John H
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A Ferry Story
Since our ferry from Split to Ancona was not due to leave until 8pm but we had to leave the campsite by 12 noon, we thought we would fill in the intervening time with a visit to the Roman site of Salona, Emperor Diocletian's birthplace and only 5 miles out of town. That is where it all started to go wrong (if you don't count the earlier incident at the campsite when, for the third time, the bracelet they had issued me with failed to operate the shower!). The signage to this place of immense archaeological importance was dreadful, the traffic chaotic, the roads narrow, the parking non-existent and one particularly helpful bus driver blocked the way and refused to move. We gave up.
We gave up and decided to park down at the ferry port and revisit the old town in Split. After all, when I had checked with the ferry company earlier in the week, they said that it would be easily possible to do so. They lied. The gates were locked and wouldn't be opened til 4pm. What now? Croatia is notorious for not liking motorhomes to stop anywhere but campsites, so where could we go? The football ground! Having been to a match there last Saturday (Hajduk Split 0: Dinamo Zagreb 0: flares thousands: fireman minus 1 finger!) we knew there was plenty of parking space that wouldn't be used on a Thursday afternoon. This was fine, apart from the fact that local driving schools also use it as a practice track on a Thursday afternoon. We did, however, manage to squeeze into a corner of the vast space and relax for a few hours – a relaxation that turned out to be absolutely necessary because, when we eventually arrived at the port, the chaos started.
Virtually every other port we have turned up at has a system (Venice excluded). You pull up at a booth, you wind down the window and hand over your documents. They smile and hand them back, together with your cabin keys and anything else deemed necessary for a smooth trip. You are then directed to a specific lane, usually containing similar vehicles, and wait for someone in an orange vest to tell you when to move onto the ship. In Split, there is no such system. I found out by pure chance, that we had to get out of our vehicle and walk over to the main building to do the document thing. After that, it was a free-for-all to see who could get through the gate to passport control first. The lane we were in was blocked by an empty car. We thus did not move anywhere until I decided to use the small amount of spare space front and back to manoeuvre into another lane. Needless to say, nobody else co-operated but I got there in the end. I polled up at passport control just as the guy at the desk decided it was the end of his shift. And when shifts end in Croatia people just walk off. They don't wait for the next person to turn up, they just walk off. Eventually, someone came to take his place but he wasn't in a hurry either. First talk to your mates, then study the racing form and only then turn your attention to the actual job in hand. How anybody ever got onto that ferry is a mystery to me, since the system seemed designed to prevent them..
But we did beat the system and arrive at the doors of the car deck – to be told that we had to reverse on. I have never had to reverse on to a ferry before. It is bad enough going forward on those narrow, judder-inducing steep ramps and this one looked steeper than most. On top of that, as I reversed, the sun was in my eyes and all I could see in the rear-view mirrors was the blackness of the interior. I was having to put my trust in an official in an orange suit who I had never met before when all day long officials (in and out of orange suits) had conspired to prevent me doing what I wanted to do. This one, however, knew what he was doing and we managed to park at the far end of the ship with no further incident.
But there were plenty of incidents to follow. First, where was the way off the car deck and into the main body of the ferry? Right at the other end of the deck, of course. And barred by a barrier that we all had to leap over. The staff seemed to think this normal. They also took it in their stride when the lift didn't work. It was as if the Italian company (SNAV) that owned it had said “its only the Croatian route, put the crap ferry on it.” The stairs looked as if they would be more at home on a World War 2 submarine but we did somehow make our way from Car Deck 3 to Reception on Deck 7, to be handed a key for a cabin on Deck 2! Down we went again, to find the door to Deck 2 firmly locked. Up I went again to complain. Down I went again with another orange-suited official to gain access to what can only be described as hell on a bad day. Dirty, scruffy and cramped, our cabin had no facilities other than two bunk beds. Up I stormed again (I was certainly getting a lot of exercise in today) to complain about everything, including pointing out that I had booked a cabin with en-suite facilities. “Ah!” she said, after studying the paperwork, “You booked through Direct Ferries”. “Yes, what of it?” “They are always doing this” (supercilious smile). “Well why don't you do something about it?” (stream emitting from ears). She shrugged. I counted to ten. “Have you got any proper cabins available?” “Not officially but come back after we leave port at 8pm and we may have some no-shows.” Impasse.
