Croatia Diaries: A day out with the Vikings

Visiting Krka National Park in the company of marauders

When I was a teenager the prospect of a coach trip was enough to send me scuttling upstairs to hide under the bed. Though a coach trip when I was a teenager meant a school trip, inevitably to some place like Alton Towers or another horrendous theme park. Once there I would sit and hold other teenagers’ bags as they rode the rides and generally had a nice time while I sat and read and cursed my fear of heights.

The worst of these coach trips came on a trip to a theme park called Drayton Manor, which, if this is even possible, is like Alton Towers on a budget. When we were mere minutes away from the park a girl right at the back of the bus vomited up what seemed like most of her insides, which then trickled slowly but oh so steadily down the bus.

For some reason the image of this vomit sliding under my seat hasn’t dimmed my enthusiasm for the day trip as an adult. If everyone agrees to keep their insides inside I’m all for an organised day out on four wheels.

Which is why I find myself waiting by the seafront in Split in the early morning dawn for a bus to take us and a couple dozen other tourists to Krka National Park. A day which, to use a very mediocre pun which could lose all of you right here at the start, promises to be kraking.

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Our coach arrives in the company of a Croatian man named David who clearly feels he is wasted in his current vocation. He spends the first half an hour of the journey stood at the front doing a roll call in the form of a stand-up gig. When he finds the group or couple he’s looking for he asks where they’re from and, upon getting this information, promptly indulges in a spot of accent imitation and/or national stereotyping.

I sink into my seat, waiting with dread for our names. I hate this sort of audience participation. I have to wait my turn to be mocked, I have to shout my answers down through a crowded bus, and because I’m on a crowded bus I’m trapped, stuck, with no choice but to grin and not bear it.

But he doesn’t say our names. It’s a miracle. We’re not on the list. We’re on the coach but not on David’s list. He doesn’t ask us about London or attempt a cockney accent, he leaves us be. Then a thought passes through our heads almost simultaneously: we’re not on the list. Are we on the right bus?

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It doesn’t matter. David’s list is only, it turns out, those going on the wine tasting portion of the day, his ‘winos’ as they are quickly christened. We decide against this. Those not going on the wine tasting can explore the town of Skradin in the national park. There we assume to be culture, food and less organised fun.

Also, as L. says, we’re more wine drinkers than wine tasters.

First though we arrive at the park and there’s another lucky break. The winos have to be guided through the visit by David, who by this time is sporting a sports cap and a portable microphone. Clearly not trusted to have not started drinking already, they will be escorted through the sights by this slightly overfriendly Croatian.

We scurry off down the path, determined to get ahead and see what we’re here for. What we’re here for is Skradinski Buk. When people say they’ve been to Krka, they mean here. It’s a large open area with pools and various cascades and waterfalls. The water is bright blue and filled with fish, and it’s surrounded by high wooded hills. It’s idyllic, gorgeous, incredible, and so, predictably, we’re not the only busload of tourists who’ve been left here for the morning.

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With us there are Vikings. They’re completely taking over the paths. They’ve brought numbers and they will, whether you like it or not, be taking home with them the best shots of the falls.

These Vikings might not be marauding Scandinavians arriving in wooden longboats to scare the shit out of some monks. But, like their predecessors, these Vikings did arrive in boats. They are the river cruisers. This enormous band’s days of school trips are long behind them. They lumber and limp along the paths. When I think I’ve finally outrun them, broken clear to get a good angle of the falls, there they are, the tortoise to my hare, crawling up behind me.

Later when I reflect on the day at Krka the view that sticks overwhelmingly in my mind isn’t of the bright blue water falling endlessly over the precipice, the froth of the water hitting the bottom. It’s the sight of dozens of really ancient people tottering towards me, all wearing the same distinctive headgear, a cap printed with one word: Viking.

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Eventually we escape the Vikings in a boat of our own down to the town of Skradin. A town described as the top (and only) place to stay if you want to see the falls, hardly a resounding vote of confidence. Here we don’t have any trouble with other people. There are none. There are boats in a harbour which looks large for such a small town, and a couple of the restaurants have tables with people from our coach sat at them. But other than that it’s quiet.

I expected Skradin to have cashed in on the falls just up the river, for it to look almost like a Croatian Center Parcs. But to create this you need people and Skradin is short of those. There are just over 3300 here according to the 2021 census, but even that number seems as ambitious as the Vikings’ earlier attempts to make it up the steep paths to get the best views of the falls.

We amble along the main road, because that’s really all there is to do. Buildings are often derelict and abandoned. We pass a butchers that looks half empty, we visit a church with no congregation.

Suddenly the decision of the dozen or so tourists to leave Skradin almost as soon as they arrived to do a wine tasting in the countryside looks like a stroke of prescient genius. Occasionally one of them posts in the group chat that David has subjected us to: a photo of wine and cheese and tourists who’ve overindulged on both.

We meanwhile are sat waiting for the bus in a children’s play area which has a conspicuous absence of children. Eventually the bus pulls up and out slips David, looking like a drinker rather than a taster.

Oh, I think, he’s going to vomit on the bus.

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Some housekeeping.

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