Bled, Slovenia
June 5, 2025
I had seen them through the bus windows. From Zagreb to Ljubljana, to Bled and to Bohinj, all along the way they cast a spell. Gentle hills and dales flow past the windows and nestled in the curves, the quaint little villages. The fields are green with harvest and in the distance are the red-roofed houses clustered around the tall clock tower. The villages are small and set within visible distance of each other. How picturesque I thought. My mind flashed back to storybooks read as a child. These were straight out of them! Wouldn’t it be lovely if I could go and stay at one for a day or two?
Bled is a tiny village and the owner of the hostel had grown up in it. She knew everyone she said.
“Do you know anyone on a farm nearby that I can go stay in for a couple of days?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, let me ask” she said, adding “I’m busy right now, but later I tell you”.
Great, I thought, I can go for a wander and come back. Sure enough later when I got back, she was all smiles. I brightened, she took a deep breath. And rattled it all off in one go.
“You can stay at the farm, early morning milking, then breakfast, then horse riding, then lunch, then see sheep, then bread making then milking then dinner and then bed”
And quoted a hefty fee for these dubious delights.
“But” she said “there are clients there. After tomorrow will be okay”
Yikes! I thought, this is a farm tour run along military lines. Not at all my style. And it is apparently the thing to do. Double yikes.
In Bohinj, at a café, I asked the young man waiting tables. He wasn’t from the area he said and didn’t care for it either.
I had not quite given up hope. On my wander around the lake, I’d stopped at a café for a limoncello spritz. And had fallen into conversation with the owner. He too had grown up in this area and knew everyone. When asked, he thought long and hard for someone he knew and came up with a name: Sasha.
“He has a house in a nearby village” said Zaka and gave me the number.
Sasha, it turned out is not Slovenian at all. Half German and half Bosnian, he had come to settle in this area a few years ago. He works remotely for the most part and lives here he told me when we chatted over the phone.
He does have a house and was most generous in inviting me. I thanked him but said it wasn’t quite what I was looking for. This wasn’t a farm, nor was it traditional in any sense.
Sasha has traveled to little known parts himself and knew exactly what I was after.
“Sadly”, he said, “this place used to be heaven and has become Disneyland.”
He has urged me to go to Bosnia. Perhaps I shall. I am to let him know when I do.
ITCHY FEET TRAVELS 