The stories in the streets of Trogir

The Stories in these Cobbled Streets, Trogir Croatia

The feet that have walked this way
Lived a life full of,
Hopes and aspirations,
Ideas and thoughts,
Longings and desires.
For new things.
Something better

The stories in these Trogir streets

These feet

Skipped with the joy of childhood, kicking stones absorbed in their own game.
Jumped with the enlightenment of knowledge
Stomped in anger, at rejection and injustice.
Sauntered full of the intoxication of romance.
Marched to war, perhaps never to return?
Limped in pain with the scars of life.
Shuffled with the infirmities of age.

The feet that passed this way are gone now from memory.
Only in the groove and mirror like smoothness of ancient cobble stones,
Are they known.


Trogir is a place to truly wander and become gloriously lost. The town is small enough that being lost does not induce fear, rather a sense of curious excitement. Dawdling through the winding, ancient streets allows the time to reflect on their Venetian past. There is something quiet delightful about turning into an unexplored alleyway, only to find oneself covering a recently trod path. Retracing cobbled streets repeadly never becomes tiresome, because there is far too much for the senses absorb.

The Wind and the Tide

Posted this last year, but more sailing has reminded me of what I wrote back then. 

Where does the wind and the tide take my soul?

To a place where the seagulls

Rally and call

Where circling clouds

And milky pale skies

Smooth my thoughts

As hopes float by.

Am I brave enough to follow the breeze?

And risk the waves and the infinite seas.
To follow a cry,

To leave behind

A locked perspective

And contented mind.

To face the storm and the fickle weather

Embrace this wild adventure
Then together

Skim with the yearning that appears deep inside

Like playful dolphins off the port side.

Sailing the science of avoiding things

Sailing – the science of not hitting things

 Last October, Chris and I completed a RYA Day Skipper course. You can read about it in the post Where Does my Soul Take Me.  I can’t say I felt completely confident of being able to jump in a yacht and sail off into the sunset and I came away with a degree of uncertainty. Bearing in mind that the most sailing experience I had had before the end of last year was traveling on ferries, this is a steep learning curve. So to consolidate, we hired a yacht for a week’s sailing in Croatia and clutching our sailing qualification, we arrived on the Dalmatian Coast.

Croatia holds an interesting place in our memory, since the last time we visited, we came by car and subsequently had a major car accident. You can read about it in the post One Full Stop. Family members, when told where we were going, dramatically enquired, “You’re not driving, are you?”

Thus arriving in Agana to pick up the boat, at the forefront of my mind was, ” Don’t hit anything!”. Once we got out to sea, hitting other ships was not top of my list of concerns. The weather and visibility were good. It was important to remember the rules of the sea e.g. Big ships go first!! No, the biggest challenges that first  day,  besides getting used to the boat, was mooring it in a marina. We had to quickly come up with a system for coming into port. I took the helm and Chris took the mooring ropes.

In the Mediterranean, boats are moored stern to. That means the back of the boat is towards the marina pontoon. Imagine parking a car in a car park, but the car is on castors and so are all the other cars, however they have been secured by ropes. You get the picture?? With a little help from the harbour master, we got the boat into its over night berth in Milna, without hitting anything. Then we sat down for a shaky few minutes and made a cup of tea. One down. We were on our way.


One successfully moored boat

The next day, we plotted a course to the Island of St Klement. Again another reason to pick Croatia for our first duo sailing trip, was that this part of the Med has no tides. One less thing to worry about. It’s the hitting thing again. We wouldn’t hit the bottom, because the tide had fallen. We could, however, hit the bottom, if we sailed in water that was too shallow, so we made sure we didn’t! It’s called pilotage. You plot the course you want to take using charts to make sure there is nothing on your proposed route to hit.


