Solitude on lake bled c
- 1. Overeager, my boyfriend and I had arrived early, expecting crowds – but we soonfound out that Lake Bled is a summer attraction. We were on the set of a thriller, the only two people in the world, huddled together under a blackening sky. Winter transformed the huge alpine lake. Known for its swimming, rowing and extreme sports, the once blue paradise was shrouded in mist and beautifully haunting, the magical little island in its centre eerie and mysterious. Aiming to complete the six kilometre trail encircling the lake, we began walking up the steep path. The elusive island glinted at us between the thick branches of evergreens as we fought against the perpetual drizzle, admiring a storybooklog cabin nestled amongst the trees. As we descended, we walked along weather-worn wooden planks by the lake’s bank; slow moving fish glistening in the mirror clear water. A row of chipped blue and white fishing boats gently floated, tethered with ropes to a woodenpole Presently we encountered a lone oarsman, dozing serenely on his painted pletna boat, his arm flung over his face. A swan, used to the swathes of summer tourists, pecked forlornly on the stern, hoping for crumbs. At the prospectofcustom, the man stirred into life and silently ushered us aboard. We seized our chance to reach the island, and clambered aboard the swaying boat – as it was built to carry 20 people, it was slightly unbalanced. Our pletnarstvo - or oarsman - had been taught from childhood to hand build, paint and row the exquisite pletna, as part of a traditional local profession passed downfrom father to son. Armed with two huge wooden oars, he stood precariously on the boat's edge and effortlessly steered us across the lake. Gliding towards the island, we passed Tito’s imposing summer home and several extravagant hotels before we reached our destination. Ninety-nine stone steps led up to the quaint medieval church where many weddings are held; traditionally a groom must carry his bride up all of the steps, before ringing the church bell for good luck. Devoid of tourists, the island was secretive and beautiful, the church steeped in history. The snow-capped peaks of the Julian Alps were just visible through the clearing fog. Back on the mainland, we diverged from our trail once again to reach Bled Castle, set against a sheer cliff edge. Legs aching, we dived into a cave-like coffee shop and selected enormous, indulgent squares of kremna rezina - gorgeous thick wedges of vanilla cream held together by a paper thin layer of buttery, crispy pastry doused in icing sugar. Perched on a rickety table, high above the lake, we surveyed the shimmering horizon. Finally, the sound of an engine – and a coachload of clichés tumbled in on our secret. Tourists had arrived, wielding selfie sticks and clicking cameras, chattering and laughing. Our ethereal, fairy-tale morning had faded away with the dissipating mist. We had to share the world again.