It’s a cruel irony that Slovenia is experiencing one of the snowiest winters in recent years, yet most people can’t take advantage of it.
The snow timed its arrival perfectly this season, with heavy falls landing from the start of December and continuing all month, ensuring a white BREG Christmas, and an excellent start to the season. Temperatures have remained cold since then, preserving the snowscape in much of the country.
However, even though some ski resorts in Slovenia (and Austria) are now open to locals, the ever-changing Corona travel restrictions mean that crossing borders (both municipal and national) is not always allowed, so it’s harder for people to capitalise on this season’s excellent snowfall.
Luckily for a snow lover like myself – there’s more to winter than snowboarding packed piste in a ski resort. I have long since diversified my snow activities to include cross-country skiing, ski touring, splitboarding and snowshoeing – none of which require a ski lift. Thus, wherever there is snow, I have the right snow-tool to tackle the terrain.
On the flat fields that lie a five-minute walk from my girlfriend’s apartment, I take my narrow, tooth-pick like cross-country skis, and ‘skate’ over the snow-surface. Akin to going for a run, I’ll often pop out for an hour during the day, to glide around the fields. It’s a great work out for the arms, legs and heart, and in the most beautiful of surroundings. I love the simplicity of cross-country skiing; you don’t need any lifts, you don’t even need a slope. Any expanse of flat, snow-land becomes a cross-country ski circuit.
In the dense forests surrounding Breg, I strap on my snowshoes. These enable me to float over the surface of the deep snow rather than plunging into it, and I can power up steep slopes with ease, thanks to their shark-like teeth.
If I want a bit of a ride down but the terrain is not too steep, I apply my skins to my touring skis and head up the snow-covered logging track at Breg. I’m not a good skier but this route provides a nice little hike via a forest-framed route, and then a gentle run back down. A few years ago, I even skiied to the Pikovo hut, and stopped off for a beer and some gulash before returning home. Sadly, the hut is rarely open these days, otherwise I would visit regulary.
Where there’s more steep terrain and deep snow, I don the splitboard and ascend higher. I’ve been lucky to have my girlfriends’ family to guide me into their mountainous backyard: the Karawank and Carnic Alp ranges in Southern Austria. Keen ski-tourers, it’s rare that a winter weekend passes and they are not hiking up and sking down some peak. Here, I’ve experienced some incredible snowscapes from spikey frozen forests, to the smooth domes of the ‘dumpling mountains’.
I’ve come to realise that splitboarding and ski touring are almost entirely different sports. My ski-touring friends are all about the hike up. The run down is almost inconsequential, and routes are not selected for their descent, meaning it can sometimes be a flattish logging road. As a splitboarder, my thoughts are always about the run down; wide open terrain, with a decent gradient and deep untouched powder is what I seek.
Now this is my kind of terrain (for splitboarding).
So as the sole split-border in the group, my ski-touring companions sometimes have to put up with the impracticality of my board (when it comes to flat sections – boards are a real pain) but they kindly humour my unstrapping/strapping-on stops and starts, often pulling and pushing me through the flats to get me to the bottom.
Whether it’s split, ski or snowshoe – I don’t really mind. I just love to be out in the snow and I love having the variety of snow toys to play with, whatever the conditions, terrain, weather or just my mood.
I’ve been mulling over writing this post for years. It’s not a post specifically about life in Slovenia, or the Slovene language. Instead, it’s a post for anyone who has spent extended time in a country where the local language is not their own. It’s a post for people who share life with a partner, but not a native tongue. And it’s a post for those who recognise the ‘Lingo Loneliness’ feeling but until now, didn’t know it had a name.
So what is the Language Isolation Chamber?
I have coined the Language Isolation Chamber term (a first I think?) to describe the feeling of social isolation, disconnectedness, awkwardness, exclusion or loneliness, due to being immersed in an environment where you do not understand the vast majority of what’s being said around you.
You might think that any time you visit a country where the native tongue is not your first language, you would immediately enter the LIC. But in my experience, this is not the case. For the most part, in the foreign lands in which I have lived, I have spent most of my time in the Blissful Ignorance Zone (BIZ) rather than the LIC.
There can be a cosy comfort to the BIZ bubble, your train of thought completely uninterrupted by the world around you. When out in public you are oblivious to the conversations in which you are immersed. Like a boat on a lake, the water flows around you. You move through it, you are surrounded by it, but you are not part of it.
The LIC experience only truly occurs during social settings where etiquette demands your attention; at the dinner table, perhaps in an office or at a formal event. And you only truly enter the Language Isolation Chamber when you are:
a) Not fluent in the local language and
b) The conversation moves exclusively into the local tongue and
c) You are not in proximity to a native speaker of your own language
My First Taste of The LIC
I had my first taste of the Language Isolation Chamber way back in 2004, when I spent two years living in rural Japan. (If you’re interested in reading more about that experience check out the book I wrote about it: For Fukui’s Sake; Two Years in Rural Japan).
At this time, everything still felt so new to me, that initially, I didn’t have a sense of feeling isolated. I remember sitting at a low table in a tatami-floored room, sipping on sake at one ‘enkai’ (a social event with my co-workers) and just listening to the tangle of high-speed Japanese that was flying over my head. I remember feeling quite content to just let it wash over me, and to enjoy the delightful exoticness of the experience. However, as I spent longer in Japan, I did start to undergo times of loneliness too.
