Roger Zubrinich and Judy Peters like to travel. A lot. Prior to the pandemic, the couple would escape the Australian winter and head to Europe for the summer, traipsing through countries via a hire car.

With overseas travel now something of a dream, Roger has decided to revisit some of their destinations in writing. This week, Roger takes us to one of his favourite places to holida with Judy: Piran.

‘Piran is a jewel on the Adriatic coast’ reads the travel promo.

Piran is a smallish Slovenian town of about 4000 inhabitants on the Adriatic coast of Istria close to the border with Croatia. It’s situated near the top of the Istrian peninsula about 40 kilometres from Trieste to the north, and about 100 kilometres from Venice across the Adriatic Sea to the west.

A ‘jewel’?

Cliché
noun: a trite, stereotyped expression.

Perhaps, but the cliché doesn’t do justice to the Piran we know.

Over the years we’ve established an attachment to the town, an attachment strong enough to prompt us to keep returning there; seven times at the last count, and we were due to return for an eighth until COVID escaped from its cage.

Why the attachment? It’s the Gestalt of course. 

Gestalt
noun: an organised configuration or pattern of experiences or of acts.

More simply, it means the whole is greater than the sum of its component parts.

This modest reflection is an attempt to transcend the cliché, to capture the gestalt that for us is Piran. The story began in the year of the new millennium when we were driving in a leased Peugeot from the then exquisite, but now less so, Lake Bled. We were heading for Venice, but although it was only about a four-hour drive we decided to visit the coast of Slovenia.

We needed to choose a location on the country’s small 42-kilometre section of Istrian coastline on the Adriatic. There were really only four options so, based on the meagre information in a travel guide, we discarded Koper, a major port (and too large we thought), and Portoroz because it seemed too touristy. That left Izola and Piran. The latter seemed more interesting, so we set out for the two-hour drive there on the E61.

Eventually we bypassed Koper on the H5 and could see the Adriatic shimmering in the not too far distance, then on to the 111 via the H6. When roads simply have numerals without letters it frequently means they’re minor and squirmy. This was no exception. We wound our way past Izola, then also ran, then wriggled our way through tight switchbacks lined with trees and impressive rockfaces until finally, a little before a roundabout, we saw a sign to Piran that we dutifully followed.

As we neared Piran proper we were caught up in local traffic on the narrow entry road, but at least it was largely straight until we entered Cankarjevo Nabrezje, which looped around the harbour and marina more adroitly than it does around the English speaker’s tongue.

We parked next to a small aquarium directly opposite the marina and wandered off to find accommodation. Even then the centre of the town was pedestrianised and subsequently car access of any kind has been limited to residents.

During the early years of travelling we rarely booked accommodation in advance. Our strategy was to drive into a town or city, park as close to the centre as possible – assuming we could find the centre – and then walk looking for somewhere to stay. This was until we were blindsided by a Jackie Chan movie in Gorlitz in Germany near the Polish border, and by rare sunshine during summer in Holland, but they’re stories for another time.

We knew from a guidebook that there were two hotels in Piran; one in Tartini Square and another that overlooked the water. We found a room in the latter. There was a hotel car park that we could use, and thus began our first visit to Piran.

The town is surrounded by water on three sides, simply because it’s built at the tip of a promontory that juts into the Gulf of Trieste that in turn opens into the Adriatic Sea. Most that is of interest to the visitor is contained roughly within the triangle formed by the two sides of the promontory, and a line drawn just behind the city walls from the southern side of the marina to the north-eastern beach.

Tartini Square, opposite the marina and one of the first points of interest that comes into view when entering Piran, is now its centrepiece. The square is large and is reputedly the most impressive in Slovenia. Originally it was Piran’s inner harbour but the area was filled in 1894 to obliterate creeping sewerage and to create the square. It has two sections; the outer is paved with large grey tiles, the oval inner section with whitish shining marble. The elliptical shape of the inner section was determined by the fact that until the early 50s it was the terminus for an electric railway.

The western side of the square is dominated by two substantial neo-Renaissance buildings, and the remainder is ringed with pastel-hued multi-storeyed buildings that house shops and cafes on the ground level. The most significant is the 15th century gothic Venetian House, painted a soft red when we first visited but more recently a light peach colour that is reputed to be closer to the original. The striking tracery windows and corner second-level balcony stand in contrast to the rather prosaic salt shop that inhabits the bottom level. To its left is a bronze statue of the gifted Giuseppe Tartini, a violinist and composer who was born in Piran in 1692, that sits in front of the town hall, held suitably aloft by a rather large marble pedestal. Fancy that. An icon of the arts commemorated with a statue instead of a rapacious inbred royal, a slave trader or an adventurer who decimated indigenous people in faraway lands.

