SPLIT SURPRISE
Diocletian, a Roman Emperor, built his palace on the shores of the Adriatic over 1,700 years ago. The town of Split subsequently developed around it.
I needed a night’s accommodation while waiting to join friends on a yacht which was, as yachts are, delayed due to lack of wind.
The internet offered rooms in Diocletian’s Palace, centrally located, and with a rate so reasonable it would elasticise shrunken rands. So I booked it, completely forgetting that if it sounds too good to be true, it usually is.
We arrived in Split late to find the waterfront abuzz. There were diners at open-air restaurants and lights sparkling around the bay.
Heading for the Tourist Office to collect our vouchers, the first shock. A tightly closed door, lights off and that sinking feeling.
There was a small sign in the window, with our name. “Keys at Tabac”. Tabac, the adjacent kiosk, sold lottery tickets and newspapers. A grey, old man handed us three keys on a key-ring. “Where?” we asked.
He gesticulated at a piazza behind him. Nothing resembled the street we were looking for. Our phone’s GPS went into sulk mode. These were bulimic streets, more like narrow alleys, all dimly lit and ominous. We got lost.
“This is it,” said my son, turning down a dark alley. Deserted. Closed doors. Shuttered windows. The only sign of life was the flickering blue light of a TV from a third-floor window.
I was thankful to be travelling with my broadshouldered son, who appeared a giant compared to petite Croats. I tiptoed behind him, ready to run. Was the place haunted? What if a skulker in a black cloak emerged from the shadows? A resurrected Roman centurion roaming in the
dark? It was Game of Thrones stuff.
By cellphone light, he found a number on a door. The key fitted. The entrance was dim. Up the stairs we went. There was a shower enclosure on the landing.
We found our rooms. The keys fitted. Inside: spartan, metal beds and a table in each room. “Creepy,” I rebelled. “I shan’t sleep a wink.” “You booked it,” said my son. “If you shout loud enough I’ll come save you.”
Exhausted from the long flight, I felt as though my head had barely touched the pillow when I jolted awake to the sound of church bells. Sunlight streamed in the window. The street below had come alive. Old ladies in black had dragged chairs outside to settle down, gossip with neighbours and watch the world go by. It didn’t look at all ominous in daylight.
We set out to explore. Enthralled with the antiquity, how the city of Split had developed around the ancient ruins, we walked the cobbled streets, imagining the people who had trod there before. Togas would have felt appropriate.
There were barrel-vaulted arches and handhewn limestone and white marble from the Island of Brac (the White House has marble from here). Monumental gates and — incongruously — famous-name stores tucked behind stone walls. The glorious spire of the Cathedral of St Dominius overlooking a beautiful piazza.
We munched red figs from a paper bag, dewy and sweet, bought from the market.
Almost too soon, there was a message saying our boat had arrived. Regretfully, we hurried down to the marina, my son gleefully preparing to relate about Mom’s “palace that cost peanuts”.