Sometimes, some time could pass, with me having no ‘adult’ conversation at all. Aside from classroom English, and a few pleasantries with my colleagues, I could go a few days without any level of intelligent verbal communication. That was my first realisation of the importance of spending time with people with whom you could speak completely effortlessly.
The Expat Factor
I believe this is one of the reasons that expats bond so rapidly, especially in countries where the local language is not their native tongue. Until you have lived outside of your own language comfort zone, you cannot know how much you begin to miss the simple act of talking effortlessly with people who truly understand you.
You begin to crave connection through natural conversation; conversation that isn’t laboured, or child-like. Conversation that flows and brings humour with it. And when such conversation is in limited supply, you’ll take it anywhere you can get it. Hence expat friendship groups often bring together people who would – in their natural habitat – never be friends, but quickly become close on foreign soil.
Expats quickly bond with other expats when outside of their home turf
It’s now been almost three years that I have lived in Slovenia, making it my single longest stint of time outside of my native UK. I suspect this is one of the reasons why I am now feeling the Language Isolation Chamber more acutely than ever before.
But there are other factors too. The Coronvirus lockdowns of 2020 meant that my opportunities to ‘recharge’ in English-speaking settings were severely curtailed. Normally I would spend some time in the UK, catching up with friends and family, enjoying the simple pleasure of being able to converse without effort.
Likewise, I normally welcome a few visitors to Slovenia, meaning my year is punctuated with opportunities to get my English-speaking fix with good friends and family. For 2020, this was not so. And I have now, more than ever before, come to realise how much I value such times.
Slovenian Coronavirus grafiti – as seen in Maribor
Thirdly, related to the lockdowns, I have spent more time than ever in the close presence of people whose language I do not speak well, or at all. When I moved to Slovenia, I thought I might end up meeting a Slovenian girl. Instead, I met an Austrian girl who lives in Austria. This has further complicated my language situation, as I have been attempting to improve my Slovenian, but now frequently spend time in social situations where there is yet another language that I need to learn from scratch, at the same time.
I must say that I am fortunate that most of the people I spend time with on an extended basis can speak English very well and are kind enough to do so with me. As for my own foreign language abilities, although I have some (see: Struggles with Learning Slovene) a sad reality I’ve become aware of, is that I suspect it takes a very, very long time to become fluent enough in a second language, to truly be free of the Language Isolation Chamber. Though it is of course a spectrum; the greater your linguistic talent, the less trapped in The Chamber you will be.
But when I think back to my relationship with a French woman some years ago, even though my French was at an intermediate level, when sitting at the dinner table en France, trying to keep up with multiple conversations, where slang and unknown cultural references were being bandied around, I quickly switched off and retreated into The Chamber. Such times became a source of conflict between us.
The Awful Awkwardness
The absolute worst part of the chamber is the terrible awkwardness it creates. This is most severe when you’re in a setting such as a meal at the table. Social etiquette dictates that you must be attentive but if the conversation is taking place in a language you don’t well understand, you very quickly switch off and enter your own head. On the outside, you must still appear like you are enjoying yourself. But the reality often is that you are just feeling awkward.
The awkwardness spikes when a joke is cracked and the table erupts in laughter. You have a decision to make: do you laugh along, pretending you got the gist, or do you sit in silence, further highlighting your inability to understand?
If you feign comprehension, you risk being asked if you got the joke and the even greater embarrassment of then admitting that not only did you not understand, but you committed the sin of fake laughing too.
When in Rome
There is an even greater complexity to the situation, and that is that you, as the idiot who can’t fluently speak the local language, don’t want to be responsible for everyone else having to speak your language.
Especially when you are the one who is abroad, and you are the one whose own lack of linguistic ability is the cause of the situation. For most people, speaking a tongue other than their own requires effort. Even for those who have strong grasp of a second language, it requires additional thought. It’s tiring. And you’re never going to be able to articulate those jokes so well and craft those sentences as quickly as you can in your own language.
So why should everyone else be expected to forego the fluidity of speaking their native tongue in their native country, just because you – the idiot abroad – haven’t learned theirs yet?
The Other Side
I have been on the other side of the table too. During my first ‘proper’ job in my early twenties, I worked with some foreign colleagues, some of whom were new to the UK and did not yet speak English particularly well. I remember sometimes during afterwork drinks, feeling slightly guilty for not wanting to sit next to them, because I knew the conversation would be limited to a more basic level and that I might miss out on the rapid-fire banter occurring amongst my English-speaking colleagues. This must be exactly how my Slovene or Austrian companions feel, when they get the short straw and have to sit by me now.
A common prelude to the Language Isolation Chamber (LIC) is that at the start of the evening, everyone kindly converses in your native tongue. But as alcohol consumption goes up, people break out of the second-language group to speak their own, eventually leaving you outside of the conversation and inside The Chamber.
An irony of this situation is that the greater the social exuberance of the gathering, you more isolated you feel. The fact that people are chatting and laughing away right next to you, only serves to increase the feeling of you being outside of the group. You are excluded from all peripheral conversations so miss context and background infomation. There is no malice or bad intention in this. It’s simply the natural preference to speak one’s own language. But at such times, I miss the ease of being able to understand what’s going on around me. I miss being able to listen. I miss being able to contribute and dip in and out of talk at will.
At such times, I’d sometimes rather be alone than feel so awkward. At such times, I’d like to be permitted to ‘check out’ of the situation in a socially acceptable way. But of course, pulling out your phone or grabbing a book would translate to your hosts as:
“Hey! Forgo your own conversations and talk to me. In my own language.”
