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Sunny Adriatic

SALT-FLATS

The day had the breath of chill in the air and winter was peaking in the window, but the sun was still claiming the sea so we headed to the salt-pans on the Adriatic. There are two remaining “salt farms” in Slovenia near Portorož/ Piran and in “no man’s land” between the border crossings of Slovenia and Croatia. The salt –pans were the source of salt for centuries and function today as a working museum which produces salt in traditional ways. The sun sparkled on the surface of the stagnant water in the salt-pan squares shooting the reflection with the greater force of salt and called us into the basin of history.

Salt Flats

The first documented discussion of salt making in this area was in 840, but historians believe that long before that time the process of claiming salt from sea water was happening in the delta of the Dragonja River. The richness of this production was claimed by the Venetian empire and sale to the Italians was compulsory until the end of the Venetian rule in 1797, when at that point the Austrian Empire claimed the salt monopoly. In the middle ages the design of checkerboard squares was introduced following the patterns established by Arab salt producers, and in 1358 the petola process was developed to create a carpet of algae, carbonate minerals and gypsum grown on the bottom of the salt plot as a barrier to keep the muddy floor from mixing with the seawater and the salt. Because of this crust the salt harvested her e was known for its purity in color and taste.

Secovlje

The conditions for producing salt were perfect in these protected delta because the climate is hot with a constant warm breeze in the summer and the sea level is relatively constant. Salt was produced in these closed basins by allowing seawater to flow, by gravity or aided by wind or hand pumps, first into a reserve basin and then five basins of different grades of salinity and then to the crystallization and collection basins. As the sea water flowed between the pans the water evaporated gradually, the salt crystals start to form on the surface of the brine (aqua madre), they become saturated and built up clusters of salt on the warmer surface. These clusters were raked with wooden scrapers (gavero) from the shallow pools into piles where, because of gravity, the surplus moisture leaked from the bottom. The dry salt was then gathered by hand and transported by wheelbarrow and wagons to storage units. It takes approximately, 50,000 cubic/m of sea water spread over 100,000 sq/m, of flat solar evaporation area, to produce 1,000 tons of salt a year and this daily collection of salt produced pure white unrefined sea salt. In good years the production was as high at 40,000 tons.

Canal

In 1903 the Austrians consolidated the salt-fields, bought up small producers and modernized the production. After WWI the Italians renovated the fields and enhanced the production to a high level. In 1957 the Yugoslav government built an infrastructure to prevent flooding, but because the mining of salt was more efficient than the evaporation process the sites were closed for production in 1968. The Slovene government has established this area as a protected wetland and a cultural heritage site. Salt is still produced in the traditional ways and sold as a specialty item for eating and beauty care. Areas have also been flooded to encourage greater breeding by sea birds such as the tern and claim this as a wildlife refuge.

Ruins of worker houses

Throughout the 1,400 acre salt-pans remains of the salt houses stand on deserted islands. The evaporation ponds and residences were all connected and separated by canals, gates, dikes and aqueducts. The salt was harvested daily and the flow of the sea water was controlled with the tides, so the workers lived in the midst of their work. Their homes were typically 2 stories with the living quarters on the second floor and storage of salt and tools on the ground floor, with an out side bakery. Now they stand naked with out their roofs and emptied of any sign of life. From the place where we parked the car, I found a recently constructed levee that lead me out to the houses. The mallards reminded me that I was investigating an area not open for tourists, but it was a lonely day and no one else but the egrets noticed.

house construction

The houses, still plumb square, are built of roughly cut pure white blocks of stone from the Istrian Peninsula [the same stone used in the White House] filled with left over chips and mud. There is little land around the houses but each had an area where they docked the boats that would have transported them along the canals. The absolute calm on these little islands was profoundly peaceful., and far on the horizon were the snowy peaks of the Dolomiti mountains, the sound of the sea was quieted by distance and not a single mechanical sound could be heard. It was marvelous!