Visible to the east and partly screened by lush trees, overlooking the square from on high, are the impressive remnants of the city walls complete with seven fortified towers and crenellations. The late 13th century wall, which originally had three gates, effectively protected the triangular area that was Piran from land-based Turkish invasion, the primary threat at that time.

Much closer, also overlooking the square from on high, is the baroque early 17th century St George Cathedral dedicated to the town’s dragon-slaying patron saint. Its most visible feature is the freestanding 50 metre bell tower that is a scale replica of the San Marco Campanile in Venice. Its prominence is such that it photo-bombs any camera shots taken from a south to south-easterly aspect of the square.

A little to the south-west of the square is the marina that is inhabited by pleasure craft and fishing vessels. Fishing paraphernalia and nets from the working boats line the walkways while colourful yachts and power boats jostle against each other with the movement of the waves. Pastel buildings that glow in the evening light look down on the marina and the intense blue water.

At the apex of the triangle formed by the remnant city wall and the south and north shores is Punta, literally the end point and the oldest part of Piran. It is marked by a lighthouse and the Church of St Clement with its serrated tower, originally built in the 13th century.

The shorelines stretching back from that point are lined mostly with restaurants and cafes and paved with big, coarse flagstones. Large rocks protect the walkways from the water and on each side substantial concrete rectangles projecting into the sea serve as launch pads for swimmers.

The historic core of Piran is contained within these triangular borders. Walking through the labyrinth of narrow lanes that weave between the centuries old storeyed buildings is reminiscent of walking in Venice, which is not surprising given that Piran was part of La Serenissima, the Republic of Venice, from the late 13th century until its demise in 1797. Within the old town is the 1st of May Square, otherwise known as Prvomajski Trg. The square was the administrative centre of Piran until the 13th century. At its centre is a large raised 18th century cistern designed to collect water from surrounding buildings to be used during drought. The steps up to it are decorated with two allegorical statues – one representing law and the other justice. The square’s slightly worn, even decrepit appearance, adds to its allure.

They are the key attractions in Piran; the bedrock of the Piran experience. They can be viewed in a couple of days of casual walking. They are indeed interesting, particularly when viewed as a taxonomy of Piran’s long history; but not enough to tempt us back time and again – more recently as a yearly routine. What has prompted and informed our serial visitations is the increasingly rich melange of intoxicating experiences and sensations that germinate, and grow and interweave, from inhabiting these places and spaces.

The old town between Tartini Square and Punta is a maze of narrow alleyways that thread between old buildings, usually three or four stories tall. Not infrequently, the alleyways are little more than three metres wide. Initially, the visitor may register these things, but the main pre-occupation is more likely to find the way from one place to another. But in time, the passageways and the buildings inhabiting them become the focus of attention. Walking the labyrinth becomes the purpose rather than a means to an end.

And therein lies genuine pleasure.

Over the years I’ve come to know the old town well. Perhaps the most enduring impression is that of a vibrant and very lived-in historical monument. The tall buildings lining the narrow passages are indubitably old; they were built during the period of Venetian control, a part Piran’s complex history that included much later, being part of Tito’s Yugoslavia.

Walking the passages slowly, and without clear intent, provides a restrained sense of intimate connection with the surrounds.

The variegated patches of light and shadow and the bright pastel yellows and pinks of houses give life to the corridors, and stairs leading upwards to elevated buildings offer an invitation that can’t be accepted because the outsider must respect the privacy of the local occupants. Bolted high on walls, Venetian style street lamps that promise subdued light at night become evident, so too the stone blocks that provide a step to doors and narrow the passages further.

Window shutters provide texture to walls and occasional evidence of decrepitude is apparent in crumbling render that exposes the rough stone beneath. There is the occasional weed-infested arch between buildings, and sometimes high in passages, decorative eaves, almost out of sight, optimistically seek an audience. Powerlines draped between buildings and metal utilities boxes built into walls fail to diminish the illusion of age, of being in another time.

The sense of place is further enriched by the clattering of plates, utensils, and cooking odours emanating from within apartments during mealtimes, and by the sounds of unintelligible conversations through open windows and by occasional music.

At times I’d encounter a person or two sitting on the stone step outside an apartment door, most often elderly, to whom I’d offer a nodded greeting. I’ve come to know the habits of some, like the middle-aged woman who most days hangs colourful washing on lines set along the length of the front of her home. Her building is at the corner of two passageways and is the fortunate recipient of sunlight. A patterned cloth hanging in front of her open door protects privacy. I’ve noted each year that the crumbling render below the upper windows of her home is expanding and I’ve wondered whether she’s indifferent to it or whether she lacks the resources to have it repaired.