This would of course be rude. So instead you must grin awkwardly and bear it.
I have found myself not wanting to spend too many hours in such environments due to the fear of finding myself in The Chamber. A few hours being immersed in partial incomprehension is fine – but as the hours pass, your novelty wears off, the dynamic often changes and the likelihood of entering the LIC increases.
I suspect anyone who’s in an ‘international’ couple will have spent a stint in the Language Isolation Chamber at some point (unless you are fluent in each other’s language, in which case – congratulations – you can avoid it).
I am fully aware that the only way to avoid the LIC is to continue to learn the languages of the countries I spend most time in. But I’m also aware of the reality that it takes a long time, and the likelihood is that the LIC will always be part of my life to some extent – as long as I live outside of my native country.
Self-inflicted
The social exclusion caused by the Language Isolation Chamber is self-inflicted. I chose to live in a country other than my own, and it’s my own lack of linguistic fluency that is the source of the problem. There are many pros to living in foreign lands, and I recommend everyone should spend at least one year living outside of their homeland. It really does give you a lust for life because everything is new, and every day an adventure into the unknown.
The LIC isn’t fun. But it’s a price worth paying for scenery like this
But as the number of years I spend outside of my Motherland increases, the honeymoon phase diminishes. I increasingly understand there are challenges to being a longterm fish out of water. They are however not insurmountable, and I hope that by working on my lingo skills, I’ll reduce the amount of time I end up in the Language Isolation Chamber.
Until then, the LIC is just part of the rough that comes with the smooth of venturing beyond your borders for a life less ordinary.
With lockdown restrictions and pandemic chaos for much of 2020, I knew that getting back to the UK for Christmas was going to be unlikely. I held on for as long as I could, delaying my decision to travel back to The Motherland, but by the start of November I knew a return was unlikely.
It turned out to be the sensible decision. After saying that there would be a relaxation of the lockdown restrictions in the UK over the Christmas period, there was a last minute reversal of the rules, meaning that much of the UK were unable to travel beyond their cities or towns, let alone travel from other countries.
I was not the only stranded expat in Slovenia; two fellow Brits were in a similar predicament, so as the reality of not being able to return set in, I suggested the idea of BREGxmas – spending Christmas in The Kingdom of Breg.
However, as the 25th of December approached, even making the two hour journey from Ljubljana to Breg started to look troubled. Slovenia had banned movement between municipalities, meaning that we would potentially risk fines if we were caught high-tailing it out of Ljubljana. Now, as I own Breg, I had justification to be traveling there, but my two compatriots were in an altogether greyer area, and though we did formulate a justification for our journey based on an exception loophole, we travelled in fear of it being rejected, and our wallets emptied of several hundred euros for breaking rules.
So, in the run up to Christmas, there was still some debate on whether we should attempt BREGxmas or not. However, just three days before Baby Jesus’ B-day, we decided the risk was worth it – and off we went, freeing ourselves from months of Ljubljana lockdown.
It turned out to be a good plan. Breg delivered a truly white Christmas, with snow already on the ground, which was topped up on Christmas eve and Christmas day and then followed by a cold, crisp, sunny Boxing day.
My guests for BREGxmas were – Tom – deep-thinker and founder of KickstartYourCommunity – and Jason – a former chef and the now-founder of Cultisan – who prepared a delicious menu for our stay, featuring Sea Bass, Roast Turkey, and all the Christmas cuts.
Together we spent our evenings in front of the log burning stove, warming ourselves whilst snow fell outside. We punctuated the festivities with walks around the snowbound landscape, down the white meadow and into the frozen forest, with Jason taking Ronnie – the local farm Alsatian for whom he has a great affinity – along for the ride.
Four years previous, I had spent Christmas in Breg with my family. It had been a slightly more challenging experience as Breg house at that time was in a less developed state, with no oven (so no roast) and due to some temporary problems – no water! There was also no snow, although it was an extremely cold period – hitting lows of -10c.
Thanks to COVID-19 it’s been over a year since I’ve been able to return to the UK. But in absence of my family, it was great to spend a couple of days with two fellow Brits – Tom and Jason – feasting and drinking, and watching some Christmas classics: Die Hard, Elf and The Office Christmas Special, all selected from the Breg House DVD collection.
Breg truly delivered a picture perfect Christmas the likes of which are normally only seen on Christmas cards, which was not only great to experience for the first time myself, but also lovely to be able to share with friends.
A big hvala lepa to Tom, Jason (and Ronnie!) for making BREGxmas 2020 one to remember.
It started with a virus. Then followed the excitement of the lockdown-high. I had zoom calls with long-lost friends and was added to a zillion new WhatsApp groups. Then came the come down. Winter returned, life was cold and isolation felt strange.
Now, a month after running to the hills of Koroška, and I have found a certain peace. We humans have the ability to adjust to our situation, no matter how strange, and I seem to have reached a gentle contentedness to living more simply, more frugally and more physically than before.
This has been achieved by turning to a more pastoral way of life. In addition to working on various home improvement projects, (I spent two weeks with a chainsaw and chisels, making traditional wooden rain gutters for my house from tree trunks) I have been helping my neighbours – forty-something Štefka and her 74-year old mother Ančka, Breg’s Matriarch – work their land.
They have a mountainside farmstead (think Heidi landscape); a couple of cows, two pigs, a few chickens, some alpine pasture and a scattering of plum and pear trees. And with each new season, there are new tasks to be done.
