bled

 

The mountains in Slovenia look as if they’re behind a thin sheet of tracing paper. They seem protected, magical, beyond reach. No matter how close you are, the distance appears thin and far away. It gives the whole place a certain veiled mystery.

To compensate for this veil, the holidaying Europeans in Bled ensure nothing else is covered. I have never seen a people so comfortable with displaying their skin. Leathery tanned bodies sprinkle the swimming area of the lake in varying degrees of fitness. The degree of near-nakedness never changes. I catch myself staring at a few people from beneath my sunglasses. Well, maybe you could say a lot of people. Okay, so I was openly gawking at the magnificent number of voluminous tanned tummies on display, but can you blame me?

I’m perfectly used to the bulk of young bikinied bodies that adorn Australian beaches. I rather enjoy the occasional leathery old specimen that suns herself by the water. But I can’t help but feel this exceeds anything I’ve encountered. Maybe I’ve just managed to find the favourite tanning playground of European seniors, but the glowing skin I’ve seen in most capital cities suggests this is a habit for many, and the teeny town of Bled surely couldn’t support them all. If you’re packing for Bled, don’t be afraid to break out the bikini, ladies. And for the gentlemen, speedos are well in order.

I’ve thought long and hard about this phenomenon, and decided I’m all for it. Good for these old ladies with their tummies out, playing cards on the shore like it ain’t no thang. The portly old men in speedos and the saggy old men in speedos, good for them too. And especially, good for the chubby young women who don’t give a damn. I think I will have that ice cream, after all.

It’s easy to spend too much time in the sun by the water. Sitting in the grass and gazing through the haze and the swamp of browned bodies to the castle atop its island, letting the small rowboats and gondolas drift across my peripheral vision, and the hours drag and merge together. This place is every bit the postcard it’s made out to be. Ice cream is cheap and the scoops generous. The summer sun sets late and then the castle on the hill is lit orange while the restaurants along the shore vibrate with the sounds of live music and holidays.

Even the decadent shore-side restaurants feel cheap after Luxembourg, and we treat ourselves to a meal by the water. Everyone is dressed casual-best and it all just oozes summer. The air doesn’t cool until after sunset. There’s an open air cinema set up along the shore that will start showing films the last night of our stay. We don’t see a movie because we’re distracted by a darling Slovenian three piece with incredibly authentic Irish accents, and a tin whistle, playing ditties by the lake. That’s the kind of thing that feels natural here.

Our rafting guide in Slovenia is Dutch, of course. He takes us down the river which we were told earlier is the ‘not exciting’ one. The exciting one is two hours’ drive away and dips into Italy.The Dutchman does things like intentionally run us into bridge piles and give us instructions engineered to flip the raft in tricky flows, for fear of us being too bored (I assume that's the reason). I become well acquainted with the cold mountain river water.

I also get to know the lake. I try not to think about the flocks of water birds that share the water, or rather, their slimy green by-product that I know is probably an inch thick on the bottom. Lucky for princesses like me, Lake Bled is equipped with a walking jetty so you can jump right in and avoid contact with the slime altogether. You've got to pay for the pleasure, of course. And conveniently it's forbidden to swim anywhere else on the shore. But I'll forgive this because the castle is so darn cool I can't stay mad for long.

Folks, I swam in your postcard.