Dislocation Monday 30 September 2013 at 8:00 pm
Australia always felt strange when I had been a child. Apart from mum's sister and her family, There had been no extended family. There had only been mum and dad and my brother Bill. Even as a child, I knew I didn't really belong here. Home had been a series of buildings. None had lasted long. Who could have ever thought of a Nissen Hut as a home? Even if you did live there for four years.
So there had always been this strange feeling. Home had always been a mythical place, Thousands of kilometres away. Yet it hadn't been a place of memory. How could it have been? I had no memories of England.
So the decades had rolled through the world. They had rolled through Australia. They had rolled through me; While ever so slowly, Almost without noticing, A strange land had become familiar. It had become the place where my life had been lived; The place where my children and grandchildren had been born.
If Australia didn't always feel like home, Nowhere else did. Still, that nagging question always lurked, Swimming below the surface. Would that other world, would Europe, fill those empty places in the heart? So it came as a shock to be here; To be in Europe, Spain and Croatia. Where is that feeling of belonging?
I don't feel that I belong here because I do not belong here. These wonderful, friendly people lack the only quality that matters. They are not Australian. For I am Australian. Being Australian crept up so unexpectedly on me. All those decades of living turned me into an Australian.
The result? Europe doesn't feel like home. It isn't home. Here in Europe I feel dislocation. I am out of place. Having left the continent of Europe as an exile, I am an exile all over again. Why? I have returned to the place from which I was banished, And it is not home. **** Skirting Seas and Mountain Climbing in Croatia (Tuesday 1 October 2013 at 8:25 pm)
Split is hemmed in by mountains; Even so, you don't really notice them. The mountains are set back from the town, Unwilling to thrust themselves in the face of the Adriatic. So Split behaves as a seaside tourist city. Cruise liners, ferries, fishing craft, yachts of all description clog its waters, While the not so distant mountains maintain their distance.
The mountains are low slung, Their forest cover mostly stripped away. Rocks are their only visible harvest. Still, something tells you that these mountains are more than mere trifles.
All buses start and end at the Split harbour. So of course our journey started at the harbour. Our departure from Split was slow. The streets are narrow. The traffic was heavy. Only heroes would drive a bus in this city. Our bus had two heroes. They seemed unflustered by the chaos.
So began our slow skirting of the Adriatic Sea. Sometimes the bus gained speed; Perhaps as much as 60 kilometres per hour on occasion. Then it would arrive at the next bend, Or the next bus stop, Or the next block of slow moving traffic. The bus seemed to move away from the sea. Somehow though, we would go round a corner and the sea would be back.
By 2:00 pm we were in Sibenik. The sea was still our companion. By 3:20 pm we were in Zadar. The sea was still our companion. After we left Zadar, it seemed that the sea would stay with us. It seemed undeterred by the walls of mountains.
At last, the sea relented. The bus started climbing the mountains. No more skirting the edges of the sea and slope; Now the bus ignored the speed limit signs. 40 kilometres per hour really was too fast for these roads. If we were to safely navigate these bends, the bus had to go slower than that.
Now the mountains developed a full covering of trees. The deforestation had not reached here. My ears popped as we gained altitude. Signs warned us to watch out for wild boar, cattle and deer.
My skin told me when the bus had crossed the highest point of the mountains. The temperature dropped. Clouds clogged the sky. The uplands stretched all around us. Now the signs started to count off the number of kilometres to Plitvice. Soon enough our mountain climbing was complete. Now we could rest. Tomorrow we would visit the park, High in the mountains, In the rugged heart of Croatia. The mountains are singing. They want us to hear their song. | 
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