Assisting them was the least I could do considering their extreme generosity. They have been bringing me homecooked meals, to the point where I had an excess of food and had to protest. And that is just their most recent act of kindness. Ever since I bought Breg house in 2007, Štefka, Ančka and Jaka (God rest his schnapps-drinking soul) have been nothing but the best of neighbours to me.
I spent two afternoons raking dried leaves and dead grass from the meadows with Štefka. It had the instant gratification of cleaning a dirty window with a squeegee. It was a simple, even mundane task, yet I enjoyed it immensely. With this simple act of raking, we were helping to maintain the meadow and hold nature in stasis by preventing the forest from reclaiming the ground. No tractors, no machines. Just hand rakes, exactly as it has been done here for the last 300 years.
I have come to enjoy all this physical work. There’s wood to split, logs to bring in, the Piazzetta fire to light. There’s a fence to repair, a pipe to be fixed, a stone wall to build. I have found pleasure and fulfilment to the slowness of lockdown life. I am never bored. I become completely absorbed in my tasks. I forget all other worries and lose awareness of time passing. I feel fitter, more focused and more content.
I recently watched a documentary about the Amish. They believe that daily physical labour is a joy in itself. This is why they shun modern-day labour-saving devices as these would, in their eyes, reduce the amount of hard work required, and thus reduce the quality of life. I’m not about to swap my car for a horse and buggy, and grow a weird beard, but my pastoral BREGxit lockdown has made me realise that perhaps the Amish are on to something.
It is also through interaction with my neighbours that I have been able to practise speaking Slovene on a daily basis. Which is ironic. Because in my normal Ljubljana life, when I see far more Slovenian people, I speak far less Slovene. Though my level remains crude, we have been able to converse to an interesting-enough level. And I have discovered more about their lives as we have toiled together.
“My brother would have been 50 today” Štefka told me, as we pulled our wide rakes towards us, gathering hay and leaves at our feet.
Though I knew she had a long-deceased brother, I knew nothing of the circumstances of his death. I decided it would be an appropriate time to enquire.
“He hung himself. His girlfriend left him for someone else.”
A little later, Ančka arrived with a can of cold beer and two glasses.
“She’s come to check on our work!” Štefka joked.
We took a seat on a wooden bench, sipped the beer and looked out over the mountains and Meža valley below, now in the golden sun of spring. I asked them if they knew everyone who lived in the farms we could see, perched on the sides of the surrounding hills. Štefka proceed to point out each farm, recount the family name and the number of inhabitants of each.
“Do they ever come here?” I asked.
“Yes, once or twice each year.”
“Do you ever go there?”
“No!” – Ančka said, shaking her head, as if the idea of her leaving Breg was absurd.
Indeed, Ančka does not leave Breg. Incredibly for a Slovene, she has never seen the sea. She has no desire to visit lands beyond her borders. She believes she has everything she could want right here on the planina of Breg.
If you want to see Ančka, you must come to her. And come they do; she has no shortage of visitors. Despite living 850m up a mountain, the gravity of this Matriarch is strong. There is always someone popping in for a kava or homemade schnapps – be it the snow-plough driver, a relative or one of their many friends. No matter how busy, there always seems to be time for a little malica.
The difference between their worldview and mine, perhaps makes our friendship an unlikely one. I have jumped at chances to leave my own country and go far beyond its borders. I have lived in Asia and North America, and visited exotic lands: Beirut, Beijing, Burma and Kashmir.
Back home in the UK, I had never spent so much time with such deeply rural people. But I seem to have an affinity for rural folk in secret corners of the world. Indeed, amongst others, it was the lives of the farmers, fisherman and other local characters of rural Japan that fascinated me most, during my two years living there. There’s something appealing to me about those who still live the ‘old way’.
It’s thanks to Štefka and Ančka that I have met many other Slovenes in the area. But I have returned the favour too. Whenever friends come to visit me in Slovenia, I always take them to Štefka’s and Ančka’s. So ironically, Ančka, who rarely leaves the borders of Breg, let alone her country, has shared her kava and klobasa with people from America, Scotland, France, Iran, England, Austria, Ireland and New Zealand – and she seems to enjoy such visits.
—
Štefka and Ančka run a tight ship up here in Breg and keep a critical eye on my projects. After I have finished any given construction or garden task, Ančka soon arrives to inspect my work. My wooden gutters met with her approval, but at the same time she remarked on my untidy garden. She approved of my new vegetable plot, though instructed me to make a fence to keep out the deer.
Often when I am working away outside, Ančka will suddenly appear. Normally, I would rely on Štefka to translate her mother’s heavy Koroškan dialect into more understandable Slovene for me. However, a few days ago, Štefka was absent, so for the first time ever, I had a long, one on one conversation with Ančka, and to my surprise (and joy) I found we could communicate.
We talked about the number of eggs the chickens are currently laying (seven or eight a day) when the cows will go out to pasture (late May), if they’ll be any plums this year (last year there wasn’t) and when it’s time to start planting the vegetable garden (first of May). I also learned that despite their ample supply of eggs, Ančka doesn’t eat them, and for all the plums they pick, she never drinks schnapps. Instead, such commodities are used as currency; gifted to friends who visit and help out on the land.
As lockdown goes on, I have started to go the way of Ančka, becoming almost allergic to leaving Breg. When I had to make a trip down to civilization this week for supplies, I didn’t enjoy the strange, new COVID-mask world, and I was glad to get back to the sanctuary of Breg.
