WAR AND PEACE
They might be scarred by past conflicts, but today the jagged peaks of Slovenia’s Julian Alps are a place of serenity, peace and outstanding natural beauty. Roger Butler explores the range on a multi-activity family adventure
THUNDER CRASHED and echoed around a huge limestone amphitheatre. The sultry weather had been closing in since lunchtime, and splashes of rain now peppered the pools below an unusual wire footbridge. A rusty lever eased the cage – with room for just one person at a time – across the gorge and the obligatory family photo was taken once everyone was safely on the far bank. Dank mist drifted along the cliffs but, despite the torrential downpour, bright smiles beamed into the camera.
An hour later, we sought shelter under the leaking canopy of a shepherd’s hut. The deluge wouldn’t stop – but compared to Slovenia’s great military thunderstorms during World War One, these rocky reverberations were nothing more than tinkles from a child’s xylophone. Around 300,000 soldiers lost their lives here when, between 1915 and 1917, Italy waged war on the AustroHungarian empire - a conflict with still-visible remnants. But what prevails today is the extraordinary natural beauty of these mountains, where serrated limestone peaks tower above verdant meadows and aquamarine rivers tumble through forested canyons.
Blizzards and battalions
Sparkling sunshine eventually won through and, soaked to the skin, we wandered back through flower-filled meadows to the isolated memorial church at Javorca. This rises above the forested gorge of the Tomlinka and its striking wooden interior commemorates some of the thousands of men who fell in the extraordinary mountain battles.
A day or two later, we stood atop Krasji vrh as thunder clouds once again rumbled over Triglav National Park. The forest paths above the bucolic pastures at Drežnica were littered with boulders but, once beyond the trees, saw-toothed peaks stretched out like a painting and the Gulf of Trieste glittered as a distant dream.
The remains of concrete gun emplacements, tucked below the summit, were reminders that hungry, weather-beaten Italian troops had sought to deter Austrian surveillance missions during battles on the Izonso front. The Adriatic must have been a pale mauve mirage to the frost-bitten soldiers who shivered through howling storms and blinding blizzards. Records recall snow drifts six metres deep.
An Italian soldier recalled his time on the mountains: “The views are wonderful, but at the same time, the view of the area is apocalyptic... The devastation in the zone between the two trenches is complete and between ours and the enemy’s positions there are only about fifteen metres of distance. We are divided by heaps of rocks and small ravines, sometimes even vertical.”
The final offensive took place in October 1917, when the
Italian command was taken by surprise – though not before the top of 2164m Mount Batognica was blown apart in a gigantic accidental explosion. The Austro-Hungarians shipped 2500 trainloads of men and supplies into the mountains, and extraordinary cable runs lifted machinery towards the high tops. Entire battalions dangled from cliff-girt promontories as they climbed up to their bleak trenches. Stories say some were barefoot, others wore just socks and one elite unit climbed with their boots swaddled in sacks of straw to reduce any giveaway noise.
Through the wardrobe door
Back down in balmy Kobarid we felt we’d booked into a sleepy town by the Mediterranean. Geranium-lined balconies were dotted around the little square and even the church bell sounded lazy and listless. This large village, once so ravaged by conflict, is now a hub for peaceful family fun, and we rafted the turbulent turquoise whirlpools of the Soca, kayaked gritty rapids further downstream and plunged into warm emerald pools in the canyon near Nadiža. The hidden cascade of Slap Kozjak, where rainbows danced at the back of a large slippery cavern, was a fitting end to a historical trail which wriggled through wartime rock-cut passageways.
It’s just ten miles, as the chough flies, from Kobarid to the glories of Lake Bohinj, but mountain barriers force an unavoidable detour. The choice is a long, twisting road or a 35-minute ride on an old fashioned car-train, via heroic tunnels and across the world’s largest stone arch. If you’ve got youngsters in tow, the rattling railway is a no-brainer since it will prevent a sweaty afternoon in the back of the car.
At first glance, the timber-clad bogies didn’t look strong enough to take even a single vehicle – but, as the wheels gathered speed, forests tumbled to the track and church spires rose above narrow gorges. On arrival at Ribčev Laz, near the east end of Slovenia’s largest glacial lake, we felt the train must have somehow passed through that magical wardrobe door.
A great cirque of shadowy peaks swung around the western end of Lake Bohinj and shafts of late afternoon light resembled enormous theatrical floodlights. We grabbed our battered, rentfree bikes and frantically freewheeled down to the grass-banked shore to leap into silky warm water. On the left, a cable car slung its way up the knee-jarring lower slopes of Vogel while straight ahead, four miles down the lake, cliffs swung north towards the hidden karst scenery and glistening lakes below Mount Triglav. No wonder Agatha Christie declared Bohinj to be “too beautiful for murder.”
Our genial host welcomed us with bulbous glasses of his local bilberry liqueur and showed us an honesty box in case we were further tempted by any of a dozen different flavours. He spread a map out on the table and pointed across the lake: “The weather, the weather! Tomorrow Vogel, then Slap Slavica. And the old road at the back. Drive to the top and then walk, walk, walk!”
“Entire battalions dangled from cliff-girt promontories as they climbed up to their bleak trenches. Stories say some were barefoot, others wore just socks and one elite unit climbed with their boots swaddled in sacks of straw to reduce any giveaway noise.”