Where do we go now? Certainly not down to Dracula's coffin in the basement. The restaurant didn't open for another half hour, so we found the only seating area available – in the bar/lounge – and spotted a couple of spaces among the crowd. Italian crowds are invariably very noisy and animated. This one was no exception. As we sat down among the mayhem, an Italian tried to tell us those seats were reserved but I guess he knew from my expression that this was an avenue best not followed up. For the next half hour we were surrounded by Italians arguing with each other as to who had reserved what for whom. When we ultimately got up to leave, at least six people dived into the spaces we had vacated.
The queue for the self-service restaurant offered no respite. Heaven knows what the Italians were arguing about this time but I wanted to scream. Then things suddenly began to go right. We noticed that the next door waiter-service restaurant was not only quiet but virtually empty. To hell with the extra expense, that was where we were going. The pizzas were delicious, the Nero D'Avola wine divine and the service calm and friendly. Not only that, the prices were extremely reasonable. Whatever else the Italians may or may not be good at, you can always rely on the food and wine (well, nearly always).
Towards the end of the meal that had helped to restore our sanity, the ship began to pull away from the harbour. We looked at each other. Probably best that Jenny went to the desk to see if any proper cabins had become available, so she steeled herself and marched through the still arguing crowd of
Italians outside the self-service restaurant to Reception. She came back a few minutes later smiling. Yes they had a cabin – on this deck – but it would cost us an administration fee of the massive total of 6 euros! Joy of joys! We had just eaten a superb dinner and now we got to sleep and have a shower in the morning. It was as if Croatia had set us a test on our final day. We had survived it. This was our reward.
PS we are now camped in Assisi, Italy, looking up at the old town, which we intend to visit tomorrow. The crossing was calm (unlike the Italians) and my blood pressure has returned to something like normal
Since our ferry from Split to Ancona was not due to leave until 8pm but we had to leave the campsite by 12 noon, we thought we would fill in the intervening time with a visit to the Roman site of Salona, Emperor Diocletian's birthplace and only 5 miles out of town. That is where it all started to go wrong (if you don't count the earlier incident at the campsite when, for the third time, the bracelet they had issued me with failed to operate the shower!). The signage to this place of immense archaeological importance was dreadful, the traffic chaotic, the roads narrow, the parking non-existent and one particularly helpful bus driver blocked the way and refused to move. We gave up.
We gave up and decided to park down at the ferry port and revisit the old town in Split. After all, when I had checked with the ferry company earlier in the week, they said that it would be easily possible to do so. They lied. The gates were locked and wouldn't be opened til 4pm. What now? Croatia is notorious for not liking motorhomes to stop anywhere but campsites, so where could we go? The football ground! Having been to a match there last Saturday (Hajduk Split 0: Dinamo Zagreb 0: flares thousands: fireman minus 1 finger!) we knew there was plenty of parking space that wouldn't be used on a Thursday afternoon. This was fine, apart from the fact that local driving schools also use it as a practice track on a Thursday afternoon. We did, however, manage to squeeze into a corner of the vast space and relax for a few hours – a relaxation that turned out to be absolutely necessary because, when we eventually arrived at the port, the chaos started.
Virtually every other port we have turned up at has a system (Venice excluded). You pull up at a booth, you wind down the window and hand over your documents. They smile and hand them back, together with your cabin keys and anything else deemed necessary for a smooth trip. You are then directed to a specific lane, usually containing similar vehicles, and wait for someone in an orange vest to tell you when to move onto the ship. In Split, there is no such system. I found out by pure chance, that we had to get out of our vehicle and walk over to the main building to do the document thing. After that, it was a free-for-all to see who could get through the gate to passport control first. The lane we were in was blocked by an empty car. We thus did not move anywhere until I decided to use the small amount of spare space front and back to manoeuvre into another lane. Needless to say, nobody else co-operated but I got there in the end. I polled up at passport control just as the guy at the desk decided it was the end of his shift. And when shifts end in Croatia people just walk off. They don't wait for the next person to turn up, they just walk off. Eventually, someone came to take his place but he wasn't in a hurry either. First talk to your mates, then study the racing form and only then turn your attention to the actual job in hand. How anybody ever got onto that ferry is a mystery to me, since the system seemed designed to prevent them..