And so, I have been settling into the rural Slovene life, working with my hands and working outside. Global lockdown makes it easier to appreciate this simple life. Because for now, FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) has been cancelled. One thing we can all be sure of right now, is that there IS nothing to miss out on. And this allows us to gain contentment from life’s more simple pleasures.
—
This morning it was ‘casually suggested’ by Štefka (likely she was delivering orders from up on high) that it was time I got my flower beds in order (which I confess, have been neglected for more than a decade). So, I spent an hour weeding them, and as I raked in the last of the cow-manure compost, Ančka appeared. She lent on her stick, silently observing my progress.
I awaited her ruling nervously. Had I done enough to please The Mighty Matriarch of Breg? Finally, she put me out of my misery:
“OK, now your house is beautiful.”
It’s taken me over ten years, but I think I just got my priden* badge.
*Priden is a Slovene word meaning ‘diligent/hard-working and seems to be a Slovenian trait to aspire to.
When I first visited Slovenia more than 13 years ago, I was immediately enamoured with the liberal use of wood as a building material.
Once outside of the cities, I saw a lot of traditional-style houses, barns and kozolec (hayracks) made from wood. Wooden roof shingles are still quite common (although not as prevalent as they were 50+ years ago) and many of these traditional-style houses have wooden rain gutters.
Breg House itself had wooden gutters when I first bought it but they were at the end of their lives, and with interior renovations the priority, the house had remained gutter-less for over decade. Which was probably not a good thing. Slovenia gets plenty of rain (which is what keeps it so lush and green) and there is some damp present in some of the old stone walls.
It was always my intention to replace the wooden gutters. I had planned to do that at the same time I replaced the roof (which was also originally a wooden shingle roof).
However, the sudden gift of time due to the coronavirus lockdown gave me an idea. Could I make and install wooden gutters myself? Afterall, I had seen plenty of them and it couldn’t be that hard – right?
It was to be a learning curve. Despite numerous searches, I was surprised that I could not find any information online about making traditional wooden gutters from tree trunks. So I had to make it up as I went along, modelling my designs on gutters from a nearby building.
The are just two parts to the traditional wooden gutter design; the gutter itself and the brackets that attach the gutter to the roof, normally at the rafters. The gutters are fashioned from single, straight tree trunk, with a ‘V’ or ‘U’ shaped channel carved out from the middle. Impressively, the brackets are also made from pieces of wood; branches that have been selected specifically for their curved shape which cradles the gutter and holds it in place.
Fortunately I already had some suitable lengths of trunk. I was unsure as to the exact species, but some type of conifer. There are certain types of wood that will last seven or so years, and some that will last many more. Mine is likely the former, but ever since I started renovating this place, my Breg ethos has been to reuse, recycle, upcycle or repurpose materials already present, rather than buying new, wherever possible.
My first job was to remove the remaining branches, nodules and bark from the trunk which I did with an axe. Then I secured the trunk down and did some rough measuring and marking. I aimed to remove a 90 degree section of the trunk, leaving behind a V shaped channel.
I contemplated several different methods for this. I began by using a hand saw and chisels, cutting vertical lines into the round of the trunk, then chiselling out the waste. Whilst it was satisfying to make wood chips fly, it was slow going, and with some 20 metres of gutters to make, I decided to break out the chainsaw on the second day.
I spent that day using the chainsaw to cut the lines, and the chisels to remove the waste. This was much faster than with the hand saw, but still quite labour intensive. By the end of the second day, my hand was blistered from pounding my chisel with my makeshift mallet (a round log off the wood pile; the Breg ethos strikes again).
By the third day, I decided to remove the bulk of the waste wood with the chainsaw alone. I was feeling confident enough with the saw that it wouldn’t pose too great a risk in these coronavirus times, and I used the bottom and the tip to slowly edge a line up the trunk. I’d then rotate it by 90 degrees and do the same again. This method allowed me to slowly cut out one continuous segment of wood, that ran the whole length of the trunk.
This still took me some hours to do. I had to keep checking my cuts to see where I needed to go deeper, and keep rotating the trunk. A more skilled chainsaw operator could have likely done the job in minutes, but I took my time, and it was still much faster than relying on chisels alone.
Once the wedge came out (assisted by my favourite axe) I then widened and deepened the channel as the trunks were not completely straight, (and neither were my chainsaw cuts).
To make the brackets to support the gutters, I searched for and selected branches of the right shape and size. This part was quite expiermental, and my first mistake was to make brackets that turned out to be too short. Due to the position of the rafters in relation to the roof, I required brackets with long, straight shanks.
Eventually, I found and shaped suitable pieces. The final stage was erecting the brackets, ensuring the gutters lay as close to the roof edge as possible and created enough fall to channel the water down the gutter. It turned out to be a particularly arduous job getting the brackets in the right place, in part because I had to hacksaw through the old metal brackets to remove them, whilst up a ladder, in a very arkward position, with a tiny hacksaw.
After days of chiselling, chainsawing and struggling with bracket positions, I finally got the gutters up. Over the course of the project, I became completely immersed in their making. I was totally focussed on them, and spent almost all the daylight hours toiling over their construction.
It was hard work, and it did make me realise why metal and plastic guttering are now the norm. And I have only made half of the gutters required, so there are days more work to come if I want to complete the task.
They are certainly not pieces of precision work. Due to the fact that the current roof has been laid down on top of the old wooden roof adding additional height, I was unable to get the gutters as close to the roof edges as I would like. They are rough and basic like much of Breg house. But I hope the original creators of Breg who, some 300 years ago, simply used whatever they had to hand to get the job done, would appeciate the effort. And they are up, they do seem to catch most of the water I poured on as a test, and I do like the look of them.