In Verdijeva Ulica, the passageway running from the 1st of May Square to Tartini Square, is a bar almost opposite an open-air fruit market. Admirably indifferent to the time of day, a small coterie of older men sits on chairs at the front drinking coffee and glasses of what is unlikely to be water. That too has been a constant over the years, although I expect the participants in the rota change over time.

But even small comfortably closed communities aren’t immune to the vagaries of urban life. During our last visit, while crossing Tartini Square returning from the beach, we encountered two red fire engines, an ambulance, a crowd of spectators and numerous firefighters busily attending pumps and hoses as firefighters do. Seemingly interminable lengths of fawn firehoses, pulsating in time with the rhythm of the pumps and leaking copious amounts of water from the joints, squirmed into Verdijeva Ulica and then abruptly up stairs to a building located on the incline beneath St George Cathedral. Two ambulance men carried a stretcher borne resident of middle years down the steps towards the waiting ambulance. The smell of burning and smoke infused the air.

We experienced a direct consequence of the fire the following morning in the apartment that we’ve rented for a number of years now.

Soon after ablutions and breakfasting our apartment taps went dry. I decided to scout the area to get a sense of whether other buildings were similarly afflicted and discovered, two blocks away, a couple of workers digging a very muddy hole. A disgruntled spectator with hands in his pockets was conducting a vigorous conversation with them. He explained to me in hesitant English that the pipe exposed in the hole had been over-burdened by the extra demands of the fire engines and had burst a vessel. It wasn’t expected to be repaired until early afternoon. We spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon drinking coffee and complimentary water and using the toilet facilities of a café and bar near the marina.

The fire alerted me to the unnerving fact that most, if not all of the very aged buildings in the old town, would not have fire escapes; ours included. We were inhabiting the very top of our building in an attic apartment above the fourth floor. The only means of egress was via rickety internal stairs or off the roof deck with an improvised bed sheet parachute. Sobering indeed, but not enough to prevent us renting the same apartment in the future because outside of hotels every other building would be similarly afflicted.

This concern was, and will continue to be, offset by the significant attributes of our rented lodgings. It is air-conditioned and has an excellent roof deck overlooking the 1st of May Square and the alfresco eating area of our favourite seafood restaurant. We’ve eaten there every time we’ve visited the town and have pretty much taste tested the complete menu. Without doubt, though, our favoured choice is perfectly cooked fresh sea bass served with potatoes and fresh salad. The owner of the restaurant, tall with a girth that continues to expand with the passing years, and receding, now greying hair bunched into a ponytail, has frequently deboned our fish with a speed and expertise we’ll never achieve. The deboning ritual is inevitably preceded by the abrupt but polite question ‘I do?’ while he points to the fish with a knife. We wish he would ‘do’ every time but with the passing years he is increasingly less in evidence at the restaurant.

We’ve spent every evening since we’ve occupied the apartment on the roof deck with a bottle of Slovenian Riesling watching the restaurant activity below and the hustle and bustle in the square. On warm summer nights, in the soft evening light, activity in the square gradually builds until the buzz of conversations, sporadic laughter, the sound of children playing and the smells of food being cooked in a restaurant on the western perimeter drift up to the deck from where we watch the activity.

We’ve become familiar with the evening routines of people resident in homes on the perimeter of the square, and there is always something to entertain. During our most recent visit two young busking sopranos returned on a number of evenings. When the sound of beautiful operatic arias filled the square, we couldn’t think of anywhere else in the world we’d rather be.

Tartini Square too frequently underwent an evening transformation. During hot summer days we always found the square a place to avoid. The open shining surfaces caught the sun and bounced it back rather like the reflective foil devices sun-worshipping devotees use to accelerate the development of a skin cancers. But in the evenings it was often the venue for concerts; frequently traditional Slovenian folk dances with complex arrangements, sometimes performed by colourfully attired groups of dancers, sometimes by pairs and solo performers. On other occasions we have witnessed ballet performances and street theatre.

The most memorable performance was on a gentle summer night when we witnessed the Princess of Piran, seemingly but not really untethered, descend from the bell tower of the Cathedral of St George high above Tartini Square, to the square proper. This was Piran’s emulation of Venice’s Flight of the Angel in which a young woman, representing an angel, descends 90 metres or thereabouts from the bell tower in San Marco to the square.