But we did beat the system and arrive at the doors of the car deck – to be told that we had to reverse on. I have never had to reverse on to a ferry before. It is bad enough going forward on those narrow, judder-inducing steep ramps and this one looked steeper than most. On top of that, as I reversed, the sun was in my eyes and all I could see in the rear-view mirrors was the blackness of the interior. I was having to put my trust in an official in an orange suit who I had never met before when all day long officials (in and out of orange suits) had conspired to prevent me doing what I wanted to do. This one, however, knew what he was doing and we managed to park at the far end of the ship with no further incident.
But there were plenty of incidents to follow. First, where was the way off the car deck and into the main body of the ferry? Right at the other end of the deck, of course. And barred by a barrier that we all had to leap over. The staff seemed to think this normal. They also took it in their stride when the lift didn't work. It was as if the Italian company (SNAV) that owned it had said “its only the Croatian route, put the crap ferry on it.” The stairs looked as if they would be more at home on a World War 2 submarine but we did somehow make our way from Car Deck 3 to Reception on Deck 7, to be handed a key for a cabin on Deck 2! Down we went again, to find the door to Deck 2 firmly locked. Up I went again to complain. Down I went again with another orange-suited official to gain access to what can only be described as hell on a bad day. Dirty, scruffy and cramped, our cabin had no facilities other than two bunk beds. Up I stormed again (I was certainly getting a lot of exercise in today) to complain about everything, including pointing out that I had booked a cabin with en-suite facilities. “Ah!” she said, after studying the paperwork, “You booked through Direct Ferries”. “Yes, what of it?” “They are always doing this” (supercilious smile). “Well why don't you do something about it?” (stream emitting from ears). She shrugged. I counted to ten. “Have you got any proper cabins available?” “Not officially but come back after we leave port at 8pm and we may have some no-shows.” Impasse.
Where do we go now? Certainly not down to Dracula's coffin in the basement. The restaurant didn't open for another half hour, so we found the only seating area available – in the bar/lounge – and spotted a couple of spaces among the crowd. Italian crowds are invariably very noisy and animated. This one was no exception. As we sat down among the mayhem, an Italian tried to tell us those seats were reserved but I guess he knew from my expression that this was an avenue best not followed up. For the next half hour we were surrounded by Italians arguing with each other as to who had reserved what for whom. When we ultimately got up to leave, at least six people dived into the spaces we had vacated.
The queue for the self-service restaurant offered no respite. Heaven knows what the Italians were arguing about this time but I wanted to scream. Then things suddenly began to go right. We noticed that the next door waiter-service restaurant was not only quiet but virtually empty. To hell with the extra expense, that was where we were going. The pizzas were delicious, the Nero D'Avola wine divine and the service calm and friendly. Not only that, the prices were extremely reasonable. Whatever else the Italians may or may not be good at, you can always rely on the food and wine (well, nearly always).
Towards the end of the meal that had helped to restore our sanity, the ship began to pull away from the harbour. We looked at each other. Probably best that Jenny went to the desk to see if any proper cabins had become available, so she steeled herself and marched through the still arguing crowd of
Italians outside the self-service restaurant to Reception. She came back a few minutes later smiling. Yes they had a cabin – on this deck – but it would cost us an administration fee of the massive total of 6 euros! Joy of joys! We had just eaten a superb dinner and now we got to sleep and have a shower in the morning. It was as if Croatia had set us a test on our final day. We had survived it. This was our reward.
PS we are now camped in Assisi, Italy, looking up at the old town, which we intend to visit tomorrow. The crossing was calm (unlike the Italians) and my blood pressure has returned to something like normal