I now await the next rainy day, when I’ll observe them in situ and make any further adjustments required.
After months of work, starting with ideas in my head, moving to basic concepts sketched out in pencil, to inked-in line drawings, to polished vector files with the aid of a graphics expert, to searching for and selecting a local printer, to deciding which shirt cuts and which colours to go with, I was all set and ready to unleash BREG Apparel – my new brand of Slovenia-inspired t-shirts on the world. Then along came Coronavirus.
Visit BregDesign.com to read the story behind each design
Just a week after we had set up a display of the hot-off-the-press t-shirts in ČRNO ZRNO – Ljubljana’s best specialty coffee shop – the first place in the world to stock BREG Apparel, COVID-19 struck. Within a few days, Slovenia, like many other countries, was essentially closed for business.
Unfortunately, like many others I’m sure, I have picked THE worst time to try and get a new business project off the ground. Right now, my six unique Slovenian t-shirt designs are the last topic of interest in a world obsessed with the latest lockdown news.
But although you’ll have to wait till the pandemic passes before shops in Slovenia are open and selling BREG Apparel – thankfully you can still buy the shirts online at the BREG Webshop, which ships worldwide.
So – if you like the look of the designs, and the stories behind the shirts – take a look and treat yourself to a new, original BREG shirt. The perfect attire for self-isolation.
What a difference 5 days makes. The world right now is a far stranger place than it was just a week ago, as Coronavirus craziness sweeps the globe.
Just a few days ago, the idea of an enforced shut down of schools and universities in Austria and Slovenia seemed quite nice. It meant that my Austrian girlfriend, who is a teacher, and I, could look forward to spending some unexpected additional time together. As we ski-hiked a mountain on the Slovene-Austrian border last Sunday, enjoying impressive views of the Karavanke range, the whole COVID-19 attack all seemed quite the fun adventure.
But within hours, the situation became far more serious. As we gathered around the TV later that evening to watch the news, Austria announced new, stringent self-isolation policies. People were no longer allowed to leave their homes except to buy food, or for emergencies. Gatherings of more than five people were banned. All but the most essential business were to be shut, and all public transport between Austria and Slovenia was to cease.
I had caught the train from Ljubljana to Austria, but my return journey had just evaporated. Which put me in a pickle. The next day, everyone was glued to their phones, constantly refreshing media sites to get the latest Coronavirus updates. And the news got worse and worse. It’s hard enough having a long-distance relationship between two countries when borders are open, but the threat of closed borders makes it a whole lot more difficult.
But then on Monday, some good news arrived. My car – which had been caught up in the Corona craziness requiring repair – had been fixed. Beyond all odds my mechanic had managed to source the spare part and finish fitting it. Freedom was back on!
So, my girlfriend and I made a mad dash back across the border in to Slovenia to pick up my car, put it through its tehnični pregledi (the equivalent of the MOT) and get it insured again. Thankfully everything went smoothly, because the following day, Slovenia put all tehnični pregledi on hold, and the insurance offices closed their doors.
After a couple more days back in Villach, Austria and it was time for me to put my COVID-19 plan into action: run to the hills and spend the next three, four, maybe more, weeks in Breg.
But even getting here turned into a nail-biting journey, as, while driving down the Austrian motorway, I lost acceleration power, and had to limp all the way up to Breg. It was a great relief to finally arrive; Bregxit could now begin.
I have long imagined Breg to be an excellent Armageddon bunker to escape to in the event of some sort of doomsday situation. And finally – it’s kind of happening. I have a good supply of food and although there seems to be no problems with food supplies in the supermarkets right now, should stocks run low, I’m connected to farmers in the area who grow and rear produce.
Breg also has its own spring-fed water supply, and with my trusty Piazzetta woodburner – I have a source of heat even if problems were to come with the electricity supply. And the Breg House DVD collection – long-mocked by my friends whilst I trawled every charity shop I saw in the UK during visits home – will now serve me well for the long evenings ahead, which will largely be spent completely alone.
Breg House in the summer
So my plan for now is to hunker down at Breg for the foreseeable future. I have a long list of spring tasks to be working through, including BregDesign.com – my new Slovenia-inspired Apparel brand. And I can keep myself fit and healthy, walking in the mountains all around. Plus, any further draconian policies that might be imposed, such as curfews, cannot be enforced on me as I can simply melt into the forest without seeing a soul.
There are still some worries about the Austria-Slovene borders remaining open, which may prevent my girlfriend and I seeing each other for a while, but at the moment, there are still some crossings which are passable.
The next few weeks and months will be a very interesting time for the world. I am fortunate to have Breg and be able to hunker down and live the simple life till things improve. But I know many people who are now in very difficult situations that aren’t likely to get better for some time.
I’ll be writing regular posts on Life Under Lockdown @ Breg House – so subscribe if you want to hear more.
It’s two months late, but winter finally landed in Slovenia. Last week saw the first decent dump of snow around Breg since December, and I was keen to get amongst it.
The journey from Ljubljana, however, turned out not to be an easy one. It was already snowing heavily as I reached Jezersko. The road had not been ploughed, but I switched to 4×4 mode and forged ahead anyway.
Making my way cautiously up the Jezersko pass. I didn’t make it.
