Sensational Slovenia

From the shoreline I admire the church that rises from Slovenia’s only island, its 52-metre tower clearly visible. It dominates Lake Bled, the intriguing 15th-century architecture protruding from a blanket of abundant forest.

People stare at me, outraged in their opulent suits, glasses of champagne almost spilling as they gawp. I’ve swam my way into a wedding...

Its looks less than half a kilometre away but the boat mafia want €10, each way. Ludicrous, given how the rest of Slovenian prices are influenced by its Eastern European roots, rather than its Western future. I dive into the serene water in protest.

Thirty minutes later, eyes bloodshot, I stumble from the water exhausted, leaving a trail of the lake in my wake.

At the Pilgrimage Church of the Assumption of Mary it’s good luck for the groom to carry his wife up the 99 steps from the lake to the church bell.

From the lake’s centrepiece I take in the panoramic, forested rock ascending skyward, peaking at an imperious Roman castle on the lake’s northern edge.

People stare at me, outraged in their opulent suits, glasses of champagne almost spilling as they gawp. I’ve swam my way into a wedding, and as I contemplate my next move the lucky couple leave the chapel and set off downhill towards me.

They’re lost in love unable to spot my presence. But the photographers are more objective, looking on in horror as their carefully- planned angels have been destroyed by a fool who refused to pay €10.

Around Lake Bled there are signs of prominence, decaying Tudoresque buildings with wide open balconies and private stony beaches. Some have been converted into boutique hotels, elegant playgrounds for the rich.

But despite the occasional lavishness the area retains a village feel: old farmers with flat caps and weathered faces, roads filled with birdsong and whitewashed farmhouses.

Tearing a crack in the gentle landscape is Vintgar Gorge, a dramatic explosion of exposed granite. Canyon walls rise vertically for over 100 metres, and a series of wooden bridges and walkways take me 1.5km into the abyss, boisterous white water rampaging beneath me. Its deviant geography is evidence of where we are, in the midst of Europe’s great mountain chain.

Slovenia is where the Alps begin, rising slowly from the Adriatic Sea before exploding into a succession of pinnacles.

A lonely minibus rattles along the deserted road, passing through swathes of cornfields, each plant able to dwarf any man. Slovenia is a small country, and its chief tourist destinations are less than an hour apart.

Lake Bohinj sparkles beneath the sun, reflecting the surrounding snowy summits. Hiring a mountain bike I’m given a homemade map, a sequence of switchbacks and curves filling the photocopy. Energised by the challenge, I’m in a high gear, peddling hard as the gravel steepens. I should be there, but of course the mapmaker underestimated the quantity of turns, and I overestimated his accuracy.

Another five switchbacks and I must be nearly there. Panting, I find a cycling team in luminous lycra resting at a viewpoint. They’re travelling downhill.

How long to go, I ask. “Oh it’s not far, just a couple more hours to the top and then there is a rest house where you can stay the night.”

I was looking for a gentle traverse with enough exhaustion to release endorphins, but I’ve stumbled on the mountain bike training centre of Eastern Europe and I’m forced to turn around unfulfilled.

Lake Bled has hosted the world rowing championships four times, and its accommodation reflects the sport’s demographic. Likewise for Lake Bohinj, a series of isolated campsites are home to rock climbers, hikers and teams of significantly better prepared cyclists.

Behind my tent, Mount Triglav rises without inhibition, 2,864 metres above sea level to be precise. This peak was home to the legendary Zlatorog, a white chamois buck whose golden horns held the secret to a treasure hidden in the mountains. When wounded the buck would eat magical flowers, giving it strength to push weary hunters off the mountain.

The buck’s horns have retained their prominence, adorning every green bottle of Slovenia’s national beer, a frothy pilsner that takes away muscle soreness. “Many people drink too many,” laughs a barman, “and go crazy dreaming about the treasure.”

I’m still imagining the chests of gold as the bus pulls into Ljubljana. While the pristine alpine environment convinced me I was in Western Europe, at the bottom of the mountains the country’s capital is distinctly Eastern.

Slovenia was the northern arm of Josef Tito’s Yugoslavia, and crumbs of communism remain; propaganda graffiti emblazes tunnels, dreary concrete apartments dis-integrate, and inside concealed taverns, an atmosphere of stoicism remains.

“Tito was my friend,” exclaims one pensioner as he orders another round of grape schnapps for the bar. “He gave me a good pension!”

But Ljubljana’s history extends far past a century of socialism. Fragments of an ancient era also remain: picturesque stone bridges cross the Ljubljanica River, narrow lanes wind through baroque architecture, a medieval castle stands proudly above the city.

Various old stone buildings have been resurrected, transformed from dissolution into designer clothes shops and charming cafes.

Exploring the city on foot there’s just enough evidence to draw comparisons with the great Eastern Europe destinations of Prague and Budapest. Except Slovenia continues to be ignored by tourists, which is surprising given the country’s unique selling point.

On the one hand, it’s comfortable, clean, uses the euro and provides everything expected of a modern Western European country. But there is just enough mystique to remind every visitor that the country has its roots in a culture far different from home.

You can order pizza, or a random watery stew of potato and dumplings.

You can toast communism, or find a charming 16th-century cafe serving vintage wine.

You can explore mountains with more fables than other hikers. And if anyone tries giving you Western prices, there is always an alternative.