Peaceful quiet

Sources:

http://www.soline.si/park/?lang=eng

http://salt.org.il/frame_prod.html

http://www.aegean.gr/alas/traditional.htm

http://www2.arnes.si/~kppomm/frames/english/english.htm

http://www.mcvitamins.com/Health%20Opponents/salt.htm

The Lipizzaner horses live and breed in Slovenia, and have since1580. Estates not far from Trieste were established by Archduke Charles, son of Hapsburg Emperor Ferdinand I for the sole purpose of breeding horses for dressage and parades. Indigenous horses from the Slovenian Kras were cross bred with Neapolitan, Danish, Spanish and Arabic breeds creating the magnificent long bodied brilliantly white horses that are so famous for dancing and prancing. The colts are always born dark brown or gray and have documented lineage for generations. Between their sixth and tenth year the color of their coats lightens and becomes an unblemished satiny white. They are rigorously trained in Piber, Austria and then returned to Slovenia for stud services.
Once a year the stud farm in Lipica has an open house with free tours and exhibits and we took Sarah and Larry Reed visiting from Mt. Vernon, Ohio. It was a gloriously warm colorful fall day and we sat and reveled for two hours in the beauty of the show of dancing and racing Lipizzaner horses.

"View from Dornberk vineyard"

It is grape season in Primorska [near the sea]. The air is sticky sweet with sun warmed juice, tractors snail from the vineyards hauling loads of grapes and vats of juice, chatting and laughing rises from between the rows and entire families and close friends spend gloriously sweet days picking grapes. Many hands make light work; but it is also a traditional event of working out side, easing the labor of a loved one, socializing while working, gathering around the table outside for a harvest lunch, and enjoying the wine of your labors the rest of the year.

"Spoiled grapes" In some vineyards it was not a good year for grapes. Some of the hillsides had hail the size of eggs destroying much of the crop. Some bunches were full and sweet on the protected side but on the outside bruised and dried like raisins. In addition there was a lot of rain followed by high temperatures. Disease grows rapidly in these conditions and if the grower is not able to spray within an hour of the rain the mold is unstoppable. "Picking in Vogrsko"

Each grower has his own style of picking. Some who have larger vineyards tell us to cut the bunches and not worry about trimming out the dried parts, but others ask us to cut out every bit of the bad and only put the sweetest berries in the bucket [they call the single grape jagoda meaning strawberry]. Trimming every bad spot in the vineyard is a tediously slow process, but makes for lots of time for conversation. "Svetinje"

We traveled this week to Prlekija above the Pannonian plain, in eastern Slovenia on the Hungarian and Croatian borders, to visit the villages and vineyards there. Picking has not really begun yet so the vines were still heavy with grapes. The vineyards look so different because they are tended in different ways. The soil in Primorska is rocky and nothing grows under the terraced vines that follow the contour of the hillside. But in Prlekija the paths between the vines are grass, the vines are trimmed very close to the support wires [maybe to make it easier for machine harvest] and some of the vines run vertical on the hills as well as long twisting ribbons of green. "Jeruzalem"

In Prlekija there seem to be fewer villages on the top of hillsides, but small church communities. We stayed in Jeruzalem [pop. 55] named by the Knights Hospitallers of St. John of Jerusalem who brought the image of the Lamenting Madonna here on their return from a crusade to the Holy Land. The Knights were a Christian organization who built a hospital on the site of the monastery of St. John the Baptist in Jerusalem in1080 to provide care for sick and injured pilgrims to the Holy Land. In 1099 they were charged with defense of the Holy Land, and along with the Knights Templar, were one of the most powerful crusade organizations fighting the Muslims. When the Muslims expelled the Christians from Jerusalem in the 13^th century the Knights were given land on this ridge in Slovenia where the Benedictine brothers built a chapel and church community. The current church was built in the 16^th century. Now the monastery buildings have been converted into a lovely hotel. "View from Jeruzalem" We of course came up with our own fractured history: Richard the Chicken Hearted grudgingly started out for the Holy Land kissing his mama goodbye and promising a souvenir on his return. After a torturous crossing of the Alps and then going up and down, and down and up again and again he decided that the view was pretty good from this hill top so he stopped and called it Jeruzalem. Now he could tell everyone that he made it safely to Jerusalem and sent mama a bottle of Rumeni Muškat for her souvenir. The amazing thing about both stories is the amount of traveling people did hundreds of years ago. We think we are so modern and global and we complain how tired we are from a 12 hour overseas flight. But these people traveled for years and were offered hospitality along the way and were somehow able to communicate along the journey and used trade to pay for everything.