At the start of the Jezersko pass – a steep, winding ribbon of road that ascends the mountain border between Slovenia and Austria – I began to doubt my decision. There was some 30cm of snow already on the road, and no other vehicles. I made my way up, slowly and steadily but became increasingly anxious at each hairpin. I had no idea how far I could make it up, and feared I would get stranded.
After making it about a third of the way up, the decision was made for me; I reached a sharp corner and my car would go no further. With wheels spinning, I had to admit defeat. I cautiously edged my car around by 180 degrees, and headed for lower ground.
Back in Jezersko, I took refuge in Kočna, a restaurant come bar come café, that I often visit. In crude but functional Slovene, I managed to explain to the landlady where I was trying to get to, and asked if she thought the snowplough would soon come. She assured me it would pass within the next hour, so I took a seat and a radler, and waited.
Sure enough, within 30 minutes the plough came rattling along the road. I settled up and resumed my journey. With the snow cleared I got to the top of the pass without incident, but to my dismay, found the Austrian side of the mountain had not been ploughed at all. After a brief pause – I decided to continue anyway and made my way down the serpentines, driving through deep snow, cautiously.
Once I reached the valley, the driving conditions improved and the onward journey to Mežica passed without problem. That was, until I reached the very last part of the route – the steep, single-lane track that leads from Mežica to Breg.
This road has thwarted me in the past – most notably during the road trip from hell: Barcelona to Breg – when my fully loaded van got stuck and we broke the snowchains. But this was the first time ever that I had problems in my 4×4, winter-tyre-equipped car.
Making the final part of the journey on foot through deep snow
Approximately half way up the track, my wheels where spinning, and try as I might, I couldn’t get enough traction to continue. So, I reversed the car back to a suitable passing place, took the essentials out, and made the rest of the way up the mountain on foot. In all, the journey that normally takes 2 hours, took 4.5 hours.
It was however, worth it. The following morning, I was up early and so was the sun. With blue skies above, and trees laden with dollops of fresh snow, the scenery was beautiful, and I wandered around Breg capturing the glorious scene.
The sun was strong that day, and a slow thaw began, but after seeing to some works on the house, I had time to strap on my splitboard, and head off into the snowy forest. For some years, I have had my eye on a mini ski route up above Breg.
My plan was to use the forestry track to ascend, and then to descend via the clearing under a powerline, which is steep enough and long enough for a decent run. However, when I got to the top of my desired piste, I found there was not quite enough snow to cover the tree trunks and brush. So I had to modify my route and take a narrow footpath down instead. The snow was deep enough – but there wasn’t much room to manoeuvre so little in the way of turns.
Despite the narrow nature of the path, it was a fun ride and great to just be out in the snow again. I suspect this will be the last of the heavy snowfalls this year, so it’s been a very lean winter for snow overall. I can only hope next year bears heavier fruit.
Budapest is a city I have a real soft spot for. I have spent extended periods working there over the years, during which I got to know this most elegant of cities, and some of its locals. Therefore, it was always in my mind to return, and when I moved to Slovenia, Hungary became my next door neighbour.
Beautiful Budapest – one of my favourite cities
There are three realistic options for travel between Budapest and Ljubljana:
Driving a car
Bus
Train
It’s also possible to fly although there are currently no direct flights between Ljubljana and Budapest, meaning you would have to connect somewhere, and therefore not save much in time once you factor in all the airport phaff. And it would also be an expensive journey.
I have tried all three transport options personally and here’s my review.
Driving from Ljubljana to Budapest
Price: Approx €80 in fuel and tolls
Duration: ~5 hours
According to Google maps, Ljubljana to Budapest is around a 4h30min journey. In practice, when I have done it – it’s more like 5 hours once you hit rush hour traffic and enter the throng of Budapest. The drive is straight forward enough – depending on how much you enjoy highway driving.
The cost in fuel and road tolls puts driving at the most expensive option, plus you’ll most likely have to pay for parking in Budapest too. On top of this, driving means you can’t enjoy the scenery much, or do anything else. So for me, although driving is the fastest option, it’s also the least enjoyable, the least green and the most expensive.
Best for: Speed. If you want the fastest method – driving is
best.
Bus from Ljubljana to Budapest
Price: €15
Duration: 6 hours
Flixbus runs a good service between Ljubljana and Budapest. I was generally impressed with the experience; it arrived early, left on time and was clean, modern, had USB and two-pin charging points for each seat, as well as wifi (though I didn’t use it).
When I travelled, (a Wednesday afternoon) the bus was not busy, so everyone had two seats to themselves. The bus stops at a couple of points along the way to pick up/drop off passengers, and also at some service stations for the driver and passengers to have a break.
Overall, the entire process, from booking to boarding to riding with Flixbus was easy, hassle free, and though I normally would not relish sitting on a bus for 6 hours, with a few podcasts to listen to I actually enjoyed it and would take Flixbus again for a journey of this length.
Best For: a good compromise between journey duration, speed,
cost and comfort.
Train from Ljubljana to Budapest
Cost: €15
Duration: 8 hours
Once a day there’s a train from Ljubljana to Budapest. The carriages are a mixture of the old-school compartment style, and the more modern seating arrangement. I chose to sit in a compartment, and had it all to myself for the vast majority of the journey.
The downsides of the train are that it’s the longest of the
three options by a considerable two hours. In total, the journey takes eight
hours because the train is just so slow. No highspeed rail on this line.
The train experience is however, relaxing, with pleasant, rural scenery along the way. It’s more interesting than the highway as you get to rumble right through the wild west of Hungary; flatlands, farmland, marshes and woodland and sparsely populated, one-cow-town stations.