As we waited for the descent, an anticipatory buzz rose from the packed square and rode the gentle breeze that drifted off the sea beyond the nearby marina. It was close to midnight I recall. Hundreds of white paper lanterns, transformed into miniature hot-air balloons by small candles flickering like fireflies inside, drifted high above the crowd. A sudden infectious silence caused us, and others who were slow to realise that the point of the evening was imminent, to look up to the pinnacle of the cathedral. There, a small figure in a long white evening dress was picked out by a spotlight. Slowly, smoothly, elegantly even, the Princess of Piran descended. Her features came increasingly into focus as she neared the watching crowd to a chorus of oohs and ahhs, and then to thunderous applause as her feet touched the square. I realised that for much of the descent I’d been holding my breath. Despite not really thinking I was spectating on an impending tragedy, an atavistic apprehension of heights told me otherwise, and I covertly nursed genuine admiration for her.

One of the enduring pleasures of our visits to Piran has been to swim each day at a beach on the northern side of the town, even if getting there is a bit testing.

It involves puffing up a very steep, narrow, cobbled passageway off Tartini Square, past the steps to the Cathedral of St George to the top of a high cliff that is demarcated by a low wall intended to stop the foolhardy from disappearing over the edge. Below, largely to the right, is a long stretch or rocky beach. The water rippling over rocks, transparent and vivid blue, glitters in the brilliant sunlight.

Access to the beach involves a long descent on the path that follows the cliff to a set of precarious stone steps that lead to the beach proper. This beach is not a haven for the beautiful people of the French Cote d’Azur. Near the steps we usually need to clamber past ageing naked bodies that have the appearance of over-cured leather. Germans we think.

Then we need to carefully pick our stumbling way over large jumbled rocks to locate a suitable spot to settle. The beach is clothing optional. We always opt for clothing, not because of prudishness, but because entry to the water means finding a way over wet rocks in the face of an incoming tide. We fear that if unclothed we’ll end literally bare-arse-up, with the associated ignominy.

After much rock-clambering we’ve always managed to find a pleasant spot to stretch out on our towels on flattish rocks. We discovered very early during our visits that the trick is to find a spot that is shaded by the cliffs above and that has few rocks at the entrance to the water.

Swimming at this beach is truly a delight. We always come equipped with water shoes to protect us from the rocks, water bottles, sandwiches for lunch and grapes purchased at the outdoor fruit market for dessert. The water temperature is perfect and the water is fresh, clear and clean. The distant ships creeping across the horizon heading for the port of Koper are clearly visible.

On a couple of occasions, we’ve been foolish enough to float on our backs, after everyone else has scarpered, watching lightning flashing above and listening to rumbling thunder during the inevitable Adriatic storms. Spectacular? Yes. Sensible? No. It didn’t take much research to confirm what we already knew – that staying in the water was a shallow end of the gene pool activity. The Princess of Piran was arguably more risk-averse.

It has been and will continue to be our habit to leave the beach mid-afternoon for a rest in the apartment in preparation for a few late afternoon drinks at our favourite bar, directly in front of the water on the southern side of the peninsula, with a view of the curve of the bay. We’ve learned over the years to arrive no earlier than 4.45 pm to be sure of being sheltered from the sun by the umbrellas over any one of our favourite three tables directly at the front of the bar. Then we settle in to watch the passing parade. We measure the passing of time by the number of replenished glasses and complimentary potato crisps.

The people parade is a spectator’s delight. As the evening light settles, and the afternoon heat becomes a comfortable warm cushion, and waves splash against the rocky breakwater, an absorbing variety of people promenade on the paved thoroughfare in front of us. There are those for whom the visit to Piran looks to be a special occasion, dressed smartly to visit one of the restaurants along the foreshore. Crisp white shirts, linen jackets, and fashionable evening dresses mix with dripping wet swimmers, fresh from the sea, weaving between them. There is a rich mixture of ages; young, old and in-between, and we inevitably reflect on the hundreds of stories walking before us. Could that effervescent young woman be anything other than the granddaughter of her wizened companion? How did the affectionately chatty young couple meet? Do the fatigued parents of the brawling children wish they’d used contraceptives? What secrets are the silent middle-aged couple refusing to share? So many elusive stories worth the telling.

One of the unfortunate certainties of life is that you can never have too much fun. When we finally and reluctantly leave Piran, jumbled in our host’s tiny Toyota Yaris together with our luggage to go to our car parked outside of the town, we always know that we have done our best to inhabit the town’s places and spaces. We know that in Piran, for those who embrace it, the whole is infinitely greater than the sum of its parts, and we know that we’ll be back at the earliest opportunity.

Travel for Two is a guest series by Roger Zubrinich.
Keep an eye on the blog for more instalments!