For a country of only 2 million people and a land mass the size of northern Ohio the diversity is incredible. In this region of Prlekija the language does not even sound like Slovene. Our friends tell us that they can’t understand the language here and we certainly didn’t understand anything. In our area everyone speaks English and Italian, but in this area everyone speaks German and probably Hungarian too. We saw homes that had Hungarian influence, stork nests, Austrian castles and regional dishes are made with pumpkin oil and buckwheat. It feels like a different country.

Along our walk from Jeruzalem to Svetinje we followed the sound of the klopotec echoing throughout the valley. The clacking sounds of wood blocks striking wood are used to scare the birds away from the ripening grapes but to us it was the giggling sound of laughter which added even more joy to our adventure. "Klopotec"

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Kitchen Garden













Vegetable Garden












Sunset






















Peace Flags on Front Porch

I had no idea how it would feel to come “home” to Ohio. I have visited twice in the past two years, but visiting home is like taking a nap on an old bed; it feels right and comfortable, but it is just not long enough to know for sure if your back is going to hurt. Living in Slovenia on the border of Italy is an incredible adventure. Each day we are discovering new places, struggling with language, meeting new people, and wading through the adventure and challenges of two cultures. Some times we are so tired of not understanding, of getting lost, of being continuously confused that we crave familiar normalcy and a place where we can understand every inane thing that is said. But the familiar eases out adventure, and at home we found ourselves searching hard to discover the new and interesting. Would we simply fall into old patterns when we returned? Would the sameness seem dull or comforting? Would the familiar be cozy or uninteresting? Would family and friends be curious about what has changed us, or are we expected to slide back into being the people of the past?

Our home stood breathlessly waiting for us. The trees and bushes lined up for inspection showing how tall they had grown in 3 years; the flower gardens hung their heads in shame because the weeds had invaded and the gardens had lost the war, and the field laughed in wild flower joy. On my first morning at the house I brewed myself a cup of coffee, fluffed milk for a latte and settled in my quiet ritual of rocking on the porch until the coffee is gone. But the hummingbird had other ideas. No one had feed him in 2 years and he was unhappy; buzzing my head on the porch unhappy. So before I could even finish my coffee I had to find the feeder, mix him a cocktail of sugar water and feed him his treat so that I could have a little peace. This same hummingbird has been returning to my feeders for around 6 years I think; but they all look alike. He always comes begging the beginning of May and if I don’t have the feeders out he searches for me. One year I was in my studio on the second floor at the back of the house where there was never a feeder and he found me. He hung at the window fluttering his tiny wings until I got up and filled the feeder, as if to say “Mom, come on I’m home, where’s the food”. He doesn’t search for Bob; he somehow knows that I am the dealer for his sugar habit.

Bob came home the beginning of February and he did an enormous amount of work on the house; keeping it safe during the -17° F temperatures, repairing things, painting rooms to cover renter nicks and finger prints and he planted the vegetable garden with some flowers for me. So I came home to the house that felt like my home. It is delightfully peaceful here. The stream that fills the neighbor’s pond from the artesian well across the street snickers all year long, constantly reminding us that she carries secrets from deep in the earth. The song birds dance in streaks of yellow, red, blue and orange, calling to each other from perches on high and serenading us early in the morning. Bob also moved the hot-tub from the master bathroom to the back patio and where we can celebrate the setting sun from the depth of hot water. Now home seems like a fancy resort with luxury in our back yard. We are so very blessed!

