

Whilst Pookie was in her element, demonstrating her culinary magic, a stunning sports boat arrived and anchored perilously close in the otherwise empty bay. Then, in a flash of unexpected European liberalism, everyone on board quickly de-robed and swam naked around our boat screaming at how the water tickled their fancies. We of course had to be very careful not to get any "unofficial extras" on camera; filming with the tactical precision of a Hollywood director to ensure our frame was filled only with sizzling meat and the pristine waters behind!

Craving a nice meal we didn't have to cook ourselves, we discovered a restaurant around the corner: Gastro Mare on the island of Kobas. This was not just a restaurant; it was a revelation. Run by a husband-and-wife team, Toni and his wife, it was a temple to Dalmatian cuisine. The walls were a who's who of the famous and well-fed, all drawn in by Toni's legendary skill. He was, to our delight, a fan of Pookie's, and was thrilled to welcome a MasterChef vlogger into his kitchen (Pookie’s posts by the way are @pookiestylecooks on Instagram). The meal was sublime. So sublime, we planned to stay just one night.

Toni however had other ideas. It was his birthday the next day, and he insisted we stay for the party. Pookie, touched by his hospitality, decided to make him a special birthday treat. The celebration was a fabulous, noisy, joyous affair of food, wine, and new friends. And in a twist that could only happen to us, who should be there but the naked swimmers from the bay! They were, it turned out, a group of dentists, also friends of Toni, there to celebrate his birthday. One of his guests gave us a private viewing of her very VERY old olive oil making barn, now a quirky museum for curious tourists.

Toni, now our self-appointed Croatian guardian, insisted we couldn't leave without visiting the local oyster farms. One phone call later, and we were being whisked away to Hodilje by the owner himself. After driving down the dusky island roads, we arrived at his home town and boarded his small boat. We puttered out into the still waters, and tasted oysters shucked straight from the sea, drizzled with his family's own olive oil and washed down with his own wine. He was a man whose soul was as rich as his harvest, telling us his family had been growing oysters there for five generations. The taste was incredible: a briny, creamy, taste of the sea itself. Did you know the unique flavour of an oyster, its "merroir", is dictated by the specific mineral content and salinity of the water it's grown in? We were tasting a century of history in every single one. We loved it.

After the "March Misery" (a saga involving customs officials with the charm of a startled cobra and an engine with the reliability of a chocolate teapot) then the faeces in the water, stuck anchors, and mooring farces… Croatia was finally, truly, growing on us. It was as if we had to earn its beauty through a series of comical trials.

Happy that we had got to know it better, we sailed into Dubrovnik (a place where on a previous visit we’d been fined for the heinous crime of not being courteous and using a radio) whereupon I held my breath at customs. I needn’t have but I still don't know if Croatia will ever be a place where we feel totally comfortable. The bureaucratic ghosts still linger. But as I looked back at the water we’d just crossed, I realised something: if we could find just half the welcome, half the genuine warmth and joy we’d found with Toni and the oyster farmer in our last two days, we would sail its stunning waters in pure delight forever.

If you want to see us sailing through this beautiful, baffling country, have a look here: https://youtu.be/HozC_leZVtk

Join us next time when we return to the familiar shores of Montenegro and then, with hearts full of hope, set our bow towards the fabled lands of Greece…

(We don't get there).

Until our next disaster, fair winds Heath & Pookie

"Time and tide weather the Body's vessel, but it is our own choice that decides whether we set sail for adventure or lie at anchor watching life from the harbour"