Crossing the border into Slovenia, and the landscape becomes more mountainous, as you follow rivers and snake through valleys. Compared to driving in either the bus or car, the journey is more scenic and you get a good lay of the land.
For the train – you’ll need to prepare though. There’s no
dining car so bring you own food and drinks, (and entertainment) but as long as
resign yourself to the fact that you’re on a train for eight hours, you can use
that time to enjoy the journey.
The train is more comfortable than car or bus, as you have more space, a nice view, and can get up and walk around. The downside is that, in the older style compartments at least, it’s a little noisy at times with all those old parts bumping and rattling around.
A Hungarian train
How to Book Tickets? I do not advise you to use services like Trainline. When I checked it didn’t even have the full list of train options and for the options it did have, it was charging more than 3 times what I paid. Instead, just go to any station – either in Ljubljana or Budapest – and book your ticket there, a few days in advance. Mine cost just €15 one way.
Best for: scenery and space.
Conclusion
So – bus, car or train, between Budapest and Ljubljana?
I’m likely to return to Budapest in future – so having tried
out all three transport options – which would I choose next time?
Well, depending on the day and time I needed to travel, I’d most likely go for the Flixbus again. It’s the best compromise I think; more comfortable, cheaper and more relaxing than a car, but not too much slower, yet it’s still about 2 hours faster than the train.
The train is fun for the scenic experience and for comfort as you have loads of space, and if you are in a couple or group I would recommend the train at least once for the experience, as it feels like the most adventurous option. But beware, it’s a long day.
Finally, I would recommend Rome2Rio as a useful site for planning trips because it allows you to compare all the various transport types, side by side.
Last month, whilst driving through the beautiful Jesersko valley en route to Breg, I was reminded of a meeting I’d once had there with a man called Davo Karničar, seven years previously.
The Jezersko valley: home village of Davo Karničar
I had wondered what he was up to now. Was he still climbing up and skiing down the world’s gnarliest peaks? Most probably. I vowed to get in touch with him and see what adventures he had been on since our last meeting.
Sadly there will never be another meeting with Davo. Tragically, I learned he was killed last month whilst felling a tree near his home in Jezersko. He was 56.
Back in 2012, in the wake of a breakup, I’d taken my entire allocation of annual leave in one go and come to Slovenia for five weeks. My plan was to drive solo around the country and meet as many interesting Slovenes as possible.
Thanks to Rok and Ivo – two enterprising young Slovenians I met early on in the trip – I was lucky to be able to arrange conversations with many Slovene characters; bee-keeping experts, wine-makers, and Slovene celebs such as Big River Man (Martin Strel) and Davo Karničar , a world-renowned ski-mountaineer.
Amongst his lengthy list of achievements, Davo was the first man to ski down Everest, and the first to ski down The Seven Summits – the highest peaks on each continent (which incidentaly, he did on a pair Elan skis, the Slovenian brand which sponsored him his whole life). He also skied down the northern wall of the Eiger and the eastern wall of the Matterhorn.
Having a love for mountains and snow myself, I was keen to learn more about him, and Davo was kind enough to take time out from his highly active life, to meet me one September evening.
We had met in the café of a small hotel in Jezersko, Davo’s home valley. The evening was warm and we sat outside, where I watched the Alpine glow come off the spectacular spiky peaks of the mountains that dominate the Jezersko valley. Davo said he had climbed and skied all of them.
Jezersko peaks: Davo said he’d climbed and skied them all
Davo was 50 when we met but looked much younger. He had a
wiry, muscular build and a crushing handshake. Like with all the people I met
during that trip, I recorded our conversation. I had always meant to do something
with these stories but never quite got around to it. Hearing about Davo’s
passing, prompted me to dig up that recording and listen to it again.
Davo was not just an extremely accomplished extreme ski-mountaineer, Yugoslavian ski champ, and adventurer, but a visionary, creator, hunter, hard grafter, gardener, father, family man and builder.
At the time of our conversation, he was in the middle of building his own mountain lodge, which would serve the guests that he planned to bring to the area for his climbing tours. He showed a deep love for his home of Jezersko and had dreams of sharing it with a larger audience.
“Skiing and mountaineering wasn’t a sport I chose to get into. Here in Jezersko, it’s just normal. My mother, my brothers, my sisters – we spent all our time climbing and skiing our mountains”.
Davo was cheerful, funny and friendly; we laughed a lot. I enjoyed hearing about his adventures, his family, his philosophy and how he lived his life in such a beautiful, wild place. He explained his ideas of trying to live from the land as much as possible. He said he took deer and chamois from the forest, which supplied half of his meat requirements for his family.
We discussed Slovenian independence, and his hopes for the new Slovenia, which hadn’t come to fruition. He mentioned fears of Slovenes losing their identity being such a new and small country.
He also talked about his visions for developing mountain tourism in his home town and the problems of being a well-known personality in a small village. (Although I noted it also had its benefits; when I went to settle the bill, the waiter had waived it, because I was ‘with Davo’).
Although Davo lived life to the full, racking up far more achievements
than most, I’m sure he would have had many more adventures to come, had his
life not been cut short. His death is a great loss to Jezersko, Slovenia, and
the entire mountain-loving world.
I only spent one hour with Slovenia’s most famous ski-mountaineer,
but learning of Davo’s death made me sad. Our conversation had ended with
invites to get in touch, go skiing together, and visit his lodge.
I never did. And now I wish I had.
It’s a harsh reminder to do things before it’s too late.