We have found in other visits home that contact with family and friends is very different than we expected. People ask “Do you like living over there?” “Are you home to stay?” When we answer yes to the first question and no to the second the conversation comes to a screeching halt. There seems to be no more interest in what we have done, what we are doing and who we are becoming. The conversation quickly oozes to the local gossip, the quality of playing by the Cleveland Indians, the romantic encounters of music and movie celebrities or diatribes about recent illnesses. Generally people seem to not be curious about what we are doing. That is strange for us because we are so fascinated by the experiences of other people, that we thought people would be fascinated by ours. After sharing stories one friend said “You make me feel like I am doing nothing with my life.” Her comment makes me wonder if that is how our stories make others feel. Rather than feeling interested and excited with us the conversations make them feel badly for themselves. We of course hope that our choices can help inspire others to take the risk and do the things that they have always wanted to do and live life without regret, but it doesn’t seem that way.

This summer has been a garden holiday. We have reestablished some of the flower beds, grown the vegetables for our dinners, and built a wildflower labyrinth. It has been a time of reclaiming the home that we designed and built with our own hands. It has been a time of reading, talking, visiting and sharing. It has been a time of great contentment.

Our plans now are to live in Slovenia for 6 months during the school year and 6 months in Ohio working the land. We both will have part time teaching jobs in Nova Gorica and we will call Šempeter our Slovene home for another year. We hope to return to Ohio in April, reestablish Thistlefink Gardens, sell flowers and take full advantage of both of our homes and all they have to offer.

Hummingbird friend















Garden Harvest















Red and Black Raspberries picked with friend Carson

The views from my bike today

Cliffs of the Vipava Valley









Predmeja meadow



Pot [path]

It’s really SPRING in Slovenia!! I know it is spring [or trying to be spring] where you live too, but here spring is oozing out of every pour and the air is sweeter than a candy shop. The sweetness is roses that reach caressing me when I walk by screeching me to a stop, the sweetness is the locust trees hanging their flowers in front of my face along the bike path, the sweetness is the crowns that light up the giant chestnut trees along the street, the sweetness is the cluster of lily of the valley sneaking under the fence begging for attention.

When we first moved to Slovenia in August the air was thick with the smell of roses, lavender and rosemary and I was so distracted by the scent that I had to be careful crossing the street. Now those scents are not as strong to me because they are so familiar, but when spring comes new scents attack me and this year seems to be more intense than the past two years. I never remember being overwhelmed by the smell of the air in Ohio. I’m afraid that we have so many hybrid plants that the roses are perfect and beautiful, but they don’t smell. Lilac bushes are the most glorious scent, but we were given a lilac for our new house that did not smell. I was profoundly disappointed. How can they steal the lilac smell? So I am delighting in the taste of each smell here and planning my walking path to pass by certain gardens and trees.

Last week I had an unusual free day and I went hiking near Predmeja. To get there I have to climb, weave and wind along a long narrow road that has 3 tunnels hand cut out of the rock. At the top, the walking path follows the cliff edge looking into the Vipava valley and dashes in and out of forest, meadow, farm fields and rocky out crops. The profusion of wild flowers was amazing; florescent blues and yellows tucked protected in the grass or near the base of a rock, white clusters spinning in the wind along with the apple blossoms that called to me with the song of the Sirens. The complete peace was interrupted only by the twitter of yellow and grey birds, the warning of a rooster or a farm dog. I could have walked for days, but the wind quickly exchanged cotton candy clouds for charcoal whirlwinds and I escaped just before the rain.



Vipava valley from my picnic spot



path marker



forest floor of blue



glow of the sun at my feet