Dubrovnik

After two weeks of travelling relatively off the beaten track we have arrived in tourism central, testified to by the bustling crowds and the price of a coffee.
Dubrovnik is an absurdly beatufil walled town, with marble streets and intricately carved edifaces that juts out in to the Adriatic.
We booked a small apartment up a stepped side street, with half a dozen more staircases and twisting corridors inside before we get to our little Croatian hideaway.
On our way from Sarajvo we stopped in Mostar for a couple of nights, a town that was badlz damaged during the Bosnian wars of 2002 to 2006 but whose historic bridge and a Turkish quarter has been more or less restored but a couple of streets away the shells of buildings are testiment to the ethnic violence of 15 years ago.
It was in Mostar that we first noticed that we were no longer the onlz English speakers in town, with bus loads of people coming from the Adricatic coastal resorts in neighbouring Croatia.
That sort of prepared us for the falling standard of food in the restaurants we ate in and the price of drinks, which seemed to double from that advertised outside to what appeared on our final bill.
As we came in to Dubrovnik we saw a couple of huge cruise liners docked by the bus station whose passengers spilled into the town for a few hours before being ferried off to Montenegro, Venice or one of the Greek islands.
This morning the numbers of people pushing down the main street was unbeliveable and we felt glad that we could retreat to our apartment while everzone else got soaked in the thunderstorms that have been hoveing over the Balkans for the last few days. But we dont want to hide away for too long. It is the last day of our holiday and we will be flying back to Ireland tomorrow where the letters y and z will be back on their proper places on the kezboard and I wont keep making the same spelling mistakes.

Sarajevo

Just down the hill from the pension where we are staying is The Latin footbridge from where an assassin shot dead Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sopia in 1914, an event which popular history pinpoints as the spark for the First World War. Looking up from most parts of Sarajevo you see green hills and mountains where just 15 years ago Bosnian Serbs snipers shot at passersby and shelled their homes. The siege lasted for three years and claimed thousands of lives.
Even though my passport was stamped on Fridaz with an exit visa from Serbia and an entrance visa into Bosnia a few minutes later after crossing a bridge, the Serbian flag could still be seen flying from houses and official buildings while many signs were written using the Cyrillic alphabet, the Roman equivalent often spraypainted out. Most of the stunningly beautiful mountainous countryside we passed through on our way to Sarajevo lies in Republika Srpska, dominated by ethnic Serbs who are reluctant citizens of Bosnia and Herzegovina, although their political representatives now participate in the government.
Yesterday we walked past the Holiday Inn Hotel where the western media was based, in the rooms facing away from the hills, on a street known as sniper alley.
The words melting pot are overused when describing places, both in terms of history and culture, but its is hard to avoid when talking about Bosnia. At various times of day the sound of muezzuins calling prayers are broadcast from mosques scattered throughout the city while many women wear hijabs. We are close to the Turkish quarter where thick, tarry coffee and mint tea are served in cafes decked out with ornate carpets, yet a walk along the street will bring you into an area of classical central European architecture with an Orthodox and Catholic church and a synagogue.
It is a fascinating and beautiful city although the weather has broken and temperatures have plunged from the mid-30s to about 14 or 15 with persistent rain.