Looking for Kojak

Looking for Kojak

The phantom ducks and stroll through Bar’s tidy town centre (enlivened by dentists’ adverts and a shopping centre made from what looked like concretised, half-sunk War of the Worlds tripods) set me up for the search for the Kojak Apartments. My handwritten transcription from Hostel Bookers was fine until I got to the point where the accommodation should have been. It wasn’t. And no amount of time looking (err, two hours) helped. In this time, I sidestepped dead hedgehogs on Zukotrlica Beach and received a clear indication that the street I was after was only one or two turnings away from a tobacconist set up on a residential side road. It wasn’t*.

It turned out I was in the wrong bloody town. Not only did Hostel Bookers mess me up, but I spent much of my time circling the Susanj tourist booth. Which I assumed was in, err, Susanj. Where Kojak was. The booth was shut, but its presence confirmed I was in the right area. KOJAK. In flippin SUSANJ. Yes, my research was lacking, but even so, Hostel Bookers clearly had that online golf tee pointing where Kojak wasn’t, but I was in the right area. Surely…?

No, as it turned out. The Susanj tourist booth turned out to be in Bar rather than in Susanj. And they - Bar and Susanj - were two distinct places. It all seemed too spiteful and designed to make me fail.

After huffing, puffing and getting overly acquainted with Bar’s northern outskirts - and not Susanj’s - I wandered into the kitschy looking MD Hotel and was told a night’s stay was 30€. I grabbed it. The MD was fine, even if the enthusiastically prepared breakfast cheese omelette next morning was nasty (egg ok; cheese a disaster).

* Note - it appears that Kojic may have been in Bar after all, having looked at the Facebook link. I don't know.....

Bar ducks

We arrived early in Bar. I headed for the port exit, fending off of an indecent number of taxi drivers descending on passengers like weird CGI. I followed my trusty and eminently sensible routine of plotting my route out as soon as I arrive somewhere new and headed for the train station. Bar was upmarket although a little dull. Its setting, however, cradled by mountains, is spectacular. And the sun was up; 23-25ºC, well before 9am, which had me reaching for lotions and long sleeves.

I concentrated on ‘ambling’ and dealing with the hefty weight on my back, before turning away from town and onto the road to the bus and rail stations where I encountered ‘phantom fowl’. Ditches parallel to the footpath were marked both by their vegetation and the noisy cries of angry ducks. Being something of an ornithologist, I was keen to see these beasts, which were proving splendidly adept at making themselves heard but not seen.

I’d been duped, however. The lack of movement, a certain repetition in the calls and the whiff of looping tapes led my nimble brain to suspect I was hearing duck deterrent rather than quacking chat. I felt foolish for having tried to flush one or two of these fake birds from the foliage through well-placed kicks, and the odd stone or two. I put my head down and carried on towards the station.

Link - Muscovy Duck