Sailing to St Klement Island

Off St Klement Island, we found a secluded bay with only one other yacht at anchor. Our next challenge, drop the anchor! This required a delicate balance between what needed to be hit and what should not. Basically, we needed the water to be the right depth, so the anchor hit the bottom and the yacht didn’t. Then the anchor needed to be in the right place to hold the yacht, so it didn’t hit the shore, by drifting or swinging round too close. Yachts move when at anchor. It’s the car on castors things again. We also gave the other yacht plenty of room, since we didn’t want him to hit us. Since we had a whole quiet bay to share, it seemed only fair to leave plenty of space.


At anchor

At anchor in this quiet place, was then everything you could ever dream of about being on a yacht. The pay off, if you like, from all that effort to avoid hitting anything. The gentle rocking of the boat, the lapping of the waves against the shoreline rocks, the occasional flip of fish in the water and the magnificence of the sunset. To say I was hooked would be an under statement. Now where shall we sail next??

Sailing in Croatia from Deborah Robinson on Vimeo.

One May Morning

I took a walk out of my front door this morning to see what I could see. After lots of rain and grey, dull, skies, the pale blue sky and golden light were a feast for the eyes. Come and take the walk with me. Perhaps you took a walk recently? why not link to this post and share your walk with me?

These delicate mushrooms appeared as if by magic at the end of the garden path. I am sure they were not there yesterday morning, but somehow in the course of yesterday, I noticed them. I had to lie flat to get up close with my camera.

Mushrooms on a May Morning

I suspected that the blue tits might be back. Every once in a while, I would catch a flash of light blue coming from the wall. Sure enough this morning I saw them again. I approached with caution, but not sounds of babies yet!!

Bluetits live here on a May Morning

The fading moon high in the early morning sky, caught the corner of my eye as I left the drive.

The Moon on a May Morning

A light rimmed sycamore tree was the shot I choose, because I could not get an image of the robin that flitted over my head in the branches of the tree. Trees are much easier to shoot – They stand still!!

Back lit tree on a May Morning

While I walked down the lane, I was stuck by the colour of lime green youthful leaves across a pale blue sky.

May morning -6929

Then at the bottom of the lane, the Ash trees splendid in their golden cloaks.

May morning -6939

The morning dew glinting on the crop of wheat in the field.

Dew on grass on a May Morning

And one delicate little buttercup with its face turned to drink in warm spring sun.

Buttercup on a May Morning

Now the birds would like a word!

Grandmas Knees

Grandma’s Knees

“Don’t get old!” she used to say,

As she struggled with bones that moved with decay.

No longer the spritely, skipping girl,

Who ran home delighted and arrived in a whirl.

“Don’t get old!” she used speak,

As she wrestled with muscles that were tired and weak.

No longer the strong-armed, confident woman,

Who pounded bread and baked pies in the oven

“Don’t get old!” she used to utter,

As she fought with lungs now filled with clutter.

No longer the grey haired, ample senior,

Who fooled us with stories of a delicate femur.

I don’t know why, but I began to think about my Grandma, who died many years ago now. Perhaps it was because I was about to return home to celebrate my own mum’s birthday and perhaps I began to think about those people who are no longer there. I remember once offering to take my grandma for a drive. She was an old lady by then and often struggled with arthritis and very bad knees. Getting into and out of the car was difficult. On this one day, she struggled herself into the front seat, placed her stick carefully alongside her, then turned and said “Debs, don’t get old!” I remember the frustration in her voice.

In contrast to the years while I was a child, that she spent fooling me. Each week, Grandma would pay a visit to our house and would be waiting in the kitchen when I returned home from school. I loved sitting on her knee chatting and playing with a gold necklace she always seemed to wear round her neck. Eventually, her poor knees would become tired and she would utter, in all seriousness and with great drama, that it was time to get down, because she had a bone in her leg. Her voice always made it sound such a painful thing, that I would quickly and apologectically climb down. Until one day, while climbing down off her knee, the penny dropped “Grandma?” I said quizzically, “You have to have a bone in your leg!” The ruse was exposed. But by then, I had grown too big to sit on her knee any longer and she was beginning to grow small.